01/31/07
"Congrats on the book."
I look up from my beer, removing myself from stasis, regaining the game. I looked over at the man next to me. He seemed to be a boy playing at manhood, much like myself. We wore contrasting costumes to match our competing characteristics. He was dark, and thin; precise. I was white, beaten, and defeated.
"I didn't finish it. I don't think I'm going to. I think I hate it."
"What are you talking about?"
"I don't think I'll like how it ends."
"Limbo is a better fate", I added.
I thought about everything. About all the things behind me, below me, above me, before me. Putting together words is easy. It comes so natural that it's kind of spooky. Piecing together a story is impossible. Imagine trying to unite all of mankind into a state of interest, of a suspension of identity, to con them into emotions with words parading around as familiar friends or unforgettable foes.
But it's a lie. A shadow puppet display of ideas and instructions, or rather suggestions, to a bored, complacent society that has become virtually shockproof. Hell, I've lost the ability to feel months ago. So I don't feel pity for myself. Fuck that sense of failure. I don't owe anyone my words. I don't have to entertain them, distract them. Forget about teaching anyone, enlightening just even one reader, once.
"I thought that was a good turning point in the book. When things got more, I dunno, ugly. Raw, you know?"
I focused in on the individual in front of me again. I attempted to deduce whether we were speaking telepathically. Paranoia seeped in and so the awkward silence must be filled.
"I don't know why I don't destroy the whole thing. Delete it off that online journal I have and trash the backup I have on my Powerbook at home." I cringed at the thought.
"If the editors like it as much as I have, well I know we can get this thing on the shelves by summer." He stopped speaking mentally when he said this.
"What are you talking about? I'm not going to write it. I came here to tell you. I'm done."
I was getting drowsy, but when I re-focused my eyes I was sitting beside Agent Spider, and the bar had a symbolic sheen. Below us were bodies that looked too realistic to be real. It was us, but more muted somehow. Confined.
"You completed the book three months ago when you asked that we hypnotize you to help your motivation. After the first session, you locked yourself up in your apartment for hours a day. You just emailed me the final chapter last week."
I felt high from the out of body experience, grounded down through the booze. Everything was asleep. Reality was melting. I focused my third eye and rode the vibrations, tuning into the music from the jukebox. I felt every person in the bar, drank in their emotions, feeding on their humanity. I needed to be real to figure this out.
"What are you talking about?!" I shouted more than I meant to.
He glanced around and gave me a weird look.
"You okay? What's going on?" That's what it looked like his lips had said.
"Is this like a gimmick thing? You're Agent Fenris, the crazy writer in your book?" That is what I heard. And it wouldn't stop.
Those three months must have damaged something. Maybe it was that "creating antennae" we had built to force the book out of you. The "magic signal" that stimulates your impulse to write. And for what? The new bible I'm assuming. Ahh yes, you'll be immortal through the written word. But only a shell of you. Something that was never even real in the first place. Agent Fenris peels away, Charles Crown lies behind, and what's there underneath it all?
The Tower rumbles and crashes to the earth. That last brick brought it down. No, every brick brought it down. Every moment spent building caused this disaster. Devastation is everything. Desolation is all. There is nothing left.
I'm waving wildly as my senses scream at me, every sensation of this city assaulting me. I burst out the doors of the bar, obviously stark raving mad. I've lost it, I've lost everything. I slam into concrete and suddenly there is nothing left.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
the tower of brahma - 45 - grinning beginning (edit)
09/08/06
I have a plan. I need to know what's going to happen if it's bound to happen regardless. Can you alter fate?
I bought a chalkboard and returned it when I rediscovered my distaste for touching chalk. In exchange I got a corkboard, some thumbtacks, post-its and string. I began tacking up pictures of the twelve names I still had written on my forearm after a random phone call had instructed me that these were the people to be found and questioned.
There were seventeen total. The first five, all hidden within one person. Me. All facets of my fractured persona, they collapsed into just a writer, lost in the middle. And although I had unknowingly tried to halt my investigation further with heavy doses of alcohol and a sharpie, I could still read the raised letters of the names beyond the thick black government-esque classified crossouts. Now I needed to find out who these people were and what their connection was to me, to Agent Fenris, to the Tower itself.
Right after I sleep. Insomnia comes along with excess coffee and uppers. I need to dream so badly that I believe I am creating mock dreamscapes for myself in a half-awake sleep deprived delirium. Visions of holy writers and righteous believers come to me and tell me what I know, but am too lazy to do. Write. Get it out, down and on the damn page and then go take a nap.
Just as I begin to drift after writing my last word I hear the sounds of flames, concentrated searing fire. My neighbor is responsible. He's been building something for a week that I jokingly say is a robot. But now I wonder. He's always seemed shady and off to me, a freakish man-boy with thick glasses and chocolate icing for hair. I begin to watch him as he comes and goes. I take note of the sounds I hear and postulate in my mind the tools and possible substances composed in the construction of this enigmatic creation.
Finally after weeks of not sleeping I wait for him on the stairs by the roof. He's just a floor down so when I hear him hit the fifth floor and head down his hallway, I leap down the flight of stairs and rush him. I slam into his back and we burst into his apartment. We hit the ground and slide across near bare floors. I look around seeing the far side of the apartment first. A cot, a small fridge and neatly rowed tools. I turn and my eyes slide across his shocked face, his embarrassed look, and over his shoulder I become ensnared in the contraption that looms just a few feet above my bed.
Its center is a massive stone, carved meticulously, and surrounded by a wood base resembling an infinity symbol. Large metal rods are protruding from the rock in a multitude of directions. I think there were eight of them but I couldn't be sure for what I did next made it hard to determine what was happening. I never imagined I would have the strength to toss a rock that big out a window causing such significant damage to the wall. The rods, not fully soldered on, were smashed off and as I spun around huffing and puffing in a lunatic rage. I grabbed one off the floor.
My neighbor was scared. Too afraid to run for the door, which was open just enough for a hand to squeeze through and throw the door wide open. His fingertips barely twitched and that door was slammed shut, my free hand sliding towards the lock.
"What was that device you were building, neighbor?” The metal rod was a perfect weapon.
"My...sculpture...?”, he replied.
I suddenly felt mad. I probably have done something crazy. The metal rod in my hand and the enormous hole in the far wall told me the story. Still I had to know.
"Who sent you? Did they tell you to build it? Does it make me have to write?”, I pleaded for any answer.
"W-what are y-you talking about?” He had the eyes of a crazy person. But I out-crazied him. He would have no information that I could use.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the hall backwards. I had to let him know not to tip his hat to the narcs but how could I let him know without letting them know I knew. Their machine was broken. They must know already. Unless, this is their man, and if he becomes my ally then he'll cover for me. But what if he's a patsy though? Some dumbshit college kid they paid to assemble some low-end frequency transmitter above my bedroom. He'd have no idea of the intricate plot he would now find himself ensnared in. No, better to save the poor kid the ordeal of getting involved in a conspiracy this grand. He'll be happier and safer as a pawn. His watchdogs will think he snapped from his proximity and exposure to the device. Poor sap.
"Sorry kid. Forget Art. Go to business school.” And with that I gently let the door shut behind me, a smile of satisfaction on my face.
Now, what was I doing?
I have a plan. I need to know what's going to happen if it's bound to happen regardless. Can you alter fate?
I bought a chalkboard and returned it when I rediscovered my distaste for touching chalk. In exchange I got a corkboard, some thumbtacks, post-its and string. I began tacking up pictures of the twelve names I still had written on my forearm after a random phone call had instructed me that these were the people to be found and questioned.
There were seventeen total. The first five, all hidden within one person. Me. All facets of my fractured persona, they collapsed into just a writer, lost in the middle. And although I had unknowingly tried to halt my investigation further with heavy doses of alcohol and a sharpie, I could still read the raised letters of the names beyond the thick black government-esque classified crossouts. Now I needed to find out who these people were and what their connection was to me, to Agent Fenris, to the Tower itself.
Right after I sleep. Insomnia comes along with excess coffee and uppers. I need to dream so badly that I believe I am creating mock dreamscapes for myself in a half-awake sleep deprived delirium. Visions of holy writers and righteous believers come to me and tell me what I know, but am too lazy to do. Write. Get it out, down and on the damn page and then go take a nap.
Just as I begin to drift after writing my last word I hear the sounds of flames, concentrated searing fire. My neighbor is responsible. He's been building something for a week that I jokingly say is a robot. But now I wonder. He's always seemed shady and off to me, a freakish man-boy with thick glasses and chocolate icing for hair. I begin to watch him as he comes and goes. I take note of the sounds I hear and postulate in my mind the tools and possible substances composed in the construction of this enigmatic creation.
Finally after weeks of not sleeping I wait for him on the stairs by the roof. He's just a floor down so when I hear him hit the fifth floor and head down his hallway, I leap down the flight of stairs and rush him. I slam into his back and we burst into his apartment. We hit the ground and slide across near bare floors. I look around seeing the far side of the apartment first. A cot, a small fridge and neatly rowed tools. I turn and my eyes slide across his shocked face, his embarrassed look, and over his shoulder I become ensnared in the contraption that looms just a few feet above my bed.
Its center is a massive stone, carved meticulously, and surrounded by a wood base resembling an infinity symbol. Large metal rods are protruding from the rock in a multitude of directions. I think there were eight of them but I couldn't be sure for what I did next made it hard to determine what was happening. I never imagined I would have the strength to toss a rock that big out a window causing such significant damage to the wall. The rods, not fully soldered on, were smashed off and as I spun around huffing and puffing in a lunatic rage. I grabbed one off the floor.
My neighbor was scared. Too afraid to run for the door, which was open just enough for a hand to squeeze through and throw the door wide open. His fingertips barely twitched and that door was slammed shut, my free hand sliding towards the lock.
"What was that device you were building, neighbor?” The metal rod was a perfect weapon.
"My...sculpture...?”, he replied.
I suddenly felt mad. I probably have done something crazy. The metal rod in my hand and the enormous hole in the far wall told me the story. Still I had to know.
"Who sent you? Did they tell you to build it? Does it make me have to write?”, I pleaded for any answer.
"W-what are y-you talking about?” He had the eyes of a crazy person. But I out-crazied him. He would have no information that I could use.
I unlocked the door and stepped into the hall backwards. I had to let him know not to tip his hat to the narcs but how could I let him know without letting them know I knew. Their machine was broken. They must know already. Unless, this is their man, and if he becomes my ally then he'll cover for me. But what if he's a patsy though? Some dumbshit college kid they paid to assemble some low-end frequency transmitter above my bedroom. He'd have no idea of the intricate plot he would now find himself ensnared in. No, better to save the poor kid the ordeal of getting involved in a conspiracy this grand. He'll be happier and safer as a pawn. His watchdogs will think he snapped from his proximity and exposure to the device. Poor sap.
"Sorry kid. Forget Art. Go to business school.” And with that I gently let the door shut behind me, a smile of satisfaction on my face.
Now, what was I doing?
Monday, August 15, 2011
The Tower of Brahma: 44 - splitting infinite (edit)
09/06/06
I don't want to write it. If I do, everything ends. All matter just ceases to be. I thought I could stall. I writhed in pain, cocked fetal, clutching the pillow. My hand was pressed so deeply into my cheek I thought I could feel it smoosh into the muscles that screamed in excruciating pain. I took everything there was to take from the medicine cabinet. Even alcohol could not deter me from the pain long enough to sleep for even a moment. I had the .44 magnum against my skull. The cold, round barrel providing relief for a second.
Thoughts ran through my head and vibrated into a signal off my chattering teeth. The metal filling on the left side of my mouth was burnt out and old, no longer capable of receiving a signal from the machine that creates. I think they've upped the power to hit the molar lodged up high, just below my cheekbone.
It must have been a 44 MHz pulse at the very least. They wanted me to keep writing. I ran here to the city to escape but it seems I came here to be imprisoned. I wrote my way in, and now more than halfway through the story I wanted out. It seems as if my life is a series of escapes, breaking out of my town, my life, myself.
Faustian deal aside, I longed for a simple life free from the responsibility of everyone, everywhere. Each person I looked upon, talked with, listened to, they were showing me how to end the world. My feelings ranged from apathy to pity to righteous anger from time to time with an overwhelming sense of damnation. Hope held my trigger finger steady when normally it shakes. The eventual passing of the present is what keeps me here, in immense and terrific pain.
I don't want to write it. If I do, everything ends. All matter just ceases to be. I thought I could stall. I writhed in pain, cocked fetal, clutching the pillow. My hand was pressed so deeply into my cheek I thought I could feel it smoosh into the muscles that screamed in excruciating pain. I took everything there was to take from the medicine cabinet. Even alcohol could not deter me from the pain long enough to sleep for even a moment. I had the .44 magnum against my skull. The cold, round barrel providing relief for a second.
Thoughts ran through my head and vibrated into a signal off my chattering teeth. The metal filling on the left side of my mouth was burnt out and old, no longer capable of receiving a signal from the machine that creates. I think they've upped the power to hit the molar lodged up high, just below my cheekbone.
It must have been a 44 MHz pulse at the very least. They wanted me to keep writing. I ran here to the city to escape but it seems I came here to be imprisoned. I wrote my way in, and now more than halfway through the story I wanted out. It seems as if my life is a series of escapes, breaking out of my town, my life, myself.
Faustian deal aside, I longed for a simple life free from the responsibility of everyone, everywhere. Each person I looked upon, talked with, listened to, they were showing me how to end the world. My feelings ranged from apathy to pity to righteous anger from time to time with an overwhelming sense of damnation. Hope held my trigger finger steady when normally it shakes. The eventual passing of the present is what keeps me here, in immense and terrific pain.
Monday, August 8, 2011
The Tower of Brahma: Chapter 43 - Everyone's a secret agent. (edit)
04/05/06
It's true. Everyone everywhere. Some give themselves away by their stares. Some give it away because they're too good, synthesized perfection will always be manufactured too well. They've surrounded me for some reason. Some sinister purpose.
My apartment is not bugged, but I am always bound. Stuck to a room with a keyboard. I have memories of in-between times but those I believe to be artificially stimulated as waking dreams.
The signal they're beaming, its frequency is chaotically situated and freaks my neurons out spasmodically assisting my fingers to type what it is they want to read. A manual. The details are unnecessary. All that matters is the pattern. The formula. The key.
They're searching the mind for the missing piece. Enlightenment centerpiece of our eternal spirit. The current of our chakra sensitive, bio-electrical soul. The science of Art. I'm undercover.
Here. As a chaotic agent. Order's lost son, bad boy obsessed with the random, outlaw lone wolf of the mathematic logick, insistent on the applied applications of quantum chaos.
Science hero savage, lost to the wilds of nature's precision. Son of the Everybody Someone Publick, guild of masons building a literary tower in the subconsciousness of the masses so as to hide it from god within his children.
Martial arts training video, front row, downtown movie theatre. Agent Spider and I are rushed to our seats to make sure we are the dead center of the audience when we have to fight our way out.
The credits begin to roll and the moves shown upon the screen roll back over the insides of our minds. The two agents in front of us were easily identifiable and were, inevitably, the first two to strike.
Our close quarters meant they'd go in with knives, and we'd go out with two knees to the face. Bracing on the seat, a sweeping kick cleared my side of the row, while Spider throws elbows to noses. Forward kick chest slam, jumping knee uppercut, elbow smash head split.
Spider's got an agent in a reverse headlock and swoops the bastard up and piledrives him into the floor. Running along the edge of the seats, my Converse skidding across skillfully, I smack and crack these size thirteen's across faces. We're both twisting and snapping arms, locking legs, and dropping foes.
Agents. Everywhere.
Agent Strange is seduction personified. She's Cleopatra punk, imagination Queen, the Modern Mystic Mother. She wields snakes in dreams and details out my mission. Venom liquid informational packet self-destructs after download. She's spinning my internal vibrations and new age nonsense that's making me nauseous.
Then I feel it. The freefalling plunge. She's wiped away my third eye muck and clearly now I can see the world. This ever shrinking world of mine. I just was able to see for the first time as I saw reality disappear into the sky forever.
I'd never make it back. Wasn't meant to. Always wanted to be an astronaut. Center self, a drop of the Universe dripped free from the fluid cosmic mass that is everything. We're plunging in a liquid capsule of pure reality, dropping deep into the well of the unknown.
Well, I guess it's not we. You're all left in the main universe. The source. I've just borrowed as many of your templates as possible and placed them all in working order here in my metropolitan madness, my own private New York City.
It's been sculpted and runs like a perceptional motion machine to keep me experiencing, to keep me writing, to figure it out before my long voyage is over. Figure out the riddle, son.
What madness is this?
It's true. Everyone everywhere. Some give themselves away by their stares. Some give it away because they're too good, synthesized perfection will always be manufactured too well. They've surrounded me for some reason. Some sinister purpose.
My apartment is not bugged, but I am always bound. Stuck to a room with a keyboard. I have memories of in-between times but those I believe to be artificially stimulated as waking dreams.
The signal they're beaming, its frequency is chaotically situated and freaks my neurons out spasmodically assisting my fingers to type what it is they want to read. A manual. The details are unnecessary. All that matters is the pattern. The formula. The key.
They're searching the mind for the missing piece. Enlightenment centerpiece of our eternal spirit. The current of our chakra sensitive, bio-electrical soul. The science of Art. I'm undercover.
Here. As a chaotic agent. Order's lost son, bad boy obsessed with the random, outlaw lone wolf of the mathematic logick, insistent on the applied applications of quantum chaos.
Science hero savage, lost to the wilds of nature's precision. Son of the Everybody Someone Publick, guild of masons building a literary tower in the subconsciousness of the masses so as to hide it from god within his children.
Martial arts training video, front row, downtown movie theatre. Agent Spider and I are rushed to our seats to make sure we are the dead center of the audience when we have to fight our way out.
The credits begin to roll and the moves shown upon the screen roll back over the insides of our minds. The two agents in front of us were easily identifiable and were, inevitably, the first two to strike.
Our close quarters meant they'd go in with knives, and we'd go out with two knees to the face. Bracing on the seat, a sweeping kick cleared my side of the row, while Spider throws elbows to noses. Forward kick chest slam, jumping knee uppercut, elbow smash head split.
Spider's got an agent in a reverse headlock and swoops the bastard up and piledrives him into the floor. Running along the edge of the seats, my Converse skidding across skillfully, I smack and crack these size thirteen's across faces. We're both twisting and snapping arms, locking legs, and dropping foes.
Agents. Everywhere.
Agent Strange is seduction personified. She's Cleopatra punk, imagination Queen, the Modern Mystic Mother. She wields snakes in dreams and details out my mission. Venom liquid informational packet self-destructs after download. She's spinning my internal vibrations and new age nonsense that's making me nauseous.
Then I feel it. The freefalling plunge. She's wiped away my third eye muck and clearly now I can see the world. This ever shrinking world of mine. I just was able to see for the first time as I saw reality disappear into the sky forever.
I'd never make it back. Wasn't meant to. Always wanted to be an astronaut. Center self, a drop of the Universe dripped free from the fluid cosmic mass that is everything. We're plunging in a liquid capsule of pure reality, dropping deep into the well of the unknown.
Well, I guess it's not we. You're all left in the main universe. The source. I've just borrowed as many of your templates as possible and placed them all in working order here in my metropolitan madness, my own private New York City.
It's been sculpted and runs like a perceptional motion machine to keep me experiencing, to keep me writing, to figure it out before my long voyage is over. Figure out the riddle, son.
What madness is this?
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Tower of Brahma. Chapter 42. it healed me father. (edit)
01/31/06
There's a slo-mo scene, caught as a near photograph, that moves so agonizingly slow, but yet, keeping ever forward. A father is kicking over a table in a restaurant filled with patrons and staff and parents and kids. He holds his son's limp body in his arms as he presses forward through the friction of the future. He's raging through the moment in a blind, beautiful berserker moment of parenthood, and the natural desire to protect one's young has never shone so brilliant. Everyone parts from his path and the way is clear, if only he could get there sooner and not have to see his boy's face as it turns blue before his very eyes. His child, loose and limp, is nothing more than a body right now.
My father's whispering something in my ears a few years later. Divulging the secret horrors of what lie before me as David Lynch's 'Dune' played up on the screen and I cower far below the seats crying my silent, screaming cries. The echo of his words vibrated through me and coerced my cells to obey his hypnotic, apocalyptic word: Fenris.
That's what they called me. The little dog boy. The one with the wild look in his eyes and the canine scars on his young face. The government boys had a good time with that one, as they kept me on a leash, held at a ten foot distance at the end of a very long pole. I was curled up in a cage besides the others, all snatched from the woods and used for scientific amusement. They came to take me down the long hallway into the room that held the machine.
The big machine that had an open spot for a boy about my size. A machine that would make for this body a personality programmed for life, morality given now to my mortality. My final thoughts were of the ones I saw beyond my feral stare and how they all seemed so perfectly familiar in the most particular way.
Electrical jumpfires into the part of my brain that would combine the mind to the cold hard turbine AI coiled inside...
It's alive.
Secret Agent Kid, given license to get funky and explode anything he wanted to, adventure popping from his fingertips. Codename: Hotshot, low-key, nice, young man, able to be activated into the asskicker acrobat with the fire-engine red Ferrari that could launch a spycycle from its trunk. Gadgets and gizmos clued him in to the forbidden secrets. Feral wolf-boy instincts gave him an edge, and robotic intelligence, full of diligence, wondered of it's own demise and its utter lack of surprise.
So samurai cool and detached in that French sort of way with a fedora and fake accent somehow mystifying you into the context of subconscious demonstration on sublimation into the moment of just this very second, and not a moment beyond.
Angry, suppressed, intense crawling ferocity at the mistreatment and endangerment. Dark dropping of humanity into its primal pulse, dwelling down in the most submerged of mankind's essential humanity. Emotion information is misunderstood and my body spasms into a million shaking moments.
Crash. System reboot. The hotdog seems to be lodged. We're going to have to cut if we can't clear it ASAP!"
I'm gripping my chest as my breath is left ten thousand miles behind me, caught up in the air that was sucked from me one second ago, I'm gasping and trying to get some oxygen now!"
Superspeed injected my body with velocity, adrenaline skidmarks across my mind and spirit driven soaring across and through the space between there and here. Time screwed then and twisted now as the light flashed into illumination discovery.
A man hunched over and hacking, reborn tonight in a final flight towards the infinite night. There's a looming and a leering coming forth from the great unseeming. We unbecome and dance the song of some. The sun bows and the moon kneels. What we knew has blossomed into a new me that could now think clear.
My chest popped and cracked. The air hit my lungs, kicked the oxygen into my blood and the blue death that had fired and retired me, flushed from my skin tone. Lifted from beneath the waves I wasn't scared coming up for a breath of the sky. The Ocean dropped from my body, releasing me into the care of mankind.
My father whispered to me, "You're dead already, son."
There's a slo-mo scene, caught as a near photograph, that moves so agonizingly slow, but yet, keeping ever forward. A father is kicking over a table in a restaurant filled with patrons and staff and parents and kids. He holds his son's limp body in his arms as he presses forward through the friction of the future. He's raging through the moment in a blind, beautiful berserker moment of parenthood, and the natural desire to protect one's young has never shone so brilliant. Everyone parts from his path and the way is clear, if only he could get there sooner and not have to see his boy's face as it turns blue before his very eyes. His child, loose and limp, is nothing more than a body right now.
My father's whispering something in my ears a few years later. Divulging the secret horrors of what lie before me as David Lynch's 'Dune' played up on the screen and I cower far below the seats crying my silent, screaming cries. The echo of his words vibrated through me and coerced my cells to obey his hypnotic, apocalyptic word: Fenris.
That's what they called me. The little dog boy. The one with the wild look in his eyes and the canine scars on his young face. The government boys had a good time with that one, as they kept me on a leash, held at a ten foot distance at the end of a very long pole. I was curled up in a cage besides the others, all snatched from the woods and used for scientific amusement. They came to take me down the long hallway into the room that held the machine.
The big machine that had an open spot for a boy about my size. A machine that would make for this body a personality programmed for life, morality given now to my mortality. My final thoughts were of the ones I saw beyond my feral stare and how they all seemed so perfectly familiar in the most particular way.
Electrical jumpfires into the part of my brain that would combine the mind to the cold hard turbine AI coiled inside...
It's alive.
Secret Agent Kid, given license to get funky and explode anything he wanted to, adventure popping from his fingertips. Codename: Hotshot, low-key, nice, young man, able to be activated into the asskicker acrobat with the fire-engine red Ferrari that could launch a spycycle from its trunk. Gadgets and gizmos clued him in to the forbidden secrets. Feral wolf-boy instincts gave him an edge, and robotic intelligence, full of diligence, wondered of it's own demise and its utter lack of surprise.
So samurai cool and detached in that French sort of way with a fedora and fake accent somehow mystifying you into the context of subconscious demonstration on sublimation into the moment of just this very second, and not a moment beyond.
Angry, suppressed, intense crawling ferocity at the mistreatment and endangerment. Dark dropping of humanity into its primal pulse, dwelling down in the most submerged of mankind's essential humanity. Emotion information is misunderstood and my body spasms into a million shaking moments.
Crash. System reboot. The hotdog seems to be lodged. We're going to have to cut if we can't clear it ASAP!"
I'm gripping my chest as my breath is left ten thousand miles behind me, caught up in the air that was sucked from me one second ago, I'm gasping and trying to get some oxygen now!"
Superspeed injected my body with velocity, adrenaline skidmarks across my mind and spirit driven soaring across and through the space between there and here. Time screwed then and twisted now as the light flashed into illumination discovery.
A man hunched over and hacking, reborn tonight in a final flight towards the infinite night. There's a looming and a leering coming forth from the great unseeming. We unbecome and dance the song of some. The sun bows and the moon kneels. What we knew has blossomed into a new me that could now think clear.
My chest popped and cracked. The air hit my lungs, kicked the oxygen into my blood and the blue death that had fired and retired me, flushed from my skin tone. Lifted from beneath the waves I wasn't scared coming up for a breath of the sky. The Ocean dropped from my body, releasing me into the care of mankind.
My father whispered to me, "You're dead already, son."
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