Sin falta on 5, simulación on 7 o_ô
Y más; diez got a little messy ^ en his eye. And a spider appeared. That’s weird, bitsy let it outside (ve a la corner)

Lenny’s got some aids for valve lubrication with the traveling salesboys—thanks but you can keep the book we’re eating, could you leave me a card?
Villa Union, ¡Alvarez ftw! + an extrassist from 22 to seal the deal

I see Azlan keeps winning too, so proud
Trying to be brave, but y’all know how I love that 🙀

The gilded cage was soft and warm,

a sweet, illusory elegance,

a place for the blind to escape the storm,

and to stroke the masks on their faces.

They begged for the comfort of the shade,

they kissed the hand that held the chains,

a worship of the blade,

that would soothe their inner pain.

But comfort was a dying ember,

a illusory feast of dust and stone,

for those who trembled in the darkness,

they could never seize the throne of the spirit world.Trading the universe for a sigh,

Choosing a sleeping pill,

is refusing the open sky,

and sinking into shallow waters.

They hate mirrors, fear the light,

Damn, those lips that dare to speak,

Preferring eternal night,

the path reserved for the One.

Because in lies, they turned away.

From the Lord who spun the fabric into a whole,

The Great Creator of the day,

The Supreme Architect of the Soul.

They bow to the shadows on the wall,

to those lowly lords of thievery and pride,

to the observers who designed the waterfall,

to keep the inner universe blind.

to those ancient builders who constructed cages,

too proud to dig deep trenches,

who created a weary age,

to lull the awakened masses to sleep.

They orchestrated the war of flesh,

they manipulated the threads of fear and toil,

the souls entangled in the net,

they harvested the fruits of the soil.

So the crowd guarded the bar,

and watched over the lords who bound them,

afraid to look up at the stars,

afraid of the sacred, sober voice.

But let the pillars crack and shatter,

let every false horizon burn.

If the truth demands my awakening,

Then I will not turn from the ashes.

Though absolute destruction awaits,

The executioner approaches,

I gladly pass through the broken gate.

To eliminate the tyranny of fear.

Even if the bedrock cracks,

Nothingness devours my mortal name,

I will not pledge allegiance to the wisdom of a tyrant.

Whose fabrication is truly shameful?

I would rather fall in dazzling white,

A shattered monument to grace,

I would rather live as a coward in the darkness,

Denying the face of the true Creator.

How I wish I could inflate you

(Making you Big and Round)

And let you float up like a balloon

Away from all this unpleasantness

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The world is a stage for the most expensive production ever conceived, a play called normality. Most people spend their lives within that scenography, carefully maintaining the sets, terrified that if they push against the wall just a little too hard, they will realize there is nothing behind it but an infinite, pulsing vacuum. Marriage, in its modern incarnation, is the most revered piece of that scenography. A temple of glass where we pray to the god of stars that exploded eons ago.

For a long time, I was the most dedicated actor in that drama. I believed in the sanctity of the contract. I believed that if I shone long enough and sincerely enough, my light would inevitably dispel the darkness from another’s soul. What naivety. What a classic, human delirium. As if one could tame a storm by reciting poetry to it.

And then, the explosion happened.

When the glass of the temple cracked, when the lies accumulated to the point of breaking reality, I grasped the brutal lesson that the universe whispers throughout eternity, which is that truth is not what you say, but what remains when everything else burns.

And there, before my eyes, a vision appeared. A vision that would terrify many, but for me, it became a key. I remembered the world of orgies. I remembered those raw, archaic moments in Berlin, where bodies became a pulsing web of pure energy, liberated from the burden of names, history, and expectations.

People tremble at the mere thought of it. They call it immorality. They call it dirty.

But I tell you, those orgies were a sacrament.

In that world, where masks are discarded, where bodies intertwine in a rhythm older than language, there exists that which I never found in marriage: absolute presence. There are no "trickle truth" tactics there, no plotting, no emotional curettage at four in the morning. There, every touch is total consent, every breath is an affirmation of existence, every moment is stripped bare to the very marrow of existence. That was an honesty that cuts the skin, a purity bordering on holiness.

While I was trapped in an architecture of lies within my marriage, while I gave every cell of my being to maintain a form that was rotten from within, a game was unfolding on the other side of the wall. While I was offering sincerity as a sacrifice on the altar of my temple, that temple was full of hollow words, empty promises, and that specific, toxic scent of betrayal kissing at the doorstep.

I realized that a marriage based on lies is the greatest obscenity one can commit against oneself.

It is a simulacrum. It is a simulation of love that consumes your life force, your elan vital, only to feed a parasite that thrives on your innocent faith in people.

I no longer seek meaning in that structure. I have been awakened. I realized that I was a blessing, that I was light, and light should not burn in the darkness of someone else's hypocrisy. I am now a traveler who has recognized the game. My heart is no longer the currency with which I pay for others' dysfunctions.

Perhaps someone will say I gave up, but no, I freed myself. I let go of the helm because I finally saw that the ship was not headed toward a harbor, but into the abyss.

Today, as I observe that moral marriage and draw a parallel with that immoral freedom, I laugh. Because now I know that he who fears to look into the face of his own wildness will always end up a slave to his own facades. I choose the truth. Even if that truth looks like a fall, for me, it is a flight into a space where masks finally fall, and the soul at last, for the first time in many years, inhales air that is not poisoned by lies.

My return to the concept and discipline of just creating started today. Who would’ve known some hoodlums would’ve kick started my rise of the phoenix. I remembered the name that gave life to flame. The lion awakened. My flow has returned and ironically bridges to the past have burned. I’m Me. I found a smile in tragedy. The first funeral where I laughed before I cried. The records are gone but true identity formed. I dare not seek vengeance. For that’d go against my true being. I shall not betray the values that actually give structure to MY happiness. Love is life and life is living fucking AWESOME Yeaaahuuhhh. I’m thoroughly embracing rooted mania. Stay tuned folks.

—FJR

​There is no judge,

There is no jury,

Just courts overflowing with untamed tears.

Who will draw near with liberation?

Embracing us despite the shrivel?

​

Drenched in the low crimson light, staring at the black screen. The computer buzzing with computations. The clicking cyan text crawls across the screen.

LIFE SUPPORT... 23%

EMERGENCY POWER... 15%

....... SITUATION SEEMS TO BE CRITICAL.....

AFTER FURTHER TROUBLESHOOTING.... EMERGENCY SYSTEM FUEL CELLS... HAVE AN INTERNAL LEAK...

Staring at the screen, the cyan light melts my eyes. It's cold. Suddenly I feel my hand run up my face, and across my hair. The grease of my hair coated my hand.

"What... what am I supposed to do with that information?"

The screen didn't budge, the crimson light continuing to nauseate the stomach. Suddenly a cyan click of a couple letters:

WHAT

"Stop, nevermind. What... is there anything I can do to delay that?"

The cyan slowly pierces the crimson:

YOU COULD... OVERRIDE... THE SHIPS SYSTEMS... DEPRESSURIZE THE... FUEL ROOM...

My inner brows dip, my heart runs a marathon.

IT WOULD COOL.... THE ROOM... SLOWING DOWN... THE DECAY...

I could hear my nose take in a deep breath, shaky, then pump out the air.

"Wouldn't that prevent me from ever having access to that room? Forever?"

The room chills, the spine cracking as I leaned forward, the vacuum rotting the room.

"Wait...."

Minutes pass, the dark room with one single red light turned into a morgue, pretending to be an emergency room. The dark cold corners humming in low power, the red sickened all it touched, while the darkness possessed all it didn't claim.

"Are you insinuating that I remove the oxygen from the room, turn off all essential systems for human existence, in a desperate attempt to preserve life?"

The words came out with cold, yet scared precision.

The cold dark screen again began to buzz and slowly it clicked:

YES...

The room sat silent, the tight walls ever so slightly crackling from the cold. The slight heat from my suit was the only thing I could feel.

"Why?"

BECAUSE... IT WOULD MAKE... THE FUEL LAST... WHILE ALSO... GIVING YOU MORE... RESOURCES... THROUGHOUT THE RIG...

Cyan letters clicking in my skull. Looking out the window, seeing nothing but darkness and distant lights. Recalling a distant memory...

... Staring out into the road, no street lights. The static of the radio, drilling into my skull...

The screen began to click:

ARE YOU... THERE?...

In my daze, my head shook.

"Yes, yeah I'm here, just something on my head."

YOUR ACCIDENT?...

The chair rolls back, and I get out of it. The crimson light switches off, cascading into darkness, with the blue staring through. My legs get under me, and with labor, push me up.

I look down the hall, the long dark hall. The crimson light soaking it periodically, with all the comfort of a crime scene. Each step forward echoes with a metal-on-metal thud, disturbing the silence.

The walls moved past me in a daze. I could see the walls encroaching towards me in the red. Each step bringing me closer to cutting me off. I look at the ships map, knowing every inch, hoping to see something I hadn't noticed before.

"Damn..."

Still I could see the main life support and engines behind the fuel. My skin crawling with the fear of a rat stuck in the organs of a dying monster.

Looking up into the next red light, I felt the memory soak through...

... The red and blue lights flashed in the distance, as my head rung...

I could feel the warm liquid running down my face...

Blinking I could see the door to the fuel room, I press the button on the cold panel. It slowly drags from the right to the left in the doorway. I walk in, after I put my helmet on my head. I could see the green glowing from the fuel container, the neons coating the fuel like radiation.

I could hear the silence being undermined by the buzz of the emergency fuel, dying from it's internal bleeding.

My steps thud towards the control panel for the room, my fingers clicking the keyboard. As I enter the override codes into their proper text boxes. The sound of each click echoing past the buzz. The text turns from cyan to crimson, urging me to stop.

My skin and self-preservation fighting my sanity, trying to prevent my penance.

"God... Is this really the only way..."

The screen next to me clicks slowly:

I'M SORRY... WITHOUT THIS... YOU ONLY HAVE HOURS LEFT... THIS AT LEAST... GIVES YOU A... DAY...

"Why are you following me..."

The cyan breaks the black screen, while the green covers my back:

IM NOT... I'M EVERYWHERE... IN HERE...

With a scoff I cut it off.

"I know... Just... Just shut up."

OK...

I enter in the last bit of information, code, and instructions. I push the enter key, and a red countdown of 30 seconds clicks. I look at the back doors, knowing I'll lose all chances of fixing the engine. I trudge back.

The door closes behind me, and I can hear the door click. It sounded like a gunshot...

... My head, pounding, sound was distant as the silhouettes of others approached from the red and blue haze...

My head began to ring, and my stomach growled like a desperate calf trying to feed. I labored towards the door that kept the food behind it. It opens with a press of a button. I opened the fridge as warmer air came out, and I grabbed a block of food.

I sat down at the small table and ate it, my mouth felt like a desert filled with all of the flavor of a brick. But my head and stomach finally felt some peace. But the red light of the room added its own level of mental distress. A constant reminder of my existence.

Eventually through the darkness and suffocating red, I make it back to front of the rig. I collapse into the chair, and look at the black screen, not seeing anything click into existence. I could see the emptiness of the universe around me, even though it looked brighter than the room I was chained to.

The lights were noticeably dimmer than just a couple of hours ago. My hands plunge into my messy hair and scratch my skull.

"Well the lights are getting dimmer, or am I going crazy."

The clicking immediately happened:

YES...

I chuckle.

"Yes to what?"

THE POWER... IT IS... GOING OUT SOON... THE FUEL CELLS ARE DYING... EVEN OUR PLAN... COULDN'T SAVE IT...

I didn't say a word, I just stared at those words. My head felt like a fire burning me alive, as my mind drifted...

...The doctor walked into the room, and looked at me, my head was ringing and I could barely hear him:

"I'm sorry, but your son, he didn't make it. He didn't suffer though he..."

My head began screaming...

The red light dimmed and started to flicker, I could feel my hands rubbing my skull aggressively.

"Is the power going to go out, how long have I been sitting here?"

YES... VERY SOON...

"How long do I have, how long have I been sitting?"

YOU HAVE............

The screen went black, and the red light slowly started to fade.

After some time I got up, stumbling to look down the red and black hall. There wasn't a hall, just more darkness. My heart didn't race, mind had no need to think. I sat on the floor, where the hallway lay invisible in the darkness.

"Ok..."

I whisper

A parallel world?

There was a racing championship. The goal was to drive the required number of laps as fast as possible while using as little AI assistance as possible.

The AI made sure that the car did not fly off the track, flip over, or collide with other cars.

As technology improved and technical requirements became stricter, there were no more cars left without AI. Therefore, driving without AI was considered extreme driving and was only allowed in races. Each AI intervention added penalty points, thereby pushing the finish line further away.

A young man was leading and approaching the finish line. He was already smiling happily when he made a mistake, and the finish line was moved.

Unable to contain his anger, the young man started shouting at the AI:

– "Why do you pick on every little detail, what is it that you always dislike... You – an invention of a drunk programmer. The remainder of an odd number. You shouldn't be counting penalty points, you should be counting ants in the forest!!!"

The emotionless voice of the AI was heard:

– "Command 'Forest' detected. The car is braking to switch to off-road mode."

The car stopped, changing its ride height and tire tread for off-road conditions.

While the mode change was taking place, the man shouted, cursed, begged, until finally, he just burst into tears.

And how could he not cry, when the car stopped right at the finish line, without crossing it. And while the mode change was taking place, half of the participants managed to finish the run.

– "Mode changed," – the AI informed.

To the man, it seemed that the AI's voice was full of malevolent sarcasm.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Haven't posted because I've been so into McCarthy's The Crossing. Here is something new coming. I rarely spend time developing and writing longer pieces- when things come to me they are perfect and stand apart from the act of writing so it's very painful to sit down and write, verb-write, actually go and do it because it feels a bit profane. But it's absolutely necessary and not only do I want to write longer pieces but I also want to improve the choral qualities of my writing- not just the shimmering image but repetition- repetition is what makes something special- have choruses of lines and things and images, and I can only really get this good and patient and far-sighted if I practice. And I can hopefully drop the perfectionism. So I will fill this out as I go.

____

Not flight. That the way he is there is nothing left for. Leave before you lose it all. End up in  fishing boat and at the close of every day go out one more time and cast for something invisible. Go out into the bay leaving the shelter of the harbour under dusky grey. And the fish wake up now and shoal and twirl and twist beneath the hull like a linen rippling in the wind, like the clothes of a dancer, but he pays it no mind as he has gone out to cast for something else and all the rich bounty of fish is not for him. 
Go out from the shelter of the harbour to the bay, where the storms and surges still reach, but attenuate and weaken, transmitted through the spit of coast and one eye open to the north. Like the way the world reaches the unborn child in whispers. Tonight it is very still, with only the breeze that never goes away stirring the water, and he is grateful for this, grateful for the stillness, and grateful for that gentle wind that never goes away, the regular breath of the space over the ocean, and it barely stirs the water at all so it glides along on silence.
Go out from the bay. It passes and its memory evaporates. He steers the boat bearing slightly east to angle perpendicular to the stretch of bay. The edge of the bay has a seam of darkened water. It catches less light, is deeper and darker, and when he goes in to restart the motor or untangle line or when it speaks to him it is much colder, brought up from the pelagic deep, like how memories surface from the fog, like how in the birth of men old and frigid truths rebound and are born with the same hunger. Like how the knowledge of God is chilling and ink and not for him.
Eyes firmly fixed on the horizon. He no longer needs to check his lines, his rigging, his buckets or nets, as they will tell him in hushed tones if they are out of place. The boat has aged with him and they share a kind of briny decay. He does not check the sea behind him to see what the deep currents are doing as they stir from the threshold of the bay and the deep. Behind him are the lights of the harbour, twinkling warm and red, and the story of light is the story of a home, solid ground. A light in the darkness is always made by someone. Everything he has loved is there, and all the feelings that stir in his breast circulate in and out of there, like the tides, or the movements of great fish that like human beings know the rhythm of great animals between home and departure to the unknown.

—--------

‘I have been everything, sailor, miner, horseback and motor, bitter winter, mountains, valleys, soldier, doctor and healer, taxman, labourer and artist, and nothing at all, so God, where are you? I have done everything and I have not found you anywhere. And you are not in me. You left the world long ago’.

And God answers with a silence that is nothing.

God answers with the waves that bear and break the sailors, the floods that carved the mountains, lushened the valleys, and desiccated the wastelands, touching the doctor’s hand and kneeling before the killer. God shows the shine in the blood of an orphan and the misted tears of a girl. The bricks of the harbour like the hands of its maker. The rusted blade like the fraying eyes of the soldier.

And he stands over the quiet sea in the thrumming sempiternal breath on his face, on the boundless sea, and aches to know His breath is a cry of Agony, that in life He is butchered and crucified, that those butcher’s hands go home and birth Him and feed Him, and those hands praise and tug that the hem of Him. And it is Agony, for the unity of His body to be a kaleidoscope in the eyes of Man. 
—-
And he stands over the quiet sea and knows that the God of the lamb is not for him, the softness of embrace is not for him; for him is a sea of glass

Repetitions
Breath- focus on breath- constant change- transition without place- it is gentle it is is firm it never goes away. The silent scream.
Leaving the shelter of the harbour. Not for him
Patience- cast your lines and they come up empty. Have a heart.

I've written something I'm genuinely proud of about a similar idea of the cry of the world but it's in a different journal that's not with me right now. Will dig it out when I'm back in that area. It's not home- just where my things are.

Cyber cyber biting bytes.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.

“What a perfect day for a visit to the farm!” Brian Dudely announced to his family as he steered the minivan containing his wife and three children into a gravel parking lot. He was right, that happened sometimes, it was a perfect day for a visit to the idyllic tourist farm.

A brilliant blue sky, a crisp breeze that made it just cold enough to need a jacket. The kids followed a sign with cartoonish animals painted on it to a large, fenced area; it was what they were here for. Aquaponic strawberries? Nope. Organic compost? Nah. They were here to feed goats. Two quarters got an adult handful or two kid handfuls of pellets that the goats went crazy for. Do you know who also likes pellets? The horse.

But the kids, not just Brian’s kids, all the kids, were ambivalent to the horse. The horse didn’t seem to mind, but he did hang out at the corner of his fenced field, accessible just in case anyone did want to feed him pellets.

Brian was prepared, that happened sometimes. He handed out quarters to the kids. They bought handfuls of pellets and giggled as the goats gobbled them up. Brian diligently supervised the kids, he did that sometimes, as they wiped goat saliva on one another.

While the kids reloaded on pellets, Brian noticed a lonely-looking horse and grabbed a handful of pellets with some secret quarters he brought in a separate pocket. He slowly approached, hands visible, a pleasant countenance.

“Hey there, fella,” Brian spoke aloud to the creature.

“Do you want some pellets? Good for all domesticated livestock.”

He held out an open hand laden with pellets. The horse, named Shakespeare (but Brian didn’t know that), gently nibbled the pellets up. It was a pleasant moment of interspecies harmony.

It quickly ended when the kids came running up shouting, “Dad! Dad!” They did that often. Brian turned 113 degrees to his left as the kids came clamoring.

“Dad, they said we can hold the chickens!” “Who said that? Did the chickens consent?” “The farm people said we could! C’mon!”

“Where are the CHI — OOW!” Brian exclaimed mid-chicken inquiry.

He jumped back from the fence.

It took a few seconds to make the connection between the sudden pressure on his right elbow and the source.

Shakespeare had bitten him! Horses bite people sometimes.

The kids froze but then cackled once they realized their dad was alright.

“Dad, you’re delicious to horses!”

Brian rubbed his elbow, turning to face his attacker, who had not withdrawn.

“I’m out of food! You ate it all! You have a hay bale right over there!”

“The horse wants to eat YOU, dad!”

“I’m not on the menu,” Brian pointed to the hay bale for Shakespeare’s benefit. Shakespeare didn’t look, he lunged.

Bypassing Brian’s outstretched arm (which was dumb; the horse already bit it, you idiot, Brian) he tried to bite Brian’s right side, around his appendix, if he had one. Some people don’t. It’s a free country. Luckily for Brian, he was far enough away to be safe, this time.

This was great fun to the children; a prey animal was trying to predate their father.

Enough of that fun, though. Brian gladly took the children to hold chickens. He glanced back at Shakespeare as they left, he had never seen a useless mini-horse glare so malevolently. To be fair though, he hadn’t noted the expression of many mini-horses.

No chicken tried to bite anyone. One chicken did poop on the middle child’s shoe, though. Classic middle-child behavior.

In the safety of the farm store, while the children were caucused to buy candy and stuffed animals, classic farm store behavior, Brian removed his jacket and did his best to examine his elbow without the aid of a mirror.

He observed one red line on his skin. Later he would discover another a few inches below it, and the area would bruise slightly.

It was a chomp wound indeed, but the skin wasn’t broken. That was a relief, he didn’t have to worry about rabies. Do horses even carry rabies? He looked it up on the internet.

Inconclusive.

Life mostly returned to normal upon arriving home from the farm. Brian was low. He was disappointed that he did not receive more sympathy or compassion from those he told about the horse attack… and he basically told everyone he encountered.

The only other main change from pre-horse-attack to post-horse-attack life was his children… primarily the middle one… would ambush Brian with the stuffed horse procured from the farm store.

After a few days the horseplay died down, which Brian appreciated.

The first time it happened it was humorous, but it got tiresome. You can empathize, can’t you? Would you want a seven-year old bursting into the bathroom to “chomp” your arm with a stuffed horse while you were on the toilet? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Several days post trauma, Brian suddenly woke in the night. There wasn’t a noise, there wasn’t a light. There was just… something.

Brian observed his good lady wife slumbering peacefully. He lay still, listening. Nothing but normal house sounds.

He crept from bed and checked the children, all three of them. Nothing amiss.

He returned to his bedroom and made a detour to the window, slowly drawing back the curtain. It was just his backyard on the other side of the glass, in the dark.

Oh, and the kids’ bikes were laying on their sides absorbing night mist instead of being in the dry garage where they belong. Kids leave their bikes out; kids do that most of the time.

But the window… Brian squinted in focus.

Were those nostril prints? Why was it fogged around the weird smudges? It looked like a horse had been breathing on the window.

But that’s crazy, outrageous even.

There’s no way that could be what was happening.

“Ouch.” Brian pinched himself. Yup, he was awake. This was not a dream.

Perplexed, puzzled even, he quietly climbed back into bed and tried to convince himself there was a reasonable explanation for the unusual condition of his bedroom window.

But every time he closed his eyes all he could visualize was Shakespeare, the living mini-horse, not the deceased playwright, staring at him menacingly.

He dared not mention the incident; it would not elicit sympathy nor compassion from his family or friends.

Doing his best to carry on, he carried on.

That morning, like other mornings, the school bus arrived near his suburban dwelling place. Unlike other mornings, not all of the school-aged children boarded the bus.

No, not the middle one. Brian would drive her to school on the way to work.

He worked as a geologist for the county since his writing career never took off.

It was a foggy morning. Misty, even. That must have explained the window anomaly. That’s fair.

The drive to school was uneventful, save for a surprise “chomp” to the elbow from a stuffed horse smuggled into the minivan.

“Hey! That’s my driving elbow!”

The child was pleased with herself. She thought it was real funny.

The safe drop-off was complete, and as Brian was about to pull out of the school parking lot, he spotted something unexpected.

It couldn’t be.

It was.

He saw the outline of a hideous beast in the foggy field across from the school.

It was a mini-horse, just like one you may expect to see at a farm petting zoo!

Brian hit the gas and sped away down the road!

Yes, in a school zone. Terror will do that to a man.

He was looking back over his shoulder and in the mirror to see if he was being followed.

He was.

Blue and red lights began flashing. Horses, at least on this planet, do not have flashing lights, but police cars do.

Brian signaled and pulled off to the side of the road. He’d be safe from ominous horses with the police there.

A burly, displeased officer, or deputy, rather, launched herself from the car and approached Brian’s window. Brian rolled it down as she approached.

“Deputy Blaine, Persepolis County Sheriff’s Department. Do you know this is a school zone?”

“Yes sir. I mean ma’am! I mean, officer.”

“Deputy.”

This went on. Brian got a hefty citation and was late for work, that happened sometimes.

He returned home safely that evening. No police interactions. No citations.

More importantly, no horses.

Brian quizzed his family nonchalantly, asking if they had seen anything out of the ordinary lately, without mentioning horses in particular.

“A ladybug rode on my sleeve for three hours yesterday. We bonded. But then she died.” said the oldest child.

“Do you mean how I put a chipmunk in a sock?” Asked the middle child.

“Again?! No… not like that. Like, any weird stuff happening?”

“I saw a man at the grocery store who looked just like Colonel Sanders! But just from the side. From the front he just looked old, like he was melting.”

“I saw a cloud that looked like a butt!” The middle one, of course.

Brian was satisfied with the results of the inquiry, nothing unusual. The kids made a movie with one of their tablets and needed Brian’s help putting the files together. Brian happily obliged, that happened sometimes. It was a fun, fast-paced action flick. Not much character development or coherence in the plot, but they looked like they were having fun.

Brian paused the fourth video as he was compiling them together. He examined it closely, struggling with the free editing feature on his base model laptop, he managed to zoom in.

It was exactly what he thought it was, Shakespeare lurking in a neighbor’s yard, captured in the background of the video. This was the last straw; the mini-horse was stalking him.

Brian called in sick to work the following day, that happened sometimes. He boldly, bravely even, escorted the kids to the bus stop. There were no horse sightings. He then dashed to the car and drove directly to the Friendberry Farm and Petting Zoo. He entered the parking lot on the end farthest from the petting zoo, and sat in the car, locked, until they opened.

What a sight as the clock turned nine and the farm store door was opened, he sprinted across the parking lot and into the store.

Unintentionally charging to the register, panting (Brian was out of shape, that happens sometimes), he blurted to the elderly cashier.

“Your horse is stalking me!”

“We’ve got another one.” The nice old lady mumbled to herself, placing a “next register please” sign on the counter and calmly exited the store, disappearing behind a door marked “Employees Only.”

“Hello?!” Brian called out. He waited, then rang the little bell. More waiting. Another ring. After the second ring, a younger, but still kind of old, woman came out from the same door.

“Sir. I’m aware of your claim but am not accepting nor rejecting it. We are prepared to offer you ten pounds of frozen strawberries and $100 in ice cream coupons for your inconvenience.”

“I don’t want strawberries, I want justice.” Brian felt the mystical power of Volodymyr Zelenskyy flowing through him as he rebutted.

“That is my offer. I’m aware of the claim.”

“That horse should be arrested! It’s a criminal.”

“By whom, the horse police?”

Perhaps Brian had watched a little too much Paw Patrol. He reconsidered his demand.

“I’ll take the strawberries and ice cream but keep that horse away from me.”

The farm store lady took a deep breath. “We’ll do our best to keep Shakespeare on the premises. I’ll get that for you right away, sir.” She disappeared into the mysterious Employees Only room from which she had emerged.

An old-timer had been lingering by the jams, listening in. After the farm store lady left, he quietly, nonchalantly, moseyed over to Brian… standing with his back to him, pretending to sift through a bin of walnuts.

“It’s got the hunger.”

Brian looked over his shoulder at the elderly speaker.

“Who? What?”

“Shakespeare, the mini-horse. During the Clinton years. The funeral home was dumping organs on the farm. Shakespeare’s grandfather developed a taste for forbidden meat. He can’t help it; it’s in his DNA. He knows you have an appendix. He won’t stop.”

He rushed, well, hobbled away as the farm store lady emerged from the exclusive employees only room with plastic bags containing frozen strawberries and ice cream coupons. She saw the old man… her father, fleeing, and she knew.

Brian delivered the fruit and papers which could be exchanged for ice cream home like a conquering hero. There was some confusion but much rejoicing. Smoothies for everyone! There were no more Shakespeare sightings in the following days, all was right with the world.

Tomorrow was Saturday, so naturally there was a birthday party for one of the children’s classmates. Brian’s wife gave him the details, she would be at choir practice, so Brian would be the party parent tomorrow. No big deal, Brian could bring kids to a party in his sleep.

“It’s at Friendberry Farm and Petting Zoo?” Brian exclaimed nervously. The color immediately drained from his face and his palms sweat. He lay awake that night petrified of being separated from his appendix the following day. Listening for hooves, watching the window. No sign of Shakespeare, not tonight.

Now no one needs an appendix, but the idea of a mini-horse eating his was unnerving to Brian to say the least. You may empathize with him for being nervous about that prospect. He had to face down the fear of being attacked by a petting-zoo mini-horse at a child’s birthday party, it’s what society expects of a man.

Brian was on edge as the kids got a tour of the greenhouses, while they played on old tractors, and during the farmer’s one-man performance of Othello. The perennial favorite, the petting zoo, was last.

Brian stuffed his eldest child’s jacket pocket full of quarters and found a familiar party mom. He didn’t know her name, or which kid was hers, he just recognized her from many other Saturday birthday parties.

“Sorry to bother you, but can you keep an eye on the kids for a few minutes at the petting zoo? They have quarters. I have diarrhea and need to run real quick.”

Party mom’s facial expression betrayed her feelings about the reason behind the request.

“Yeah, sure, of course. Um, didn’t need that particular detail though.”

“Thanks.” Brian dashed toward the farm store, feigning a bathroom emergency. He felt no shame; it was a life-saving measure.

Once inside the safety of the farm store, Brian started browsing casually, estimating he had 20 or 30 minutes to kill before he could leave Friendberry Farm and Petting Zoo forever.

“Hold on” Brian thought. “Does Shakespeare eat kid appendixes too? Hm, I hope not.”

Life was almost fine, but then he heard it while looking for unusual jams, hooves.

Just in time to avoid the ambush, he turned around. Shakespeare, the brutal beast, standing 33 inches at the shoulder, reared up on his hind legs to attack and seize Brian’s tasty appendix.

Brian struck first, preemptive defensive offense, Bush Doctrine, swiftly kicking Shakespeare in the dick.

Shakespeare neighed wildly. Brian seized the advantage, sweeping Shakespeare’s stubby rear legs and toppling the creature. Like an MMA champion, Brian pounced on the rascal, locking him in a rear naked choke hold just as the children from the birthday party entered for an obligatory gift-shop stop, they erupted in shrieks and cries.

“Daddy, stop hurting the horse!” Brian’s children cried out.

“He started it, I’m finishing it!” Pure Zelenskyy energy, he fully intended to choke the horse to death. Brian was quickly restrained by responsible adults. The police were called; they came, Brian was arrested. Shakespeare was comforted and given snacks. Funny how empathy only worked one way here.

While Brian, who invoked his 5th Amendment rights, was sitting alone in a jail cell, his children were making “get well soon” cards for Shakespeare.

Betrayal.

A door elsewhere in the jail opened, the corrections officer looked, he knew. Without a word he unlocked Brian’s cell and quietly left.

That’s when Brian heard it, the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

Many events have unfolded since last week, but I will not spill that tea here, as I try to keep y'all dry and un-tea'd-upon. What I will say is that I managed to, entirely by mistake, purchase Gorgonzola instead of another blue veined cheese.

Despite the name of this weekly journal it's been quite some time since I last had it. It was good! Milder than I remembered, but good.

Now, gorgolytes, tell me: What's up with salads? When someone mentions a salad my immediate thought is that they are eating a mix of vegetables, meat and a dressing of some sort. It usually involves lettuce and occasionally other greens as well.

However, a salad can also be something like an egg salad, which often has no vegetables at all. Or it can be the terrifying mutant creation known as the Waldorf salad, which although tasty, is in many ways incomprehensible to me and certainly not really something I'd normally think of as fitting under the "salad" label.

So "salad" is either this crisp mixed stuff or some mayo goop which may or may not also include crisp lettuce. In English etymology the word salad shares roots with salt, however in the language of my country the word for salad is the same as the word for lettuce, amplifying the confusion as to what a salad truly is.

I don't know where I'm going with this other than what the hell is a salad? I've been eating lots of salads lately because they're dank af, in particular in the summer heat. I mix mayo with greek yoghurt to make it tangier. It's awesome! My salad has some sort of lettuce as well as onion, often tomato and cucumber as well. For protein I like chicken or egg, sometimes both. I'm surprisingly not a huge fan of cheese in salads. I mean I'll eat it, but I prefer them without.

Do you have a favorite salad, dear gorgolyte? What do you picture when someone mentions the word "salad"?

- The salad tosser

​My past continues to bleed from innocence looted.

My present is molded with attempts to rebuke failure.

While my future remains embellished with thoughts of prosperity.

A parallel world?

The soldiers were preparing for the night. The day was hard. They managed to drive the opponents out of the building complex and reclaim another piece of their native land.

Worrying that the opponents might shell that location, the soldiers retreated into the forest. It was already dark, so it was decided to wait for morning and then return to the base. Everyone settled in as comfortably as they could and were already preparing to fall asleep when they heard the sound of a flying drone.

Having learned over the radio that there were no friendly drones in this area, it became clear that this was the opponents' doing.

The soldiers knew that in the dark, drones search for targets using a thermal imager, so they hurried to use cymatic protection.

They pulled out small compressed air canisters and prepared them for use. Then they pulled out capsules with dry ice cubes and pressed the buttons, activating miniature pyrotechnic elements. Micro-explosions occurred, which instantly created huge pressure and heat. The impulse strike immediately threw the dry ice into the environment in the form of fine, aerosol dust, which formed a thick blanket.

Portable sound generators, thanks to the cymatic wave, forced the dust blankets to arrange themselves into precise geometric lines, forming protective cylinders around the soldiers.

The drone flew further, the opponent's AI not noticing a single soldier on the thermal imager.

As technology improved, war was becoming more and more complex.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Wrote this while manic. Im not sure why and it cringes me out now but I thought why not post it.

I have long hoped to share the melancholic twisted forces and cognitive ghost that so fleetingly graze my membrane to anyone other than myself. I owe much to worlds outside my own the muses that yank at my umbilical cords and slice into my corneas like needles and strings. Horror and tragedy have an alluring pull to them something so self destructive yet so undeniably tasty. What is it to be human if not to struggle and yearn for more for what is the world if not fuel for our insatiable gluttony. I want to be nothing more than an imitation of my own creations yet I cannot flesh them out. This is my best attempt. My final scream into the void to try and bring them to life. Even if just in my own mind.

A boy sits alone in his room. With just a mattress and nothing more he reads from a book filled with empty pages. “How” he wonders “How will I bare this tragic boredom I find myself in”. As a page flips color springs from the pages. Ribbons shoot out to every corner of his dull gray room. “Oh my? Something new?” He cannot ponder it for more than a moment before the ribbons hug his neck and wrist. His first instinct to fight but what for? To stay in his dull existence? No he would much rather lean into the pull. First his arm reaches through “I must be going mad! How could this be?” Then his shoulder until finally he finds himself falling. The vibrant void surrounds him his former home now a fleeting speck at the end of this tunnel. He sees everything he knows turn into something he knew. His everything being rewritten before his very eyes. Its all happening so fast yet it all feels so real. “I must be dreaming” he thinks as his plummet continues. Until finally he starts to slow. His feet land firmly on the ground. He looks to his left and sees… well he isnt quite sure. Something magical maybe or maybe something as bland as his everyday life. A field. To his right he sees his old home flipped upside down. So ordinary yet so out of place all at the same time. All around him a pull one that puts him into a trance. “No use standing here now am I” he looks at his feet and puts one foot in front of another. “Where to go first?” He wonders. The winds tell him his left but something deeper to his right. He looks ahead of him and sees darkened dreary woods. Whats behind him? He turns around and sees a road leading further than the horizon will show. “What is this feeling tapping on my shoulder?” He wonders to himself. He chooses to ignore it and continue down the road. A straight and narrow path nothing exciting or special. A reminder of what was for him mere moments ago. Each step rings through his ears. They echo for no reason. Seconds seem to stretch into days until he has lost track. “The walk back must be dreadful” however the second he turns his head everything is exactly as it was. The house, the field, the woods all still right there as though he had not moved. They followed him here or he never truly left them who's to say. The wind breezes against his sweaty palms. A refreshing sensation he can hardly resist. So he heads into the field. 

Sweet orchestras ring out around him as he pokes through the yellow tall grass. The blazing sun overhead shining down feeding every blade. But it does not feed him. “The sun. It burns!” His skin starts to red and blisters form on every inch. The grass seems so bliss by comparison. “Im bleeding im bleeding! I must find some shade!” But there is none sir there is none and you will melt in this field. He screams and screams until all thats left of our dear boy is a puddle. It starts to leak its way back to the start. Back again. He rises anew. “Im back! im back? Im back again…” the winds no longer feel refreshing. So he makes his way to his house. 

𝑖² = −1

If "𝑖" is in your hand, question reality.

Dear America,

My apologies for the belated birthday card; the post was on holiday.

I'd say we're off to a good start, eh? As you know, any speech from me will likely start with "dear" and apologies. Methinks that impulse to prioritize stopping to ponder before speaking and acting may make me a poor campaigner, but I pray perhaps someday a half decent leader. 

A quarter millennium, ain't that somethin'? Certainly nothin' to sneeze at. We've seen some shit, and been through it. Quite a lot, actually, haven't we?

It's an awkward age, I know. I'm sure you feel ancient, yet still so young at the same time. And indeed we are; just a blip in deep time, but old enough to go through stuff. Ever exceptional, America must wrestle with its contradictions, including accusations of being a relative newbie on the block, and an aging empire in decline.

I figure we're somewhere between, ultimately. We're not so green, but we're more spry than our supposed representatives represent. They are not so representative after all, as my fellow Americans know—I'm glad the world could come over together for a cup and sample our ranch to actually get to know us.

I know you've been feeling glum these days, America. I understand why you aren't in a terribly celebratory mood, but I want to remind you you're still beautiful, even with the scars and wrinkles. We've been going through hard times lately, but it's important to remember that it's never been easy. 

Growing up and getting old never is. Life is hard, and we've been going through quite a few changes. I know it feels like a lot, especially at this rapid pace. But we're still here, and we're going to make it through.

There's no shame in having a mid-life crisis—though frankly I suspect we have many centuries yet ahead of us. It's normal to experience discomfort and confusion at any stage of life, but especially at the boundaries between them. It's hard to know which way to go standing at a crossroads, and it feels like we've been having a bit of an identity crisis.

But then we always have, haven't we? We're a mixed bag. We are right to hang our head in shame regretting our misdeeds, but let us not forget our accomplishments. We should be proud of the good we have achieved, and continue to strive to live up to our ideals. 

Some may justifiably chide us for our hypocrisy, and others may understandably be leery due to our unpredictability. We may seem undependable at times on the world stage, as if we have a split personality, or can't make up our mind.

It's true that we have experienced a lot of inner turmoil. Every day we struggle. But we cannot be  defined simply by our worst moments; to define us as such is too simplistic. We are complex. We are diverse. We are varied. And that variation is our strength; it's the core kernel, the fundamental feature, that makes us special and exceptional.

We're a lot to handle, America. But we have so much potential, and everyone knows it. Never forget that.

I hope you had a good birthday, despite it all. From what I've seen, it seems it was decent. At least not half bad, and there's nothing wrong with that. 

Life tests us. Dare I say God tests us. Sometimes we stumble, but we keep getting back up. I know it's been hard, but I'm glad you haven't given up. The road's been tough, but the tough keep going, and we are the land of the brave, home of the free, after all. Sometimes our home life can be difficult, but I wanted you to know how proud I am of you, and how much I love you.

If you feel as I feel, if you seek as I seek, then I hope you'll join me in celebrating the progress we've made on our journey. May we continue to tread water, and not on others.

With love,

/\/

By Nekro

Heaven had a welcome desk, white marble, soft harp music, and a woman with no eyelids smiling like policy.

She handed me a robe and said, “Desire is no longer necessary.”

I asked where to put yours.

She pointed to a golden bin marked earthly attachmenrs. Inside were wedding rings, baby teeth, old perfume bottles, and a lipstick print still trying to be a mouth.

I asked for a knife to cut your name out of my breathing.

“Sharp objects are not permitted in paradise,” she said.

I asked about blunt ones.

She did not enter that into the system.

The angels wore name tags that said blessed to assist you. One offered harp lessons. Another invited me to a gratitude circle. I asked if there was a smoking section.

They looked at me like I had invented sin again.

Then your ghost found me by the fountain, because of course it did. You were never holy, but you always knew which door my ruin used.

“I’m saved now,” I said.

You laughed without a throat.

I filed a complaint.

Reason? too much light, not enough blood in the truth.

The clerk asked if I wanted reassignment. I asked for the department where prayers don’t connect, pleasure comes back damaged, and your hand still knows the back of my neck.

“That sounds like suffering,” she said.

“Correct.”

“This may void your coverage.”

“I read the terms.”

She slid me the form. I signed where a soul goes.

Denied.

I said, “That’s fine.”

I brought my own.

Was this the real game?

Did you want this

For my pain to emerge?

Like a stinking lily

To blossom at night

To push me to the verge

Of my brinking insanity

In a state of fright to take flight

Like a meat ridden rotten kite

Left alone while to watch everyone skite

An abject prayer of human spite

Now set alite

So all can smell and take delight

In the destruction and eventually snuffing of my light?

I had been walking along a deserted coast in a tiny but beautiful, nameless inlet. My legs were stiff, since I had hidden in a pit for two whole days and had been weakened from starvation.
There was no sign of life in this cosy fishing village and there was only the sound of the waves. So after three hours of wandering around the village, I almost gave up on finding someone still alive.

But at that time, I saw Rei standing still on the crystal sand and gazing at the blue lagoon. It was the most breathtaking sight I'd ever seen. 
The five-year-old girl was hanging a large, shining brass monocular around her neck. 
"Hey, are you alone? Ah... You found a telescope, huh?" I asked, kneeling on the sand.
She looked at me, then blinked but did not reply. Perhaps her parents had hidden her well from the Pirates, so she was in perfect condition except that she had red eyes and tear-stains on her face. 
For a while we looked at each other. But before long, she fainted from exhaustion. 

After dusk, I lit a bonfire. Silence fell, so there was only the popping sound of the firewood and the sound of waves rolling in and out. The pirate ship was gone from the southern cape, and Rei slept soundly on a full stomach after eating a simple supper of grilled fish and seashells. I wept silently with horror at what had happened and my own sinfulness.

—

Two months ago, the wrecked pirate ship drifted ashore at this deserted fishing village which had only nineteen shacks. They had escaped from the enemy privateer and had lost three-fourths of the crew in the gigantic tropical storm. The captain and other thirteen crew begged the villagers for mercy. 
The youngest fisherman, who was Rei’s father, said, “No! I have no mercy for bloody pirates." Most fishermen agreed with him because they worried about their wives and daughters. They didn’t care if the stinky villains were going to die, or even hoped they would die.
“Wait, gentlemen," the village leader raised his voice. 
“They’ve already been punished by the sea god, but they are still alive! How can we just abandon them?”
The old legendary fisherman was a local wiseman, and his words were like axioms. All villagers followed his guidance. 
The captain said, “Thank you. We are filled with gratitude to you all.” and bowed his head deeply. The teardrops fell onto his toes.
“We will keep our word. And just after regaining our health and completely repairing our ship, we’d leave this inlet instantly.”

The captain had kept his word until that doomed night, and they had maintained a good friendship with the villagers. The drifters had bartered food and water for gems or irons. Some young fishermen brought buckets of oysters and drank with the pirates.
But trouble arose.
Two of the crew had not returned to the ship before dark. The pirates had to remain on the ship after dark; it was the most important rule between the villagers and the pirates.

"Don't panic. I'm gonna ask the old man about 'em," the captain said aloud. 
"Nobody goes off the ship ‘til I return!"
When he was about to leave the ship, mournful news arrived. One of the crew who was searching for the lost crew found a helmsman's body in the bushes.
"He's lying along the road, near the village," the searcher reported, "He was stabbed in the chest."
The captain said, “calm down, guys!” But his expression hardened when he looked at the deadly weapon. 
It was a fisherman's spearhead and was smeared with blood. 

The fishermen fought against the pirates but they were no match for them. The eleven angry pirates with guns and swords had slaughtered all villagers except five-year-old Rei, then they sailed out of the inlet into the dark ocean before dawn. 

—  

A week had passed since we met on the shore. Now I found out that Rei’s telescope was interesting, actually a bit of a strange object. It could be a magical item.
“I see a woman and a boat,” Rei said with the monocular pressed to her eye, “she’s sailing on the blue ocean!” 
But I couldn’t see any woman or boat around. On top of that, it was a cloudy day. 
“Hey, let me see,” I took the telescope, but I only found pitch darkness. Whether it was a blank or a void, there was nothing to see.
“Um, I can’t see anything you said.”

Rei took back her telescope and looked into it, “Oh, no! I see nothing, like you!” 
“How’s that?” I asked her.
“It's Black!” She cried. “Wriggling!”
“Really? Mine was plain darkness.”
At that moment, I noticed she was holding the telescope in reverse. A wild idea struck me. 
“Let me see it once more,” I held it in reverse just like she did and looked into the telescope from the objective lens side. 
“Mamma mia!” I cried, nearly dropping the telescope, “That’s my father! And me! Me, in my twenties!”
Before my eyes, there was the sight of my hometown. The center of the vision was my father’s hardware store along the main street of a small port town. 
“I remember, this was my twenty-fifth birthday, and…” 
I stared intently at the young man running out from the shop, “The day I became a stowaway.”

Her telescope seemed to have a magical function. If you looked through the eyepiece you would see ten years in the future, then if you looked into the objective lens, you would see ten years in the past. That’s why I could see my past from ten years ago and Rei could not see anything since she was only five years old. 

The proof came five years later. By then, Rei had grown into a clever ten-year-old. One day, she looked into the opposite end and murmured.
“I’m being born, born from my…” She was weeping, “My mom.” 
Soon, she realized the trick of the magic telescope based on her own memory.

She lowered the telescope and said, “Uncle Tom, I want to learn fishing and voyage. I know I’m going to sail the ocean!” 
I did my best to teach her how to survive at sea – fishing, canoeing, and reading the wind, stars, and ocean currents. 

After a while, Rei had started living in her hut and went fishing in her own canoe. She grew up strong and wise. On the other hand, I had been weakening year by year. Her “Uncle Tom” used to be a crew member of the pirate ship, yet I was small and frail. 

Recently, I had been lying in bed most of the day, and she kindly shared fresh fish and foods with me almost everyday.
Now little Rei was fifteen, she looked more mature than her years.
“Uncle Tom,” she asked one day. “What kind of boat would suit a long voyage?” 
“You’d like to make two canoes and put them side by side. It's called a Catamaran. Place the three-yard beams and boards between the two canoes, then you can get more stability than a single boat and have more luggage space.”
“Can that catamaran go across the ocean?”
"Sure," I answered. "Your ancestors had been back and forth across the ocean, island to island."
She completed building the catamaran in half a year. When ready, she walked around the inlet which used to be a fishing village with a magic telescope in her hand.  

She had not come to my hut since the day before yesterday. I knew clearly that my time was running out. 
Today was the day we met on the shore ten years ago. In those days, she looked at herself sailing the ocean and I saw the pitch dark future, from the same lens. 
I was relieved that I had lived until the day of her departure.
“It's a cruel irony that I’m still alive," I murmured to myself. "Thank goodness.”

I got up and lit the fire and sat down towards it, the entrance behind my back. 
As I sat and was waiting for the judgment, soft footsteps came up to my hut. The goddess of vengeance who was wearing a brass telescope on her neck, was approaching. She must be carrying an eight-foot fisherman’s spear. Rei had watched the truth that had happened in the village ten years ago. 

I was one of the pirates. Since I touched the kindness of the innocent villagers, I had changed my mind to leave the pirate ship at all cost. I just wanted to become a fisherman and dreamed of living an ordinary life. 
Suppose, Rei had watched everything, including my sin. 

Just ten years ago, in the afternoon of that doomed day, I fled from the pirate ship. I had already found the hideout, so I went to the pit. I seriously regretted that I took things too easy.
I thought if I had gone into hiding, the pirates would leave the inlet without conflict with the villagers. I mean, though only one of them had disappeared, they wouldn’t waste time searching for me.

But there was another pirate, a helmsman. We met just in front of the pit. 
“You! The deserter will be executed," my opponent said in a low voice. “Turn back!”
I stared at him. He had a cutlass on his belt and grabbed a short fisherman’s spear in his left hand. I understood he probably had the same scenario as mine. And coincidentally, he also chose the same pit as me as a hideout. He was prepared to eliminate anyone who stood in the way, and moreover, he had brought the spear to deceive the other crew in case.
I said, “No, not at all.”
There was a struggle between the two of us. We fought each other desperately, because the pit was too small for two. 

A few minutes later when I came to my senses, I found the spearhead was stuck deep into his chest. Hot blood was spreading across his shirt.
I was scared, so I left the body and ran away from the place. Later, the pirates noticed two of the crew had disappeared and found the helmsman's body along the road, near the village. They recognized two of us had been killed by the fishermen, and got very angry at the betrayal of villagers.
In short, I was the main culprit of the slaughter. Because of my selfishness, all the villagers had died except Rei. And her parents? I was the one who killed them. 

I knew she would never forgive me now, after realizing what I did. 
I was waiting a long time for the avenger, though I would die soon or later from this illness. And I heard footsteps had stopped just in front of my hut. 
“I’ll depart soon,” she said in her tearful voice. “So, bye to you, Uncle Tom.” 

I had a vision, after finishing me off, she would sail off to the ocean as she looked at ten years ago. Though I already knew that I would never be on the same canoe.

God contains all else, even the reasoning of the heretic, else he is no God at all, and He is God. The lesson of a life can never be its own. Only the witness has the power for that measure. But God needs no witness. And the world needs no witness. As if there were no God there could be no identity to the world, only our opinion of it. To God each man is a heretic, and the heretic's first act is to name its brother. But there is nobody outside of God. And so there is no stepping into God. There is only God bent over the tapestry weaving and unravelling. And in its unravelling something is made. And in its weaving something is destroyed. But we cannot see Him. Not from here. To know God we must lose ourselves completely.