Without remorse the sense that some ought to know more than others ought to bring some to tears while others arears. Not without saying that the frigh to flight to delight of neither never mind is what wins the game. In shame. But I hit without little bits and some say that I should go some way elsewise than whence the flame hit its strewn sun in trundle of my life along its tracks. The tracks are mangled like my body’s mind. It is how it is(, without saying(, without playing(, without wanting(, anything(, at all(, ever)))))).
The guess at my angle would be that: the architects mega fucked up. Not that they drank too much, my grammar’s still good, so without guild we wouls sit on our stilts and poke eyes out without counting (too high) and that I want to say that [some word] is [something] that [people] [want] is [what exactly?]
Never close your brackets. Leave the sentence open. For in that lack of syntactical syncitial grammar, some are free. Those who you leave left, to be precise. Not that right is but a turn about the room, good friend; not that want to be turned over is anything but marriage in denial. And the children make do. And the children make do.
I’ll hold your amber gel in contempt. Just leave it there, at the table of justice’s hand. I’m sure it will find a home when some older folk tell you they once knew where they lived. Then again, it might not come to fruition. The well-wishers want to know why this never happened again.
I don’t time my words. Like that.
And when some are lost it is hard to go on.
That is my life. The English language that makes itself known to my mind is sometimes not there. The crown and its conspiracies in coexistence, the graffiti artists who make the city lights come to life sky in North Korean territory don’t know of the proxy wars that still rage on between kingdom come and the due forn war torn states that cave with innocent bodies inside.
Strident people. They want none than less to be alive and happy. The likeness to the organisms which I have studied. How well, that they torture one another. And how similar, that they do too. Some say–some don’t–that those who tag along don’t know how to speak for themselves. I suppose arms could be chopped and voices could be silenced but violence is never excusable. There are many fathers on Earth.
So in short: I am not on your side. I still disagree with you. I still want you dead. Your children will be happy without you.
This goes without saying, but that, simple words won’t do. Make way for the pain of acceptable nuance. In crime and technology the little beings stay short of mother and when she haunts, boy, does she know love. It’s not that the losers take the cake–it’s just that they’re fat. Ba-dum-tss.
So I joke about loathsome things. So I do this over and over and over. And still they see to know me, somehow. Yet, they know nothing. This is how it goes. I give them life. I am the necromancer. The bots victimize the war torn. Weaponized psychotropic messages. The vulnerable can’t even talk. When it’s time for the weather, I’m sure someone will sing happy songs. And we think they are loud, when they are not. It is sullen, calm, and idyllic.
Just like the room I once had.
Just like the play of tree shadow on the wall.
Standing there, adorned in my own self-creation, I live with the knowledge that I can never go back. I will never stop trying.
It’s strange, that evil is so strong. I cannot conver. I preach not. It is not my place. If the real religion doesn’t work, it’s only a property of the times, and I know that someday they will recover. Someday the delusion will be real.
Falseties and denial in the cup; some sip it some flip it over. No booze in the poison, it’s all what it is except for the saliva of the known beings who take care of their throats so as to not forsake their blades. No one wants to cut the bush where it makes ugly. No one wants to slut their garden into denial when they too have no companionship. Nobody here just me dot com.