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Alexander K Opicho Feb 2014
Nobel lecture of Octavio paz on receiving Nobel poetry Prize in 1990
IN SEARCH OF THE PRESENT

I begin with two words that all men have uttered since the dawn of humanity: thank you. The word gratitude has equivalents in every language and in each tongue the range of meanings is abundant. In the Romance languages this breadth spans the spiritual and the physical, from the divine grace conceded to men to save them from error and death, to the ****** grace of the dancing girl or the feline leaping through the undergrowth. Grace means pardon, forgiveness, favour, benefice, inspiration; it is a form of address, a pleasing style of speaking or painting, a gesture expressing politeness, and, in short, an act that reveals spiritual goodness. Grace is gratuitous; it is a gift. The person who receives it, the favoured one, is grateful for it; if he is not base, he expresses gratitude. That is what I am doing at this very moment with these weightless words. I hope my emotion compensates their weightlessness. If each of my words were a drop of water, you would see through them and glimpse what I feel: gratitude, acknowledgement. And also an indefinable mixture of fear, respect and surprise at finding myself here before you, in this place which is the home of both Swedish learning and world literature.

Languages are vast realities that transcend those political and historical entities we call nations. The European languages we speak in the Americas illustrate this. The special position of our literatures when compared to those of England, Spain, Portugal and France depends precisely on this fundamental fact: they are literatures written in transplanted tongues. Languages are born and grow from the native soil, nourished by a common history. The European languages were rooted out from their native soil and their own tradition, and then planted in an unknown and unnamed world: they took root in the new lands and, as they grew within the societies of America, they were transformed. They are the same plant yet also a different plant. Our literatures did not passively accept the changing fortunes of the transplanted languages: they participated in the process and even accelerated it. They very soon ceased to be mere transatlantic reflections: at times they have been the negation of the literatures of Europe; more often, they have been a reply.

In spite of these oscillations the link has never been broken. My classics are those of my language and I consider myself to be a descendant of Lope and Quevedo, as any Spanish writer would ... yet I am not a Spaniard. I think that most writers of Spanish America, as well as those from the United States, Brazil and Canada, would say the same as regards the English, Portuguese and French traditions. To understand more clearly the special position of writers in the Americas, we should think of the dialogue maintained by Japanese, Chinese or Arabic writers with the different literatures of Europe. It is a dialogue that cuts across multiple languages and civilizations. Our dialogue, on the other hand, takes place within the same language. We are Europeans yet we are not Europeans. What are we then? It is difficult to define what we are, but our works speak for us.

In the field of literature, the great novelty of the present century has been the appearance of the American literatures. The first to appear was that of the English-speaking part and then, in the second half of the 20th Century, that of Latin America in its two great branches: Spanish America and Brazil. Although they are very different, these three literatures have one common feature: the conflict, which is more ideological than literary, between the cosmopolitan and nativist tendencies, between Europeanism and Americanism. What is the legacy of this dispute? The polemics have disappeared; what remain are the works. Apart from this general resemblance, the differences between the three literatures are multiple and profound. One of them belongs more to history than to literature: the development of Anglo-American literature coincides with the rise of the United States as a world power whereas the rise of our literature coincides with the political and social misfortunes and upheavals of our nations. This proves once more the limitations of social and historical determinism: the decline of empires and social disturbances sometimes coincide with moments of artistic and literary splendour. Li-Po and Tu Fu witnessed the fall of the Tang dynasty; Velázquez painted for Felipe IV; Seneca and Lucan were contemporaries and also victims of Nero. Other differences are of a literary nature and apply more to particular works than to the character of each literature. But can we say that literatures have a character? Do they possess a set of shared features that distinguish them from other literatures? I doubt it. A literature is not defined by some fanciful, intangible character; it is a society of unique works united by relations of opposition and affinity.

The first basic difference between Latin-American and Anglo-American literature lies in the diversity of their origins. Both begin as projections of Europe. The projection of an island in the case of North America; that of a peninsula in our case. Two regions that are geographically, historically and culturally eccentric. The origins of North America are in England and the Reformation; ours are in Spain, Portugal and the Counter-Reformation. For the case of Spanish America I should briefly mention what distinguishes Spain from other European countries, giving it a particularly original historical identity. Spain is no less eccentric than England but its eccentricity is of a different kind. The eccentricity of the English is insular and is characterized by isolation: an eccentricity that excludes. Hispanic eccentricity is peninsular and consists of the coexistence of different civilizations and different pasts: an inclusive eccentricity. In what would later be Catholic Spain, the Visigoths professed the heresy of Arianism, and we could also speak about the centuries of ******* by Arabic civilization, the influence of Jewish thought, the Reconquest, and other characteristic features.

Hispanic eccentricity is reproduced and multiplied in America, especially in those countries such as Mexico and Peru, where ancient and splendid civilizations had existed. In Mexico, the Spaniards encountered history as well as geography. That history is still alive: it is a present rather than a past. The temples and gods of pre-Columbian Mexico are a pile of ruins, but the spirit that breathed life into that world has not disappeared; it speaks to us in the hermetic language of myth, legend, forms of social coexistence, popular art, customs. Being a Mexican writer means listening to the voice of that present, that presence. Listening to it, speaking with it, deciphering it: expressing it ... After this brief digression we may be able to perceive the peculiar relation that simultaneously binds us to and separates us from the European tradition.

This consciousness of being separate is a constant feature of our spiritual history. Separation is sometimes experienced as a wound that marks an internal division, an anguished awareness that invites self-examination; at other times it appears as a challenge, a spur that incites us to action, to go forth and encounter others and the outside world. It is true that the feeling of separation is universal and not peculiar to Spanish Americans. It is born at the very moment of our birth: as we are wrenched from the Whole we fall into an alien land. This experience becomes a wound that never heals. It is the unfathomable depth of every man; all our ventures and exploits, all our acts and dreams, are bridges designed to overcome the separation and reunite us with the world and our fellow-beings. Each man's life and the collective history of mankind can thus be seen as attempts to reconstruct the original situation. An unfinished and endless cure for our divided condition. But it is not my intention to provide yet another description of this feeling. I am simply stressing the fact that for us this existential condition expresses itself in historical terms. It thus becomes an awareness of our history. How and when does this feeling appear and how is it transformed into consciousness? The reply to this double-edged question can be given in the form of a theory or a personal testimony. I prefer the latter: there are many theories and none is entirely convincing.

The feeling of separation is bound up with the oldest and vaguest of my memories: the first cry, the first scare. Like every child I built emotional bridges in the imagination to link me to the world and to other people. I lived in a town on the outskirts of Mexico City, in an old dilapidated house that had a jungle-like garden and a great room full of books. First games and first lessons. The garden soon became the centre of my world; the library, an enchanted cave. I used to read and play with my cousins and schoolmates. There was a fig tree, temple of vegetation, four pine trees, three ash trees, a nightshade, a pomegranate tree, wild grass and prickly plants that produced purple grazes. Adobe walls. Time was elastic; space was a spinning wheel. All time, past or future, real or imaginary, was pure presence. Space transformed itself ceaselessly. The beyond was here, all was here: a valley, a mountain, a distant country, the neighbours' patio. Books with pictures, especially history books, eagerly leafed through, supplied images of deserts and jungles, palaces and hovels, warriors and princesses, beggars and kings. We were shipwrecked with Sinbad and with Robinson, we fought with d'Artagnan, we took Valencia with the Cid. How I would have liked to stay forever on the Isle of Calypso! In summer the green branches of the fig tree would sway like the sails of a caravel or a pirate ship. High up on the mast, swept by the wind, I could make out islands and continents, lands that vanished as soon as they became tangible. The world was limitless yet it was always within reach; time was a pliable substance that weaved an unbroken present.

When was the spell broken? Gradually rather than suddenly. It is hard to accept being betrayed by a friend, deceived by the woman we love, or that the idea of freedom is the mask of a tyrant. What we call "finding out" is a slow and tricky process because we ourselves are the accomplices of our errors and deceptions. Nevertheless, I can remember fairly clearly an incident that was the first sign, although it was quickly forgotten. I must have been about six when one of my cousins who was a little older showed me a North American magazine with a photograph of soldiers marching along a huge avenue, probably in New York. "They've returned from the war" she said. This handful of words disturbed me, as if they foreshadowed the end of the world or the Second Coming of Christ. I vaguely knew that somewhere far away a war had ended a few years earlier and that the soldiers were marching to celebrate their victory. For me, that war had taken place in another time, not here and now. The photo refuted me. I felt literally dislodged from the present.

From that moment time began to fracture more and more. And there was a plurality of spaces. The experience repeated itself more and more frequently. Any piece of news, a harmless phrase, the headline in a newspaper: everything proved the outside world's existence and my own unreality. I felt that the world was splitting and that I did not inhabit the present. My present was disintegrating: real time was somewhere else. My time, the time of the garden, the fig tree, the games with friends, the drowsiness among the plants at three in the afternoon under the sun, a fig torn open (black and red like a live coal but one that is sweet and fresh): this was a fictitious time. In spite of what my senses told me, the time from over there, belonging to the others, was the real one, the time of the real present. I accepted the inevitable: I became an adult. That was how my expulsion from the present began.

It may seem paradoxical to say that we have been expelled from the present, but it is a feeling we have all had at some moment. Some of us experienced it first as a condemnation, later transformed into consciousness and action. The search for the present is neither the pursuit of an earthly paradise nor that of a timeless eternity: it is the search for a real reality. For us, as Spanish Americans, the real present was not in our own countries: it was the time lived by others, by the English, the French and the Germans. It was the time of New York, Paris, London. We had to go and look for it and bring it back home. These years were also the years of my discovery of literature. I began writing poems. I did not know what made me write them: I was moved by an inner need that is difficult to define. Only now have I understood that there was a secret relationship between what I have called my expulsion from the present and the writing of poetry. Poetry is in love with the instant and seeks to relive it in the poem, thus separating it from sequential time and turning it into a fixed present. But at that time I wrote without wondering why I was doing it. I was searching for the gateway to the present: I wanted to belong to my time and to my century. A little later this obsession became a fixed idea: I wanted to be a modern poet. My search for modernity had begun.

What is modernity? First of all it is an ambiguous term: there are as many types of modernity as there are societies. Each has its own. The word's meaning is uncertain and arbitrary, like the name of the period that precedes it, the Middle Ages. If we are modern when compared to medieval times, are we perhaps the Middle Ages of a future modernity? Is a name that changes with time a real name? Modernity is a word in search of its meaning. Is it an idea, a mirage or a moment of history? Are we the children of modernity or its creators? Nobody knows for sure. It doesn't matter much: we follow it, we pursue it. For me at that time modernity was fused with the present or rather produced it: the present was its last supreme flower. My case is neither unique nor exceptional: from the Symbolist period, all modern poets have chased after that magnetic and elusive figure that fascinates them. Baudelaire was the first. He was also the first to touch her and discover that she is nothing but time that crumbles in one's hands. I am not going to relate my adventures in pursuit of modernity: they are not very different from those of other 20th-Century poets. Modernity has been a universal passion. Since 1850 she has been our goddess and our demoness. In recent years, there has been an attempt to exorcise her and there has been much talk of "postmodernism". But what is postmodernism if not an even more modern modernity?

For us, as Latin Americans, the search for poetic modernity runs historically parallel to the repeated attempts to modernize our countries. This tendency begins at the end of the 18th Century and includes Spain herself. The United States was born into modernity and by 1830 was already, as de Tocqueville observed, the womb of the future; we were born at a moment when Spain and Portugal were moving away from modernity. This is why there was frequent talk of "Europeanizing" our countries: the modern was outside and had to be imported. In Mexican history this process begins just before the War of Independence. Later it became a great ideological and political debate that passionately divided Mexican society during the 19th Century. One event was to call into question not the legitimacy of the reform movement but the way in which it had been implemented: the Mexican Revolution. Unlike its 20th-Century counterparts, the Mexican Revolution was not really the expression of a vaguely utopian ideology but rather the explosion of a reality that had been historically and psychologically repressed. It was not the work of a group of ideologists intent on introducing principles derived from a political theory; it was a popular uprising that unmasked what was hidden. For this very reason it was more of a revelation than a revolution. Mexico was searching for the present outside only to find it within, buried but alive. The search for modernity led
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Jose Luis Carreño Troncoso Jan 2022
Codice Raedus - Episode I
From the interstitial bile of the Profitis Ilias, was emanated the inaugural armour of the codes of Radius’s Eurhythmy. With it traces it typology of the three broken areas of energeia purple that will raise from bases it elementary of the contrafactum of melody of the Raedus. First with the paragraph’s of the Prophet Elias in the portion of the firstly 103 meters but awarding the contrafactum melodic same on the text of the Raedus Codex, that they will be rhythmic epigraphs of hallelujah and beginning of the Kirye. The polyphony will be an elevation of liturgy that will deliver doubly for the pipe that carries the prolific ascension to the face of the surface of the Profitis Ilias. Hypostasis Will be the substance, but of be to of way of the true unified to the all of the reality of the Áullos Kósmos.  To some 1, 7 years incessant light followed coming the Fourth Saeta of Zefian, to order the Áullos Kósmos with the ordination of the Go Auric that will conclude the retina that remains of the firmament and of his path like full earthly extra. The quota of prophecies will reside in the tectonics of the cliff and in fail them of the rocky mass, on the upper blocks from this outcrop from the inferior layers, from the start of the materials allochthonous on the hole of erosion, going in the Sibyls and the Prophet Elias until the 103 meters of the height.  

Codex I -Tectonic Nihil

The honor explains the Regressive Legend of this good piece of Meat Corpulent and Brain also, was born to write his astragals in his terminal syllable, whole and dying with the blood of Etruscans Steeds and Macedonics, each had golden piercing hanged internally in one of his six ******* paranasal, sealing the life of this blood caretaker Franciscan and swordsmiths extemporal so that with his last four molars yielded the light amalgamated Crystalline and overflowing in the gums of the lapse that soaks of blood the fields equestrian. In this codex Sibyl Pérsica would enter by the cylindrical vault, she advanced with a light secluded and stepped a snake, under the steeled hooves of Alikanto. She with his veil and oil lamp announced the arrival of the Messiah, here the awakening semblance invokes by the honor of his come, to Parents and the Mothers. The Souls of Trouvere appear beside Estratónice, Lochnith, and Wonthelimar.

It says Lochnith: The world abdicated the pontifical, have run the curtains so that enter the light, Moses here has to come with the true curtains that house the lunettes, the thrones of the Sibyls and Prophets that come us the miracles salvations that are born of his entelechy, for the one who is forbidden in the thousandth portion of the broadcast that break out like an affair signal, and testamentary of the Apocalypse to the Poielipsis in creation testament were live in the whispers of Emmanuel, in the verses burnished and oracular of Sibyl, daughter of Dárdano and Neso. With meager differences and matrices between Hellespont and Dardania, like Jerusalem and Bethlehem, and this last between the outstandingly in Eon Kareem, but in the corresponding bifurcation approximated to the baptistery. The Hexagonal Primogeniture will mandate the hardships of hexameters in front of the hectometers that will do evidence of the Escatón a third world is like a consistent reality, real that will carry us to the hope of a life satisfied and trained.  

Codex II - Tectonics Supra Lithosphere

Three white eagles’ headed flew by Tel Gomel, carrying blood in his claws twisted of spines turgid. They brought the vaticinator of double death predicted, with his double craze put and his double helmet that transmitter the rings of the putrid Tanat’s by the faces, and by his lips lackluster feeble in Him, Vernarth had sent them a missive with the Eagles in low flight; all they were dressed of the stink of the field of yellow fog and black battle, on the silty hooves of Beelzebub that heaved in the ones of Alikanto, they moan on the lymphoma of the size of a dream of six decades in his ridge crucible, that wheezed purges by his full snout of rests of lymph remaining in the interstitial of his teeth Burnished canine-alanos. His heart reconverted in armour red ad limitem with blue endocardial flourishing. When putting the twilight of the blowout lying of wind Eolionimi and Shamal, went breaking the vertical with the halter of his greedy steed to the spit helicoidal volatile mats in the catacombs of Markazí where residents of his lineage forge dwelt in abominations of the Lives that renacían victorious from the fire of cult to the city that houses his true Life and Soul in Sibylla Pérsica.

Singing of Wonthelimar: Already the veils have collected will carry the candles that wire the souls freed of Trouvere cries of prosperity expect us from the medrons that rebirth of the immanent presence of her same, to meters on the level of the lithosphere showed the Rings Ibics to the meeting of a tertiary matchmaker in the Saeta of Zefian,  and behold where interprets the law, the future gives us the pennant of justice insufficient of Light but there of the cavern that is born in the turns of the third world. It says Of Meturgeman or Rabí that break down the avatars of his advances, by ends off-center if they have to be the verticality of the Sibyllas with the mind of God. Like this we go topping by this axon of spiritual fatigue, centering in the nervous excessively that goes out of the body of consciousness of the cosmos, transmitting impulses of the same by Elías´s links, where the motor structure of the teacher and the testamentary of Leví, and Greek Aramaic Leví in Qumram subsisting to the big speed of how has to pass the Messiah priestly will interpret all the word of the Mashiaj in the Áullos Kósmos in his order motor and behold the Messiah  Priestly, and the patriarchs like Set, Enoch, and Isaac having the work of unraveling the illusions and mysteries of the cosmos of the same way that the angel interpreter the nocturnal visions in the apocalyptic relates of San John the Apostle.

Codex III -Tectonic Quartzite

The disloyal Ghosts came from 70 km of the Iranian city of Shiraz province of Fars, near the place where the river Pulwar ends in the Kur (Kyrus).  His construction and destruction would be provinces that will be subjected until the conquest of the Persian Empire subjected in October by Alexander the Great. Persépolis Remain turned into rooms of the Harem and in *** of magnet bizarro between massacred gods. The transitions of the porches in the sides are joined by angular towers in the Apadana of profane interlock. The two big doors remained opened in eternity groaning salts in interminable assets of predefinition and recharge in his abortive degree.

Here they were the comrades of Vernarth overwhelmed of preparations and attires in the lobs of Mars on his shoulders after oracles tempest of the burning sun in his heads.  Anahita; Goddess of the nature, pours the blessed waters of the nature that washed with morbid rains the bodies of the fallen in the ***** battles with the roosters of the Zoroaster, cutting the palanquin where are seated, and enraptured in polytheism with Ahura Mazda with a short difference like cloister and capota, ad carry to shoe the monarchic attires of Macedonia in front of his defeated realm by the subjugated constitution of golden blood of Alexander the Great and Vernarth tied to the Macedón or Zeus, fully Hellenic that ran vast both strides by muted seams of basaltic streets of paving stones, and obsidians between paradises of vintage and wind. The Sybilla Eritrea shows his veil not only collected but significantly knotted on the belly that alludes to the state of gravity of the ****** in Incarnation (scene of the Annunciation). The meters of ascension to see determinant the first 103 meters of climbing insinuate the appellatives of Erqia, Eriflam Herifle, and Riquea.

Singing of Estratónice: In the marble reside of white Apeiron of indeterminate infinite matter, exempt of quality and that finds in the eternal movement of the Eolionimi, that has to dwell in his belly a savior white from the Áullos Kósmos or paradise of Vernarth, the word will say that it rescues the life of the mortal the facets of the Katapausis would make amends the effluvia Hebrew in the ponderation of the mainstay of the virola that embraces the saeta of Zefian falling from the altitude. The biface solitude will trespass the rocky subsoil of the peak of the Profitis Ilias like this with tender meters that will cross the Fero of absorption of his Santity and Salvation of the Humanity.

Codex IV Tectonic Cenozoico

From Rodas, the geological temporary scale will contribute us the evolutionary frame of the rocky mantle, and superpositions in the happen of time. I register fossils of organisms that underlying in layers or endodermis of the prehistory of the Dodecanese. Vernarth After crossing the Helesponto transgressed his for psiquis parapsychological in the substitute Brook to Sudpichi like a weightless mantle of a Machi praying to the Kósmos Negechen by the rickty Rehue prophesying to him on his hands dismembered of bravery, of big assistance in 300 years of souls Nge-Nge Mapus deu in the raging nose that propelled the wrath; similar substitute with which trigger the knot, Champollion with some sphinx uncovering the allegories of Pandora from the Valleys of the Kings.

Singing of Sibila Líbica: The sparking plugs will inflame the Iridescent eyes of the Mashiaj flashed in the likely settlement mortuary of Alexander the Great in the oasis of Siwa: Oh My warm wind of Libya that flatters my chees, and my shoulders that groove in the light of the callous brain coexistence of Zeus. Singing by you my Didaskein; treating or teaching to the baffled herd that confuses the menages that were born to. B.C., not having a reminiscence of Irradiation in the mastery of the continuous-time of not contravening of ignorance, but yes to find him agreed and effulgent!    

Codex V Tectonic Brisehal  

By the desolate empty Dasht-and-Lut, Brisehal a huge shady of structure is moved him when is covered until all half orient, even disobeying to his parents; beings in uncrowded places of contemplation that were surfacing of his big mountain of the delighted desert overflowed the lemurs strolling alone as wanting to take off the last spark of politics that remained them for surrendering in his own banishment encountered. Brisehal Was an eminent mount with a head of the can similar to Anubis, but million times of the size upwards and with a clorhídricbreath, like a perspective of the congregation to go into the garden-realm of The Skies and in his laps. Before shivering the day with the movement of his shuddered step, Brisehal was two years moving day and night in the surface that did alluring of lux Solaris.  Brisehal In this fifth codex liquefied in the black layer of the tunnels of wind that hide by Dash-and-Lut, until the sensory layer of Dasht-and-Kavir, attracting by the tunnel of the grotto of 308 meters of height of Patmos intra geological, all the sculptures and images of the cusps did near to the 103 meters of initial altitude in this vertical underground in attachment with the parallel that retracted in cubic tones drilling the doloninas or geological depressions in the extensive of Lut for a giant that is born of the wails and lacerations of Vernarth when it was tutored by saetas in the middle of the field of Gaugamela, even moving to Maceo. When they moved noisily the dolines, lower mountains conceived deduced with the greater effect of his swivels nerves were immense thunderclaps that even reflected until the spheroids nimbus reddened by the riot of Dasht-and-Kavir. It turned off left to right pretending exile the Desert of Lut tubed in pro generation by both do of optical rope or fibers in high energy density, and that it could cohabit beside Vernarth disabling in the odyssey of the Horcondising (Paradise of the lineage of Vernarth to Gaugamela).

Singing of Brisehal: The veil that receives the indifference, has knotted in the abdomen hatched of the earth, and of the dolonina that protected me of the folio that barter what there was or of will have to become. The Gesta of all those that suffer from foot and rely on, have three abortive routines in his gravidity of a white relative, that did to shelter me in the love to my gentleman Vernarth. Sibila Eritrea neither in Greeks nor Latins has to sortear the breviaries of the maximum pontifex that speaks while dozing of anilines nights where anybody perishes awake in his epítome?

Sibilino By the Saudi, from the vórtice direct the gulfs that hide from where rebirth like choruses of Esquilo, behind the springs of Agamemnon in where Clytemnestra opens plains that do to run the Shamal by his dry disposition of dew, but humid of the sap of Eritrea faces in springs subtropical that tears dry of the tough body fallen in tears that will not hear by the tenacious hemp?

To the-Haffar, the third party is with saetas in his thigs, arms and pectoral, where the star does open shining for the one who dies by her in the first lightning of the night Thurayya, with violent embraces to receive to the one who from a codex receives the fifth bowl for violent winds of fishermen that resolved of the wind in a fine dust of the cleft hands of Aldebarán, peepholes of bilges of ogres that are born hell to die as pious in arms of Sybilla Eritrea, and in prologues of Brisehal with so many meters of wingspan, nevertheless that of any rye in the greater degree that have to ceremoniously in perks of a revived Sybilla Líbica.      


Codex VI - Strigoi Asthenosphere

In the spring of 331 b. C., Alexander the Great left Egypt returning to the port of Shot, where was his fleet. Of there it headed to Antioquía, crossing the valley of the river Orontes, and arrived at the River Éufrates to the height of Tapsaco, were founded the city of Nicéforo so that it was a strong square and tank of the supplies of the army, Here it was learned that Darius was found in Arbelas as he was crossing the Tigris, and heading north along the eastern bank of the river. The Sybilla Cumana found in the height 97 of the tunnel of wind when auscultating these waves very near of the dolonines, in avidity of the Pythia Délfica with divinatory proselytes that visited the folds of his attire, in places of his divinatory crowd cerebral. His relativity Cumana waste of energy of the Mausoleum, prophesying life for all in the passion of the life together with the abandoned bodies by the souls of the Devotio Roman, and in the poverty of the soul that drains scared by not remaining desolate between half of the parchment of Lilith, and in the offering of the Strigoi by breaches of troubling visions in the darkness of the cavern of Chauvet, when sacrificing competitive emotions of the Votum maléfico of Lilith.  Only one can exist like an inviolable part of the tradition of the chastest Wonthelimar, attempting the Xiphos with human chamois in tectonic offering and frizzing the altitude 103 of the tunnel of wind of the Strigoi.    

Vlad Strigoi Sings: Mardiath, noble and loyal hussar of the sea of Vernarth, Boss of the fleets of the Gulf, came by the cover when giving the turn by the bauprés, sees collected and hit by ropes in parasitosis that shined like a stray in the oars of the gods, and pleading that felt in the whistling of the wind. It approaches and it descends by dark sheds stairs with direction to the piston of water, who heresy in the ship Vladiana is quarreling when I training me in writing when saying who love the one who I am not, alone receipt phlegmons multitudinous Saecula Saeculorum, not hitting any foundation to confess me. They say not knowing that reveal due to the fact that it is not content that compares to the one who does not have Age, Life either Compassion that only has to communicate me like messenger Strigoi! Now I know that anybody will sing my thoughts, there is not ink that dares to spread a comparable quill that resists my word of ammonium Strigoi, usurped of a shipping Ballinger to some Flemish pirates, seconded to the side by a barge of Panescalm, that threw to 64 one thousand bodies massacred of the Bubonic Plague. Mardiath, get out of the Ballinger and leaves his sword to Vlad beside a geographic table to rediscover a destination in some doncella that could attend his disorders, more than ganglion suppuration in prostration. It traces back the course to shot to find with Vernarth and his minions to direct finally to the braves fields of Gaugamela and the Prehensile Ctónicos who revered to the gods or telluric spirits in the tectonic infra world by opposition to celestial deities, appearing in the tubular ascension of the warm wind that topped the consecration of my roman arteries, and all those that were up expecting them. The oblations of light lit the particles of the woodworm that suspended expelling those that magnetized the fosca matter. The unconnected syntax did periodically in the words of Strigoi from the Capite Velato or head watched from the Ballinger Strigoi that attained relocate. In double increase of sap did it minor to resist his life and his closure lying minimum in front of Wonthelimar, and Mardiath that satisfied him of the company in the eyebolt that sustains the road in his sullen life.

It sings Mardiath: The troops of Vernarth would split from Shot were found his fleet that came from Sudpichi from the Empire of the Horcondising. It explains the legend that in the heights of the Gulf when his army goes sailing, break out on his squares a mysterious tempest of hot airs of Ormuz to the height  665 in miles of Um Kasar, had found pertinent shipping of current Romania. when spotting them and take part inside this frigid ship at all there was, only crunches of topmasts and his sail greater that was spurring and presenting fenced curtains that came from of Sighisoara/Transilvania; where the alike Vlad Tepes stated seated behind a chamber of captaincy writing in his buffet. Each true interval took out a handkerchief to dry his ****** nose, like a pinch of gelatinous darky ink and sullied. It sings Isaías: The presence in the versed and corresponding folio, does relative the prophecy of Emmanuel been born of a ****** that associates to similar prophecy Virgiliana of the Cumana justifying his prophetic symbolism and beholds the caution that blackens skies where the light retracted, thousands are chained during the annunciation of a thousandth abyss like the fateful Strigoi only troubled pastures will have to transplant rebellions, that dying slept for the winnow of the ideal of incipient spiritual ******* dressed of execration. It has trigged the conflagration of the heart that resists the death and that is in decline several times in the conditions awaited by the apostates when denying of the water that does not do them Optimus and does elliptical the radius of obedience in the heart Vernarthiano satisfied of granules of Physconia grumose, whose frequency they become encysted in bodies of traitors reigns and of fungus lineages. The reign of the saints will judge plurality in the thrones with devastation in fatuous beatifications in Pérgamo, already admonished by me.    

Codex VII - Báculo of Sheesham  

Vernarth it calms lying down on the bunks of the fire of Sheesham. Beam and Incense with ultra olfactory and sensory powers, delineating the elementary and phenomenal cores housing and adapting híper connectivity with probity Hinduist the akasha executed the essential foundation in all the things of material cosmovision; the first palpable material element and concrete was created by the god Brahmá (air, fire, water, earth are the others). Did it treat one of the classical elements of Hinduism, pañcha-majá-bhuta or? Five big elements; His main characteristic is the sabda (sound). In sanscrit, this word means "space. It is the physical and eternal substance Akasha, of the ether that flows by the Akasha-Nautas and by Vernarth in each regression parasicológica. Vernarth Takes of a báculo called Key of Sheesham purchased it once anxious for delivering it to his beloved Toscana in the Cathedral St. Mary dei Fiori, in one of his Regressives Lives. They expected it astonished by the tyrannized impulsiveness of the noble in Florencia, of which once again came delayed of the tillage of the barley and of the god’s fatuous next to the Porcellino. It expected long hours until it went out his beloved Maddalena of the Eucharistic ceremonial, while the carried in his right hand his crosier, and in the left a rectangular box sizeable for his hand, inside carried essences of the potpourri of lavender and vellorita, a ring with a stone of amethyst coated by a concave skittle of gold, in the outline supra circulate carried medieval ornaments of silver of Etruria of the Party of the past barley. In front of this acquiescence Sybilla Samiense, followed carrying the clairvoyance where the prophet Isaías there was untied the conflagration of the heart that resists the death and that is in decline several times in the form today from Kafersesuh in Ein Karem, opens the stamp of residing in the cradle where María poses beside his son, already being part of the lithosphere of Getsemaní and of Vernarth in the heart of Maddalena.

Phylogeny in Getsemaní: The **** erectus crossed with multiple pieces of evidence of beings pro-evolutionary-adaptative, Neanderthal/HomoSapiens. Children of Israel wrote parables, epistles, verses, histories, and books, his vocal tract and phonetic spoke of tempest and environmental factors between sky and earth, of the big noise out of us, but little silence in us. The elementary is larynx that only pronounces the image that reports concepts evocative minimal of the sound in distinct placings of the melisma in mega sound. Speaking us how the language varies according to the history, and the half civic-climatic instructing us to his threshold and descendants when giving off by the effusions aerial of the language in assiduous levels tracheo-laryngeal. Earning authoritatively the intervals of vocalization, and relation of the junction with the agriculture and all his dimension descending by his internal walls, but going up by parietal overexcites out of her same.

Of the little air that remains to the world, to follow digesting temporarily assumes leaving flow his extra-air that possessed this in particles mechanically inert, and no in sanctified prophecies with miracles inferences and Inherence that Innova factótum, in the súper existence of which even do not perish by the hand of a monarchic mandate. Like this, the world swallows air in halves suffocating and contaminated whole, whereas others redistribute it for the one who needs to seat at the table to collect the Bread and share it with the other half.  Here it echoes the echo of body Christic, that in Aramaic syndicate much more than a language in his blood, grapheme and phonemes of stylistic in vibratory shock further of his deep stretch reverberating with the grace of his billed divine. Joshua swallows spikes and leaves simultaneously having us in his arms like children of olive-nursling, risk a sheep in his arms giving us lactate hydro-milk of the sustain of a verb creator. Fact strict to preserve the Aramaic and no stray with turning the turns of the leaves in the history, the Aramaic has to incorporate for the times that Joshua grazes us after more than two thousand years even. The one who is walking of one side to another to say us that it still is here, only comfort suggest your walk plagiarized with his larynx the sound of his expression the sheep is mammalian but mammalian that the man as his billed formulates bleats always reflected in the base of his skull for the rest of his children like biblical language, under all the rainbows of Querubines bawling beside boys surrounding them in identical intention! **** habilis, **** Sanctus in a process that possesses Orthodox bases and peripheral anatomical capacity, a linguistic Pythagorean shortcut of the dalliance and sternum when confusing it between yes, not altering his structural complexity neither functional. Of the potential of the Lepidoptera and winged insects, will arise the phenotype that will relate and relativize the mechanical aramea or Aramaic method for no stray the divine tongue, as well as it also is sublime the laryngitic torque of the one who possesses blood and body Aramaic, as his mechanized mystic devours the minimum words with the maximum in an all of the ranges of cacophonies and of prototyped field, they see to my field here spoke the spikes and the insects more than the own mechanical potential of your Voice.

The tunnel of wind filled with Lepidópteras that flew rising in shape helicoidal, everything sensitized with the imminent advent of the saeta magnánima of Zefian that came crossing the perihelion from the high Áullos Kósmos, dialécticamente with abundance credibility in the interior of the geological tunnel of the Profitis Ilias, list to the turgent of lactation doctoral theological. Timoratas And long justices rounded in those who were even exhausted, entre ajar the colophon of the days that began with the identification of the báculo Sheesham, appointing regent of tribulations that drains by his length of trip, to the basality static focusing idiosyncrasies and interests of the Prophet Elías that it received them in the height 103 with passages of Corintios that the saints go to help in the administration of the saints millenials. His capacity will not have the limits of his previous earthly life?  


Codex VIII - Ultramundis Alikantus

Alikantus Archetype of his a short astral trip three days that topped in Gaugamela...! Bulle In hides and discomfort after lightening his igneous hooves by slippery Lerapetras of Lasithi in stepped that seemed to be the same inflows of committed that brought Kanti of Creta, that pyrographed the floor Traciano before arriving at the request of his address. It resorts to Medea, before arriving at Tracia after errate by distinct places in search of protection and councils to protect to his master Vernarth, while it subjected to the last libations opiáceas of vivid liliáceas and angiosperms encapsulated in his pectoral right in the anonymous of Alikanto, asking him to Medea a potion to be able to supply him to his master and reduce inflammation his pectoral for like this can use his armour Áspis Koilé in the fight, as they subtracted three days for the duel. Medea Arrived at the city of Athens on a tempestuous day with a gray dantesco Fusco on the palm of the cliff escaping previously near Abdera, in which the orient proceeded to evacuate sooty plectrums to the sunset. Medea While it looked to the sky, took a piece of anthracite of feldspar to create javelins of aluminum that would have to carry Alikanto to his return, beside the potions for deflating his pectoral infected. It painted the sky with grey lines plotted and lodged later in his wry loop,  sighting from the infinite signals that came joining up in a ray of an alloy whose semblance seemed to be a king, it was Egeo, that not only offered him hospitality but it would link with Medea with the hope that his sorceries allowed him to conceive a son in spite of the advanced of his age. The sorceress fulfilled his expectations by having a son to call Medo. When Teseo, the secret son of Egeo, arrived in Athens had to that his father recognized it like heir Medea took it as a threat to the future of his son and tried to poison it. But Teseo discovered it, accusing it to commit horrible crimes and witchcraft, Medea had to escape again. This crusade had the assistance of Alikantus that transported it flying from Abdera, not to be captured and can supplement the potions that had requested him Alikantus, also with javelins that had to carry to Vernarth to escort him off the splendorous insult. The convulsed Sybilla Cimera customized the symbols of the ceremonial willing forging classical gestures of prodigality, and that at all less was a cornucopia given to zephyrs of the Ultramundis, that revolutionized the boss around that shuddered in the pickets of the dermis rocky that dressed the walls of the final tubule of 103 meters. The channel located referred inclinations of Likantus that harassed, and customize the final discretion of Teseo to finish with the folio of Egeo downward breaking the sentence of his son, and evading it of his stepmother. In this colisseo rooted Teseo beside his mother Etra that did not reveal him the name of his father until it fulfilled sixteen years. Arrived at this age, Teseo could raise the stone, shoe in the sandals and the sword of his father, and initiate his trip to Athens to be recognized like a son of the king. From this obviously Vernarth in the film of Gaugamela dressed him in the sandals Persikaia that did of him the one who never was, and if it died would carry them settled until the altar of the comedies in the Tristanía, where all that surrealist exceeds the loquacity narrow of reality, more than at all in racked muses in forced symptomatology of paranoia or of a heroine Sybilla, that mediated with the Arms of Christi in the iconology of the Codex Raedus.

Vernarth Seated in the edge of the Ultramundis, and broke in front of the cosmos and the solitude that hid all the beings that floated in the ditch that he collected in his moaning, in such judge that it rejected all the creations when feeling his wails, where the demons looked him from the darkness that fragile hastened his Magro occipital, attacking him in front of Medea evading the Satanic circumscription to contravene it the agreed with Egeo. The perjures reigned in the doubts of tragedy favored of Komedia parading in victorious procession, and singing triumphs of duality paranoic tragic, enthroned in the martyrs of tribulation, and in the seeds of the one who does not cease Tragediopathic Ubis, and in facts that speak of the hunger of solitude in all man plunged of the Ultramundis, as only dimensional of the one who burns in his doubts and of Anastasia frustrated. Vernarth Saysekáthisan and the Duoverso in consequence of the Universe seated to dry his tears then Vernarth received from the darkness of the Ultramundis a golden light of steeds Hippeis with an aura of Tesalia, where the krima or criminality become in three chambers threaten from Maceo to the confrontable in the half-hour of Arbela. Vernarth compress desisting the essays of procrastination reconstructing bodies’ severed here more than going isolating of his own souls and sins, with Hebrew souls of root Néfesh that took spooky in capsizing of decapitation of the one who lives exponentiating in the solitude of the Ultramundis. Inexorably the infra earthly holiness of the surrealism exceeds any verse, if it is that it was Lazarus here in the tunnel of wind the one who raises in front of Vernarth embracing him,  and playing it cool the greek of Likantus to fulfill him his mission.


Codex IX Ultramundis Phalanx
            
The labaros of the Phalanx saw from Asia some of the faithful groups of Alexander the Great. They appeared like ursids and Amphibians that came by the near step from Gorgan. "The Red Snake" was a defensive construction from here come the palfreys of Alikanto, preview with big camerades of animals for the body adhered to the cavalry of Alexander the Big. This incredible barbican begins on the coast of the Caspio, north of Gonbade Kavous, and continues to the northwest and disappears in the mountains of Pishkamar. They continued on the buttresses beside Bears and Leviathanes, they formed part of the totemic dreams, that taenia Vernarth when it assumed hallucinations doped by regressive turn by hieratic spaces to the slip away in hardships and incorporate in connection with animal pets in rhythms and waltzes of the applause of his atabales. Alikantus came speedy flying almost without detaining and without distracting when he brought the poisons and instruments of the armory of the panoply. He came Already had for the hours that came to fill out details before taking the game besides the Heavy infantry, Light, and Thessalonians. Inside the most elementary of his mission, he was to do the protocol of the potion, broadcast the preaching beside the Lumberjack, and distribute the javelins to the Hetairoi of Vernarth.

When anchoring the cerulean hoofs of the fire unknown of the Gods, attains to discern as to Vernarth took him out of the back of an Elephant attacker was besides accompanied by the cunning guard dog of Alexander called Péritas, that insinuated him start and raise with windstorms in warlike stratagems. Vernarth Came of his last session frugal Opiácea, for institute vegetal nervous lianas that commonly remained with some of them, and remained cut off in his cephalic vein and jugular stalking his ******, that always spreads in laurels of Cocoon, and by averages of intríngulis that had to gobble up by some days. It would follow daily being joined to the infinite that saw him be born, like the most magnificent Commander of Alexander the Great neither imagined nor collated! The wall Gorgan possessed a length of at least 200 kilometers upper to any one of the Roman walls that outlined in archeology like works of bastion. It was exhausting to exceed it and take a course with beasts since they were upset when being near Tel Gomel to the present that they were approaching the mulch of Vernarth; due to the fact that they were his very adored pets besides the Crocodiles Tupak. The Alazanes were prescribed by a watchdog of the wall of Gorgan being of the Persian army that was seduced by the bears to combat beside Vernarth.

Next to the Bumodos, already saw Vernarth play with his pets, Bears, Crocodiles, and the can of Alejandro Magnus. Further submissively approached shoring his frozen neck, Alikanto or Alikantus preceded with donations and drugs for his master brought of the sleight phalanges by Medea. Vernarth was appreciated and almost emancipated of the branch mowing and the strains venal that populated mostly in his pectoral and both full arms of smelly tattoos that had colonized him. Almost when getting dark on burgeoning them and fluffs of Zeus then begin to arrive the phalanges of Vernarth. The Phalanx of Macedonia was the training of infantry created and used by Filipo II, and later by his son Alexander the Great in the conquest of the Persian Empire. The phalange Macedonia arose, in fact, like the answer in front of holistic modifications and tactical Hellenistic of Theban strategists, Epaminondas and Pelópidas of strengths of earth that deployed at the beginning of the 4th century B.C. For opposition to the superiority, although it already was decadent in training hoplític spartan, that had exerted in the terrestrial fights between the polis Greek until that dates.

The Sybilla European carried a Gladius in his hand but exchanged it with the Xiphos in alternation by the death of innocent entrusted by Herodes the Big, and of the escape of the Holy family to Egypt. This confirms the liturgical grouping of the Triduo Pascual; the alluding passion of Christ and perpetrating the typical dolorism of the Devotio to his death, and triumph to his resurrection. The transposed of surrealism transports to San Juan digging in all the layers and hordes of the Faith, his componential of tribulación that moved in the Egyptian and Greek cartography, moving the triangular areas of the Phalanx, that moved en geometrical block reaching the edges of the hypotenuse gradient and of the tunnel of wind that elevated them cornering to the beast that visited them pretending to be feeble and imprecise.

The dolines collapsed in myriads substances in suspension, while the two swords Gladius and Xiphos were satisfied with blood Greco-roman. Here vegetated the verb of Elías in the corporal resurrection with similarity of triangular body Lazarinus that saw dragging by the power of tow of the ionic Phalanx in his stuck. They were Beings Equis that abstracted in a start of the Be X in his contrary algebraic; an incógnita or something that could take any quantity in other words something unknown, so that the algorithmic links and cater corporeality resuscitator in Lazarus of Betania inside his angles of Holy Geometry. The winds of swing presented viviparous in future observances of visions and perplexity of consciousness, governing fiscality that does resurrect in rabbinic worlds from the highest occupying thrones in the bracket, but of thrice ignoring the belief by means of greater incredulities that the direct truth and more brief. Elías is attracted by the Cinnabar that ponders in an apocalyptic mosaic, in the chamber Esdras, at the end of the mundane reign dissolved and that dies in the same Messiah. Satanás Does not tire to attack the credibility of the Phalanx in manifolds of dispensationalism, perhaps being strongly attached to Carmelo and of the unloyal that never revive in his same bodies unconverted.    


Codex X Ultramundis Lepanto  

Of Lepanto appeared exhausted the Armis Christi with burned eyes volatilized in stratospheres that received them Belligerent. Cual if they went alien castes settled in inflexible breath, refloating from his clámide in fuss and idiosyncrasy. They arrived cracking the pristine stretches from Tel Gómel when they arrived it charges it a military strategist asking him clemency to extend.

Falangist: With the crest in my hands and the Dorus on my clámide from the floor said; each disposal that tried in the double edges of my sword that dent. The upper leaf Sansevieria nominated me to a Hebraic past and to a medieval future, it was the Sword of Saint Jorge, notifying that my family in Kalidona was under a state paradoxical, given to my two greater children that were quoted to the service of the militia. The second inferior edge of my Xiphos and the Sansevieria bent me ruin in front of the prosopopoeia to the entrance with discouraged to defray the sclerosis of my soul follows exploding, surpassing and impelling to my wife in spars of easy undress. I know that my descendants remained buried under the effect of mortal meeting in the catharsis of Pompeii, the future of Saint George that patented! All emigrated and will escape afterward to remain desolated, and attain to return the inopportune comrades to the reintegrate in the verbena of St Mary in Athens, the Saint Patron saint comforted me and prepared my resist of such bad numerary so that someday left to fall my seeds in the wisdom of archangels peasants with sacral devotional fruits. I sighed and I groaned rubbing in my animals! my empties eyes day and night were mesmerized to the ethereally magnetized. They did it beside me, with the singularity of not to affect me, they went by little booklet near to moan not to see them demagnetized by some fatalistic effects and consummatory.

Etréstles moved by the tribulations of the Child of the Falange, bent imposing non-existence afterward that his words involved the exhortation to Hera by his benevolence consummatory to be able to reside beside her. Like this, they would remain immune to progressive lives under the influence of sharp primary stew and secondary in arms of the phalanx. Shinings the eyes of Hera when the spirit of the Falangist is entering to her were not vanities but if the advent of the vanity in ínfulas to the Acrópolis is carrying it to her.  

Sibila Tiburtina sustains it gathering him in his arms saying him: You will receive the heat that you will imprison in the house of the great priest, a scene that will be represented in Prócoro in the neutral corresponding folio. Events and expletives will be of the past, no longer allocated him neither he annoyed. The Arms Christi again swirling with the Souls of Trouvere in last irascible chinks of the winds Eolonimi in the holístic of all the winds that appointed to Vernarth. "They did not go back to live your children heard a Macedonio military", The physical resurrection of the unconverted take place after the tree of Mars when they free to the innocent fallen in the belief versicular that divides the ray with his half where any minute will be able to hit it. The passages of the tunnel of wind are the wasteland that dies revived by the *** cutting overflowing fibrils of vitality from the high for overflow it downwards for those who even expect amazing miracles, walking beside the alive with hypocoristic triviality reborn in his same blood that was spilled. Everything famous goes walking with pennants that raise of his own sepulcre, cutting lower capillaries of the impetuous rising of his pale cheeks, where the scepter Greco-tridentate will be a forbearance of the one who frees and purposeful escape of the tree of Mars. Now lie down beside your children and will be between the hazels and Eolonimis doing revived of the Tágmati or order of succession of the Polis like the unit of elite tribulating the final stretches of the straight of the Ultramundis to the fries the 103 meters glorified.

Etréstles during the millennium of the Satagenesis and Deidagenesis beside the Heosphoros and the Uomo of Valplacci they prostrated to Lucifer in front of Etréstles (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Cap. 45 - Palibrio USE), reflowing and emulating wars of the Peloponeso, is being east a garrison of the general of the Athenian fleet in western Greece. The mentor floats were directed by the admiral Formión that defeated all the Lacedemonios in Naupacto. When they approximated to the province of Nafpaktia, of the Nomo of Aitoloakarnania confined followed the indivises and weightless musks disseminated, disintegrating immortal souls with the damage of the break exhaled that is extinguished in his offering. It is as well as it could cause some aversion not to be condemned to the Hadic infra world, to Tee castes of gods and semi-gods with Sansevierias in green leaves, and clover that chained to the freedom of the furious gases of Xenon and Lithium, slipping away by drainages and spaces where any sword neither launches will cross the atmosphere of Gaugamela-Macedónica, only Vernarth here was hádic and will have to pipe by the untouched pavilions of the spotless backsstore with heroic lineage. Any curly tease or flagrant will slice sanctified carnosities purchased in quoted sessions in the manacled of the Bumodos with the drugs and the potions of Medea.

Codex XI - Ultramundis Raeder      

From Patmos saw come hundreds of hanged boys of the stringers of the pelican blue of the Dodecanese. Raeder cames Hanged with both hands on the rings of iron plating of jasper; from the Greek "iaspis", that means "stone marked". Raeder found it in sharp hydrothermal, in volcanic rocks, and in sedimentary rocks in the surroundings. With four palmate fingers that shod in the hoops of amethyst for the owners of the house that celebrated the actions of thank you, and the celebration of the guidelines of Saint John that sent them transported in his peak golden shoe. Generally, they were more than five thousand those that transited by the regions, they swallowed canonized water of the sea Jonico with the big advantage to reproduce saltwater seas in freshwater to drink. They carried them to each house to fill his vessels and also in periods of seed, irrigated his tillage in summery periods where scarce, with his brown golden plumages raffle the fields of olives and of the ***** vineyards of the Goddess Afrodita. With his whites plumages, they spray the tillage of barley with vinegar and recently wheat fields fished of the legs of Petrobus, his pelican of the dreams! From here they were born all the recipes by all the regions when it depressed them the Bread without firewood and tares. Patmos has recorded in the stringers of the pelican planning every day and go looking for houses where arrive to carry them the Gospel. To all the boys like Raeder accompanied him other blessed, to carry the good news to families that seated expected near in denouements of his social limits when they expected them by the afternoons with the action of gratitude. They ate by the afternoons to expect the boys to taste them Tzatziki; Sauce of yogurt with cucumber and candy with drinks of poppies and honey, they received them in chambers near his gynoecium and right there exchanged the gifts that brought of the Grotto of the Evangelist in Patmos. The boys from the same moment in that the future mother knew or suspected that it was pregnant, attended speedy so that the distribution did not have problems considered them a divine gift,  the only children to the firstborn or those that were born of greater parents, was the privilege of these primogenitures. Reckless renowned and quotations that appear in the Apocalypse of John, in whose introduction says that the author was banished to Patmos, where had his meeting with Jesus in the called Grotto of the Apocalypse that originated everything.

The grotto or foundation of sapphire, was just to the addition of the empty that levitated from the walls of the grotto were molecules with mass hyperactive, delivering him tracks to Raeder near to the Jasper, calcedonia, emerald, sardónica, sardio, crisolito, berilo, topacio, and crisoprasa, but he magnetized with the Iaspis of the genealogy of Kalymnos that revealed him the wave vibrational on the Jasper,  the Arms Christi of Saint John in Apocalypse 21, of verse 19, says there: "The foundations of the wall of the city all lovely stone the first foundation jasper; in the paráfrasis predicted that the foundations of the Megarón will be most of these materials, but regularly of Iaspis of Raeder.

Sibila Gets flu carries the relative scourges to the scene of Flagellation in the praetorium here filigrees hematíes ran by exvotos simulating blood from the celestial, representing the corresponding straight folio. The natural laws of the Parables Iaspias do the alchemy with noble minerals immanent and hypocoristic in the cavern that revealed all this grace to Raeder for the propaedeutic of the Mashiaj when centralizing here the spacetime that said that God has similarity to the Iaspis, as its bed of condensed gold in the expiration and metalization of the cosmic essence. The similarity did that all the walls of the vault or tunnel of the Profitis Ilias governed of Jasper and Cornelian, being this last of blue greens eyes of Raeder glittering in his iris, and in the curvature of mass that did apressed in the interior of the tunnel of wind that also expanded, doing rubíes and sharpnesses of her same. The visibility of the Universe still did hyper brilliant on the inlet of Patmos, for this Petrobus his Pelicano blue topped surrounded in the arch superciliary of Apollo, to train similarity of the metals like his neighbor metalloid.

Isaías says 28:16: "Therefore, Iahveh the Gentleman says like this; Love and behold that I have put in Sion by the foundation a stone, stone tested, we look by where it begins, a stone, but first tested then angular, then lovely of stable foundation; the one who believed. From this situation the Iaspis and Sardio in the mountain of Sion the throne of the Gentleman that accompanied to Raeder and to the lamb flashing beside his idols Petrobus. They did angulars to all the stones some powdered finally and all pyramided by the dolines, in the exquisiteness of the son that presented in the cavern of the most refractory way for irradiate light that warned to Raeder to go by his progenitors. The glory of Raeder did of the glow to garrison enhanced in voices of boys by all Patmos, speaking that his parents were similar lovely stones to the Iaspis.    


Codex XII - Ultramundis Duodecim Evangelii

The twine of the Rainbow did to mutate the labaros in each color disseminated, already descends a peripeteia in the chromatic Era and niveous, discoloring in the Antiphony of entrance that says: I will give you shepherds according to my heart that grazes you in consciousness and experience. Oh God, that have aroused in the Church to Saint Joseph, Mariah, and his Rabí, wise priest, to proclaim the universal vocation to the holiness of the Duodecim Evangelii, grant us his intercesión and example, in the exercise of the ordinary debit having us to our Messiah, and serve with fervent passion in the work Redentive by our Gentleman Jesus Christ.

This big event exerts from the chasm of the Apocalypse, where daily inhabitants bound handwritten and ancient treasures  Sakkelion-Sakellarios. They upset conforming a new resolution in his scriptorium in the Byzantine period they administered alms and tributes, Curiously related with Zaqueo appearing in the new verses from Lucas´s Gospel, 19 1-10, when Jesus Christ goes in Jericho. It was a publican, boss of collectors, and very rich. The collectors worked for the Romans and besides asking for more money the Romans demanded doing this rich way easily, by what was doubly hated. Zaqueo was low in height and for this reason, when Jesus went in in the city of Jericho, all the world banked to see it and he remained backward and did not arrive to see it. Then it advanced and it went up to a species of the fig tree, a sycamore (Ficus sycomorus) since it went to happen in front of her. When Jesús arrived at that place, said him: Zaqueo goes down prompt; because it suits that today it remains me in your house. In front of this, the village muttered that it went to the lodge home of a sinner. Zaqueo retorts that it will give to the poor half of what has, and if it defrauded to somebody previously will give him the quadruple. Jesús answers that salvation has arrived at his house because he also is the son of Abraham. From this antiphony arises the Twelfth Evangelii, which arises in a file that celebrates the haughty morals of tributes that have to motivate by tribal crowds of Gaugamela for the presence of God, by what want his will and No!

The tessitura of the wind tunnel transfigured the next height of 103, after the blonde grace of Abraham murmuring his tent to generate height over Israel and Jacob. The dolines of aspersion evaporated the matter that transfigured in celestial plasma with ranks of metric coercive, of what that up to is down and vice versa for the hemispheres of the Sefirot, and for the Shemot or name of the start of the origin transfiguring in would idolise of Creation in the Universe-Duoverso. From all the corners will split to give reading to this big incident no easy to read, and listen neither less feel in his once become vibrations by the immortality of the events memorials of the history like regent conveyor of the meeting of all the frivolous voices that sin of ignorance, and those that know by ensuing ebullient. That they will be quadrupled the parchments to the fighters that finalize alive or died in Gaugamela, each one carrying in his hands one of them bled. All the crosses relations of the ancient society, infuse parallel of sustainability of Faith by means of the generosity, almost transferred of an essential charisma praised of the esoteric core of the Same dogma, confusing on the way that it has to transport it without having consciousness of the destination that will carry it, and comes badly from the limen of the doubt from the beginning. Since a king, impious Manases was imprisoned and exiled, designated king impío, convivió in the depths of the heat of the Averno. For the modern Christians, Manases is an icon of the Divine pardon, of where arises the traditional pray socrative of Manasés from the jaculatory of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, since after being one of the kings more bloodthirsty and pagan of the Jewish, forgave him and even was buried in the city of David, pantheon only reserved for the faithful kings with what deduces that God forgave it entirely.

The Sybilla Délfica carries the crown of spines of the Coronation of Jesús become equally in the praetorium, and as in previous cases to the scene that represents in the neutral corresponding. In the triade Eritrea, rather Herófila, if caste and clairvoyant Délfica and apologetic, his vernacular artery did it native of Marpeso, Trojan Tróade, as in fantasies to be a daughter of a Nymph and Shepherd. It chose it did him escort for the Duodecim Evangelii, from Samos this robbing to Patmos in the foundation of the Megarón with the same polygonal of the Chapel Sixtina in the quattrocento, where Vernarth had assistance in Regression parapsychological of the Quattrocento Duodecim Evangelii, announcing that the Vernolatría serious part of his Apologetic life inspiring prophecies with the Parables Iaspis, extolling erudition after the grave that was in the forest of Apollo Esminteo, returning to his origins to a sinkhole in the Córico mountain.          

Codex XIII - Nix in the Tenebrousness

All the demarcations derived to witness Bastos and impolitic utensils of the undivided Gaugamela. Three days before that the Falangists protested to Vernarth for when they were clouded by the Ekadashi. They fasted three days before and delivered to the visas of Zeus, graduating fulgid movements in his lunar seals eleven days before. It is the penultimate stair; already remained hours to walk by the woodworm that shook the heels of the Phalanges, all the accouterments and animals were conferred to the mysticism of essence and to his disputable worshipper. Now in the boundary circle of the heritages of Gaugamela, Darío came from afterward to move the Tigris, organizing his troops and his harem. The Macedonians had an army that added 7.000 riders and 40.000 children. The heavy cavalry of the elite of Alexander was the Hetairoi and was formed by the nobility of Macedonia, that accompanied Alexander in this battle and went the decisive factor in the faction, Vernarth commanded more than 40 one thousand children, saving narrow relation with the Hetairoi with his arms twinned of divine caste, and the Hoplites Greek that took part to cover the rear of the phalanx, that Vernarth defrays from the more furtive boundary of his doctrine in this mobile taint with thousands of Macedonians singing institutional quarrelsome poetry. From the Dodecanese, Kalidona and all the central Greek archipelagos came to surrender the figure of Vernarth, accompanied by Etréstles of Kalavrita, big hero and defender beside Markos Botsaris (Capitulate 6, pag. 36 Koumeterium Messolonghi / Palibrio USA) in this Magna Epos. Also, Raeder incorporated beside Petrobus the Pelican Blue, Brisehal of Dash-and-Lut and Vlad Strigoi appearing of the transversal valleys of Transilvania, suddenly after having arrived of the Reign of the Horcondising, tackling his Frigate in Valparaíso juxtaposing in the nine elements and in megatonnes to be ratified from the start in a new Celestial wasteland. All camp to five kilometers of the Rio Bumodos, in the ***** north where the shady blemishes favored them of a new lunar phase in tendencies, effusion, and backflow that was the apotheosis influence of energy. The worshipper of the clan did not give him any importance especially only given hierarchy by alone gnosis because in these goods could improve his devotion, so they are occupied in his service.  They are to the expectation to have the juncture of renovating even more his mourning for himself by second certificates to his right-handed with astrológics cosmic interpretations of the Ekadashi, being able to be explained by the shoots of the material world.  The concept contravened to the reverences is that the Ekadashi will be the day in that the Gentleman will persevere attaining the unitary joy dean, contesting flashes incessant by the unbalance emotional community of the assistants, like ingredient spirit that is allocated in his spree, and has to treat to give more start to Vernarth in his regression parapsychological. But besides it is necessary to conceive that we are in singing of subsistence of the hypotenuse, by which do not have to think this Zeus requires extremely our third. He is entirely self-sufficient and is tied to his transcendental world of the vilorta, but not to leave us alone with his vague shimmers of collectivity!

Sibila Helespóntica sustains the cross, the last emblem of the Passion represented in the chaining. As it corresponds in his straight and immediate folio representing the Crucifixión of Christ in the Gólgota, the spaces car selected consigning in the ashlar that came close in technical whispered of works that inspired to Sybilla of Helesponto, she approached with the gear and the utensils of the altarpiece of her same, decorating them with passions that represented in the lineup, eleven days before being sprayed the alcohol on them of first degree in his heads to leave them in the intemperate, and to posterity that came to the goddess of the darks Nix spilling petals macerated and turned sour on all they to inhume them in blasphemies of the god Erebus, in the deep light scarcity of all lethargy marginal to redeem them of the chaos, on an earthly crushed sea unfamous that will be the surface of Gaugamela transiting in the catacombs, with earthy rivers and elusive phlegm escaping of the insectaries light of Ultramundis of the god Tartar. Nix Runs alarming in his muddy tiled, appearing as a winged woman dressed with a black toga cover of stars. It will drive an armature thrown by two steeds properly accompanied by his children twins Hypnos and Tánatos, here besides them trepidation running by any place, for attesting the regrets of the Falangists Hoplites, after being suddenly invaded by mythological strengths of the Auqemenides. Through condensed pulses and of others no designated will be represented on diverse types and in supports of xylographic monumentality in the ceramics and even in the patrimonial immaterial with the hindsight of the Áullos Kósmos. From the Basiliscus will aim to Betelgeuse, dispensing in the Arms Christi to advance to the Fontana's and to Parables Iaspis, staging the Sibyllae Prophetae, vaticinating the paved of the Iaspis of lovely stones for fragment in the elevation and in the maremágnum issued by Sybilla of Helesponto,  raising on the height of 133 in the ordeal of the Gólgota, in orient skull of Abimelech and of Jezabel from the kraníon symbolizing the traffic in places of executions from a kraníon admonished.  

The place of the Gólgota also is uncertain of archaeology. All he knows is that it was out of the city, further from the second wall. It had to be a hill, as it could see from some distance and was near to a way, homologous to the initial of Getsemani, Saint John Apostle amplifies that a new grave was near, in an orchard. The tágmati translated as "order" Indicated the ranks in the Roman army; the saints of the Ancient Will and of the tribulation receive his bodies glorified near the return of Christ to the world. Being Greek root Tagma of put in order from the thoracic head and abdominal, in tagmatization and differentiation of regions of the body or tagmas formed by series of metámeros or similar segments between himself differentiated of the rest. The Ultramundis of the god Tartar here is conceptualized, and corresponds with the metamerization heteronomous of inert organic, and opposes to the of metamerization homonomous, in which all the metámeros or bilateral symmetry in all the appendices that are equivalent. They are those centurions that drilled the rib of the Mashiaj in the Gólgota with whispered symmetry from the head, thorax, and abdómen of the Tágmati, sorting out from the launched Pilum awarding them the Christo Salvatore Vaticinante, but in the dictamen or professing the same symptoms of his passion by the tagma abdominal, toráxico and head in his crown of spines Ziziphus.    


Codex XIV-  Ultramundis Primum apud Orionem finale    

Challenged by the sortilege of the Augur Vernarth gathered with his General Commander and invites him not to separate further of extending them that edging by a docile lunar greyish wind. They gather and they put near one of another.

Vernarth Says: That joy turns to my meditation behaving in this contiguous night to our Falangists Consecrated, and to the cavalry sleeping in Machiavellian dreams when falling in his sink, until in his parishioner and in his steeds so that they do not lose his eyes sung in the drain of the pressing. All lodging as if lying in a genial lawn and honesty of the belly of the Chaos, exhorting hallucinations to those who sleep in the cap of the kraníon, with the wise utopias of the Erebus. Dozing likewise  utopias to the high and rubbering in Orión with a pythoness expression and changing his tacit. Leaving hardly a space of turn to change the tri face cariátide tackling the secondary mirages of Aurion, turned into a decimated Muse captivate for desirous delectation treating them as his heirs, seeing them flatter with his scarlet layer and inscribed with Lambda in your magazine in Gaugamela.  Alexander Magnus answers: That the satirized arms re-spin by the ****** of Amón, popping your eyes-hearings and eyes unheard folded in the martyrdom glaucoma of Anubis, re transforming the constellation of Aurion after we heave us annihilating them in this silent furrowed already embattled! While, I have to wash down your sentences more cleaned with one thousand tempests more than the refrained gallantry that receives in my corrected hemisphere, unbalancing the **** Target of the night, situated in the Lambda on her so that it accompany me with his nurse to the temple, truncating the investment sovereign to the moaning in the lead of Febo.  

When observing Vernarth that the spittle of Febo or the personality of Apollo in Alexander the Great fell repaired, quickly the appraised on his jaw drying him, smiling him and at the same time changing his gestures of nervousness. Taking him and attaching him, since it seemed a retained dizzy of his long addresses parliament with his feudatory. Then it would be prosperous to leave him seated in the side of the aspect that escorts him. In this instant separates and extends his arms to the envious koelum or dialect sky, joint to both swords that also will accompany them with the bronze shake chatter, snorting in the retracted navels.

Vernarth Retorts: Dissolute In my infancy had to walk with my dogs as a ray stayed in his frame when it advanced me to them only sniffed my scarlet aureoles; that they were red stars súper giants and near to the Earth fading. Today it is the belt of Aurion beside the Big General, beating in his groove and changing his course precessional. His hallucinations will move, so that it remains alone in his reddish outline, but not in his physicist componential.

In this way, Vernarth moved the tunnel of the zephyr with the tip of his Dorus when they bent, the shining final of his tip warned to reopen in the intestinal of the firmament when going out launches. Mechanical ran Years light by much more than it has to describe, in front of exact science and in front of a Dorus inaccurate, in a universe that only this distant whereas Vernarth is doing using the protocol of governance, pulling on the floor with the drum, ratling by his dorsal in direction to his shaft that volatile attached of the abbreviated adminícule, for one launches used like Sword Xiphos, arriving at the vertex of Betelgeuse to approximate to the legatee space of radiosity, and of Persia joined in a billed merely advocator. It appears Vernarth behind the cloudscape coughing with cloying fever with a dazzling ruby hypnotizing the muffins of the colossal fénix cosmic, and lighting up to Alexander Magnus when waking up. Sibila Frigia, finally sustained the cross with the risen flag of the same representation that does it the own Christ resurrected in a corresponding scene of Resurrection, in extensive complement of the Sybillas with his Gothic imagination and recentish, with the Sybilla Frigia being the priest that will chair an apolíneo oracle of a historical realm in the western central part of the highlands of Anatolia contrasted with Casandra of the Ilíada.

The incipient muffins sequence to redeemed reigns in that the puérp postpartum aurora, intercede nonetheless of the facets and of the screams of the Cáucaso, of the one who this chained in the irons but frozen of his isolation, for the one who the panic of the Diaísthisi or presage, traps him in millennia taken from a heart stuck in the thorax of the Tágmati, to the Apollyon offered in the abyss of the consecratam, and of the abyssal jumping from the fathomless floor the abysmal destruction providential, and his tulle issuing in those who will not shine after exalting concluded in silty bottoms of the fosca. Regards and Tares will govern intolerable pacts s and promises, early tinted in the heartbreaking disclosures of Saint John, glimpsing to diábolos interventors of Apollyon beside the Sheol of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, redeeming them in Nínive and ordering in Arbela and Gaugamela in the indissoluble planted zones of the Camels Gigas of Apollyon.    


Codex XV - Apud Secundus finale  

Arbela falls in the hands of castes of the mesnades of Etréstles of Kalavrita, collapsing like lightning and exceeding the charred farmhouses of alien Mosul, to his intrinsic compartments. Of to the contrary was the authority of Maceo, found immediate to Syrian troops, mesopotámicas, medas, split, sucianas, tibarianas, hircanias, albanias and sacesanias, scattered like disturbed Leviathanes of himself same and of debased titans in all the execrations not specified of this avalanche, so that they are carried by his dean leader, and donated to his physiognomy like limpid preys of misfortune when predicting for them in the banishment of his bravery. Later once encysted in the cracks of his stinks would look for in the fatuous emanations of the Phosphorus (Crash of the morning of Venus) drizzled by the glories of the morning and of his distractions, changing the decomposed inert matters to the Aqueménides, incontinenti to be bordered with all the fascination of the dawn. The commanded by Maceo; the commander of Dario, brought a heart to be transplanted from a wise person Dervish that had split to install it after conquering the epic Gesta, and his conjecture of it. They believed to ****** his ascribed gentlemen that seconded to his disconsolate of him…, but brought off by half the substrate character that moves the incessant rumbles in the bitterness of the cicuta unfunded in the Xiphos, offering to the twilight to mark the withdrawal between lights.

Etréstles, spotted a stray prescription in the field of battle, expelling it from the divine sky of Arbela. By the conferred adherents him to Vernarth in this round stroking to Alikanto by the gibbosity right of his steed Kanti, this would cause that they would cross on the same line and gave an oppressive split kinetic curve so that the lancers hyper vibrated with the spin of twist of his masses contracted, adding a field in the tips of the sky to the discouragements and the static Persian. Like this they fought together near of the children, infamous legislation plagiarizing the movement and tying the ribs of rows from left to right of the Syntagma, to fluctuate in the strengths of his graceful Falangists of anxiety. When observing this Moving away Magnus, redouble his heavy cavalry and also challenges similar concert in the maneuvers executed by Etréstles, designating it Diabolical Officiousness curiosity, as they visited inseparable in the Runes of the circulatory movement and in the cardiac system or Kardiá, reimplanting in the spin of twist of return of the children and the cavalry, but with the whole mass of his horses bluish lapis lazuli, wheezing of his nasal like a domestic nasal breath!

Auriga Says: Your venerate you milestones come to upset to the new beings, come to occupy your organisms with arrows on his bodies deterred by the quiver magic of Artemis, with new incarnations and manly gallantries?

Etréstles Jumps from Kanti, represses some militias that were surrounded, and reaches to spot Vernarth, to there is of the hubbub of his transmission recharged on the intimidated enemy. Sometimes they affirmed of one of his hangman of him to resist the pain of his ribs of him, while he vigorously tightened his sword and resisted the suffering that paled in his face, but increasing the size of his arms and legs, to unchain the big booming voice of Sheol or Hell, that piped him in the big stupor of the Persians resigned, afterward he clarified an all in the miscellanea was of the ardor and the pain of the souls expelleds, to testify the quantity of his independence consumed. The lightened environment of emptiness in the tunnel of the Profitis Ilias did feel in the peak of the surface, where was and trembled in the acroteria of entry of the Hexagonal Progenitura. Majestic Gravitational waves struggled here invested, oozing from the volcanic base of Patmos in vertexes of the physical fields and of elementary particles of great similarity to the caverns of Getsemaní, in the suggested detain of the phylogenetic mechanics and of the instauration of the phonetics, all embedded and propelled by the particles hitting on them, causing opposition of mass in the empty internal of the pipe covered by chairs of the Iaspis, propelling unions in progressive waves in viscous fields, very dense when being generated by the Arms Christi and the Souls of Trouvere. These elementary particles of God plunged into aroused basilisks in compound particles in the dynamics of energeia, preexisting already quoted, and adopted by Vernarth in his last parapsychological regression where he collided in the field of Higgs Ipso facto. In the areas W and Z, rather in the W of Wonthelimar and Z of Zefian like patterns of Lights without mass in his vectorial that were attracted by the maremágnum of his matter, where the viscosity is maybe, the confused darkness of the material fossil, mutating by atomic energy from the starvation of the Phoebus Shemesh, or false Sun of Apollo-Leviathan in his demolished asthenia. It was captive of a viscous moraine that collides between yes, arousing occupations of the empty field, already typecast in the boson of Higgs, and in the photons of Wonthelimar that taenia of on dowry, to be prone to the binomial W and Z, in the energized tangent of the shallow elementary bodies transformed in particles with mass. The interaction of the particles resembled a quantum field of the Orchard of Getsemaní with asymmetric and rocky graphics, that supremely did immanent in the trinitary energy that absorbed them in his arrest, concatenating the converted tendency of the field of Higgs in a quantum physical structure symmetrical, therefore in a perfect triangulation trinitarian of elementary particles, activating equidistant of his uniformity between if in all the spin of twist and in the three ataxic angles of unsteadiness of Zefian inroads of his fourth Saeta. The statics longed for the tendency that propagated in a fourth Angulo, but this time in the Progenitura Hexagonal in his six sides concealing the two equilateral triangles, subtended in no massive strengths, that is to say; feeble in a load of a photon, but if having to cross the unions of field that were him apt to auscultate the physics of God. We have to understand that all dogma gathers interactions with the field Diaísthisi or to presage, that recovers the mass of all this or that ventures the idleness of some silent particles that conform his weight, and the global mass affine of his material existence, sponsored by the proton in a cubic meter if it is accelerated. The field that underlies here in Patmos will be of upper physics from the Boson of Higgs or of God, for the grant of mass and of weight in the empty tunnel of wind in the Profitis Ilias, re sustaining the necessary ineffective light of the Febo Shemesh apocryphal of Sheol (Hades and Erebo), for constraining the symmetrical balance magmatic basality of intraterrestrial energy, contributing the supernumerary of her, turned into Light for the reborn world of the Apocalypse. The elementality bearer of the particle of Patmos, in his context of quantum physics, will enumerate like the theory of the Apud Secundus Finale, to generate interactions in the spacetime, that reduce physicality and delay when attending his credibility, in front of facts supra abnormal and bearers of his hyperactive dogmatic abulia, understanding that the graphic of his cerebral activity is genius of the quantum physics, provided with energy without mass, that vertiginously adheres to the protons of his physical strength consolidated, turning it into a kinetic inert element atomic, and in one dynamic of physical solidity. For all the solidness of the wasteland of the Apud (In) of Getsemaní, this will not be consecrated like a mystery, rather it will aspire the just act of immense clemency of the body compacted in the emotion of the feel gravitate, and accelerated transfiguring in an atomic elementary impulse that crystallizes the creative Faith, or was to the Vernarthian Duoverse! The Boson is massive, all the matter that is him leading will be poured by the standard of verticality in the creation, predicting theoretically in the tree of physics whose pipe hyper lives between the root and its foliage, and will consult the effect of his origin for greater challenges of his divine experience.

Singing of Sibila Líbica (bis): !The sparking plugs will inflame, the iridescent eyes of the Mashiaj flashed in the likely mortuary settlement of Vernarth in the oasis of Siwa: “Oh My warm blow of Libya that flatters my cheeks, and my shoulders that groove in the light of the callous cerebral coexistence of Zeus. Singing by you my Didaskein; treating or teaching to the baffled herd that confuses the kitchenware that was born to. b.C., not having a reminiscence of Irradiation in the mastery of the continuous turn to the not contravening of latent ignorance, but yes to find him agreed and effulgent”!
Codice Raedus
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Nigel Morgan Sep 2013
Sunday
He had been away. Just a few days, but long enough to feel coming home was necessary. He carried with him so many thoughts and plans, and the inevitable list had already formed itself. But the list was for Monday morning. He would enjoy now what he could of Sunday.

Everything can feel so different on a Sunday. Travel by train had been a relaxed affair for once, a hundred miles cross-country from the open skies of the Fens to the conurbations of South Yorkshire. Today, there was no urgency or deliberation. Passengers were families, groups of friends, sensible singles going home after the weekend away. No suits. He seemed the only one not fixated by a smart phone, tablet or computer. So he got to see the autumn skies, the mountain ranges of clouds, the vast fields, the still-harvesting. But his thoughts were full to the brim of traveling the previous November when together they had made a similar journey (though in reverse) under similar skies. They had escaped for two days one night into a time of being wholly together, inseparably together, joined in that joy of companionship that elated him to recall it. He was overcome with weakness in his body and a jolt of passion combined: to think of her quiet beauty, the tilt of her head, the brush of her hair against his cheek. He longed for her now to be in the seat opposite and to stroke the back of her calf with his foot, hold her small hand across the table, gaze and gaze again at her profile as she, always alert to every flicker of change, took in the passing landscape.

But these thoughts gradually subsided and he found himself recalling a poem he had commissioned. It was a text for a verse anthem, that so very English form beloved by cathedral and collegiate choral directors of the 16th C (and just that weekend he had been in such a building where this music had its home). He had been reading The Five Proofs for the Existence of God from the Summa Theologica by Thomas Aquinas, knowing this scholar to have been a cornerstone of the work of Umberto Eco, an author he admired. He had also set a poem that mentioned these Five Proofs, and had set this poem without knowing exactly what they were. He recalled its ending:

They sit by a lake where dead leaves
Float and apples lie on a table. She
ignores him and his folder of papers

but I found later the picture was called
‘In Love’, which coloured love sepia.
Later still, by the time I sat with you,

Watched your arm on the back of a chair
And your hand at rest while you told me
Of Aquinas and his proofs for the existence

Of God I realised love was not always
Sepia, that these hands held invisible
Keys, were pale because the mind was aflame.

He remembered then the challenge of reading Aquinas, this Dominican friar of the 13C. It had stretched him, and he thought of asking his wordsmith of thirty years, the mother of his daughters, to bring these arguments together in a poetic form for him to set to music. She had delivered such a poem and it took him some while to grasp it wholly. He wondered for a moment if he actually had grasped it. But there was this connection with the landscape he was passing through. She had mentioned this, and now he saw it for his own eyes. She had been to Ely for the day, to walk the length of the great Cathedral, to stare at and be amongst the visible past, the past of Aquinas. He remembered the first verse as only a composer can who has laboured over the scheme of words and rhythms:

The Argument from Motion

Everything in the world changes.
A meadow of skewbald horses grazes
Beneath a pair of flying swans
And the universe is different again.

And no sooner is potency reduced to act,
By a whisker’s twitch or a word,
A word, that potent gobbet of air
Than smiles and tears change places.

And everything has changed. Back
Go the tracks beyond seen convergence
To a great self-sufficient terminus
Which terminus we might call God.

And so it was in such a spirit of reflection that his journey passed. He had joined the Edinburgh express at Peterborough to travel north, and the landscape had subsided into a different caste, still rural, but different, the fields smaller, the horizon closer.

Alighting from the train in his home city on a Sunday afternoon the station and surrounding streets were quiet and the few people about were not walking purposefully, they strolled. He climbed the flights of stairs to his third floor studio, unlocked the door and immediately walked across the room to open the window. Seagulls were swooping and diving below him, feeding off the detritus of the previous night’s partying in the clubs and pubs that occupied the city centre, its main shopping area removed to a mall off kilter with the historic city and its public buildings. What shops there were stood empty, boarded up, permanently lease for sale.

Sitting at his desk he surveyed the paper trail of his work in progress. Once so organised, every sketch and plan properly labelled and paginated, he had regressed it seemed to filling pages of his favoured graph paper in a random fashion. Some idea for the probably distant future would find its way into the midst of present work, only (sometimes) a different ink showing this to be the case. Notes from a radio talk jostled with rhythmic abstracts. He realised this was perhaps indicative of his mental state, a state of transience, of uncertainty, a temporariness even.

He was probably too tired to work effectively now, just off the train, but the sense and the relative peacefulness that was Sunday was so seductive. He didn’t want to lose the potential this time afforded. This was why for so many years Sunday had often been such a productive day. If he went to meeting, if he cooked the tea, if he ironed the children’s school clothes for the week, there was this still space in the day. It represented a kind of ideal state in which to think and compose. Now these obligations were more flexible and different, Sunday had even more ‘still’ space, and it continued to cast its spell over him.

He put his latest sketches into a sequential form, editing on the computer then printing them out, listening acutely, wholly absorbed. Only a text message from his beloved (picking blackberries) brought him back to the time and day. There was a photo: a cluster of this dark, late summer fruit, ripe for picking framed against a tree and a white sky. Barely a week ago they had picked blackberries together with friends, children and dogs and he had watched her purposely pick this fruit without the awkwardness that so often accompanied bending over brambles. He wondered at her, constantly. How was this so? He imagined her now in her parents’ garden, a garden glowing in the late afternoon light, as she too would glow in that late-afternoon light . . . he bought himself back to the problem in hand. How to make the next move? There was a join to deal with. He was working with the seven metrics of traditional poetry as the basis for a rhythmic scheme. He was being tempted towards committing an idea to paper. He kept reminding himself of the music’s lie of the land, the effectiveness of it so far. It was still early days he thought to commit to something that would mark the piece out, produce a different quality, would declare the movement he was working on to be a certain shape.

And suddenly he was back on the train, looking at the passing landscape and the next verse of that Aquinas poem insisted itself upon him with its apt description and tantalising argument:

The Argument from Efficient Causality

We are crossing managed washlands.
Pochards so carefully coloured swim
Where cows ruminated last summer
In a landscape fruit of human agency.

And I think of the heavenly aboriginal
Agent of all our doings in this material
Playground of earth I can pick up,
Hold and crumble and cultivate

And air that is mine for the breathing
And the inhabited waters that cling
As if by magic to a sphere. What cause
Sustains the effects we live among?

For there is no smoke without fire
And as we sow, thus we reap. Nihil
Ex nihil, therefore something Is,
Some being we might call God.

So ‘nothing out of nothing, therefore something is’.  Outside in the city the Cathedral bells were ringing in Evensong. The sounds only audible on a Sunday when the traffic abated a little and the sounds in the street below were sporadic. He thought of going out into the Cathedral precinct and listening to the bells roll and rhythm their sequences, those Plain-Bob-Majors and Grand-Sire-Triples. But he knew that would further break the spell, the train of thought that lay about him.

He sketched the next section, confidently, and when he had finished felt he could do know more. There it was: a starting point for tomorrow. He could now go towards home, walk for a while in the park and enjoy the movements of the wind-tossed trees, the late roses, the geese on the lake. He would think about his various children in their various lives. He would think about the woman he loved, and would one day assuage what he knew was a loneliness he could not quench with any music, and though he tried daily with words, would not be assuaged.
The poetic quotations are from poems by Margaret Morgan. A collection titled Words for Music by Margaret and Nigel Morgan is now available as an e-book from Amazon http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DY8RAGC
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Victoria Jennings May 2013
*******
I'm wearing a skirt on purpose
I lift my legs to rest on a pole
So that it rides up
And you touch me
You do that so well
The switch was turned on
And for me there is no off
Only completion
You rub me
Your turned on too
I can tell
My hand slips back and grazes
The graze becomes a rub
And before we know it we are bare
Our souls shown in the vulnerablity of this nudeness
Our bodies collide
I'm louder than I have been
The pounding is what I needed after all the riding I've done
I just can't help but moan
You say you love me
I love you too
I try to scratch because you like it
And I can't help myself
Eventually
We're done
And I feel closer to my soul mate than ever.
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Hussein Dekmak Dec 2018
Let Me be the Unspoken Letters on Your Lips:
Let me be:
The makeup on your skin,
And the fragrance of your perfume.

Let me be:
The breeze that grazes your face,
And the unspoken letters on your lips.

Let me be:
Your hidden secrets,
And your full moon.

Let me be:
Your smile, your laughter, your tears,
Your wishes, and your happy dreams.

Hussein Dekmak
Edited 2
#edited #fragrance #love #secret #moonsmiles #letters #unspoken #touch #tears #face
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jane taylor Apr 2016
a perfect panacea
as winter acquiesces to the blazing sun
a soothing breeze softly grazes tips of aspen
gently shedding past liaisons
a perfect panacea
allowing wild freedom for summer’s dawn

healing from the ominous night
a flower gingerly releases its grasp
leaning into golden rays of summertime
keenly aware of newfound vulnerability
it yawns into the light

a rousing essence induces
a silhouette of life once thought lost
prodding river’s rigid ice blue crystals
to melt and flow with buoyant wonder
kaleidoscopic-like waves

having weathered near annihilation
a sculptured consciousness remains
painting summer clouds with soft-hued wisdom
all awakens from the dream
and should the cold return once more

the sun will shine again

©2016janetaylor
#sun #nature #summer #winter #healing #wisdom #poetfreak
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LJ Chaplin May 2014
Anatomy
Stripped down
For the World to see,
Beneath flesh and bone,
Deeper than marrow and blood,
Right down to the soul.
Let them see the veins,
Let them watch as my heart
P  u  l  s  e  s
Nestled between heavy lungs,
Shrouded by an aching ribcage,
A heavy blow
That makes me stumble and fall,
Bruises,
Grazes,
Flatline.
Make another incision
While I lay upon the operating
Table,
I don't know what you are searching for,
Nor do I know what you will achieve
when you do find it,
But it isn't here.
Love cannot be found by extracting cells,
It cannot be discovered through
The translucent glow of an X-ray,
Not even an autopsy,
Removing each piece of me,
Could speed up the process,
It's lost,
It's incurable.
#love #metaphor #sad #imagery #heartache #anatomy
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Robert C Howard May 2014
A Song of the Rockies
The Rockies sing to us at sunrise

      when crystal snow-capped peaks
chant iridescent matins to the dawn,
      the dawn of a fresh new mountain day.

Luminous pastel clouds
     hover across the horizon
painting the hills and valleys below
     in mysterial shades of
lavendar, amber and rose.

The Rockies sing to us at daybreak
      when every crest and vale
unites in raising anthems to the dawn,
      The dawn of a bright new mountain morn.

Forests and fields awaken.
      A bull elk grazes by an alpine lake.
An eagle soars through the morning mist
      over rainbows of Indian paintbrush.
A hilltop lake spills over its rim
      and cascades down the *****
etching serpentine streams in the valley below.

We can hear the mountains singing.
      In every creature, ridge and flower
They bring to us their jublilant songs
      of wilderness, wildlife and wonder
.

We can hear the Rockies singing.

      The mountains sing forever!

*June, 2009
Included in Unity Tree - Collected poems
pub. CreateSpace - Amazon.com
#wildlife #lake #forests #celebration #rockies #alpenglow #centennial
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Derek Nov 2014
black death
o melanin
'tis of thee
sweet land.

what's your modus operandi?
i am ageing.
my muscles ossify
and i become stiff.

the bullet grazes the hair on my bicep
and my heart fires a lightning bolt.
i made it this time.
undo.
unison.
undo.
and leave me be.
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D A W N May 2018
beyond a shadow of a doubt
you said you didnt love me anymore.
yet your face tells everything everytime we steal glances of each other.
how your cheek grazes my eyes, burying every sinful lie within each and every moment.
you try to hide your feelings inside and pushed the love i gave to you
that you denied.
i see light in your eyes, darling.
now why couldn't you just let it be and see how you truly mean to me, see the countless times, the consecutive tries of trying to make you mine again.
now darling, i'm waiting for you. waiting for you to take me back one more time. i just need one try to prove to you that i was worth it all the time.
and i dont know why youre fighting back the truth and burying them with distinctive lies saying that i never loved you and you never loved me too and that we were never meant for each other but deep down you know it wasnt true.
so doff your pride and don a smile,
run to me with arms open wide
and accept me back
with the love
that never once died.
September to November-gubot na panahon
#love #hidden #hide #broken #meanttobe #secondchance #deny #romance
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Catie Blurr Jun 2010
The Silent Bench
The eyes of tearful past
Gaze upward, past small faces

I watch him
He begins to rise himself
Off the coldhearted bench
Gazing through the distance

Thoughts reoccur in his fading mind
He lays back down

Roaming, helpless and scarred
He lost himself in fear, and that alone

Links of steal and agony
They fall beneath earth's eye

What's left alone to pity
Has nothing, than to die

Tears of saddened hearts,
They are, but a target

The world, they are the darts
Piercing happiness, in the eye

He grazes, in weathered grass
Throughout a darkened tranceless state

Left to gather thoughts
Expected sadness, on the contrary

He is dead to the world
What are you
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J J Jan 2020
The lighthouse man
I pose high my chest of ragged ribbons
And unravel a fist to stretch out fingers in search
Of a hand glimmering pale like a lantern
throughout this grey
        empty space. Once a pavement, now as good as

Cloud. Frozen lake. Dust. Boiling ashes. Skeletons.

I am walking on the slashed frames of waves
As jesus once must have. Propelled to a miracle unwitnessned
To anyone but myself. I am impelled to corrode
Into a statue; to remain a rigamortic rotting jade jewel in the sun
Until I no longer can.
Until they found me...

Perhaps they'd dust me off, thaw the ice from my shoulders,
Rehydrate me and gorge me,
Restart the blinking light in my brain
And refrain me evermore from having to seek.

But seek I must, for the lonliness weighs me down
Further by the day. I take half as many steps now as when I began my voyage.
My memories are like ghosts of flames that play
Snakes and ladders and hide and seek.
I am the lighthouse man and I sail drunken--
A rubicund mishape of bone and scuffed thoughts,
I can feel every soul which once embodied and huddled this place.

It's like they are trying so hard to posses me but even
Their souls have been smouldered to whispers
So thin they ring as mutely as the surrounding mist,
So soft they vibrate akin to an infant’s pulse
Throughout these walls, these scrapyards, these crumbling arcades, this sandbox grey that begs for a scream.
The spirit of a tarantula trembles along my back and grazes it teeth against my shoulderblade,
Praying that I turn to confirm it's being –but it's a game I’ve long grown sick of–


I am the lighthouse man and I ceased having a face long ago.
What I recall of my reflection was a child so young and so sure
Of a different life that

I cannot be sure it's even me.

I am the lighthouse man; a puckered bulb balancing on too-big shoulders, that walked
  through barren flat closes and exited empty handed, the lonely poltergeist,
a bitter flab of skin.

I am the lighthouse man and I am the final Aspen leaf in the pond of the universe,
I see myself reflected in a sole star twirling underfoot and overhead
rowing my ears so thick with disfigured silence so that I wished I was born deaf.
I am the lighthouse man and my mind is a spinning fragment
    my eyes can merely follow and my floating steps merely trail.

It never changes tone here, I can only vaguely trace the time
By the occasional moon. Tonight it shines half chewed,
  Befitting the levelled star a sideways crown.
It is beautiful but I mustn't stop to admire, lest a survivor
Scavenger loses patience withholding the last of their scran.

I am the lighthouse man and I haven't eaten in years.

I am the lighthouse man and I bled for the first time yestardy.
I am the lighthouse man and my bulb ricocheted off the base of my skull
In a telling fairy tale dream. I felt static in my head
And my light's ink spilled across my hands and for a minute I thought
My light had gone out. I tasted blood,
Trickled down from my stinging nose and I had never been so scared.

I am the lighthouse man and I never knew I could die.

I am the lighthouse man. Once the world danced with magic and I was
A walking satellite that grew to want to dissapear.
I am the lighthouse man and my decrepitude is casted in my hands:
Black as the night from the dirt collected over the years.
The few slashes of skin clear enough to see look rust-like and obtrusive, outdone only by
My veins like wonky bruises that vine across the silhouetted bone;
Bridging gear to gear, clinking shivering knuckles
         That want nothing more than to surrender.

But I am only frostbit, not frozen.
Life was and thus must still be.
I am a raindrop, not the whole ocean.

I am a walking lighthouse inspecting and guiding empty seas,
A form without virtue
That ceased feeling it's metallic steps too long ago to recall.
A cubist teardrop falling down a grey giant's cheek,
Waiting to be captured and swallowed.

Or perhaps I am climbing uphill, slowly along the circumference of his forehead.
So slowly I cannot notice the rise. Perhaps I was destined to amble in hypnosis,
En route on this colourless limboid curve until I forget the concept of
             a destination, a soul, a matryr jester to rouse me awake...
             and perhaps it is then that I will be blessed with the heavenly bulb

Of the weeping giant on whom's flesh I disturb.
I am the lighthouse man and I dream of purpose.

I am the the lighthouse man with a penchant to levitate
I am the lighthouse man and I am a God without tool or reason.
I am the lighthouse man and I'll walk this limbo until my feet dissapear.

I am the lighthouse man and I am cursed.
I am the lighthouse man transitioning between lives and never knowing
Causality nor the answer. There are no questions to have;

I am the lighthouse man and I must have been a murderer in my past life.
I am the lighthouse man and I can feel my inner fuses twist,
Falling fainter and fainter by the second.
I am the lighthouse man and I will not make it another night.
I am the lighthouse man and I am a memory-bank full of nothing remarkable.
If I felt this months ago then perhaps I would make do with the my sojourn of an empty house, atop a parked car, and perhaps I would be content with rotting.

But now the moon shines so luminously bright and full and close! So very close!
I am the lighthouse man and I chase the moon.
I am the lighthouse man and I vaguely recall my mother saying 'do not eat the moon,
It will give you nightmares!’ and it all suddenly makes sense now.

The stars are all out tonight and they await my company. I am the lighthouse man and now I run.
I run run run run for the sky in ode to the rest of the bodies that abandoned this place.
#lighthouse #lonely #solitude #god #wander
Continue reading...
Yael Apr 2014
first kiss
Warm night air
You hold me tight
Summer breeze
I shiver, but from shock
You give me your sweater

Between kisses
You say I'm
Beautiful
Perfect
No one matters but me
And I believe you

I want more of you
All of you
To be mine

I stand on my tip-toes to reach your lips
Pink
Soft
Perfect
And your tongue grazes mine

We pause for air
Then pull eachother closer
And resume kissing
Only more feircely this time

I almost whisper i love you...
Good thing I don't...

The next day
We were too awkward to talk
Or even look at eachother
You didn't even say 'good morning'

The day after that
You asked me to dance
But I was still confused
And made excuses to leave

The day after that one
I was finally ready to face you.
I was expecting grandiose declerations of love
Only to receive
"You're not even that pretty"
"You're so hard to read"
"Nothing can happen between us"
And my heart shatters

First kiss...
The affair is heaven
The aftermath was hell
This is kinda a personal one, but then again they all are...
#love #heartbreak #kiss
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Flita Fernandes Apr 2015
A sailor's memory
Salty wind grazes his skin,
Embracing the ocean in his eyes.
Staring at the infinite horizon,
With memories from another life.

She would wait at the shore,
A small cottage by the sea.
Lullabies from distant waves,
And untold stories in the breeze.

She hummed a tune for her sailor's return,
Aware of the dangers and the deep.
She sang her song to the ocean,
That made the mythic sirens weep.

He still remembers the day he returned,
The cottage in the distance, hazy like a dream.
He searched for her, months and years,
But her sea green eyes were never seen.

Not once did he visit her grave,
never knowing what happened to her.
Memories of her still float ashore,
As he could never love another.
#love #dream #poetry #death #nostalgia #sea #sailor
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Jordan Nov 2014
her little secret
1,2,3,4
she drops her razor to the floor
5,6,7,8
she looks up and says "its not too late"
she throws her razor in the bin
and promises herself never to use a razor for harm again,
months past and shes stressed again
she picks up scissors and grazes her legs
she crys as grazes appear on her skin
no blood just scars.
shes sick of everything
#harm #sad #depressed #alone #razor #scissors
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Lauren A Todd May 2015
BLOOD
Can you see the water dripping from your mother's mouth?  
It's been giving you life since before your father ever took a sip.
And at times, it scorches the prints right off your fingertips but you still have the same blood.
This same blood, which mixes with the water dripping from your own mouth, turns to wine as your lover grazes each corner of the lips that always turn down.
And as they purse into the softest circle, you remember the way your mother smiled with her mouth, full.
#love #mom #blood #redemption
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judy smith Jul 2015
Suit style for a wedding away
Getting married on a beach, mountaintop, remote villa or rustic rural setting is a romantic ideal for many brides.

But what does that mean for the wedding dress?

Should you go formal or footloose? Will your gown fit in your suitcase?

A bride having a "destination wedding" should think about versatility when choosing a gown. She must be "concerned about being comfortable, more so than your typical bride. She has to contend with weather and terrain, making her gown choice critical to how at-ease she feels on her special day," says Lori Conley, senior buyer for David's Bridal.

Christine Pagulayan of Toronto and her fiancé, Ian McIntyre, jetted to Costa Rica in 2013 for a resort wedding.

"I had a (dress) style in mind: strapless, low back, white with ruching. Initially, I thought about going short, since we were going to get married on a beach, but I then realized that even if it may be heavy or sweaty, I wanted a real wedding dress. So we found one that had a gorgeous train, but it also had a bustle so I could dance," Pagulayan says.

Some dress trends for destination brides:

• LIGHT FABRICS AND SHORT HEMS: Many traveling brides favor lightweight, airy fabrics.

"Chiffon and organza are always favorites. Full trains can be cumbersome if you're navigating sand or grass," says Conley, of David's.

"A lot of brides opt for the ease of a sweep train," which just grazes the floor.

David's destination-friendly dresses include styles in full or tea-length tulle, soft lace or chiffon, Conley says. Fabrics that travel well for brides wanting a more structured gown include silk gazar, georgette and crepe, which are "lighter-weight versions of silk faille and Mikado," says Carrie Goldberg, associate fashion editor for Martha Stewart Weddings.

J. Crew's Karina short dress, for instance, has a flapper-esque fringe, and is covered in corded lace. • SEPARATES: "Tops and bottoms are not only easier to pack, they allow for mixing and matching fabric and fit to get a silhouette that feels unique to your personal style," says Goldberg.

Separates work for any destination, she says: "A full organza skirt may appeal to a bride getting married on the beach; pairing it with a delicate silk camisole suits the location. The same skirt would suit a mountaintop affair when paired with a fur bolero or a fine knit."

J.Crew's Sloane poly-cotton long skirt has a simple, draped profile; a silk cami top embellished with beads, crystals, sequins and paillettes in a floral motif creates a dressy look.

At David's Bridal, there's the crisp Mikado cropped top balanced by a flowing, organza ball-gown skirt, creating a modern silhouette.

• COLOR: Let the venue inform your choice of hue, Goldberg says.

"A sunset wedding in Napa pairs beautifully with a blush gown, while the colors of an Amalfi Coast wedding may inspire the bride to opt for something blue."

• VERSATILITY: For bridesmaids — or perhaps even the bride — White House Black Market has a clever option: a short or long pull-on gown with a customizable top. You can adjust the straps on the "Genius" dress to make a halter, one-shoulder or cap-sleeved version. Easy to pack, affordable and available in a range of colors, these might be a good option for a group of bridesmaids.

• FOOTWEAR: Flats or wedges are ideal for beach or garden: "The more surface area the sole of your shoes have, the easier it will be to walk," says Conley.

Keep in mind that satin or grosgrain might get stained by grass or sand.

Another option for beach brides is "foot jewelry," an accessory that does away with the need for an actual shoe.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

www.marieaustralia.com/plus-size-formal-dresses
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Robert C Howard Mar 2014
13 Ways of Looking at the Mountains
homage to Wallace Stevens

I - My Focus pistoned up the rise
      and all at once, the Rockies -
            silhouettes against the western skies.

II - On the road to Boulder
      a pleated ridge crawls north
            like a blue whale bound for the open sea.

III -  Appalachia's intoxicating verdure
      never fails to induce in us
            a certain mellowing of the spirit.

IV - You 'conquered' my North Face, did you?
      Why, I should skewer your arrogant ***
            like a holiday lamb culled for the sacrifice.

V - Lewis and Clark looked west
      surveying the Bitterroots' frigid expanse.
            Farewell Northwest Passage!  

VI - Pueblos stranded on Enchanted Mesa -
      their rock stairs crumbled to the valley floor.
            Should they dive to their death or starve?

VII –Touristas at Big Bend Park
      wonder at its pastel window -
            its romantic haze a toxic gift
      from stacks across the Rio Grande.

VIII – The once mighty Ozarks humbled by age,          
      dwarfed by the youthful Rockies.
            Listen up, youngsters, your time will come!

IX – We de-bussed to seize the dolomites
      with our hyper-kinetic shutters.
            Pausing for a draught of Italian air,
      I felt the whack of an Alpine snowball.

X - Before Oregon's crater had its lake,
      the mountain scorched the village below.
            Today its azure waters preach only serenity.

XI – Looking down from Shissler peak
      to the golden meadow below
            where the elk herd calmly grazes.

XII – Do mists veil the Blue Ridge Mountains
      or are there really no mountains at all -
            only clouds decked out in mountain attire?

XIII – They say that peaks more steep than Everest
      soar up from the ocean floor.
            Who will scale their sunken heights?

May 28,  2010 – Boulder Colorado
Included in Unity Tree - Collected poems
pub. CreateSpace - Amazon.com
#mountains #lewis #alps #appalachia #rockies #clark #smokies #bitteroots #pueblo
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JadedSoul Aug 2014
The Unicorn
The Unicorn appeared from the Light
radiant, young and full of promise
her magical horn
shone bright in the sun,
mirrored the moon

She appeared from the light
to startled villagers
they could do naught but stare
enthralled by her magic and beauty

The village elder Elder reached out his Hand
overcome by joy, he couldn't resist
blinded by her exquisite beauty,
he couldn't help but reach to her
and reluctantly, the Unicorn moved forward
full of mistrust,
she took a chance...

But, unbeknownst to them
the Hunter was peering at her too –
through his rifle’s telescope!

The deafening boom
fell the Unicorn to the ground
and sent the villagers fleeing in panic

Into the Sacred circle
the Hunter stepped with muddy boots,
with his cruel Knife he cut her horn
then drank from her pure blood
as she lay on the ground
while her horn was a trophy
lost between a hundred others

The villagers tried with all their craft
to heal the Unicorn and restore her Life.
But her scars remained
her blood stayed cold
like marble, her heart hardened.

evermore the villagers lived
with the wounded Unicorn
who was filled with hate towards the Hunters
and ever she kicked
at the village Elder,
mistaking him as the Hunter

Yet, there is always Hope
while the Unicorn grazes
between the thorns and thistles
the Elder still prays and Hopes
that their magical Unicorn would be restored to them
Sad story of my life
#love #hope #lost #despair #magic #unicorn #hunter
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Carmelo Antone Apr 2012
Bedside Lynching
Leashed by loves lynch till I’m dropped by my lack of respect for the beauty’s presence
Thank god she wasn’t curbside taking tips with perked lips for a stranger’s ****** fix,
But I needed to feel the evidence that the pieces fit,
That’s why this is about me and a barstool princess

Getting close enough to taste the moans of *****’s venom
Get close enough so I can know my needs can be fulfilled

Like a lunar eclipse this species keeps grinding its teeth when teased
Time and time again we’ve been taunted by,
The mistress our ancestors once described as the serpent of Eve,  
When procreation was preached as an STD

Yet we’ve been perpetually pivoting,
To defy the chastity of a species

Grandfathered misconceptions relating to why you and I exist  
As wickedness warms in the covers of the lustfully parallel
So let’s drown in this bliss,

From head to toe, eye caught, grazes at the nose,
From the bar stool to a lonely man’s home,
From one dollar tips for two *** and cokes
To the bedroom of this writing,
The nights like this, that remind me I am alone

But this isn’t about me loathing the fact that I won’t hear her whispering for more body warmth,
Nor am I looking for you to pity me because I’ll be sleeping solo
Enough is enough since we are humans seeking ****** catacombs

I’ll try to be an adult about how the human molds but it started me at childhood,
When those that conceptualized love gave me this world,
And now I no longer have to listen to what I’ve been told

This is about how to perceive something we can never truly control,
Lucky enough to avoid a contraceptive despite unable to remember the doctor’s pull,
Its night’s like this I get to question,
When will my sheets meet the perfect fit?
When will this be more than just a humanizing fix?
Continue reading...
kirk Mar 2019
A Shave That I Don't Crave
A razor is my nemesis, because the blades do not behave
Gouging cuts into my skin, that is the path they pave
But it is unavoidable, I have become a bathroom slave
To rid myself of excess hair, from a shave that I don't crave

Ever since the birth of man, it goes back many years
A growth around your lip and chin, extending to your ears
It may go down particularly well, among the bents and queers !
I'd rather have a smoother face, to avoid Ducky's and Dears

Why do men want ****** hair, why do they want a beard
Bits of stubble sticking out, a design that's rough and weird
A Goatee isn't very good, it's cattle that's not reared
You wouldn't get tickled or scratched, if beards had not appeared

Okay some guys might look alright, when they are neat and trim
Scruffy ones they just look bad, and some are rather grim
I don't want hairs growing on my legs, or any other limb
Nice smooth skin is my preference, and it's not a passing whim

There is just one problem, something I would love to ditch
Hair removal is a pain, and it's an evolution glitch
When the morning comes along, I have that same old itch
Having to shave is immanent, and a *******

How many ****** shaves, does a man have to endure
Eventually your skin goes dry, from this old daily chore
You get cut far too often, I don't want it anymore
Razor blades no longer work, and that's a shaving flaw

Girls complain about their periods, it must be so frustrating
With all that blood just seeping out, when you are menstruating
You wouldn't like it daily, there is a period of waiting
It only happens once a month, so it's not as irritating

I'd rather shave twelve times a year, without anymore hair traces
No cuts and grazes for a month, in many different places
Unscrupulous razor companies, would have no more hairs and graces
Hairy smiles would be wiped off, from their stupid corporate faces

A close shave does not exist, I think it's a fare bet
That manufactures cut your throat, with electric dry and wet
All the claims of the best, that a man can get
Sharp shavers are a fabrication, and that includes Gillette

The cheaper brands are just as bad, shops own brand or BIC
You may as well tape a knife, to a piece of stick
Are potato peelers any sharper, would they be a valid pick
Would chipped skin be as bad, or just get on your wick

One shave is not sufficient, you have to do it twice
There's always bits left behind, which isn't very nice
I would've tried the No No, an expensive hair device
Razor blades and shavers, have such a high tagged price

It makes me cross and angry, because there is no reward
When buying beauty products, which they say you can afford
Why cant you have a body switch, or a desired level cord
So you can turn of your hair, and sod Wilkinson Sword

Excess hair I do not want, except for on my head
Is stress the cause of going thin, when it begins to shed
Would it not be better, coming of your face instead
Shaving would then be reduced, and not something to dread

Many men go through the curse, of losing it on top
The older that you become, your head hairs for the chop
A full crown is all I want, why take away my mop
I didn't want a bad harvest, by losing half my crop

The only place I wanted it, I've lost my style and flair
Why does a bald patch appear, why does your bonce go bare
Is it my comeuppance, with the creation of a glare
All I want from follicles, is my head full of hair

If you want to have a beard, then that is fare enough
Don't be mistaken for a *****, by looking like a scruff
I don't want a hairy face, or stubble that is rough
Or a weird beard with scraggy parts, or any yuk *** fluff

Some men just let beards grow, and maybe that's just crazy
It's not as though they look sweet, or as pretty as a daisy
Personal hygiene may not count, if they are always lazy
To me it isn't fashionable, it makes you look old and hazy

Who wants to be a yeti, but perhaps it is too late
And wild men roaming in the woods, is evolutions own cruel fate
No matter how much I shave, it's the scratchy bits I hate
Wasted shaves when hair returns, why does it lay in wait

How much has man evolved, how much as man progressed
Personally I think the state of hair, has radically regressed
It's based on my own experience, so perhaps I am obsessed ?
Who wants a hairy monkey, when your naked and undressed ?

There is a smooth advantage, when you are misbehaving
A kiss feels much more sensual, without the crazy paving
This is all that drives me, although it is enslaving
Even with the nice things, I'm not craving for a shaving
Continue reading...
infidelnc Jan 2014
Gentle Aphrodite
A gaggle of glamour girls,
Debutantes of Times gone by.

With talk of Aruba,
White Sands and clear blue waters,
Spoken to inspire jealousy to all those around.

And of organization,
Motherhood and label makers,
Construction of pigeon holes for every part of life.

And the Latino Girl at work,
Whispers of the lasciviousness of a life unknown,
In the silliness of two glasses of white wine each.


I smoke a barrier between them and me.

In an effusive hurried rush they leave,
In search of sustenance of the soul,
In search of Sisterhood.

I sit in a Dewar’s drought.

She walks by and grazes her fingertips across my back,
A touch of familiarity,
A touch that I long for.

Gently, I speak,
Within this microcosm,
You stand as Aphrodite.

Smiling, she goes about her work.

I return the appreciation,
The warmth of bad bourbon,
Exuding from my pores.

Cause I sit in a Dewar’s drought.

They sit down in the virility of youth,
Testosterone tilted hats,
Speaking the language of Poser Street,
In the melody of white noise.


Showcasing the uniforms of a self-created culture.

I turn and tune them out.
Continue reading...
Rosie Wisniewski Nov 2011
Part One by Rosemarie Wisniewski
Feeling my heart beating out of my chest
I'm sitting here and you there
Inches away but seeming like feet
You look at me, I turn away
You smile at me, I see out of the corner of my eye
I clear my throat and your hand grabs mine
My cheeks flush red and I pull away
Your gaze falls away and you take mine
I look at your hand
I look at mine
My hand inches towards yours
Timidly, I reach for it
My touch surprises you but, you smile
I look in your eyes and see all I need to see
We just sit there staring, our eyes doing all the talking
Your hand grazes my cheek
My cheeks flush once more
I smile
You smile
We are closer, our bodies nearly touching
The electricity running through our bodies
I can feel it through your touch
Your fingertips at my neck, sending sparks through my body
Just a simple touch, that's all it took to send my mind spinning
You move in closer, your eyes half closed
You being so close, I'm nearly breathless
My hand grazes your cheek, my lips longing for your kiss
You're close now, your hand in my hair
Your kiss hits me and leaves me without a breath
Your soft lips on mine, your hand on my knee, mine on yours
My body on fire, ignited by your kiss
The kiss comes to an end but both of us linger
A breathless whisper, "I love you"
A tearful smile across my face, A kiss that says the same
Our touch so tender, our kiss so sweet
What seems like hours, is only minutes
Lost in love, lost in touch
Your hands trace every outline
Your lips saying everything that I need to hear
How speechless you leave me
I can only stare, admire the beauty
We look deep into each others' eyes
Needing no words to say how we both know we feel
We've waited for this moment
We've waited so long
Now it's here and it's here to stay
Forever you're mine
Forever I'm yours
Together at last
Forevermore
Continue reading...
Amber Evans Aug 2018
Soft Words Written From a Bath
Bubbles in a bath,
loud moaning blaring in the back
as I look down at the
bruising on my
muted
skin.

I try to imagine
myself with your
glowing frame
submerged underneath
the water.

Without you, I've
been a bit dramatic.

A bit manic.

Wandering and wonderin';
yeah, I've let my mind
slip at night.

In the hours of now until
then, I try to
refrain.

I indulge myself
into routine.

I watch lovers on the
screen.

Envisioning myself with
women in the late
hours but mimicking
your strokes in the
morning.

Without you,
without you.

I'm free to be me.

With you, I'm
happy.

Molten coffee scorches my
untouched tongue,
reminding me that
I can still feel
warmth.

Damp moss grazes my
untasted body,
reminding me that
I can still
dream.
#sensual #spokenpoetry #*** #daydream #smoking #and #writing #idk
Continue reading...
Rose Aug 2018
before
3 may 17

sincerely hoping to tear this page out.

i promised myself i would never write about you because i know that once this pen grazes paper, the thought of you will be permanently engraved somewhere, and although not physically, but mentally and emotionally in the depths of my brain, figuratively.
my outlets these days are quite scarce. i tore out my sheets and tried to erase the thought of you, of our intimacy. but what i've ceased to comprehend is that it's not that simple. i can change my sheets, remove my posters, switch my nightlight, remodel my whole room, but, that doesn't change it. change the fact that you still consume my thoughts like a virus, spread throughout my body, filling my core to the brim with inadequacy.
i love you, i hate you.
it is a constant cycle of indecisiveness that floods me with feelings of deep desire, love, and infatuation, to the less constant but still present, feelings of rage, anger, pain, and resentment projected towards you.
i can't wait until the day.
the day when you are either out of my life for good...
or
prove to me that love still exists.
-v.la
#moving #on
Continue reading...
A M Ryder Sep 2023
Nulla Differentia
"Am I evil?"
Worse,
Youre smart
When you know
Nothing matters
The universe
Is yours
And I've never
Met a universe
That was
Into it

It grazes on
The ordinary
Creating infinite
Idiots just to
Eat them all

Put a saddle on
Your universe
Let it kick
Itself out
It'll never stop
Trying to throw you

And eventually
It will
There's no
Other way off
#evil #universe #self #smart #nothing #ordinary #infinite #idiots #grazes #eat
Continue reading...
Jose Luis Carreño Troncoso Apr 2021
Poielipsis Souls of Trouvere
Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.
Poielipsis Souls of Trouvere
Continue reading...
OC Nov 2018
Today I savored my own killing
Today
I savored my own killing

I could've done so
at the twilight of my days
while I dose off
on a creaking rocking chair
my old lean limbs entangling down
my crooked joints melded to the arm rests
my heavy head resting on my collarbone
oblivious as I
mercifully approach from the back
gently stepping on the tube
leading oxygen to my dying body
watching as my breath become heavy
as my blocked throat wheeze in exhaustion
as my stressed lungs finally collapse
as I quietly yield to sleep.

I  could've done so
sometime tomorrow or yesterday
As I lay asleep on my back
snoring as usual
in an instant I'll roll over
and be on top of myself
clasping at my mouth and nose
pressing my full body weight
as I jolt awake, panicked and confused
my arm randomly flailing around
torn prayer flags swooped by a hurricane
my fingers digging into the flesh of my arms
attempting to pull me apart
until finally
my stubborn grip overcomes
and defeated I dim onto stillness
save for a twitch here or there.

I chose to do so
in my youth
as the texture of a heavy rope
grazes and bruises the skin on my neck
while I send a chilling smile at myself
from across the room
pulling a handle
that drops the floor beneath my feet
accelerating for the first time
relishing the hissing air
the absence of gravity
catching with my eyes my penetrating gaze
older than I am
full of grief, fatigue, and divination
cut by the cracking rope
torn like my snapped neck
with a hallow sound
much less revolting than I thought
watch me dangling like
a ragged pendulum
a grotesque puppet
an unripe miscarriage
feeling but a slight pinch of regret
for never knowing
this moment
Continue reading...
Katie Biesiada Apr 2016
Tattoo
She kissed your cheek and smiled widely,
the corners of her mouth almost touching her
impeccably tattooed eyebrows.
She was not what you had pictured
from the back and forth email conversations
on quotes and designs and sizes.

She asked you to take a seat as she went to
smoke a cigarette outside the shop with a coworker;
Anna was her name...with two jack russel terriers -
one of them is like a honey badger apparently.

It's funny how the mind remembers certain things...
the way the smoke on her tongue smelled as she leaned in
adding ink to her needle,
or the song she kept humming while you
bit your tongue and stared at the decorated ceiling.

But the pain of the needle depositing the
ink
into your skin was welcome...
It was nothing compared to the internal turmoil you were
experiencing the past seven days.
It almost felt good...
Not adrenaline good, but like good that you were capable of
feeling
something besides sadness and anger.

In the Barcelona airport two days earlier, you made your appointment.
One on your hip, one on your foot
100 pound deposit. No problem.
You needed something to occupy your
mind
from the pain it endured over your "holiday."

So much for a holiday...
Surprise! Your friend is a backstabbing *****
who "secretly" hates you and tried to
ditch you repeatedly.

The needle grazes your hipbone and you wince.
"You okay?" Tota coos in her Italian accent.
You nod, but you know you're not really okay...
You never were...probably never will be OKAY.

Your mind wanders...wishing you were home
and not in London, three thousand miles away from
the only people who seem to care.

"Done!" Tota exclaims.
You examine her work, smiling.
The first time you have smiled in days.
"Get ready...this one is gona hurt!" she says, half excited.
You don't care...nothing can hurt more than your heart...
Too bad that can't be tattooed...
#sad #depression #lonely #anxiety #tattoo #accent #italian #london #barcelona #tota
Continue reading...
kivel Oct 2018
Boba Tea
Oh joy and happiness!
How you fill my world with wonders.
Oh, how I fly with freedom under me.
Oh, how this world seems to support every move i make.

Oh joy and happiness!
How my c̶̤̊̀̈́̈̈́͑̌̓̀̿̔̓͠up fills with yoṵ̴̧̻͔̪̳̮̼̹̲̆̾͂͆̇̇̾̾̈̌͘r juice,
but just under all the liquid-
o̷͈͚̲̯͖̱̜͇̫͎̻̤̍̊̊͗̇̎̏̄̎͜͝h joy and happiness
how your colorful thickness ḣ̶̦̳͓̮͔̕i̶̢̨̬̰͉͙̗̫̩̼̩̗̬̍̽̆̃̏d̴̞̍͐̀̇͜͝͝es
multiple r̸͉͆͘ò̸̥̤̞̣͜t̴̜̞̹̖͚̰̥̑́̎̎ͅt̷̟͙̹͋́̔͋̒͆̒̐̃́̕e̴̲͇̱̲̲̳͖͉̓͌̃̈̑͂̄̑͒̾͜͝n­̶͇͂̈́̄͒ *****
P̴̢̨̰̥͈͕̱̪̰͊̈́̉͗͐͊̆̂͐̄̈́̈͘͝ǫ̸̢͉̘̰̯͉̘̮͈̝̙̅͒̓̀͑̃ḯ̴̧͓̥̱̰͔̖͚̜͈͎­̦̇͋̑̈̊̑͂̇͗͗̕͘͜͠ͅs̷̛͔͉̤͕͖͙͇̟̭͈͛̓̓̊͑̎̆͐̌ͅọ̵̡̨̻͕͚̖͎̦̼̝͎̲̤̘͛͝ņ̸͍̺̤͓̙̙­̘̫͈̄ͅe̵̢̧͍̖̜̮̘̖̮̖͖̼̼̦̔̅͗̓͊d̴̨̨̡̛̛̜͇̦̱͇͔̘̫̭͉̳̯̿̔̒̾̇̇̓̀̀̒̋ ̴̢͇̺̘͍͚͉̦̣͖̻̦͔̲͊̈́̆́̓̈́ḇ̶̭̟̣̠͕͍̝̆̊̌̓͛́̆̈́̊̈́̋̅̕͜͝ͅǫ̶̧̬̼͉̗̘̞̗̺͚̦͇͙­͌͛́̐͊̃̀̊̂͊̓́͝͝͠ͅb̸͍͕͚̥̺̰̦͒͜ͅă̸̬͚̗̩̯̩̻̫͙̬̦͚̼̲͆͗̀̈̀͌̉̎̽̄̎͘͝
poisone­d boba
poisoned bob
poisoned bo
poisoned b
poisoned
poisone
poison
poiso
pois
poi
po
p
.
.
.
b̷̡̢̺̥͚̲͍͚̏̄́­̈́́͆̈́̽̊͛̚ͅo̸̞̠̞̊͛̒̔͒̚ḅ̶̣̘̹̊̌͛͝a̴̡̛̼̥͔̼̠̓͌̓̎̎̕͠ ̵̛̩̮̺̫̜̟͓̫̗͈̰͇͒͌̌̑̋͠͠ͅţ̷͎̟͕̰̲͍̥̤̲̖̮̊͋͗͗̋̾̓̔̆͑̉̓ę̷̦̦̹͍̐͂̅̉̉́̈̃͛̓͌̿­a̴͇̹̭̯̮͙̱͋̿̏͜ ̷̨̢͙͚̜͖̻̬̲̹̤̳̻̔͊͂̈̀̐͌͒̒́͝k̶̻̳̀͌̓̓̈́͒͆̅̏͝͝͝i̷̯̜͒l̴̪̯̳͊͌̌̉̄͗́̈́̌̌̅̃­̓l̵̢̼̱̠͖̞̪̺̣̞̥̜͑̍̽̌͝͝ͅs̶͈̼̫̤̝̤̥͍͇̻̣͖̮̫̲͒̾͆̓́̀̈́̇̅̚͝͝ ̸̥̖̘̱̺͙̫͔̪̑̄̀͋͜ͅw̸͇̩̑̈́͐͒̈̐̈̈́̆̏̕ị̸̢̛̗̫̣͙̅̈̾̃̒̉̕t̵̡̪̪̪̱̦̭̩̬̮͑̉̈́̌­͒̔͛͊̒́͘ḩ̵̡̛͈͖̫̈́̈̐͗̓̊̐̔̿ ̸̢̨̗̫̪͙̖̩̠͎̝̘̂͋̌p̶̡̛̫̰̖̺̞̱̥̬̰͗̊̿̍̽̇̓o̴̡͖̫̘͕̲̳͔̗̫̔͌̑̾̿̀̏͗̈̑͐̕ȉ̷̖͉̮­̱̮̭͂̾̐̌̂̀̀͜s̵̛͍͔̍̃̾o̷̧̻̤̬̣̣̗͖̬̒̀͌̏͆͒́͗̋͘͜͝͝n̴͙̖͉̻͖̮͉̝͔̐̇͋͌̆͒͒̍̀͗͒­͐̚s̵̢̨̛̠̹̖̣̱̻̭̄̀̍͒̉͗̒̋͑̚̚ͅ ̴͈͎̰̖̗͌̔̄̃́͐̎s̴̨̳̲̣͉̳̥̱̙̀̂̌̋̅͑͂̏̄͑͘ͅt̸͉͊̀͌́͑͐̿͆͝r̵͉͒̃̓̚̕͘͠e̸̛̠̗̗̞­͇͎̫̙̻̮̩̦̞̯̓̄͋́̋̓̎͝å̴̟͚͎͙͊̀̆̊͝k̴̦̘̥̪̟̭̤͍̙̋͗̆ͅs̴̜͉̯͂͒ ̴̫͋̽̋́̓̈́̅̔͛̅̓̎ơ̷̲̐̅̓̀͆͐͂͋̊̓̓̽f̷̨̫͉̹̞̈͌̉̉̈́͛̎̍͛̒͝ ̷̢̦͚̯͍͇͙̩͎̻̖̳͖͑͛̽̆͂̀̉̇̉̅̑̍̚͝b̵̡͚̺̥̭̙̬͎̜̳̱̤̭̩̏̿̐̿͛̏͂̚͘͘l̴̠̹͓̻̪̼͎̪̱­̼̓͒̈͛͐̀͆̀̃ͅͅo̸̡̡̥̣̥̖̻͇̘͕͒́͌̒̊̚ó̴̩͚͈̮̺̌̒̈͌̉̀̄͆́̓̀͠d̴̛̩̖͕͗̍̉̓ ̴̨̲͖͖̩͉͔̠̖̲̥͍̀̈́̓͌̃́͛̿̏͝t̴̨̪͉͖̣͖͓͖̦̞̳̊͆̇̀̏h̷̛̖͇̞̰͚̜͙̘͈̄̀̀̓͐͊̍̏͗̓a­̵̼̝̣͊̓̑͘t̷͕̟̑̅̌̔͋̈̆͒͊́͆͋͘͝ ̷̨̨̛̬͖̩͓͚͔̬̥̯̰̯̤̭͒̔̏̇̇̓͊̐b̷̨̨͖̳͚̼̑̋̂͜͠ȓ̵͖̺̮̘͕̜̈́̾̈̽͑̿̂̅̈́͌͒̅͛͠ǐ̷͇­͇͕̬̟͉͔̺̫͔̅͊̌̈́͗̉̾̀͆̇̄͊͘ͅͅn̷̝̾̑͗̆͜g̸̛͈̖̖̺͖͈̙̘̋̀̓͒̈́͗̄͂͘͝͠ ̷̨̧̡͖͖̺̬͇̙͓̠̋̏́̅̾̆̓̈́̇̕͘͠o̵͈̙̼͑ņ̷̘̈́͝͝l̵̮̐͑̈̾͝y̷͎͇̞̥̓̓̆̎̏͂̆͛̒̒̎ ̶̼̖͕̘̱̭̣̙̄d̷̢̢͙͇̋͐̍e̴̮̘̼͔͋́͛̂̔͆̓̄̐̾͆̆̈́͝a̷̛͓͕̼̬̤̺̖̓̈͌̎͐̍́͑̑̍t̷̡͔̳­̯͙̯͇̭̖̯̭͆̐̀̑͛̑̀͐̓̚͝h̵̛̰̭͕̖̭̼͕̝̭̔̐̕ͅ ̸͕͚̫͗t̷̛̯̝̲̙̥̠̘̮̄̈͑̀͆̉̔̄͂̈́͘͜ǒ̷̡̡̺̤̼̖͙̻̮̖́̔̅͂͊͋ ̷̛̮̣͓͍̦̱̤̗̬̹͍̯̘͉̓̅͗̂̊͛̌̄͑̐̄͒̈͐t̴̛̼͇̟̟͓̲̯̬̲͚͇̹̤̾̏̍̈͆̓̈́̐̎͜͜͝ḩ̴̡̻͚͎­̤̘̟̣̝̰̣̜̽̂̾̏̽̃͐̎͋̀̀̕͝o̶̢̰̺̠̟̱̬͚̺̍̅͌͌̿͒͆̆͘ś̸̡̥̲̬͖̥̬̤̕ē̶̺̙͈̘͇͇̳̱̻͓̹­͜ ̸̛̮̣̦̜̙͔͉͇͈͕̦̝̻̒̉̒̃̈́̓́̀w̷̡̬͍͇̜̭͉͇̱̮̬͔̽͒̇͌̇̀̄͗̇̎͘͠͝h̴͚̮͚̱̜̪͉̿̅̍̈́­͆̀̽̌̚͝͝o̵̧̲͙̍̇ ̴͈̻̪͓̪̫̝͠ͅc̵̫̾o̶̞͎͈̼͇̠͕̩̤̰͕̠̫͐͂̅̇̈̇̓̈́̌̀̍̍n̷̗͇̟͙̖̅͝s̵̨̨̧͉͇̈́̔͂̆͜u­̷̹͚̩̫͛̈́͌̌͗͠m̷̢̢̺͙̫̖̱͕͖͕̟̤͉̒́̀͂̈̕ȩ̷̭͉̤̋̆̍͠,̸̰͊̆́̆̊̏̍̍̒̆̄̓̕͠ ̸̢̡̜̪͔̭͓͖͓̏͑͂̀͂̌́̒̍a̸̛̼̮̫͉̻͓̦͓̘͛̈́̓̏̊͐͊̌̈̒̊͝͝l̸͉͇̼͉̫̜̘̞̦̟͈̰̱̙̾̊̔̐­̑̑̈́̅̇͐͘͜͝l̴̛̲̙͙̱͚̠̫̞̯͇̼̥̱̭̔̈́̌́͂̽ ̶̬̘̰͇̲͈̪͍̙͑̈́̒̃͗̂̊͑̈́̒̚͠t̴̡̛̤̺͕͓͚h̶̢̛̜͖͖͙̺̤̤̹̝̦͓͇͈̎̑̅̊͑̄̾͒͝ȩ̵̛̤͈̣­̮̥͙̖̜̹̙̤̈́͗̊͑̆̌̀̌̾͛̑ ̵͔̻̫̲̩̯̺̉͗́̆̈̿̾̏ļ̷̢̜̦͙̙̀̎̂͋͐̚̕͝i̴̛̱̽͐̒͊̆̆̍̈́̑̐q̵̧͖͍̥̟͍͓̠̜̻̗̞͆́́̈́­͝͝ͅū̴̩̦̼̦͉͍̺͎͐̈́̇͘͜i̶̛̻̱̭̼̥͑̓̂̍̿̋̕d̵͔͔̤͍̳͓̖̟̦͔̝̻͝ͅ ̵̛̻͈̖̺̠̋́̈́͑̍̀̆͝i̷̫͎̲̬̦̘̠͙̰̘̙͒̃ͅͅș̵̛͎͍͍̼̲͚̅͑̽̉͌̑́́̒̀ ̷̨̱̟̩͈̣̦̹̗̘͙̫̬͈́́̓͊̆́͐͒͘͜͝f̸̧̢̢̯̦͈̺͍̪̩̬̏̒̈́ͅo̴̦͕̓̀̀̔r̴̛͚̬͓̮̭̈́̊̔͆­̓̾̄̚ ̵̢̼͍͎̪̦̘̐̓͆͑͒̿͌͂̃̑̒̋̆̅h̸̢̧̛͈̘̟͇̣̪̰̫̙̬̑̓̃̿̏͊̽́͊̾͒͘͝i̶̛̹̪̬̾̽̑̀̇̑́͘d­̶̡̟̙͚̮̳͉͚̲͕́̊́̚͝͝i̸̡͕͍̪͆̈́ͅn̷̛͙͛̉͌̈̈́̂͂͘͠ġ̶̩͇̜̺̮͔̗̼̰̱͓̘̪̐̉͐̔͗̎̿͘͝­ͅͅ ̶̧̡̩̭̮̭͚͌̋͂̑̄͝t̶̻̞͉͖̟̦̙͙̳̝͓̳͇͈̖͆͌̊̎̿̾̈̕h̷̡̧̲̗̳͔̞̠̯̤̝̞͖̲̄̃̐͊́̇̂̍̐̑­̏͊e̸̢̲̖͔̲͙̭̖̬͈̼͇̼͆̒ͅ ̷̗͋͂̐ẗ̸̲̝̗̻͕͔̹͙̻́͌͋͌͆̈́̏̾̑̌̾̚r̵̡̧̫̟̼̥͔̮̳̪͔̙̫͍̂̑̍́̃̒̓͝͠u̴̜͓͙̮̪̰̠͖̘­̤̗͊̈́͝ͅṱ̷͎̞͖̠͉̟̖̳̣͚̭̩̚h̷̨̩͎̠̣̞͇̜̰̳͈͚̩̤͋͒̈̈͊̽͋̉̊̕͘͜͠͝͝͠ ̵̬͚͇̉́͂̾͌̎͒̽̐͜t̶̨̤̝̥̘̲̖͉͇̦͕̽̅́̒̀̈́͘͝h̴̭͎̙͇̆a̸̧̺͎̰͈͉͓̝͍̰̖͕̜̩̤͆̀͊̉́­͊̍̀̐̇̿̃͘t̷̡̛͉͎͖͈̠̉̒̍̆͂̋͑̿̓̒͘͝ ̶͙̠͉̠̺̯͚̪͎͈̯̫̙̀̈͋͂͗͛̐̇̀͘ͅi̵̢̹͖͈̓̎̈̈̾̽̓͐̀̑̄͛̈́́͘ ̵̘͔͖̰͉͈̺̒h̷̖̤̪̳̖̥̫̤͍̟̗̼͌͒͜ͅͅa̸̧̧̞͕͙̰̮͓͙̗͓̹̺̝͐́́͜v̵̞͚̰̣͐̌͘̚ͅè̸̛̫̩̹­̖͒̈́̃͑ ̸̡̡̢̞̱͈͚͎̯̏͑̔̍̍͐̿͊̿͌͒͝͝ͅp̵̨̛̜̮̱̠̻̩̪̮͚̹̣̞̠̼͂̆͑̔̀͑̍̀̑̀́͂́͘ò̶͇̬̂i̸̗̋­̆͒́̃̔̆̒̿̉͝s̵̟̹̀̈́̑͒̃̐̀͋̌̾͑̚ͅo̶̡̗̰̼̙͇͌͐͗̊̂̀͑̋̒͌̃̔̀̋̚͜n̵̡͔͑̇̀̓̾͒̽̈́­̽̐͝ͅẻ̷̟͈̣͙͔̬̹̄̀̑̓̇̾͝d̷̟̼̹̞̣͚͌̊̇͆̈́̏́͋̓̔̽̎̈́̕͠ ̴̨͍̱̺͍͙̤͈̼̐͜ͅt̴̙̲͕̓̉̀̆̿́̎̄̚͝h̵̡̡͇͈̭͖̤͈̙̣̳̼͎͈̎̂̔̓͆͗̀̆̋̿͒̕͠ě̷͉̤̗̗͇̫­̮̹̝͔̱̰̝̙̒ ̶̨̠̬͓̠̪̖̦́̏̽͑d̵̮̱̾̃̽̍̽̌r̵̗̈ǐ̶̛͈̭̗̥́̂̓͗̔͐̑͛͘͝ͅņ̵̢̳̭̖̈́̌̈͗͂͛́̑͜k̵̘̘­̈́̽̇̅̓̏̾͛̓͒͝ ̶͔̗̈́̿̀͗̀w̶̙͍͚͓̤̭̝̞͍̮̝͍͙͛̔͒̆̓̈̈̓̍̀͘͘̚͝͝ͅa̴̢̛̛͗͑̈̾̿̽͗̆̔̿̚î̸̡̛̓̆̿͋͒­̏̾t̸̡͔̭̦̘̅͂͌̽́̓̿̍̉̇̅̃͘̕ȋ̸̙͂̐̋́̎̌͊͐͌͊͝n̵̛͖͖̍̍͂̑̃́͊͘͠g̶̝̹̻̠̝͉̘̩͉̮̙̗­͆͜ ̸̡̨̡̨̮̞̦̞̳̗̖͈͎͎̍͌̈́͋͆͂͒ͅf̸̡̛̟͎̞͎͙̮̰̓̅͆͗̊̾̂̓̈́͒̐̂͛͝o̸̧̥̘̜̪̪̯̅̌r̴̨͔­̝̠͇̖̘̪͍̲͔̙̈́͊̔ͅ ̷̢͔̬̺̭̌̐͒͑ͅt̸̨̢̺͉̟̖̪̮̺̂ͅḩ̴̧̢̗̲̻̺̭͍̭͊̈́́̍̊̿̃͌͋o̴̝̭̗̔̎͌̑̈́̀͆̐̕͝ş̵̧̪­͚̮̟̩̟̔͆̓̑̈́͐͐̕e̸̢̮̤͍̮̙͍̹̘̹̽͐̓́̂̓͆̃̈͗͊̂͝͝ͅ ̸̢̝̻̖͇͕͈̜͓̌̓̎̍̂̄̏̄͝͠f̷̢̧̞͉̬̩̯͔̦̥̱̥͇͊͐̍̄͂̾̒̈́̒̔̋̿̈̽͛o̷̺͑̈̄̂̆̊̉̄̓̄̋­̃͘͠o̷̧̧̹̩̲͚͙̼̜̜̿͠l̶̘͈͎̯̫̋̌̏̄̏̇̽̅̒̃̈́͜ͅi̵̡͎̺̹͇͗̽̂͊͜ş̵̮̩̩͙͚̣͈͇̤̞͔͓͐­͑̂̌̄͐̓͌͌̊̓̂̚͘͜ȟ̷̯̗͈̅̆̎͑̌̒͌͑̇̉͘̚ ̷̧͕̠̣̮̠͇̮̯͋̉̐͐̈́̈́͘ḙ̷̭̙̒̈́̂̐̚ṉ̷̩̣̾̀͂͗̊̓̑́͛̌̚̚͠ỏ̴̘͎̫͚͊̀̎̒͆̌̚̚͝u̸̧̞­͉̹̯͎̻̬͐͋̎̚͝͝ͅͅg̴̢̛͇̭̮̺̖͉̖͎̭͌̎̐̊͗͒͆̾̍͂̈ḩ̴̡͓̭̯̲̯̝̭͇͈͔̮̖̄͐̅̇̀̽͂͜͠͝ ̸̨̨͍͉̥͇̝̮̦͔̮̭͖̩̒̃̀̍̉̏̀̚͘̕͝t̵̬͇̰͆̀̈́͊̽͝͠o̸͓͈̬̭̫͑̅̔̌̈́̉̔̈́͛̈͝ ̸̡̮̱͈̤̮͈̬̰̟̹̺͋̉ͅṯ̸̨̨̨̭̩̠͙̳́̀̈́́̋̓̌̚͜͠ͅa̴̧̗̠̲̰͙̦̞͈̪̟͆͗̂̌̌̍̋̔̃̕͘͠k̷­̡̨̙̜͖̲͙͈̝̘̯̅͌͂͗̍̋͌͋̿̋͐̐̓̿̆ę̴͕͌̃̇ ̷̨̢̧͔̪̩̹̘̩̈́̔̋̏͐̐͛͐̇̈̈́̚̚a̵̰̿̈́̍͂̿̏̀̑̌̂̚̕ ̷̻͓̟̱̟͙͓͈̱͈̞̌̎̂͛ͅş̵̛̩̠̜͈̻̭̰̲̾̀͗͋̑͐̑̔̒̈͐͊͘ǐ̶̭͉̜̿͐p̷̲̰̳̀̃͗̋̓̓̍̀̿̕̕͝­,̴̢̡̻͚̩̥̣̋͆͋͂͂͗̆͘͜͝ ̵̢͈͙̰̜̣̼̾̊͒̓̈́̾̄͆͆͝l̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇­̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅl­̸̨̠̝̯̱̼͉̠̩͇͓̱̖͈̇̃͌́͜ĕ̶̲̦̦̖͗̈̽̄͛͊͐͘͝t̶̠̱̳͈̳̱̰͇̱͙͔̤͔̫͒̀̈́͊̈́̽̋̚ͅ ̶̭̃͂̈̓͊͘͜ẗ̴̯̮̼̟̫́̈́̅̉͜h̸̪̫͓̥̳̞̫̜̊̃͒̍͜ͅë̵̘̗̔̄̂̀̽̅̽̓̈́͘͝͠͝m̶̨̡̛͚͔̩̼­̱̆͌͐͛̿͒̑̊̿̾͋ͅ ̸̢̫͔͊͗̒̔̊͛̉͗̋͒͝͝d̵̹͍͓͎̟̥̽́̔̿̒̆͝i̷̥̣͕̘̱͑ẻ̶̢̛̻̼̣̹̙̤͚̩̝͛͌͆́̑́̆͗̈́͜ͅ
­
I poisoned the best part of the drink
the boba that's supposed to be the prize
for after all this happiness and joy
comes death in the bitterest of ways.

I keep this boba a secret
from those around me
but if my cup were to spill
shall the toxins spread through air
eliminating all.

With my own hands shall i ****

ķ̸̢͕̬̼͉̝̺̫̺̔̎̿̉̍͂͑͐͆̿̈́̅͌̕í̶̦̺̟̲̆̚̕l̷͖̟̘̭̜̪͚̆͗͆̌͠ļ̴̫̫̱̹̎̄̎̐­͑̃ ̵̢̧̢͙͔̘̠̘͔͚̭̌̓̍͑͑͋̇̌̋̕ǩ̴͕̹̯̰̀͗́͗̆͛̾̍̕i̵͍̣̪͌́͒̍͋̄̽̾͠l̵̩̮̫̳̞͇̜̰͕̥͇̥­͇̝̅̀̄̏͊̀̀̈́̆͝ͅl̵̟̥̫̗̰͎̜̳̯̜̪̊̅͋̈́̈́̈́͜ͅ ̷̛̜͓̥̹̖̮̝̳̹̹̩̰̋̆̆̍͂̆́̓ͅk̸̢̨̛̥̝̗̥̭͇̟̠̏̉̿͘i̸̢͍̙͇͝l̸͇̂̾̑̊̓̚͝l̷̢̛̛̯̞̫­̼͕̙̺͖̣̱͈̐͊̊̔͊̈́̈͒͛͐̈́ ̶̨̲̼̙̟̪̻͎͚͓͎̹̯͆͗k̴̨̨̡͈̦̗̞̺͚͇̮͍̄̎̀̋̑͆̅̍́̚͝͠killi̶̢̢͎̠̠̘̲̱͇̅̏̋̊͝ͅl̵­̖̬̜͒͛̅ͅl̵̡̡̝̙̹̳͓͙͇̯̗̔̍̀̆̐͌̈́̓̕͜͠͝ ̵̧͛̂͊k̷̛̞͗̈́̅̒̑͘͘i̵̛̲̗̦͔̠͌̿̄̀̇͐̐̏͋̓̏̎l̷͔͎̤̝̭͍̬̠̀̃͆̑̈́͋̃̍͛͘͝͝ḷ̴̡̥̼­̪͒̐̂̎͛̎̋͂̅̈͠ ̸̧̡̢͙͚̟͔̄͂͛̏k̶͈͛̆̑̐́͂̈́̈́̚͘i̷̢͖̜͂̍͆̀͛̈́̓̿̊͒́͘̕͝͝ͅḻ̸̨̖̼̫̝́͗̄̿ĺ̵̛̹̭­̪͕͍͈̭̞̇̃͒͑͝ ̵̗̖͇̅̔͊͋́̈́͝ḵ̴̀͋̒̾̂̑̈́̅̎̐͋̕̚**** them allǐ̸̢̛͗ͅl̶̛̺͚̪̣̇̄̂͛͐͛̅͌̿̉͊̚͝l̵͕͖̫͈͙͉̟̣̇̽͂̓̆̍̈́͜ ̸̛̛͉̜͙͍̂̿̓͑̈́̒̀̀̈͆̆͆͝ǩ̷̩͈̰͉͔̈́̐̀͛̈́̑̓̒i̴̛̮̤̤̼̤͔̼̟͛̏l̴̛̪̜̬̭͈̐͂͒̇̊̌­̅͌̚͠l̴͇͓̱̻͓͔͇͗̆̃̄̀̋̋̾̂̔̃͠ ̶̨̙̖̾́͛̏̃́͗͂̈́͛k̶̦̲͖͉͉̠̟̞̼͕͇͋͌͛̐͜í̵̯̙͇̥̰̱͇̃̓́͗͂̋̆ļ̷̛̹̟̦̫̠̝͈̱̆̇͗̑̃­̕͘l̵͚̯̜̱̥͑͑̍͒̎̀̏͗͛̕̕͜ ̷̨̧̠̠̮̜͙̖̙̭̣̻͎̚k̵̳͙̩͓̞̮͔̪̜͗̄̿ͅḭ̷̜̜̲͍̬̪̟͔̱̹̅̾͗ͅl̴̹͍̩̲̓͑̽͘͝l̸̰̫̞̹͉͉­͍͇̲̠͈͉̾̈ ̴͓̻͚̜̯͙̖͈̔̀̈̕͘k̷̤̫̩̼͎̙̻̣̳̹͌̀̓̉͌́͒̈́̒̏͋͊̒̌́͜í̴̢̙̫̮͓̞̣̽̎̆̊̓̽̾̃̀͊͋l̵­̠̮͖̬͐͛̏̾̔̒͛̃̄̉̇͘͘̚͜l̶̛͓̖͚̟̉̇̂̀̐̐̈́̚͘ ̵̰̜͈̱̦͍͆͊̈́̐͑̎̽̈́̃̎̎̄̿͒͠ḱ̵̨̛̰͚̦̦̟̗̮̻͓̲̩̫̽̓̾̀̈́́̽͛͒̓͛͘͝į̵̰̭̣̮̮̟̘̻̦­̲̺̯̻̾̐͆̀͊̿͘͜l̷̨̨̖̣̜̟̯̳̽ļ̵̢̡̡̳̣̮̙͙͖̩̙̲̖̥̌͑̏̕ ̴̢̡̼̩̜͕̠̠̯͍͇͖̥̳͇̓͊̅̓͋̉̇k̷̛̫͇̰̜̈́͛̃̊̀͗͑į̴̧̢̪͚̩̙͎͓̗̓͆͠l̵̨͚̜̩̜̎̄͂̃̊̄­̉͘̚͝͠l̸̦̽͌̈͌̽̊̈́̑͂̈́̋̒̉̚͝ ̷̙̊̑̚͝k̷̢̧̭̤͍̜̘̣̙̙̬̤̰̉̈́́̀̿̌̊̊̿̂͒̽͘̕i̷͙̰͕̹̦̼̟͕̙̘̯̮̹͂͒ͅl̶̨̨̪̪͈̟̻̣̪­̗̿̌͋̂̀͗̽͝ļ̴̨̘̗̖̱͕̀͒̔̀͆͠ ̴̡̹̻̝͕̪̬͉̬͐͌̋͊͌̇͊̈̈͋̈̈́ķ̴̡̛̦̣̮̗̠͔̪̦̠͉̺̄̿̔̓̊̂̏͆͒̀̚i̷̧̧̙͈̬̰̟̘̯̫̩͉͈͉­̯̿̎l̴̤̳̳͔̻̤̱̀̄̒̍̒͌̃̒͒͜͝l̷̢̹̜͈̹̦̬̝̭͔̙̙̖̯̾̎̐̋̔̄͋͌͠ͅ ̸̗̫͆͆̎̅̀̚k̶̨̰̝͓̺̹͙̙̮̰̘̈̄͊̀̇̊̔̓̎̂̚͝͝͝i̴͇̮̘̒̒͛̑̐̓̍̉̚͝͝them all **** them alll̸̙̺̪͔͒̿̌ļ̶̰̥͍͎̬̞̱͎̳̥̖͔͂̐ͅ ̸̡̢̯̖̞͓̮͕̝͛̉̀̑̑̏̚͝k̴̻̰̗͍͚͙̭̙͙̭͕̇̆͆̔̐͒͒i̶̧̱͖͙̼̤̞̳͈̟͖̞̖̪͗̓̋̅̿̽͌́̍ḻ̷­̡̟̹̦̪̤̘̭͂͝ļ̷̨̙̟̠̩̟̤͛͝ ̸̜͖͖͍̫̤̟̝͈̬̣͛͂̑̐͂͋̾͊͐̋̚͠͠k̴̤̮͇͔̀͂͊̐͗́̓̕͝i̷̡̛̯̰͉̥̘̘̝͉̬͈̥͒̀̌͆͛̿͆͘̚ĺ­̴̠̲̤̯̱̼̝̒͋͛̆̍͗͊̓̋͘̕̕͝l̴̝̲̯͆̈́ ̶̺̾̈́k̴̛̫͈̗̞̺̰͓̙͇̩̤͖̃̓͑̓̆̎̕͠͠i̵̳̮̋͆̚l̷̪̄́͂̋͗̃̑̉̓̀͊͘͝͝l̴͖͚͐̒̽̓̈̕͘͝­ ̷̡͉̦͓͇̪͕͙͒͜͝k̵̢͍̯̗͕̼̗̝̤͕̪̭͙̼̤̈́͑́̈́͝į̴̗̲̰̺͎̠͔̝̹͗͒̇̐͐́́̔̓̃̏l̶̞̜̖͖̙­̪̩͐̽͌̿l̶̼̤̆̀͌̂̽̇̌̃̌̔̽͑̕̚͜͝ ̸̢̧̨̱͔̫̩̙̠͚̙͋̑k̷̡̼̠̪͍̤̱͉̥̩̊̾͘i̵̧͉̙͖̪̤͍͚̲̩̘̘̮͑̑́͗ͅl̴̲̭̮̘̝͇̓͛́̉̑̆̀́­͌̐̌̔͝͠l̵͉͕͇̘̺̫̍̐ ̸̧̼̥͙̯͚͓̠̼͔̞̅k̶̨͚͎̺͉̤̱͎͇̗̠͚͇̔͑͋̈́͂̈́̀̓̿͛̄͘͜i̷̭̝͍͈̠̖̰̘͕̎l̴̞̳̍̑̃͑̔͌­̏͝ļ̷̮̳͙̩̲̭̓̇̄̈́̆́̓͊͝͠ ̷̺̪͌̔̃͗͜k̸̡̧͚̤̔̿͊i̴̧̧̧͇̮̺̜̹̩̱̮̰̍͂͌̈̾͂̉͌͝ͅl̷͕͈̼̭͓̰̑̀̋̓͛͂̓̎̅͠ͅl̴̹̠̭­͕̮̩̠̰͇̠͐̊̐̂̈́̍̆́̚̚̚ͅ ̷̡̛͖͇̗̂̋͂͛̈́k̴̨̢̥̙̭̼̿͒̒̀̒̇͌͛̓̂͜͝͝ͅͅͅi̸̢̨̲̬̲̬̭̗͖̺̒̒̃̊̅̈͆̍̒̓̆̒̋͜l̵̠­̫̟̮̙̤̤̯̈́̎͂̎͌́͂̊̎̈́̊̚ͅl̶̡͕̹̩̍̿̈́̏͜ ̵͖̇́̈́͋̆̄̏̊͐͒̚͝k̷̻̙̙̱̤̮͓̝̯͇̺̐̾ĩ̸̢̧̛͕͈̖̥̬̬̖͎̯̓͊̈́͐͌̾̓̽͒̍̐͜͝l̶̺͐̌̓̍­̑ḻ̸̭̭͈̖͓̋̏̉̓̓ ̶̢̡̬̥̙̞͍̲̯̲̣͖͚̃̑͝**** them all k̷̗͔̪̰̥͍͎̣̫̫̘̀͂̂͛̀͝i̸̳̼͇͕̙̞̝̟̒͛̊l̵̨̖͍̘̣͍͉͈̙̫̩͕̠̄l̴̢͕͓̘̻͈̹̝̹̩̂̎͋̓͒­̓̕ ̶̢̫̥̹̮͖̳͕̼̹̻̜̔̅̕k̴̡̧̝̬̪͉̩̙͖̜͈̭̮̃̆͑̃͆̄͜ͅi̵̧͔̘̝̫̤͈͐̔͑̐̍̇̏̐͛̈́̂̿̑̇̄l­̴̢̛̠̰̟̺͖̒̔̎͗̍͌̀̓̿̑̽̑̍͂͜l̸͚̺̯͎̞͓̙̏͂͊̉̈̇̄̅̏̀̾͛̎̿ ̷̛̛̲̺̻͙̻͖̃͒͊́̿̀̽̀̐̚̕͠͠k̶̢̫͍̭̙̩͚͇̲͓̗͓͔̏̑̔̾̇̌͒̀͒̏̚̚͜͜͠i̴͎̭͉̝̮͇͙̓̉̌͗­͜Kkkkill them alll̸̜̭̭͕͊̔̊̃ļ̷̧͍̰̣͎̼͓̲̬̭̠͉̽͆̂̾̑̾̌̌͂̀̐̕͝͠ ̸̻̬̓̔͂͌̆͛́̏̐̐̾͝k̸̨̰̪̼̮̠̤̝̥̯̄͋͂̀̌́̚i̷̧̨̧̖̠̣̬̽͛̄̽̆͘͠l̵̢̬̰͙͇̱͔̤̙͕̩͙̄­̒̈́̐̒̽ͅͅļ̵̛̼̮͕̩̬̰̲̦̙͎̙͎͔̟͂̽̔͊̈́̿̈́̈́͒́ ̷̡̃͂̐̂͒̔͋͂̄͌k̸͔͕̠̗̪͕͚̃̄͂͆̒͋̈́̏́͒̂̈́̕̕͝**** them alli̴̖͈̳̼͉̞̭̫͉̫͓͓͓̻̒̈́̃̌͘͝ͅl̵̬̖̓̿̀͑̂̌̇̔͘͝͝͠ľ̴̞̱̱͕̲̞̱͉̞ ̶͇͗̃̀̏̈̀͆̒̔̂̅͜͝k̴̡͉̰̗̥͙͎̏͑͛̅̄͛̅̇͜į̷͙̤͕͖͇͎̖͐̃̏̅́̈͝l̷̠̞̲̉͊̈́͆͒l̷̢͉̪­̻͚̪̭̙̩͖̩̲̐̂̑ ̶̗̬̹͕͓͉͚̘̤͙̠͐̅̋̌̄͆̆͘͝k̷̨̡̮̪̟̫̺͙̭̥̊̎͑̐͛͘î̸͉̜̂̒l̵̢͕͎̱̺̟̪̍̓̑̍͊̎̊̂͆̓̊­̒̕͜͝ĺ̵̡̼̼̯̦͕̪̖̦́̌̿̎̾͋͜͠͝ ̵̡̮̳͚͕͕͈̳͓͗̃͌̔̄̓́́̑̾̍͝k̴̨̝̫̦̺̣͍̮͈̲̞̾̃̈́̽́̕̕i̸̲̫̥͔̜̗̋̌́̿̓̅̉̓̂̐͛͋̽͘­͘l̷͎̘̠͖̯̹͓͛̅͂̊͛̉̌̓̈̀̀̋̚̕͠ĺ̶̯̈̏̉̎̊͗̿͐̂̉͛͂ ̶̜͑̓̃̑k̴̢̛̛͉͈̼͖̰̺̘͉̼̤͖̳̖͐̌̓͊͒̐͗͊͆͑̊̚ͅį̸̛͖͉͙̺̘͖͚̺̻̟͚̬̎̒̈́͘͜**** them alll̸̼̆̆̀͌̕l̷͎̹͚̖̯̲̭̳̗͂̓̽́̉̈́̔̿̅͑͠͝ ̸̧̡̰̪̙͉͈̺̭͍̓̎̈́͘͘͝ǩ̷̲̩͙͑̀i̵̪̗͈͉̖̝̬̥̬̻̫͌̈́͋̽̇̔͒͐̈́͒̀͐̓͝ͅl̶͉̠̼̣̙̯̲͚­̦̤̼̣͉̿̐̌̀͂̑̑̇̚̕͝ľ̴̢̦̤̺̪̝̰̯̠̙͋̓̊̒̓̈͘͝ͅ ̸̢̛̛͇͎̠͋͆̋̊̃̇̈́̉͘͠ķ̴̠̲͇̳̘̞̟̪̋͛̋̆̇̆̃ȋ̶̻̼̟̤̭̈̉̄̀͒̎̕ͅͅl̵͔̣̼͈̫͗̑̄̾ĺ̷͖­̫͇̖̐̎̌̉͑̈́̚̕̕ͅ ̷̨̲̲̳̫̦̙̪̥̱͈̾͊́̅͋̽͊̎̐̀̈́̍̚͜͝ͅk̷̳̺̲͚̥͇͍̿̚ȋ̷̡̙̦̞̜̜̼̰͙̝̲́̽͆̀͋̍͝l̸̢͚̜­̫̼͕̝͍̒l̵̢̢̗̬̯̩̯̭̗̣̰̽͂͆͑́̏͠ ̵̻̲̟̰͉̰̯͈̿͌̏͛͌͋̾͒͐̓̚͘͝k̶̡̜̭̰̝̩̭̩̜̿́ï̸̖͉͇͕̳̞̹͖̻̣̰͕̗̀͐͒̋̊̅̈́͋̂̐͐l̴̥­͉̯͔̺̺̲̥͕͈̣̱̳̓̐̈́̽̿l̵͓̺̯̫̗͇͒̾͛̄̈́͗͛͒̄̑̍͜ ̸̱̳͔̱̿̾͋̈́̂͊̊́̆̕k̵̢̛̩̳̙̭̹̫͉͚͚̖͙͊̎̽̇̆̅̊̉̚i̸̬̝̩͑̑̑͆̉͌̀͗͑͝l̵̢̢̼͉̘̿̄̃­̋̌̎͂͐̒̒̈́̚͝͝l̵̢̙̟̤͔̺̤͙̙̞͓̇͛͐͛̉̋͋̚͠͠͠ ̷̠̺̫̰̱͎̺͍̦͉̿̎̄̐͐̈́̌̈́̓͝ͅk̴̙̱̔́̏͒̓̅̈́̕̚͠͝i̴̡̺̬̜̞͎̬̘̒̍̅̈̓̂̈́̒͐͒͆̚͠l­̸̮̝̝͑̀͒̎̌̉͝l̷͓̦̳̼̏͑͋͊̃͠ ̴̰̮̐̓̑́̃̍̉̾̀̑͘k̵͙̓͌̓̊͛̑͒̄͘i̷̧̥̖̲̒̋̂̀͘ļ̴̲̙̫̟̟̳͖͓̈́͛̅̒͒͑͒̂͜l̸̳̦̺̲͎̝­̗̖͌̋̈́͊͜ ̶̫̱̪̣̋̉̃k̵̢̢̛̛̞̲̜̦̮͕͉͆̆͆̅̍͂̊͗̾̇̀i̸͎͍̲͇͕̞̝͑͋̏̍͑͗̏̒̅̈̎͑͝͝ļ̷͙̹͖̠͍̬̝̯­̞͔̞̊̇͗̔͊̆́̽͋͛̏́̈͝͠l̴̘͋̋̌̌̆͊̍̈́͛͗̈̐̀ ̶̤͕̔͌͂̽̇̔̅̃̎̌̀́̑̀͝k̷̡̛̪͉̪̗̞̦̤̼̐͆̈́̋̔̈́̈̀̍͛̊̽̕ì̷̢̞̓͑̑͘l̶̯͇̟̮̥̥̱̯̂̍­͂͂̓̇̂̋̈́ͅl̷̢̖̖͔̠̫̗̗̺̯͙͚̑ ̸̧̞̤̹̐͆̿͆̽̎̋̈́͐̃̈̀͘ͅk̷̨͖̺̋̋͘͝ḯ̶̗̗͔̈́̀̎̚͠͠ͅḻ̷̢̻̽̀̽͆̃̂͐͝ļ̶̨̤̝̖̫̼̅́̂­͑̎̍ ̴̡̫̪̘͖̙̯̲̗͎͙̙͙̟̲̋̏̃̽̔k̶̡͇͍̪͚̤̜̯͌͛̑̐̈̒̅͆͑͊͐͐̚͝ī̵͓̖͚̗̞̹̳̝͕̔̒͛̈́͆͑͂̔­̀̋̚̚͘l̵̢͓̟̭̩̦̥̩̰̘͓̯̱̑͠l̸̙͉̘̙̘̜͖̈ ̴̛͉͚̠̪̿k̸͔͚̠̼̰̐͌͌͒̊̌͊̂̋̿̊̇̕̚i̶̡͍̥̫͕͇̥͖͕̬̽̀̓̓̀̈́̐̂̈́̌̆͆͘ͅl̸̢̨̠̘͍͔̭­͖̠̝̞̈́͛̓͒̈́͌̾̈́́̏̆͒̅l̵̢̗̰̆̀̇̓́̇̀̉ ̶̨͍͇̥̳̜̮͍̻̥̟̜̣͇̀̂̈́̈́̂͛̓͝ǩ̶̡͕̠̤̆̿̈́̇í̵̡̭̪̘̝̞̓͂l̷̤̞̠̦̹̜̦̈́l̸̡̛̦͔͙͈­̞̪̝̐̍̔͌̅̕͠ ̵̹̱̜̰̝͚͖͎̞̲̮̣͛͝ͅk̴̭͕̰̏̄̌i̷͇̟͙̤̠̽̔̀̏̀̐́̚͝͠ļ̵͕̩̩̲͚̫͎̣̹͚̤̺̻̂̌̈́̔̔ḽ̷͙­̫̫͚͎͍̫̈̋̓͛̓̈͐͌̅͆̔̕̕͝ ̴̨̭͉̭͕͓͇̥̟͔̲͍̜̘̣̔̇̆k̶̡̨̤̱̯̮͍̲͓̥̣̩̄̏͊̍̂̈́̇͆͒͊͜͝i̶͖̗͔̞͔͓͐̽̍̏̿̏̀l̸̡̗­̯̺̟̫͈͕̤̮͉̠͎̤̚l̵̨̨̖͇̣͙̪͈͔̖̍̅̄̅̌̏̌́͐̋̑͜ͅ ̸̟̯̮̰̹̯͚̞̦̪̖͎̗̘͙͊k̷̢̢͔̘̠̤̬̐̆͆̄̊̃͂̓̀́̾̈́̑i̴̛̞̤̭͓͎̪̬͓͇̣̝̊͐̋̕͜l̴̨̛̝̘­̪̟̣̰̣̞̼̖̮̗͂̌́́͑͊̃͝ĺ̷̟̞͚̯͇̱̺͖̟͍̹̇̿͆̌̎̄̃͘ ̴̺͎̪̫̼̳̝̘̱͌̀͐̈́͂́͋͜k̸̛̹͖̤͈͍͌͗̑̍̀̌̓́̚͠͝i̷̛̛͕̘̝̪͈̖͖̔͆̆̿̃̂̀̓̈̔̎̕l̵̛̠­̳͔̼̪̾̔̿͐͂͛̌͘̚͠l̷̨̙͍̯̹͉̱̫͐̈́̇͒̉͊͆͂͑ͅ ̶̛͚͎̯̖͑̒̃͒́̚͠k̶̛̛̙̰̦̋͒̃̿̆̿̕i̵̡̢̛͙̯̩̬͐̉̆́̈́͑͌̈͋̔̋l̷̡̢͖͔̳̗̠͍̭͕̼͙̥͚̍­̓́̀̑͊͋̈́̅̇̕͠l̶̨̆̐ ̵̠̥͔̙̣͇̖̪̻̝̇͌̿̃̊̊͠ͅthem all ****

Oh how great this red liquid feels, parting as my hand intercepts it's p̶̧͍͎͓̙̥̻̘͔̗̉́͛̈͌̓̽̐̅̈́͌̌̓͋̄̓̍́̈́̎̎̚͝͝a̸̰͙̣͓̼̪̼̜̳̅t̴̡̡̥͓̩̘̳̣̹̬͉̝̗­̮͚̬̘͔̫͙̩͉̐̀̾͜ͅͅh̵̘͌̀͌̊̑̈͘͝ towards the floor
My fingers swimming in your intestines
gutting you
how your screams of p̸̗̟̯͉̘͚̝̳͓͉̱̮͎͎͓̩̜̦̄́̊̒̽̔͒̀̈́̿͂̓̀̎̎̏̆͆̕a̵͇̱͔̲̭̲̮͓̲̼͓͌̆̆̓̈́̈ì̸̡̢̨­̳̭̝̠̺̟͎͇̪̘͖͕̫͔̼͍̝̀̆̄̌̾̍͊̒͐̔̋͋̐̂̚͜͠n̵͔͓̺̰̤͙̹̓̒̒́̍́̎̍̀̀̊̌̕͝ fill my ear, bringing a smile of unfathomable pleasure to my face,
how this putrid smell fills my lungs as my knife cuts different parts of your body, letting me savor the moments as i switch paces between slow and fast while you lose the energy to scream, letting your pain and emotion out with little grunts and moans
as i rip off your nails one by one, your hidden flesh comes exposed to light for the first time, your pupils shrinking as you realize that your death wont come anytime soon. I grab your hair as my knife rests in the other hand,
i slowly draw it near your eye, and insert. blood splats on the floor as torture creeps through my brain, filling every thought, like spiders multiplying in a corner, spreading to every inch of the walls. Your helpless cries escape the gag which was designed to limit your voice, your helpless attempts of struggling each time i rip away another part of your body, exposing more and more and more, your bones cracking as i increase my pressure to a point where your bones give in and snap, releasing everything built in and letting it go off onto the flesh the suffocates it, twisting and bending your body in ways that make you unrecognizable, ripping off your nose with the kitchen knife i use almost every single day, your vision darkening with each and every swing from my hammer to your stomach, the red liquid staining my eyes, burning its image into my retina, death is so beautiful. Oh death, the way you ****, how death teases by being so close to touch  yet pulls back once you reach for it, how it makes you wait an et̶̨̧͈̄̈́͗̉́͌̿̍͋͗̀̈́́͒̾̈́̆͆͌͐́̾̀͌̚ę̸̡̘̫̰͔̻̗̘͔̩̗̐͌̄͂̈́͋̊͐͛̊͒͆̅̑̄̀͒­͜͠r̵̢͍͓̙̖͓̥̝͙̝̹̺͕͓̬̻͕̾́nity to achieve its grace. I hate you. I will never forgive you. My eyes are filled with those of a killer. I want to bathe in your guts. They shine so brightly as my knife grazes them. You still move and i question why, are you fighting to live after all this time? Are you trying to make me love you? These feelings, so complicated, oh silly you, moving about like a fly caught in his trap. Stab. Let your pain, blood, and torture fill my recipe. Succumb to me. Let the your beautiful pain fill the mouths of others eager for your lovely boba, let the joy of m̷̡͓͚͕̩̪͎̳̪̟͕̝̖̯͖̥̗͎̈́̂̐͂͊͛́͆̀͒͠͠ͅͅͅmȗ̵̧̩̗̬͈̣̭̮̗̠̦̬̫̟̽͒̌͐̐̓͌ṛ̸̢̲̮­͉̫̝̟̜̏̌̉̉͊̐̇͆́̀̎̐͆̎̔̕͠͝ͅd̴̛̛͇̲͈͗͆͛̉̉̋̎̑͋͝e̴̮̝͖͓͕̪̻̩̦̥͔̪͇̖͋̋̏̇͑̈́̂­ŗ̵̨̢̢̢͈̩̻͖͓̣̗͈̪̖͙̜͔̥̥̳͈͇̖͂ͅ ******, the risk and it's adrenaline flow through my veins as I stab and I stab and stab and stab a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌­̅͆́͆̕͜d ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘ and stab and stab a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌­̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘ a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌­̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅand stab and stabņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜and stab and stabḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅand stab and ststab stab stab stabab ņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜stab stab stab stab b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇­͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗­͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘and stab and stab
a̵̡̨̡̜͇͉̘̭͓̤̙̼̬̠͓̝̙͋̒̏̏̉̇̓̏̋̇͛̍̆͗̃̕͘͘͘͜͜͠͝͠ͅņ̷̬͈̲̠̫̘̱͇̰̭͍̾̓̔­̄͒̄́̌̅͆́͆̕͜ḑ̶̡̧̺̥̹̦͍̝͉̗̤̦̪͉̬͚̰̘̘̭͗͆̅̽͗̂͑ͅ ̶̢̧̦̙̖͙͔̻̭̳̰̙͍̫̫̲͈̟͚̀̍͑̎͊̈́̏̃͐̉͐́̕͘̚͝s̴̡̢̡̢̢͚̻̭̩͉͔̪̜͎̪̣̹̹̱̿̅̈́̀̓͑­̊͗͛̐̒̑̂͜͜͝͝t̴̟̻̣̲̠̳̭̮́͒̏̋ã̷̦̻̳̗͖̫̝̖̞̰̠̺͓̺͐͜b̷̛͕͎͚̣̭͉̞̯̭̝̖̱̖͈̘̖̑̿̉­̓͆́̇̑̍͒͗̿͑̌͗̂̈̂͜͝͝ ̸̡̛̛̙̱̲͍̳͚̲̫̭̹͙̓̑́͌͒̔̔̈́͂̀͌͐̀͐͊͋̍͒̚͘




dont mess with my life
i smile when i can, but dont push me
i try to be nice, but the murderer running through my head still exists
and the only time you will gaze upon him
is when your death arrives
#happiness #love #joy #kiss #boba #tea #drink #food #heart #feelings
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Jennifer Humphrey Jul 2010
Jen and Jack
Oh Jen I want you to be Mine

I don't know Jack it is all so fast

No, dearest not fast just right

We just met Jack, not a day ago

I know Jen but I love You so

How can you Jack you know nothing about me

I do Jen, you fill my heart and make it complete

Oh Jack I want to believe you, but

No buts my love I want you, as you are

Don't hurt me Jack my heart is fragile

Jen how could I hurt the most beautiful angel?

No! You don't mean that, you can't possibly

Yes Jen I mean it now lay with me Lovely

Oh Jack that is it, that is what you want

No dear can't you hear how much I care?

I want to believe you Jack but I can't bare another heartbreak

I promise I won't hurt you Jen, My Jen.

Really Jack?  I am yours?

Yes Mine all Mine, feel what you do to me

(Jack presses his phallus against her thigh as he lays her back)

Ohh Jack I bet you are that way with all the girls

Only you dearest, please make me the happiest man around

(Jack's hand grazes Jen's breast just enough to tease her)
(Jen already hot but resists not wanting to be a number)

Jack please tell me if all you want is *** I beg you

No how could you think such awful things of me

(Meanwhile Jack is about to pop the things He wants to do to this woman would make a well ridden girl blush)
(Jen can be a hellcat in bed but so doesn't want to be lied to before)

Kiss Me Jack tell me how  you really feel

(Jack pulls her into his arms pressing hard against her hips as lips press to hers in a lingering kiss)
(Jen's green eyes smoulder like a banked fire)

I love you Jen please let me make love to you

Yes Jack oh yes please make love to me

(Jack takes Jen to heights of soaring delight, they explore each other teasing and stroking.  The earth shatters and the windows fog.  They lay together for what seems like eternity.  Finishing He has explored and used every oriface, tied, spanked, torturously played and left her a quivering mass of well used flesh.)
(Jen was insatiable, no holding back.  She gave everything of herself out of love.  Trusting him completely.  Opening up her heart and body to the man that loved her for a change.  She let him do unspeakable acts to her body.  After it all she lay there thinking oh my how will I ever look at him again.)

Did you enjoy it my love? asked Jack

Jen's voice quivers oh yes Jack I did

I am glad you did Jen, I have never had a woman so pliant in my hands

Well there will be plenty more times Jack

Oh Jen I am so sorry but I won't be able to see you again

Why not Jack?  I thought you loved me?

I do love you Jen, I do I do

Then what is it Jack what did I do wrong?

Nothing my precious girl it is I that has done wrong

How Jack please? (tears fall freely over her cheeks)

I could not resist that sweet innocence on your face

I had to have you no matter the consequences you would face

Whatever do you mean Jack?

I am a disgrace Jen, You see I love you but but I am married.

YOU ARE WHAT?

Married dearest

You LOVE me but you are MARRIED?

How could You Jack, deceive me like that?

I am sorry Jen I just couldn't hold back

You lied to me Jack, said You loved me

I know and I do

You don't love me you lying ****

Oh don't say that Jen I do love you

You loved me long enough to **** ME!!!

I DARE You to deny it, you are a disgrace, knowing I was hurt

(Jack just stood there letting her rant.  Nothing He could do as her words were so true.  He thought he loved her and perhaps he did but nothing would stray him from his wife's bed)

I am sorry dear Jen

Save it for another Jack, When I am dead it is on your head

(Jack looked like he had been hit by a truck, Never had he thought she would do something like this.)

Get out Jack, You have done enough, Never speak my name again

Jen please we just shared incredible ***, don't let it end it was such bliss

You are just like every other man I have met

All *YOU ever think of  is *** *** ***

(Jen looked at Jack once more and said why didn't you just tell the truth perhaps then I wouldn't feel like a used ***** *****)
Written by Jennifer Humphrey/Niyahlove All rights reserved
Thanks to my friend Jack for the inspiration.
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17711 Apr 2019
rockland greenery
the October wind grazes
along fields of my skin
but August still lingers with suffocation,
humidity continually seeping

as rustling leaves made a girl
knowing colors would change
permeating a hint of cinder
from the stems, the bark, the branches

hooves cautiously drifting
drawn to low static
the flow of chemistry
over pebbles and geology

my reality is laid to rest
but awoken by peaceful dreams
naturally creating moments
art by which exists in visceral beams

we learn that the wind carries infancy
the substrate holds discovery
the water reveals change, if not time
and the brain develops meaning
-belonging only to seen ambience
-to which includes ourselves
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tom krutilla Jan 2014
breathe
when she stands in the doorway, the bright aura surrounds her
then her smile beams with anticipation and i reach to touch her
the soft kiss grazes her cheek, as her breath slowly exhails

and i gently take her hand and guide her to the place we want to be
laying beside her slowly kissing her every curve as she breaths deep
her hands softly on my head directing me where to go

as she starts her rhythm i here the soft whimpers timely in beat
her grasp is strong if only for a moment then goes limp around my neck
and my soft kiss grazes her cheek, as her breath slowly exhails
Continue reading...
Caroline Grace Mar 2012
Sky Climbing
At an angle of ninety degrees,
two trees share the same plot.
This one grazes the eaves,
seeking vain attention in the window glass.

The other, its grey ghost lazes
prostrate on the herb garden, reveling
in secrets of lemon balsm and thyme.

At night, the first becomes demonic,
obliterates the universe,
branches scraping the pane, scratching
like fingernails on slate,
its coppery leaves trying to get in.

Its partner slinks to earth,
seeking solace,
wringing conterminous roots till sunrise.

I've had my fill of these unrested moments
fighting the pillow, not settling.
There is no joy in seeking stolen stars.

My dilemma grows horns.

I half dream of ******,
at least amputation.

But even the dimmest light shines in the dark -
I consider its tormented destiny.

At daybreak, like a ****** I scale its gnarled branches
ridiculously one-handed,
the other a keen-toothed weapon.

I am an agile goat shinning upwards
feeding on dreams of peace.

Lost in the sky, I become sap,
melt into its arms,
(a vertiginous release)
I become a curved branch.

(There's someone standing in my elbow!)

Leaves helix down, settling on autumn crocus.
“Look!  Gold on gold!"

The grey ghost yawns, grows its shadow,
waves its arms demanding justice.

I wave back.

Suddenly terrified, I secrete an invisible scent.
The branches contract, tense as ligaments.

My heart plummets, rolls out recumbent,
presses heavily on the earth
listening to fleshy roots recede.

A few deft cuts......

Sun gutters through bereft spaces,
striking the window.
Both trees a shade lighter, a lighter shade.

Tonight I will dream under visible stars,
feel the moon's half-light slide over me.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
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Shashank Virkud Sep 2010
Hey, By The Way
Already seven cars,
I pull in late.
Put my keys by the candles
and stare at the lake.

Sit down, sip your wine.
What's in? Where have you been?
How long since?
You never drop a line.
You must be busy.
I avoid your gaze
and your hand grazes
my thigh and brings us
eye to eye.

Ready for the bar,
we barely ate.

No shame in
the champagne
I consume,
but I assume
it's the fine wine
I spewed all over the ballroom.

Took it too far,
it's getting late.

You don't want me to stay.
Uninvited,how you always
made me feel anyways.
Turn in slighted, ******* futon.

Last time we met
we slept side by side,
you and me, two reasons to care.
The letter and the locket
you kept and tried to hide,
I think I need some fresh air.

light a cig and figure some things are better left unsaid.
Always tempted to trigger thoughts long dead.

Staring at you, asleep in your bed, linen, lace.
I always was a ***** case.
Your thoughts leak out of your head, thin in space.
I find them on your face.

Better not be here when you wake,
the next time we meet it'll be too late,
so hey, by the way,
you looked beautiful today.
Shashank Virkud- From As the Distance Grows
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Carsyn Smith Apr 2014
Cold Shoulder
These warm sheets cradle me
with memories of last night.
I can sense you --
your baren body in the same sheets as mine.
These 12 inches between us feel like miles --
back to back.
Couldn't you just hold me for a little?
This ice on my shoulder is starting to burn
The crystals grow to form a protective coat
That resemble the stalagmites in my cavernous heart.
Eyes glazed over, the warm sheets rustle
and your sweet breath grazes my neck.
Your soft lips on my jaw line
and a wondering hand on my thigh,
Yet I remain as frigid as the ice on my skin.
When you're quite finished,
you'll leave me with agitated sighs.
I'll remain and slowly waste away in warm sheets,
crystallized skin protecting the embers of the girl within.
#love #heartbreak #breakup #coldshoulder
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— The End —