Style

This story gets boring, pretty fast. I’m trying to convey import and weight to you, but you have no tether, have never felt gravity pulling you apart. So, in my boring little contrived vinettes, I am alone.

Here is an image of the future. Here are peoples and places and things that could — should we keep going this route — go wrong. All wrong.

But the narrative is thin, you say. And the pronouns are minced, and in that narrative I’m coming unglued. Going all transparent and see through.

I’ve got limbs and convictions and I’m a big dreamer who never remembers waking up screaming from nightmares. But I’m told. Told everything from how to be to how to get free. From how to live to how to die. To how to just get by.

I lied. I said I’d try, try to follow the rules and do it their way.
They. Whoever that amounts to. In school days etched into desktops, scratched into the metal tubing of shitty metal chairs, we all thought we knew. We’d point fingers and make fun and talk big story about whoever was pulling the strings wrapped, very clean and efficiently, like nooses around all of us. But boys and girls are tied up separate. Guys and girls. Men and girls.

I never had a complex.

Bending or breaking rules seems to have gotten me through. Now, I’m a mess on the other side, and mostly still alone. But wasn’t I already.

It’s not a question, but from the repetition of consistant images — you should already know this.

I expect a lot.
Keep rosters and notecards and outlines, and you’ll see how difficult the experience really gets.
If only you knew the conflagration of all the images, you’d never get bored. But high expectations equal drudgery anyway. So, it’s a long shot — at best.

At best, you’re still reading.
Have I bored you yet?
Just wait, I’ve still got years worth of material to put you through. We aren’t even close. I could name the number of chapters and separations and breaks you’ll get, but that’d only make it easier, too easy. And, that’s not what we’re here for.

Tuck in and give it a chance.
There’s already far too much to digest.
Godspeed and good luck and whatever gets you through the short cold days.

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Oh, Litio

Miniscule steps in the right direction, but “right” here is getting harder and harder to define.

Definiitions seem only to be slipping away from you, officiate. Sliding past the mind like oiled skin you’re still trying to get a grip on.

“Get a grip,” you keep telling yourself everytime you wake up alternately screaming and whimpering into the night. A darkness, a vacuum is closing in cold and hollow around you. Like space, you’ll freeze to death before you ever get the chance to explode.

Regardless, every morning you still get up, put your work clothes on, follow all the guidlines — but for appearences only. How deep does that fear of getting caught up, trapped up roped up really go? How constant does the blood of resistance really flow?

Make the grade, make good marks, make the sell and they’ll claim to pay you extra — every time. WHen the paychecks don’t come through, you still wonder why. But if they did, would you feel any different? Any better about this situation? About yourself?

You’ve got to wonder what guage is being employed here to rate a person son a scale of social, physical, mental and emotioal health and well-being. Maybe if you questioned it, just once, you’d see the black magik tricks being played, daily, against you.

Because once you know how the rule works, the illusion no longer does.

Premature Sensation of Initial Closure

The story of Akailum is through. Thirty years passed over a course of a single night. Children were born and raised and sent off into tunnels and a darkness that Skai will, in the further future, find abandoned and closed up. A single runic pattern will unlock the secrets of the past.

The list of names with definite closure continues to grow.
Silver. Lithium. Vioreta. Akai and Carbon/Kopia. Kadense and Kaizoku. Cap, Adder, Parallel, and Faulter. Assisi-Sha/Gayaba.

Wanderer has, naturally, wandered off. There’s still a lot of opportunity there. A replacement eye in a blackmarket bakcstreet style scenario could leave those pretty half-TERM eyes scarred for the remainder of a scientifically lengthened lifetime. Scars like that resonate so loud into the future that a later one wandering through may find the mistakes once made and make a better choice, taking the name of the pains felt before the scars had been set to take back and snatch the spirit of life away from the fire of complete annihilation.

Seriyoku and Sekilito have become vapor and mist, fog and cloud over the pilfered moon in the middle of the earthen night. How much of what the Canto-Yokai do from here can be attributed backward to these two? Fate alone will only ever know.

Cicada and Nightshade and Korvidae are out in the wild, yet to be discovered, controlled, elluded to, beaten in and battered for places and things and ways they were and/or never were. A darkened time is coming, but these TERMStarers might have more clout and practice than your average programmed humanibot — as some of us outside the lines drawn not-so-lovingly call those within.

The roots of the Pro have been ground up and left to be found by predecessors and successors and deceivers, all alike.

Who will take the reigns of playing all sides since Lithograph is, clearly, gone?
Who will dance the finest of fine lines to play both dark and light?
Who can dance between and even manage to, for a moment, stay above that water line?

Aster, organizer in a chaotic world, will take the name Vale and begin a descent of sorts. But will it take them far enough down into the dark? Perilune could break free or break entirely.

And in the periphery of all these tales and histories are the edges that a pen is still filling in. Like how Charcoal fell in love with both Gravity and Akai. Like how Lithium changed the course of Starburn. Like how Kopia and Seriyoku finally came to terms and love, after so many goddamn years. Like how Kiriel fucks the whole picture. Like how Analisar lays a hand on Gayaba in the end. Like how Kadense and Kaizoku lay down, one last time, together somewhere out in the remotest parts of the desert. Like how Faulter finally lays the past to rest in the garden of Polaris’ Earth Rehab Complex. Like how and why the words and tongues of Ciclakumei have gone cold and silent until Fenugreek recovers all the past — and where the past was laid to rest to be protected.

So much comes now. So, this is the after-life.
I am only just beginning to see.

Ten thousand more words, fifteen or twenty-nine, and you might see too.

Stress is probably not as bas as it seemed…

Trains in the mountains are pure gold.
Seriously.
A hand is like glue, sticky and slightly inneffective.

Strumming heart strings
is measles.
Feelings are only a slight annoyance.
Music is kind of scary.
Your foot is from Mars.
Pluto isn't even worth a shot.
The tree is relentless!

Everything isn't that great,
Hope is like mirrors.

Pleasure is coloring on the walls, creating a safe space
is from April 3rd, 1924.

This open mic is being alone.
Deep thinking is violent.
The music is as gross as bad food:
"What's in my pocket isn't newness."
"Candle wax isn't violence; Courage is love."
"Party time is tasty."
"The heart is pretty great."
"Money isn't Phillip Glass' third cousin…"

Taking to animals isn't good enough now.
Thanks.

Listening is outdated, on a grand scale.
"Waste is wearing flannel."
"David is a wire hood."
"The day after Xmas is joy."
"The family sitting around the table is noteworthy…" Erhmm…

The best thing right now is dancing.
"A neutrino is my favorite thing right now."
"Meat pie is coming home."

Coming home can bring us back up.
Apples is the best we've got.

Platitude is realizing it was a dream.
The truth about love isn't spirit. Spirit is crashing into the wind.

"What no-one knows is gunna fly just fine."

Technology is clinically diagnosed insanity.
Old age comes by once a year.
"Pharmaceuticals = Hope for tomorrow."
A fool is the most over-rated.
Liquid aminos are gullible and cheap.

The past is empty.
Our future is racist.
A true loss is useful, like having a plan.
Good company is not.

Infinity isn't a handstand.
–The Apocolypse is collasping in on us.

Welcome and farewell

By candlelight, I fell asleep alone until you came in. I never heard the door open, but I heard the dark and teasing spirits haunting the outdoors. I heard druks stumbling and shouting, fighting and losing shoes, falling over backwards, breaking expensive rented champagne glasses.

The disappearing act is popular with those who have no restraint; only because it’s sweet and gets you intoxicated pretty fast.

Three am and there’s people still partying, pretty hardcore. We’ve been running soup-encrusted bowls through dishwashers, closing off potentially explosive tubes, tuning down potentially explosvie situations. A blue tub underneath the main sink in the apparently capable kitchen is filled up with foodish grey water. Pickled beans and beets, squash and roasted onion bits.

A single inadvertant drink gets the line going. Someone insists I had better get a jar for money. The drunker these drunkies get, the more money fills up the glass. Twenties and tens and fives, mostly. Someone needs change to leave a single dollor. Here — you need another cocktail. Prosecco and St/ Germaine is the bridal bouquet, the professional who — at the end of this night won’t help a stictch — tells me, almost too tipsy to drink anymore. Here, quarter of a glass. Go entertain yourself.

Sticky alcohol and chicken slime line my arms and hands and Amelia Eirhart’s aviator’s shirt. The goggles go from head to neck to off. That shirt is on the counter and the neckerchief is smothering in the upstairs heat where the dishwater, miles away, runs glasses and plates easily.

Keys locked in the backseat of the only car. Trapped, but not. Out on the sidewalk steps with rows of pumpkins filled with soup. Jokes about punting, smashing, dropping them by people’s doorsteps as soup-surprise jack-o-lanterns. It might attract some hungry spirits.

Perhaps, if you sacrifice some food, you won’t get eaten alive.

Welcome to the death half of the year. The frost is coming to freeze you over. Are you prepared? Have you planned? Oh wait — did you not know?

Oops.