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."
Monday, July 25, 2011
The Tower of Brahma 41 - The Rock'n'Roll Chemistry Within My Brain. (edit)
12/01/05
You know how you drive along in your car, having just put in a cd you intended to listen to, but wind up somehow lost in thought? Then, when you least expect it, that band's pure ability to rock kicks your brain back into the song and suddenly that fucking riff is there just to bop along to, as the drums clash and smash against your back, the vocals then screaming for your attention before hitting you down with that hook that just so fucking gets it. Those lines that call you and know you and forever own you. A screaming truth about the fundamental principle of life as you fucking know it.
You'll come down. On my side.
You'll come down. In good time.
You'll come down.
On my side.
I'm geared up for the next download/upload exchange with the fourth dimension. I have no idea what it is really. I'm not sure how to explain it. It's a magical process to be certain, but not like you think. It's like make believe. I've always day dreamed. Always. I probably have fake memories before I have solid, real memories, always living in my head. A TV boy with fictional eyes, seen from behind a screen since the days I remember to.
The cowboy hat is the focus, the magician's cap, holding the mind of the man who lives backwards. That is where he resides. In my cap, my cowboy skull.The headphones deliver the science. The constructed audio-waves that stimulate impulses in the nerves. The exposed areas become shaky after prolonged contact, my brain becomes stuck. Ritual allows for the exiting of the process. Focus on the power of the icons around you.
Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde: visual stimulation.
The Toadies 'Hell Below, Stars Above': audio guiding.
An imaginary AIM friend to ground you to the keyboard.
Let 'er rip!
Your brain explodes into a whirlwind tunnel. The screen's the windshield of your frontal lobe as reality blurs upwards into the center of everything-ever. Psychology triggers in the art that I am consuming reveal flashes of my identity, forever observing myself, now from a higher vantage point. I watch the instinctual reactions of my body to see just what choices it would make, and how it would find itself out of them.
Forever a test. A program? A suppressed persona, the true heir to this body, has designed a mental labyrinth designed to raise the awareness of this lesser personality that I call myself. Fuck. That motherfucker.
I've been tapping into his power. That's what the Tower of Brahma is. It's the steps of consciousness being raised. The Tower is the trigger to keep the mind elevating. And the truest way to climb the tower isn't leaping and shooting forth, pouncing and soaring upwards, but, actually, the slow, painful, aching walk of the eternal climb. Best to pass the time with a story.
I'd been writing this apocalyptic novel about a bunch of guys driving across the country and starting a rock band. I hadn't had a job in a good 8 months. Despite having no prospects during this time, I found myself aboard a plane bound for Colombia, then a tattoo shop in L.A. getting my markings, and finally in my dad's dining room being hypnotized by a Freemason fictioneer.
I felt myself going mad, and all along, my self was repaired. My external person had exploded from its cocoon and had now realized its power. Charles Crown was no longer a brand I felt I wanted to run from. It felt dark, it felt like mine, and it felt good. It was a name that was a blemish on the face of the world. The world as they know it anyway. The name of a goddamn bastard that would bust in and knock a motherfucker down, and beat him...if the situation called for it.
Suddenly releasing from that thought, I felt saved, as if I had truly gone through with my impulse in reality. I had purged the desire, cleansed the sin on the text crucifiction, and now I am free.
You know how you drive along in your car, having just put in a cd you intended to listen to, but wind up somehow lost in thought? Then, when you least expect it, that band's pure ability to rock kicks your brain back into the song and suddenly that fucking riff is there just to bop along to, as the drums clash and smash against your back, the vocals then screaming for your attention before hitting you down with that hook that just so fucking gets it. Those lines that call you and know you and forever own you. A screaming truth about the fundamental principle of life as you fucking know it.
You'll come down. On my side.
You'll come down. In good time.
You'll come down.
On my side.
I'm geared up for the next download/upload exchange with the fourth dimension. I have no idea what it is really. I'm not sure how to explain it. It's a magical process to be certain, but not like you think. It's like make believe. I've always day dreamed. Always. I probably have fake memories before I have solid, real memories, always living in my head. A TV boy with fictional eyes, seen from behind a screen since the days I remember to.
The cowboy hat is the focus, the magician's cap, holding the mind of the man who lives backwards. That is where he resides. In my cap, my cowboy skull.The headphones deliver the science. The constructed audio-waves that stimulate impulses in the nerves. The exposed areas become shaky after prolonged contact, my brain becomes stuck. Ritual allows for the exiting of the process. Focus on the power of the icons around you.
Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde: visual stimulation.
The Toadies 'Hell Below, Stars Above': audio guiding.
An imaginary AIM friend to ground you to the keyboard.
Let 'er rip!
Your brain explodes into a whirlwind tunnel. The screen's the windshield of your frontal lobe as reality blurs upwards into the center of everything-ever. Psychology triggers in the art that I am consuming reveal flashes of my identity, forever observing myself, now from a higher vantage point. I watch the instinctual reactions of my body to see just what choices it would make, and how it would find itself out of them.
Forever a test. A program? A suppressed persona, the true heir to this body, has designed a mental labyrinth designed to raise the awareness of this lesser personality that I call myself. Fuck. That motherfucker.
I've been tapping into his power. That's what the Tower of Brahma is. It's the steps of consciousness being raised. The Tower is the trigger to keep the mind elevating. And the truest way to climb the tower isn't leaping and shooting forth, pouncing and soaring upwards, but, actually, the slow, painful, aching walk of the eternal climb. Best to pass the time with a story.
I'd been writing this apocalyptic novel about a bunch of guys driving across the country and starting a rock band. I hadn't had a job in a good 8 months. Despite having no prospects during this time, I found myself aboard a plane bound for Colombia, then a tattoo shop in L.A. getting my markings, and finally in my dad's dining room being hypnotized by a Freemason fictioneer.
I felt myself going mad, and all along, my self was repaired. My external person had exploded from its cocoon and had now realized its power. Charles Crown was no longer a brand I felt I wanted to run from. It felt dark, it felt like mine, and it felt good. It was a name that was a blemish on the face of the world. The world as they know it anyway. The name of a goddamn bastard that would bust in and knock a motherfucker down, and beat him...if the situation called for it.
Suddenly releasing from that thought, I felt saved, as if I had truly gone through with my impulse in reality. I had purged the desire, cleansed the sin on the text crucifiction, and now I am free.
Monday, July 18, 2011
the tower of brahma - chapter 40 - anti-matter jazz (edit)
08/22/05
Lunar dust blew through my hair as I gazed longingly at the shapely curves of Mother Earth. She seemed impossibly far and distantly shy; too pristine and intimidating in her modest innocence.
I needed to see her again. Stepping from the sleepless, somber side of the moon, I free form floated over to get a better look. I stared long and hard and forced my mind into submission, forging forgetfulness for myself. This was the road back to the real.
I was born on the side of the open day, in a most certainly, decidedly, ordinary way. Simply coming back as if I had never been gone at all. Fear fanatically clawed away as I clenched my fists, ready for battle. My senses were scattered, in total disarray. What was it I was doing?
Living in the moment felt more like living around the moment, constantly bent, dodged and separated from wholeness. Laughing, I feel ridiculous at the apprehension. This wasn't the challenge he imagined it would be. Not once he remembered it was all a game. A constantly evolving game of chess, a distant relation to the didadic sport of checkers. A flipping of chips about the boardgame.
He just couldn't help but smile into that yawning chaotic pool of absurdity and the false center of the mind. That selfish satisfaction that transforms into self-love then mutates into divine immolation. Wavelengths? Is that all we are?
Brain stems grabbing and skidding along the ethereal. Sparks shooting out into the embers of our minds. Mass transit madmen sliding into entropic hellish nightmares of our own creation.
Fuck that.
I tried on the voice over monologue and whaddayaknow? It fit like a noir trenchcoat on a rain-slicked city street corner. I ran my hands through my soaked hair, brushing it back from my face. Collar snapped up, I walked into the bar. You see, I had a list.
As I had turned the corner earlier, a phone began to ring. Against my usual instincts to run far away from any randomly beckoning phone booth, instead I approached and absently answered. A disembodied female voice read me a list of names in a startling British accent. She had a drunken swagger to her tone as she read aloud 17 names to me, which I scribbled down upon my forearm with a black bic pen.
My voice was hoarse and rough as I replied, "What does this have to do with me?"
I could hear her smile as it whispered through the receiver. "Find out."
So I hit the streets; hit them hard and fast. The rain poured down, oppressive and unrelenting as I tracked down the names.
I hit the jackpot as I found five of the names in the same bar. Rowdy and surly with concealed weapons abound, here were five drunken bastards all ready to rumble.
I took two steps forward and raised my eyes, staring up at the bartender. The five moved gently in my peripheral, shuffling their weapons from their hiding places. Spider, baseball cap pulled down low obscuring his eyes from theirs, silently stepped out from my shadow.
"Who is Fenris?", I ask.
The Rockstar answered first, a hotshot born and bred. His jagged blade slipped across the room, thrusting towards my gut. The tip of Spider's black converse twirled around the rockstar's wrist and whipped the knife out of his hands, driving it deep into the bullseye of the dartboard.
"Who does Fenris work for?"
A baseball bat came swinging from behind Spider. The Artiste had been surprisingly spry, but a backwards kick from Spider sent the bat right back at the artist's skull.
"Where can I find Fenris?"
The scabbard fell to the floor as the samurai sword sliced upwards along at a firm angle. The Warrior, refusing to fight as a coward, growled as he drove the razor sharp steel at me face on. I was spared a gaping face wound by Spider's stone grip catching hold of the blade. The Assassin used that exact moment to launch his pistols from his sleeves into his killing hands. Gently tugging the triggers back with his itchy trigger fingers, the bullets roared towards us.
"Tell me what you know about the Tower of Brahma!"
Spider spun around my shoulders, rotating into a crescent kick, cracking the Warrior twice before landing and whipping the sword up along his side. The Assassin's bullets ricochet off the steel moments before it slides through the third vertebrate of the assassin, removing his head completely.
The Warrior bowed before the Shinobi skills of Spider, and paid tribute to their superiority by driving his own sacrificial wakazashi deep into his stomach. Slowly the Warrior dragged upwards and sharply twisted the sword, spilling his intestines across the floor, and way too close to my Adidas.
This left me to deal with the Writer. A shifty bastard if I've ever seen one. Amidst the carnage he had stumbled backwards and passed out, buried beneath a hefty bar tab and reeking of pity. I dropped a Jackson down on the bar and signaled over to Spider, who promptly grabbed the Writer around his chest and yanked him from the stool.
"Say hey, barkeep. Look alive." I open-palm slapped his eyes from the grisly scene seeping across his hardwood floors.
"We were never here...", I whispered as I backhand smacked our visit from his memory.
Lunar dust blew through my hair as I gazed longingly at the shapely curves of Mother Earth. She seemed impossibly far and distantly shy; too pristine and intimidating in her modest innocence.
I needed to see her again. Stepping from the sleepless, somber side of the moon, I free form floated over to get a better look. I stared long and hard and forced my mind into submission, forging forgetfulness for myself. This was the road back to the real.
I was born on the side of the open day, in a most certainly, decidedly, ordinary way. Simply coming back as if I had never been gone at all. Fear fanatically clawed away as I clenched my fists, ready for battle. My senses were scattered, in total disarray. What was it I was doing?
Living in the moment felt more like living around the moment, constantly bent, dodged and separated from wholeness. Laughing, I feel ridiculous at the apprehension. This wasn't the challenge he imagined it would be. Not once he remembered it was all a game. A constantly evolving game of chess, a distant relation to the didadic sport of checkers. A flipping of chips about the boardgame.
He just couldn't help but smile into that yawning chaotic pool of absurdity and the false center of the mind. That selfish satisfaction that transforms into self-love then mutates into divine immolation. Wavelengths? Is that all we are?
Brain stems grabbing and skidding along the ethereal. Sparks shooting out into the embers of our minds. Mass transit madmen sliding into entropic hellish nightmares of our own creation.
Fuck that.
I tried on the voice over monologue and whaddayaknow? It fit like a noir trenchcoat on a rain-slicked city street corner. I ran my hands through my soaked hair, brushing it back from my face. Collar snapped up, I walked into the bar. You see, I had a list.
As I had turned the corner earlier, a phone began to ring. Against my usual instincts to run far away from any randomly beckoning phone booth, instead I approached and absently answered. A disembodied female voice read me a list of names in a startling British accent. She had a drunken swagger to her tone as she read aloud 17 names to me, which I scribbled down upon my forearm with a black bic pen.
My voice was hoarse and rough as I replied, "What does this have to do with me?"
I could hear her smile as it whispered through the receiver. "Find out."
So I hit the streets; hit them hard and fast. The rain poured down, oppressive and unrelenting as I tracked down the names.
I hit the jackpot as I found five of the names in the same bar. Rowdy and surly with concealed weapons abound, here were five drunken bastards all ready to rumble.
I took two steps forward and raised my eyes, staring up at the bartender. The five moved gently in my peripheral, shuffling their weapons from their hiding places. Spider, baseball cap pulled down low obscuring his eyes from theirs, silently stepped out from my shadow.
"Who is Fenris?", I ask.
The Rockstar answered first, a hotshot born and bred. His jagged blade slipped across the room, thrusting towards my gut. The tip of Spider's black converse twirled around the rockstar's wrist and whipped the knife out of his hands, driving it deep into the bullseye of the dartboard.
"Who does Fenris work for?"
A baseball bat came swinging from behind Spider. The Artiste had been surprisingly spry, but a backwards kick from Spider sent the bat right back at the artist's skull.
"Where can I find Fenris?"
The scabbard fell to the floor as the samurai sword sliced upwards along at a firm angle. The Warrior, refusing to fight as a coward, growled as he drove the razor sharp steel at me face on. I was spared a gaping face wound by Spider's stone grip catching hold of the blade. The Assassin used that exact moment to launch his pistols from his sleeves into his killing hands. Gently tugging the triggers back with his itchy trigger fingers, the bullets roared towards us.
"Tell me what you know about the Tower of Brahma!"
Spider spun around my shoulders, rotating into a crescent kick, cracking the Warrior twice before landing and whipping the sword up along his side. The Assassin's bullets ricochet off the steel moments before it slides through the third vertebrate of the assassin, removing his head completely.
The Warrior bowed before the Shinobi skills of Spider, and paid tribute to their superiority by driving his own sacrificial wakazashi deep into his stomach. Slowly the Warrior dragged upwards and sharply twisted the sword, spilling his intestines across the floor, and way too close to my Adidas.
This left me to deal with the Writer. A shifty bastard if I've ever seen one. Amidst the carnage he had stumbled backwards and passed out, buried beneath a hefty bar tab and reeking of pity. I dropped a Jackson down on the bar and signaled over to Spider, who promptly grabbed the Writer around his chest and yanked him from the stool.
"Say hey, barkeep. Look alive." I open-palm slapped his eyes from the grisly scene seeping across his hardwood floors.
"We were never here...", I whispered as I backhand smacked our visit from his memory.
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Tower of Brahma: Chapter 39 - The Spiders (edit)
07/02/05
The effects of withdrawal from the spider's venom is draining the rest of my will to stay up, but I must get this out.
I awake screaming in agonizing-pain-to-end-all-agonizing-pain. A crawling madness tapdancing across miles of raw nerve endings. Through venom-induced nightmares the psychological horror that was befalling me had suddenly registered. I aim to throw myself upwards, reeling and swiping my skin clear of this insanity!
I found my body paralyzed as my eyes began to focus on the large beady arachnid eyes staring down at me. I could feel the thousand other sets of eight legs as they searched out a spot to inject me with their biological poison. The spiders had swarmed my body in the middle of my dreaming, and I fear that this happens every single night.
I began noticing the bites a few years back. One or two here and there. Lower back. Inner thighs. Buttcheek. After that I saw the bags under my eyes, and the constant weariness I felt. The more I thought about it, the further back I could feel the lack of energy, the withdrawal of interest in my life.
As a teenager I slept my sunny, summer afternoons away. My deep, dark, dreamless slumber being that of a person in a coma. For years it seems something within me called forth the spiders, beckoned them to me in my sleep. My parents’ old house was a breeding ground for all sorts of insectoid life. And so the call went out and they answered. Crawling and sliding across my sheets, from out under cracks and crevices, insects of all shapes and sizes nestled upon my chest.
They spoke their wisdom to me through the tapping of insectoid morse code across my receptive flesh. Tapping in the philosophies, cultures, and insight of their existence, I learned the mappings of the insect kingdom. But it was the spider and it's metamorphic venom that unleashed my mind and let it soar into the continuing upward spiral of sentience. This mapping fits across the entire spectrum of reality. All matter is a slave to its weaved pattern.
Web strands held down the feral canine that beat within my chest. A wounded wolf sitting and dying of the poison in its veins, fresh from the Spider's betrayal, born of the spider's corruption. Red-eyed and snarling, it lay writing in pain until its mind reached across the murky waters of consciousness and was one with the stars spinning in the cosmic skies.
Consciousness makes a desperate leap, seizing the computer in my hands, and I am deliriously spinning about like a lunatic on the frayed edge of collapse.
"Where am I? Where have I been?" I growled.
The words echoed down the hollowed halls of my veins, and the empty response was all the response necessary to bring the entire memory block crashing down upon my back.
The effects of withdrawal from the spider's venom is draining the rest of my will to stay up, but I must get this out.
I awake screaming in agonizing-pain-to-end-all-agonizing-pain. A crawling madness tapdancing across miles of raw nerve endings. Through venom-induced nightmares the psychological horror that was befalling me had suddenly registered. I aim to throw myself upwards, reeling and swiping my skin clear of this insanity!
I found my body paralyzed as my eyes began to focus on the large beady arachnid eyes staring down at me. I could feel the thousand other sets of eight legs as they searched out a spot to inject me with their biological poison. The spiders had swarmed my body in the middle of my dreaming, and I fear that this happens every single night.
I began noticing the bites a few years back. One or two here and there. Lower back. Inner thighs. Buttcheek. After that I saw the bags under my eyes, and the constant weariness I felt. The more I thought about it, the further back I could feel the lack of energy, the withdrawal of interest in my life.
As a teenager I slept my sunny, summer afternoons away. My deep, dark, dreamless slumber being that of a person in a coma. For years it seems something within me called forth the spiders, beckoned them to me in my sleep. My parents’ old house was a breeding ground for all sorts of insectoid life. And so the call went out and they answered. Crawling and sliding across my sheets, from out under cracks and crevices, insects of all shapes and sizes nestled upon my chest.
They spoke their wisdom to me through the tapping of insectoid morse code across my receptive flesh. Tapping in the philosophies, cultures, and insight of their existence, I learned the mappings of the insect kingdom. But it was the spider and it's metamorphic venom that unleashed my mind and let it soar into the continuing upward spiral of sentience. This mapping fits across the entire spectrum of reality. All matter is a slave to its weaved pattern.
Web strands held down the feral canine that beat within my chest. A wounded wolf sitting and dying of the poison in its veins, fresh from the Spider's betrayal, born of the spider's corruption. Red-eyed and snarling, it lay writing in pain until its mind reached across the murky waters of consciousness and was one with the stars spinning in the cosmic skies.
Consciousness makes a desperate leap, seizing the computer in my hands, and I am deliriously spinning about like a lunatic on the frayed edge of collapse.
"Where am I? Where have I been?" I growled.
The words echoed down the hollowed halls of my veins, and the empty response was all the response necessary to bring the entire memory block crashing down upon my back.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Tower of Brahma: chapter 38 - episode 39 (edit)
04/27/05
'The killer landed softly, dressed in insectoid sleek onyx. The sun had raged and dried his shell. With a leap, the reborn man exploded from his cocoon, fragments of his scarab armor left scattered about his feet.
His longish brown hair flapped in the wind. His bushy beard burst forth, wild and unkempt. Muscles tensed and relaxed like steel cables under his new taut, marble skin. Driven footsteps into fresh earth leads him in a new direction.'
"Charles! Stop writing! We've got to go now!"
I closed my laptop up and tied my boots tight. I snatched my jacket off the teetering coat rack and bolted out the door after her.
"Do you have your keys?"
I whipped out the jingling mess of metal from my pocket in confirmation and locked up. Swiftly, we made our way down the hall and out into the city scarred night. It only took us three minutes to round the corner and get to the bar, but fifteen for her to finish her phone call and for us to actually enter and start drinking.
The tab was growing and the room was spinning, and for some reason I sat there sobbing in-between sips. A drunken sadness had befallen me and there was no going back. Reeling and thinking, I replay the evening's events and watch as my spine turns to jelly. Just before I sat down to write actually. Going further back to this morning, I felt healed and alive after flexing and opening my heart chakra in yoga class. Something was happening to me. A change.
The smoke left my body and the mellow took control. We were rocking on cosmic waves out on an ark, veering through the spacewarp of eternity. The apartment had been vacuum sealed into an alternate reality, where the CD player fueled our wavelength journey along soundless wings. The programs of a thousand musical geniuses lift us up and send us off, cast adrift amid lyrical seas.
'Agent Fenris hits the floor, slumping into a fetal position in the kitchen. Unconsciousness thrust upon him suddenly, he swims for the surface. Time rolls back and comes into focus as the film slaps against the light projected through it and he quickly rises to his feet.'
Wait. That seems familiar. Almost a memory, nearly a dream. Somehow these words unspool from my mind. Seeping out from under a darkened and lost sliver of experienced reality.
'I'm in a rest stop bathroom typing out these words and I know what's about to happen. I will flush, wash, and gaze into the mirror and realize that I am not who I thought I was.'
Agent Spider glares out from the reflective surface and grabs the wheel. Typing furiously he magnifies and defies this literal asylum. He can not be contained. I will break free.
'The killer landed softly, dressed in insectoid sleek onyx. The sun had raged and dried his shell. With a leap, the reborn man exploded from his cocoon, fragments of his scarab armor left scattered about his feet.
His longish brown hair flapped in the wind. His bushy beard burst forth, wild and unkempt. Muscles tensed and relaxed like steel cables under his new taut, marble skin. Driven footsteps into fresh earth leads him in a new direction.'
"Charles! Stop writing! We've got to go now!"
I closed my laptop up and tied my boots tight. I snatched my jacket off the teetering coat rack and bolted out the door after her.
"Do you have your keys?"
I whipped out the jingling mess of metal from my pocket in confirmation and locked up. Swiftly, we made our way down the hall and out into the city scarred night. It only took us three minutes to round the corner and get to the bar, but fifteen for her to finish her phone call and for us to actually enter and start drinking.
The tab was growing and the room was spinning, and for some reason I sat there sobbing in-between sips. A drunken sadness had befallen me and there was no going back. Reeling and thinking, I replay the evening's events and watch as my spine turns to jelly. Just before I sat down to write actually. Going further back to this morning, I felt healed and alive after flexing and opening my heart chakra in yoga class. Something was happening to me. A change.
The smoke left my body and the mellow took control. We were rocking on cosmic waves out on an ark, veering through the spacewarp of eternity. The apartment had been vacuum sealed into an alternate reality, where the CD player fueled our wavelength journey along soundless wings. The programs of a thousand musical geniuses lift us up and send us off, cast adrift amid lyrical seas.
'Agent Fenris hits the floor, slumping into a fetal position in the kitchen. Unconsciousness thrust upon him suddenly, he swims for the surface. Time rolls back and comes into focus as the film slaps against the light projected through it and he quickly rises to his feet.'
Wait. That seems familiar. Almost a memory, nearly a dream. Somehow these words unspool from my mind. Seeping out from under a darkened and lost sliver of experienced reality.
'I'm in a rest stop bathroom typing out these words and I know what's about to happen. I will flush, wash, and gaze into the mirror and realize that I am not who I thought I was.'
Agent Spider glares out from the reflective surface and grabs the wheel. Typing furiously he magnifies and defies this literal asylum. He can not be contained. I will break free.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
