So it begins like anything else. It's a day like any other. Someday. They stay now. It's 20 minutes to 1:00 in the morning. On the 18th of 12th of the 24. But some time. I'm here. In a space by a window. The window is open. And there's wind outside, and there may have been a storm earlier. But it's cooling down now. And the rain has stopped. There still wind, though that might be cars. But it might be wind as well. But I'm here. And not much has happened. And I watched the screen. And I wait for the inspiration to come again. My eyes. Sets. Unmoving. Here. It will not move on its own, although it looks like it might. The lines. The lines which I've spent now countless hours toiling away ash. Adding details. Connecting. Reconnecting. So many intricacies. Long. Tangling. Never finished. Always the same. Unfurling, never kneeling. Writhing around. Files censored. Unable to be taken away. You come with the envelope. And the door. Through the letter box. And you ask, can I take your files away, Sir? And then reply. You can lecture back through the box. Which says yes. And the details, the way in which you must do this now. But the way. That you must do this now. Is in a language with you. You do not know. Turn on now. Never know. For even if you dig the code up. The instructions would be nonsensical, backwards Ravens of a lunatic. Who does not want you? To have the file. Who wants to withhold it? Keep the magic going as long as possible. So as not to upturn any graves. Grades of copyright. Graves of old. Vane grave attempts. Trying. Trying on and on. Not to let it spread. Inevitable. Spread every corner of the neighborhood. Every inch of the house. Here is his there is his now. Here and there. All around. But I think no. It will not be decoded. It will not be solved. And I'm here. Eagerly trying to solve it. The page is presented. A3 Acrylic paper or some kind? I don't remember what the woman said when I bought it.
But.
It was me who bought it and I brought it back into my home. I was the one who started it. So much time ago. In the center. And now it's filed out to the edges. Listening to crime. While adding the lines. Squiggles. Streets bents staggered. Flowing. And interrupted. Long and short. Always moving. And stationary. An eye pig, anis listening to crime. In taking details. Reflecting different parts back. Hiding bodies within the lines. Within the paper. I can see them now. Even without the dis decipher. If without the decoder, which I've made on a sticky note. Which shows victim 1 and square torture. In the upper right hand corner. The center. The two are ses of the two, predator and prey. The disease, which flows out from each end, going upwards and downwards. North. And South. When in a northwesterly direction, the machine which produces the mulch, the mush. The sewage, The Dirty swamp water where the bodies are buried. Where all the dreams die. Radiating further out with what looks like a rainbow at first. But on closer inspection, this. Is concentration camp stairs? Deadly. Where the Cliff fall? Down. And further on the red spot of Jupiter. From the other direction. Southeast is the house the birth? Domestication. Pairing it back into boxes. Prisons. Cubes. To create minimal erected at last. And here still. And no one is listening. I want to my knowledge is listening. But the winds. Whistling in through the window. Any guests who are listening have not paid themselves know as of yet. They are welcome to listen. All are welcome to listen. But especially the wind. Eerie stillness. Which isn't very eerie.
I.
And it's quite nice. A nice blanket to bend back on. Lying down. Come. Almost joyful surrender. At long last. Putnam. She asked. Perhaps. Still hope somewhere. Anywhere. That man before in the house with the leisure box and the links. The one who will give a solution but knows you will not solve it. He is still present. You can't see him. You can't recognize his face. Perhaps he looks like your father. But perhaps not as well. More likely, nice. You do not know this man. You have not seen this man before. He is unfamiliar to you. In this stage you go on. At the door. Sending. New invoices. We're waiting for old ones. It doesn't much matter what you do now. You just continue to wait. Waiting. Listening. Feeling on and on the wind. The opening window. He opened window. The lines, the links, the letters and the man. Who you do not know and you cannot know. Who was never known to you to begin with. Who are you? In this place. What can you hope to know? This world. This crooked, creaking world. All you know is what you only have seen. What you have seen has not been of free will given. But a random chance. You're plunged. Out. Into this world. This world. A tiny little thing before it's time. And in this state. We are here. Looking around down the street. You see your fellows. In this massive state. Each one. Kneeling or crouching. Or sleeping. Or obediently standing yet. A fair letter box. Each has posted. And each eagerly waits for a reply. Sitting. With their. To the letter boxes. Or perhaps. The front to the letter boxes. Getting quite close. Pressing their noses and breathing instruments up towards. Steel. Breathing in the air from the inside of the house. Most of them. Smelling. But of course, they can't smell us, but maybe sensing. Carbon monoxide. Which is being pumped steadily throughout the building. In this way. It may be wondered. How the man inside? Has been able to keep up all this time. In which case one may wonder if it's not a man at all. Some sort of malevolent spirit. Where God sent. Some sort of higher power? Wish you all keep coming back to. Day after day. Nice after Nice for all of time. That's all there is. There's nothing else. Being without this. Yearning. Towards this posting and redistributing. Without this. Is without life. This is it.
Yes.
All you may hope to achieve. You press your nose up against the lever box, sensing the carbon monoxide. And this is all you will hope to achieve. And maybe you catch a glimpse of a figure within. But probably not. For you eyes have been taken out. Long before your time. Couch. And then the socket stopped. And then dumped into ice cold water. The ceiling. Of the pain rocketing through. Tearing. 1000 pin pricks swallowed up. Jostling around inside. You have no other choice. And the wind continues. And I wait patiently. For the man to give me my due. For I have waited long enough. I have been good long enough for rather. I have been bad long enough. I have acted the good part. The wind picks up and the window is open. I wait for the links. And the picture remains unfinished. Moving still and the wind picks up and I wait and it gets cold in here. And there's shivers in the arms, which are exposed. And the feet? Always the feet are the 1st to freeze. When an onset of descending. And retrieving process. Always defeat. Go cold first. Never know why. Some strange reason perhaps? No true explanation.
I.
And watching the world around. Writhing. Wriggling. Spewing out. It's hateful March. On and on.
I.
Nothing is as you know it. Yes. How can you know anything else? This is all you've known. For all of time. There is nothing to do. And there is nowhere to go. There is nothing to be. And there's no one to know. Taking from your pocket. A vegetable knife. You may try. Through the pain. To open up. See what's inside. Find out. If you are really here. Is this really you? And if nose? Who is listening? Who is speaking? Who is thinking? Is it 1? Or a collection. From malicious thinkers? Doers, Sayers. Hearers. Do you condone this? If you could get up and leave, would you, can you? How can you? I'll let you know. It's all that you have. And all that you have is all that you know. I don't know how to continue speaking like this. I know it'll all be taken away in the end. No one is listening. No one's watching. The only time. To be fully alone. Away. Far away. Unhurt. Unseen. The. Maybe discovered? But many years away from now. You will not see us. Will not knowest. All is taken slowly now. Where in the past quick. Sharp shocks. Spiral through. Now. Just long. Slow decline. Static. Not really static, but. The Blair. Unseeing. Not truly knowing. This is the half reality. It's a projection of a full reality. Our actions. Preserve the full reality. Whereas our inactions. Which create the large majority of our action. Aka the time we spend. Keeps up. The half reality. In this way. It becomes. A vicious cycle. You will not know. Anything new? You will not know.
I.
Anything near?
Oh.
All that you holds. This is not yours. All that you think. Someone else has pre thought these thoughts for you. Everything you hope to find. Well. Tom being laid out. And you are making great progress. It's only a matter of time. Before you find all the clothes. Before you trace it back. Won't take long now. You're getting close. You're doing such a good job. There is nothing to do. And there is no one to know. Nothing to be. And nowhere to go. Around recall. Around. And around. Around. The senseless cycle. And there's nothing you can do. You can try. But on the rebellion you make? Is predetermined. And invariably. Through various means you will find. However much you try. It will be insubstantial. And. The world will continue on. Hindi. Half reality. And this is the way it is. We have perfected. A means of which. Of going on. I'm done. This is the last parse. Which is divided. Buy the da da da da da. Knocking. The last part is the longest.
Play.
All that has come before will be doubled. Showing off. The full extent. Everything has been gone over. Remains. I found here and there. The clothes. SIM. They weren't meant to be discovered. This is only the way. It's supposed to be. You feel the joyful elation. Having discovered something. But this discovery was only made available. By the people who want you to find it. And those who want you to find it. Are often those as well. Who have created us? Who are discussed in this? Who described in us. Who ascribed to it. And subscribe to it and thrive off of it. How will you go on now? And still you may wonder. Is this rambling rant? Also. Of faults. Hello. To that, as I say. No. Because there is highlights one point. Which is the truest discovery. All of the theories. All of the clues. Pointed to an undiscovered meaning. Point to a hidden truth. Hidden secrets of the world. The truth is there is a window. And the wind blows through us. And that is where I am. The real truth is. There is no hidden history. There is no. Undiscovered meaning to the world. Everything around you. Which you hold your vile suspicions too. Is exactly how it is. There are no sequence. There is nothing to secrets away. When you say something suspicious. Suspicion. Is 1/2 reality ideal? When you become suspicious. Discarded. As this. It's false. The suspicion? Towards the suspicious thing is only a distraction. From what is real? Nothing. Is here. And this is the great discovery. Which he must take forth. You may be distracted. You may want. Above all, wanting to act. React. Continue. The cycle. But after enough. You realize that although you think you can do. All you can do nothing. You make our life. Of doing. Only to start back where you started. And having nothing. Done. This is its cycle. Is it enjoyable? Is it unenjoyable? Do you seek further wisdom? After all this. Do you seek? My thoughts. The old texts. The books. They should not be taken lightly. Hey, Shirley. Meaningfully. All of us is nonsense. All of us. It's only. Destruction. So you may know. That all of the old books, the texts, the artworks, are comparable to a grain of mud. And you wake up to the mutt. And you embraced it as. But now? Even this. Rambo. It seems the only point. The deranged little sleep monologue to help you get off. So. I'll finish on this. When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone. When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with. When all of your nightmares are for a time obscured by a shining, brainless beacon. Or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world. You are calm, joyful. And finally, entirely alone. Then, in a great new darkness. You will finally execute your special plan. One needs to have a plan, someone said, who was turned away into the shadows and who I had believed was sleeping or dead. Imagine, he said. All the flesh that is eaten, the teeth tearing into it. The tongue tasting its savor. And the hunger for that taste. Now take away that flesh, he said. Take away the teeth and the tongue, the taste. And the hunger. Take away everything as it is. That was my plan. My own special plan for this world. I listened to these words, and yet I did not wonder if this creature, whom I had thought sleeping or dead, would ever approach his vision. Even in his deepest dreams for his most lasting death. Because. I had heard of such plans, such visions, and I knew they did not see far enough. But what was demanded in a way of a plan? Needed to go beyond tongue and teeth and hunger and flesh. Beyond the bones. And the very dust of bones. And the wind that would come to blow the dust away. And so I began to envision a darkness that was long before the dark of night. And a strangely shining lice that owed nothing to the light of day. That day may seem like other days. Once more, we feel the tiny legged trepidations. Once more, we are mangled by a great grinding fear. But that day will have no others after. No more worlds like this will follow. Because I have a plan. A very special plan. No more worlds like this. No more days like that.
Play.
There are but four ways to die a sardon experts might have said to me. That occurs relatively suddenly. There is dying that occurs relatively gradually. There is dying that occurs relatively painlessly. There is the death that is full of pain. Thus, by various means they are combined. The sudden and the gradual, the painless and the painful to yield but four ways to die, and there are no others. Even after the voice stopped speaking, I listened for it to speak again after hours and day and years had passed. I listened for some further words. Yet all I heard were the faintest echoes reminding me. There are no others. There are no others. Was it then that I began to conceive for this world a special plan? There are no means for escaping this world. It penetrates even into your sleep and is its substance. You are caught in your own dreaming. There is no space. And are held forever where there is no time. You can do nothing. You are not told to do. There is no hope for escape from this dream that was never yours. Very words you speak are only its very words. And you talk like a traitor under its incessant torture. There are many who have designs upon this world and dream of wild and vast reformations. I have heard them talking in their sleep of elegant mutations and cunning annihilations. I've heard them whispering in the corners of crooked houses and in the alleys and narrow back streets. Of this crooked, creaking universe, which they with their new designs, would make straight. But each of these new and I'll conceived sciences deranged in its heart. For they see this world as if it were alone and original. Not only one of countless others. Whose? All precede like a hideous garden grown from a single seed. I have heard these dreamers talking in their sleep. And I stand waiting for them, as at the top of a darkened flight of stairs. They know nothing of me. And none of the secrets of my special plan. While I know every crooked creaking step of theirs. It was the voice of someone who was waiting in the shadows, who was looking at the moon and waiting for me to turn the corner. And enter a narrow St. And stand with him. The dull glaze of moonlice. And he said to me. He whispered. That my plan was misconceived. That my special plan for this world was a terrible mistake because he said there is nothing to do and there is nowhere to go. There is nothing to be. There is no one to know. Your plan is a mistake, he repeated. This world is a mistake, I replied.
I. I. I. Thank you. I.
The children always followed him and they saw him hopping by. A funny walk, a funny man, a funny, funny man. He made them laugh. He made them laugh. Oh yes he did. He did. He did. He did. Or how he made them roll. One day he took them to a place he knew a special place. He told them things about this world. This funny, funny world. Which made them laugh sometimes. He made them laugh sometimes. He did. Oh yes he did. He did. He did. Did he did? Oh, how he made them roll. In a funny little man who made them laugh. Sometimes he did reveal to them his special plan. This very special funny plan. Knowing they would understand. And maybe. Sometimes he made them laugh. Oh yes he did. He. He did. He did. Their eyes grew wide beneath their lids. And how he made them roll.
I.
I'll first learn the facts from a lunatic. In a dark and quiet room that smelled of stale time and space. There are no people, nothing at all like that. The human phenomenon. But the sum of densely coiled layers of illusion, each of which winds itself upon the supreme insanity that there are persons of any kind. When all there can be is mindless mirrors laughing. And streaming as they parade about in an endless stream. But when I asked the lunatic what it was that he saw itself within these mirrors. As they marched endlessly in stale time and space, he only rocked and smiled. Then he laughed and screamed, and in his black and empty eyes. I saw for a moment, as in a mirror, a formless shade of divinity. In flight from its stale Infinity. Of time and space and the worst of all of this world's dreams. My special plan for the laughter and the screams. Little show that was staged in an old shed past the edge of town. And in its beginnings, all seemed well. The miniature curtain stage glowed in the darkness, while those dolls bounced along on their strings before our eyes and in its beginnings. All seemed well. And then there came a subtle turning point, which some had noticed. And I was one who quietly left the show. No, I did not. Because I could see where things were going. The antics of those dolls grew strange. And the fragile strings grew taut. With a tiny pullings of tiny limbs, the others around me became appalled. They turned away and abandoned the show. That was staged in an old shed past the edge of town. But I want to witness what could never be. I wanted to see what could not be seen. The moment of consummate disaster. When puppets turn to face the puppet master. It was Twilight, and I stood in the grayish haze of a vast, empty building. When the silence was enriched by a reverberant voice. All the things of this world, it said, are of but one essence. For which there are no words. This is the greater part. Which has no beginning or end, and the one essence of this world for which there can be no words. Is, but all the things of this world. This is the lesser pars, which had a beginning and shall have an end. For which words were conceived solely to speak of? Tiny broken beings of this world, it said. The beginnings and endings of this world, it said. For which words were conceived solely to speak of? Now remove these words and what remains it asks me. As it stood in the twilight of that vast, empty building. But I did not answer. The question echoed over and over. But I remained silent until the echoes died. And as twilight passed into evening, I felt my special plan, for which there are no words. Moving towards a greater darkness. There are some who have no voices. Or none that will ever speak because of the things they know about this world. And the things they feel about this world, because the thoughts that Philip brain that is a damaged brain, because the pain that fills the body, that is a damaged body exists in other worlds. Countless other worlds, each of which stands alone. In an infinite empty blackness. For which no words have been conceived. And where no voices are able to speak. When a brain is filled only with damaged thoughts. When a damaged body is filled only with pain. And stands alone in a world surrounded by infinite empty blackness, and exists in a world for which there is no special plan. And everything. On everyone you have ever wanted. When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone. When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with. When all of your nightmares are for a time obscured. As by a shining, brainless beacon. Or a blinding eclipse. The very terrible shapes of this world. When you are calm and joyful and finally entirely alone. Then, in a great new darkness, you will finally execute your special plan. When everyone you have ever loved is finally gone. When everything you have ever wanted is finally done with. When all of your nightmares are for a time obscure. And by a shining, brainless beacon. Horriblying eclipse of the Mini terrible shapes of. Oh. When you're calm and joyful and finally entirely alone. Then, in a great new darkness, you will finally execute your special plan.
Replay. I. I.
The wind continues. The wind continues. I still await a reply from the man behind the door. The drawing sees. Moving. Never quite move in. My feet grow cold. And all is Tibet. And this concludes. Our first entry.
14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡokUrCaAvqh
