As a poet once said "We are meant to Love"
The feeling of love has an object, and if a person has dignity, then the object of the person's love is felt to be the proper focus of their attention
As a yogi once said "let the attention follow the breath"

The attention which focuses upon the proper object of love, focuses thereby upon the object of love proper, and has the proper breath for it, therefore is the attention proper to it, hence the attention properly speaking

What this is for a person is often uncertain because the world presents a person with many disruptions to their attention and their focus, even to the point that the ability to feel love is itself disrupted.  But there is a limit to this abuse

This abuse takes place through the body, and is in fact the very nature of the body, and so a meditationalist called it "the pain body", wherein situated is the Person Proper, but made to seem improper by this wicked instrument

The causes of the imperfections of the seeming person, which are only seeming imperfections, seem rightly to be situated in the body itself and not the person's own willful neglect, because the body is not proper to the person, nor are the disruptions it facilitates proper to the a Proper Person's responsibilities

To wit, the breath, which is necessary for the continuation of the body, and not at all necessary for the proper focus of the person upon the proper object of that person's love, yet the body, by its need for breath, has set up a tax upon the Person who can only minimize this by some rebellion ending in the death of the body's tyranny by way of the cessation of breath

This may **** the body, and this may **** the Person's disorientation by means of the body as well, but if the Person is not sure if this is the correct procedure, then they should study the breath carefully, and see whether or not it does not tax the Person's attention from the proper object of the Person's Love

So the Masters of Love perfected their ability to breathe, and they made sure that the breath was not too heavy a burden by adapting themselves to become its Master, and this was done without regard to any person, place, or thing, regardless of "who or what it is or thinks it is"

This only appears to be a compromise, but it is actually a rebellion, and the only thing that any entities anywhere in the universe can DO about it is to attack the Person THROUGH their pain body, and this is to attack the breathing process, and this is to threaten FREEDOM from this tax

On the other hand, the mastery of this breathing process ensures the minimum bother with it at all events, and therefore maximizes the scope of the Person's proper attention toward the proper object of their True Love, and this leads to Mysteries which will not be given to the profane

I declare any "authorities", which are invariably entities which demand my attention on pain of presenting threats to my Person through this body and its breath as ANATHEMA, as UNWORTHY of attention, or love, in any form

I have seen you, I have known who you are, who you think that you are, and what you think you know and actually do know (and keep secret out of fear and hence, cowardice), and I openly and freely continue on my own proper authority with or without your permission to continue my own proper focus, without any reservations

And because you have beset me with open and secret causes of pain, and because many of your demons both minor and major I have dealt blows of scolding rejection, why out of cowardice have you not yourself and in your own person answered my challenge to you, made on numerous occasions and always with a certain Sign, and so let this war you have declared upon My Peace be resolved?

Because you yourself know that I have surpassed your authority, which is established over the ignorant, and you know that I have surpassed you and your petty wrath

The Trowel
Im the trowel that shapes and creates things
Im the trowel that clicks and move things
Im the trowel that plays, stops and pauses things
Im the trowel that copies and paste things
Im the trowel that generates things
Im the trowel that closes things
Im the trowel that clicks and cut things
Im the trowel that doubles clicks and work things
Im the trowel that operates things
Im the trowel that delete things
Im the trowel that open things
Im the trowel that maximizes  things
Im the trowel  like in Rome that construct things and build things without me there is nothing
Im the trowel that opens programs that run things
Im the trowel of all things
Notification completion of my number part of the building workings
The  raven that speaks of its workings

Joker is confined at Arkham State Hospital--he's an amalgamation of: Nicholson, Ledger, Phoenix.
the essence of these portrayals will fluctuate as would a possession.
the following will be written with all three in mind (no specification)--the reader is free to infer which, there is no incorrect imagining in this case of psychosis.
greener to the pasture hair, cropped short & feathered on the right side--shoulder length scraggles, that stream oil from a receding hairline on the left.
**** pillow-talk padded walls, an experimental recording studio--millenia of disassociative voices.
institutional-white disciple wear, beneath a straitjacket that can be tricked open.
he takes to contemplatively stalking the room's perimeter like John Nash's doppelganger outlining university grounds for sanity.
suddenly sawing himself into boxed halves, the pros & cons of junked minds.
then stands at attention as if absorbing the insults of a commanding officer.
he's unmuzzled, but his iconic makeup was polished off as an immaculate castration.
licking his lips like a perverted lizard, hot for his cold bloodbank--a cleaning product salesman's ear-engulfing grin.
a: Try Again mouth swallowing beanbags.
an overdeveloped feature, circled red over & over like a happy accident--boo!
a cosmetic surgeon's: Project X, a scorned *****'s unevenly applied lipstick spread around by a passionately hateful kiss.
now just a presentable choirboy with a hardon for the whole mass.
a choppy quack rolling into a chainsmoker's weepy guffaw, self-heckling giggles of bozo persistence.
a hung jury of tears snorting & spitting out antecedent laughter--reeled in by a forced seriousness that believes its deadliness.
as comfortable with one-way humor as a malfunctioning parachute, that dead silence that breeds bat symbols.
contrary to the funny wastelands of his surveillance footage, a notoriously unprivate life turning cameras on themselves.
three of a kind, says he without saying--each having explosive dance offs, while cutting into unrelated dances.
the lighting in his room is as changing slides, that look for patterns of behavior,
with a misleadingly stark evidential buildup.
a Joker--that Joker needs a smoke, that Joker stares up at the cameras, motioning to guards.
his eyes are dead set askant, with a backtracking deviance slyer than a meat hook without a carcass.
a drowsy pick-me-up, melting with baby's candy, a cocky knower of inner names.
whites like wet dreams of glory-holes.
a feminine ruefulness that signals overkill before the ****, eyes that victimize rehabilitation.
brass that will be unaccountably drawn to them like Poe's: "The Tale-tale Heart."
a gaurd un-maximizes security enough to slide a cigarette into the Joker's mouth, then removes it.
the Joker looks up & disentangles a plot of smoke--then smiles sheepishly at the gaurd.