Mitch

[size=1][color=red] I have one word for you: [i]Stuntman[/i]. The difficulty of that game is god-awfully annoying as hell. Also, [i]Final Fantasy Tactics[/i], for the PS. Hard game. Well, I got to this one pig boss someplace in it. I believe it was at Riovanes Castle. Well, the game lets you save randomly at dungeons and so on, so I saved. Well, this pig boss was next, and I was screwed over then since I couldn't go out and train my guys more. So basically, that was 30 or so hours of the game down the drain. Bye bye. Never to be seen again, all because the game tells you to save, and you do it, but it doesn't tell you there's some big *** boss coming that's going to be hard as all hell. Err.[/size][/color]

[QUOTE=Semjaza Azazel]Halo isn't [I]that [/I]good... maybe you'd enjoy it, but it's definitely not something I'd run to the store for. I hardly played my copy of it beyond the first week and I don't miss it at all. At least it's finally around $20 new now. [/QUOTE] [size=1][color=red] I really agree with that, Tony. I've never seen why [i]Halo[/i] was given so much praise. To me, it's sort of a clone of [i]Half-Life[/i], only a little different. Also, the XBOX version of this game's multiplayer mode really lacks a lot. You can't have bots. There's limited levels. Basically, to me, this is just an average FPS. I've seen many like it before, and some better, like [i]Half-Life[/i], and so on. It's a boring game for me.[/size][/color]

[center][img]http://www.playonline.com/archives/psgame/eve/gif/logo.gif[/img][/center] You probably haven't played [i]Parasite Eve[/i]. Well, it was a game released by Square for the PS about three or so years ago. When I went to Target one day, they had copies of the game on sale for $15, so I bought it, and I've owned it ever since. I keep coming back to this game. Basically, the game is an RPG, but it has action-oriented gameplay mixed in. It also has a lot of cinematics, which has led Square to dub it as "The Cinematic RPG." The game itself is one of my favorite games I've played. Many people have said it's "[i]Final Fantasy VII[/i] meets [i]Resident Evil[/i]" which I suppose is somewhat true. . .but to me, those two games never crossed my mind when I played it. [center] [img]http://www.videogamereview.com/Channels/VideoGameReview/images/products/product_86454.jpg[/img][/center] This game's just really different, and I like that. It's a horror game, sort of, but it's also an action game, sort of, and it's also an RPG, sort of. It's mix of a lot of great elements from a lot of genres into one completely original, creative, innovative package. In the game you play Aya Brea, a cop in New York city. In the opening of the game, it's Christmas, 1997, and a cinematic scene opens, and we come to Aya standing outside Caranagie Hall, going on a date to the opera. [center] [img]http://endtears.net/img/pe.jpg[/img] [img]http://www.gamerankings.com/screens3/492/1.jpg[/img][/center] When she gets into the opera, another cinematic starts. It's this beautiful woman singing, in that opera way, but then, suddenly, things start on fire around her. The curtains go aflame--people start aflame--it all starts burning. But Aya is somehow immune to what is going on. Eventually, you approach this opera singer, and then you get into a boss fight with Eve. [url=http://www.digitalsculptor.net/ParasiteEve/eve2_publicity_pose2.jpg]Click here for a picture of Eve.[/url] From there, the game spans 6 days, where Aya must save New York. The game has a very good graphical look for it being just a PS title, the music is good, the battle system is different--you have PE points (magic) and you can use that, and you move around open-endedly during battles, and attack once your AT gauge is full--it has an interesting weapon system, where you can make your own weapons and add special abilities to them, the same with armor. The game takes about 15 hours to beat, but then you can play an EX game, and also there's the Chrysler Building. This thing you can only enter after you've done an EX game, but it's about 100 floors of hell, on each 20 or whatever floor, there's a boss. And of course, there's the last boss, which after beating you get a new cinematic which I've [i]never[/i] seen because I've [i]never[/i] made it through the whole goddamned thing--it's so hardcore. [center][img]http://www.geocities.com/TimesSquare/Chasm/1347/ParasiteEve/chrysler.jpg[/img] [/center] Plus, it's really hard in the Chrysler Building. You have to play through the game a few more times before you stand a chance. And the Chrysler Building is also really frustrating--the floors are randomly generated, and are full of dead ends. It's a veritable maze, and takes a lot of patience to get through every floor--but it's a nice added feature. From the reviews I read, people seem to think the game is short. Well, then there's the Chrysler Building, plus there's the fact that this game is so great that I don't care about going through it all again--it's that goddamned fun to me. So basically, these reviewers were too harsh on this game. This game has nice production values. A different, interesting splicing of many genres all put together. It has amazing music. It has horror elements. It has hard bosses. ([url="http://www.digitalsculptor.net/ParasiteEve/dog14_v13.0180.jpg"]Click here to see one[/url]) It's moderately difficult. The graphics are good for a pre-PS2 game. The characters sparkle with characterization, and you actually care for them. The weapons system--how you can use weapons and customize them--is very fun. It has the Chrysler Building, 100 floors of hell. It has the EX game. It has beautiful cinematics. It has an interesting story. And yet reviewers don't seem to see what I'm seeing. Ah well. If you can find it anywhere, get this game. E-bay whatever. It's worth it, trust me, if you give it the chance. And if you don't like it as much as me, at least you'll somewhat be fond of it. I think this is a game that is heavily underrated, that needs to get into people's hearts like some other games do. . .well, at least that's what it's like for me. Perhaps I just have something for this game, but it's definitely stayed with me for a while. There's also [i]Parasite Eve II[/i] for the PS, as well. I'm planning on getting a copy of that if I can eventually, with the money I make from my job. I've wanted to play that for a while, and from what reviews I've read it improves on what people thought was wrong with the original [i]PE[/i]. [center][img]http://www.einnova.com/dream/parasite_eve_2.jpg[/img][/center] Also, read a review of [i]PE[/i] [url=http://www.gamespot.com/ps/rpg/parasiteeve/review.html]here[/url].

[size=1][color=red] I find people who are extaordinarily good with using correct grammar and the English language correctly to be quite attractive. These people always have a nice and toned brain, which bulges with assets and beauty. Also, I like brunettes. But that's only on the side, sort of like when you go to a restaurant and you order something on the side. People who can spell correctly, use correct grammar, and have mastered the English language, those come first. Those are the sexy ones.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I live in Bismarck, North Dakota (and yes, we're all hics here). And I, Mitchell Grant Smith, I am a system slaver, like many others. . .[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Coming to Otaku Lounge every day and realizing how lame the threads are has brought me to a breaking point. I just don't think I can handle it anymore! I need psychiatric help![/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] [b]People who make stupid, uninteresting, shallow and otherwise lame threads.[/b] I can't stand threads that aren't interesting, that don't go against the norm, that aren't eccentric and different, that aren't full of something more. Really, since my time modding this forum, it's been downhill, and fast, as if gravity is putting more pressure per second on us all and making us go down this hill and lower and lower. I think we're pretty close to hell by now.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Oh yes, dying and taking the bullet and appearing to be the hero. So dramatic, so full of panache, of power to make people cry, especially over your grave after you've died and intone, "Oh, he was a hero!" Well, I can tell you one thing. I refuse to answer stereotypical questions, and I'd [i]never[/i] take a bullet from this thread. I'd let the beast die right in front of my eyes. And I'm not a hero in the hero sense, nor do I want to be. As you see, it's only those who die, and usually young, that are heroes. People like Jesus Christ, Jim Morrison, John Lennon (he's a cool cat), John Fitzgerald Kennedy (another cool cat), and what have you. Hey, kids! If you want to be remembered, die young, and take a bullet, just like JFK or John Lennon, and die believing you believe something, thus allowing you to die with a label on you and die being remembered for that cause! Or you can always get crucified on the cross. . .and say, "Forgive them father, they know not what they do," as you die a slow and painful tantrum of death. Also, I believe in Jesus [i]the person[/i], but not what Religion's made him out to be, as some scapegoat, as some figurehead. It's pish posh. Maybe the man did take a bullet for me to go to some Haven in the sky, but like I want to go there, and like this so-called "Haven" even exists. Just remember kids, even heroes have the right to bleed.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I was thinking of buying it yesterday, but didn't. I suppose eventually I'll be getting it. I listened to it when it was up on your radio.blog. It sounded like pretty good stuff to me. I liked it a lot better than that "New America" song you sent me. This isn't generally the kind of music I listen to, but I could get into it. I'll make a post about the album once I buy it and get enough listening to know what I think.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red][b]Name:[/b] My full name's Sylivan Lawrance Taylor. Some people just call me "Sy," if they like it. [b]Gender:[/b] I'm one of those men. [b]Age:[/b] 20 years old. [b]Biography:[/b] I'm based on a short story written by my author, Mitchell Grant Smith; you can find the short story [url=http://www.otakuboards.com/showthread.php?t=37830]here[/url]. I think that'd be enough for you to get who I am, I guess. [b]Personality:[/b] Refer to the story. How am I to describe me? I'm a killer, a murderer; I am detested, hated; I get pleasure from other peoples' pain, for inflicting it to them. I'm rather quiet until my chance comes to get what I want, and then I get very vocal, and digress on and on, for long amounts of time. [b]Profession:[/b] I am a murderer; that is my profession. [b]Physical Description:[/b] I have blond hair, green eyes, and I look like a murderer.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] eating the dead offal off of slaughtered pigs' corpses because blood is . . .[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Tool- [b]"Ænema."[/b] Some say the end is near. Some say we'll see armageddon soon. I certainly hope we will. I sure could use a vacation from this bull-**** three ring cirrrrcus siiiideshow of Freaks here in this, hopeless *******, hole we call LA. The only way to fix it is to flush it all away. Any ******* time. Any ******* day. Learn to swim, I'll see you down in Arizona bay. Fret for your figure and Fret for your latte and Fret for your lawsuit and Fret for your hairpiece and Fret for your prozac and Fret for your pilot and Fret for your contract and Fret for your car. It's a bull-**** three ring cirrrrrcuus siiideshow of freaks here in this hopeless ******* hole we call LA. The only way to fix it is to flush it all away. Any ******* time. Any ******* day. Learn to swim, I'll see you down in Arizona bay. Some say a comet will fall from the sky. Followed by meteor showers and tidal waves. Followed by faultlines that cannot sit still. Followed by millions of dumbfounded dipshits. Some say the end is near. Some say we'll see armageddon soon. I certainly hope we will I sure could use a vacation from this stupid ****, silly ****, stupid ****... One great big festering neon distraction, I've a suggestion to keep you all occupied. (Learn to swim. 3x) Mom's gonna fix it all soon. Mom's comin' round to put it back the way it ought to beeeeeeeee. (Learn to swim. 8x){continues in background} **** L Ron Hubbard and **** all his clones. **** all these gun-toting Hip gangster wannabes. (Learn to swim. 8x){continues in background} **** retro anything. **** your tattoos. **** all you junkies and **** your short memory. (Learn to swim. 8x){continues in background} **** smiley glad-hands with hidden agendas. **** these dysfunctional, insecure actresses. (Learn to swim. 8x) Cuz I'm praying for rain and I'm praying for tidal waves I wanna see the ground give way. I wanna watch it all go down. Mom please flush it all away. I wanna see it go right in and down. I wanna watch it go right in. Watch you flush it all awaaaaaaaaay. Time to bring it down again. Don't just call me pessimist. Try and read between the lines. I can't imagine why you wouldn't Welcome any change, my friend. I wanna see it come down. (Suck it down. 2x) Flush it down. I think it speaks for itself. It's a great song, by the way; I'd recommend it to anyone. Even if you don't agree with what it says.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I know Tony's made a thread about this band in the past, and has talked about [i]Mer de Noms[/i] as well, but I think it'd be in my interest to make a thread considering this album. I'm not sure how many of you out there have actually heard of A Perfect Circle, or heard of their first album, [i]Mer de Noms[/i]. The basic point of this thread is to get people to listen to this band, and perhaps even buy [i]Mer de Noms[/i] if they like it enough. [img]http://home.comcast.net/~toolbox13/apccover.jpg[/img] So here's the cover of the album. An interesting thing I've discovered, [i]Mer de Noms[/i] actually means [i]Sea of Names[/i] I think. I haven't actually checked to see if this is certainly true, but I did find out that Mer means Sea, and I'm guessing Noms means names, since in Latin the world [i]Nomine[/i] means called, or named. Who knows if that connection's wrong. Now, about the album. I'm sure someone here gives some merit into my taste in music, and listens to what I say. Well, if you do, then I'd say you should buy this album as soon as you can. It's that great. The sound of the album is rock. But I'd label it as "progressive rock," because it has its own sound, is something different than all the other "pop rock" or whatever else you'll hear. The band itself consists of Tool's vocalist, Maynard James Keenan, as vocals. I think that fact alone should buy some people over. Basically, if you like Tool, you should like this band, or at least that's my experience with it. Anyway, I don't know if there's much else I can say. If you want, you can IM on AIM (my name's machineofbones) and I'll send you a few songs from [i]Mer de Noms[/i] as a teaser to show you how great it is. Also, A Perfect Circle have a second album, which was recently released. This album is called [i]Thirteenth Step[/i] and still has Maynard on vocals, along with some new bandmates. This album is a decent album, and has some great songs, but all in all, it isn't as good as [i]Mer de Noms[/i] and is disappointing if you've heard [i]Mer de Noms[/i] prior. [img]http://rockmerchuniverse.com/perfectcirclethirteenthstepcd.jpg[/img] There's a picture of [i]Thirteenth Step's[/i] cover. I really don't know what else to say. All I have to say is that [i]Mer de Noms[/i] is one of my favorite albums, and I'd like to let other people experience it.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Thanks for the nice reply, Lumi. This is one of my more better pieces, I think. It's definitely up there with my favorites. I was reading "This Note Is Legal Tender" a few nights ago. I still can't believe I wrote that, because it's so great, even if it's really painful stuff. Speaking of that, I think I really should give Sylivan Taylor his stories he wants me to write for him. Anyway, this piece was generally accepted pretty well from what I understood. While it's not perfect, I find it's pretty good. Nothing's perfect, anyway; perfection's not what I'm going for. This piece is unedited-it is the way I first had it when I wrote it down, actually. It's like that with many of my pieces, since I'm too lazy to improve them, or change them, unless they are going to get published.[/size][/color]

i have something inward pushing me down that opens me up. there?s this feeling in me just ******* me in. i wanna know what?s going on this time, let?s go in. again. a certain determination, a certain will that is; the certain perseverance, intuition, a gargoyle statue grins. he?s on the pinnacle, the very top, the summit of the skyscraper. the wind?s blowing, the sun?s blistering the skin; the clouds are ominous, his hand?s on his chin. what new threats does every day on the top hold? when will he fall like a weak, feeble being? this status quo greens in a summer?s time. ripe fruits bear a picking, a pulling out of the roots, a devouring to the lust, to the desire. stone held up will soon fall down. the world awaits below-that never-ending crowd. just hold your grip. . .and fall. on top of this edifice, the wind blows like hell. the clouds fill the endless sky. gray dark peeks its eye. proverbial, it stirs a design. the rain falls, and the angels up in heaven are crying for nothing again. while they gently weep the lowly prowl. worms come from their dirt homes way down and prance in the falling tears. some seem to hope a fallen angel will land in their lap and show them the world. it?s too much well wishing, too much dirt digging. hope is an apparition; don?t you hear, hear it try to conquer all the fear? such an empty likeness to what is a human being. the gargoyle-stone tenure-can see them all. and the rain washes the dirt away. the rain washes the wishes and bangs a pitter patter with no avail. it?s an endless wail. the gargoyle is broken, is destroyed by a thunderbolt. zeus flung that thing like no tomorrow, aimed it with intent. he wants to watch it go down. we go in and out, the angels? incessant pout, zeus?s thundering bout. and down pours them tears; the worms down below are being drowned. they flounder like trout. flip flop, the water flows, grows ever-higher with each moment, each passing train of time. this time is a train hell-sent, bent on making wet all the fears. it?s not stopping till it falls off the tracks. the angels won?t let it happen any other way. the worms will feel the wrath to no end. down falls it from the skyscraper, broken debris wettened, the gargoyle?s face seeing nothing but the coming ground. he sees the windows of the building flying by too fast, sees the drops of rain streaming down fast as him. with weight comes inertia, the speeding up of endless mass. statuesque, can you see inside the gargoyle?s burlesque? deep in there-that rock hard stone-is something soft like the touch of skin to skin. it?s all within. look past the superficial superfluous supercilious and see the supernatural, the anomaly, the alienation from the supersaturated greed. you?ll see once it falls and breaks to pieces. the statue breaks on the lips of the ground and explodes to pieces. out from the gargoyle crawls a spidering thing, a naked, open king, a rex to rule this monarchy. the worms cover all around, the rain makes its sound, and here stands what you never see. what?s always covered by the temple, by the building-the physicality, the stone being, the hard exoskeleton covering. the worms, stupid, feeble, idiotic imbeciles go about their way. two-handed, two-footed, one-hearted blackened machines, broken to this reality. blinded by greed, by success, by the sucking fiend of pride. they taste accomplishment from slaving for this resounding organized humanity, the society, the swallowing, grounding. for it they bleed, with open sores, and let go of themselves. servile insects, they slither into the ground, the covering dirt of this enclosed space and live with it all their lives until they die and are buried, forgotten names which had no place but to continue what?s here. and i am this king, and i am supreme, and success-true-will taste upon my lips and i will give in to this and kiss it with my all. i will spit upon the sidewalk, i will walk and wear the reality and bend it to my will. it will surrender, insurrected, and i will live in the chains but will utter the forgotten names, and i will overcome and oversee and overanalyze. i will make everyone realize this immense potential and mesmerize all the worms. i, stone gargoyle, broken, ruined, destroyed, have been reborn. in my hand i hold this scorn, and with the words i shall shield, shall defend my given right to express this fight. i will make one of them angels up above fall to me. she. . .she shall be my queen. i will crown her also supreme and we will never be torn apart. for you cannot tear apart the coalesce that is the heart. only the good die young, and only a fighter can go beyond death, go beyond this breath. i heave in this oxygen, and it goes into my lungs. the air is full of pollution, of transportation, of commerce, of passing cars full of passing lies. i will not fall to this, it is so contrived. opening up my eyes, i walk on the sidewalk-king of the worms-and i feel my feet walking, feel them hitting hard upon the ground. i want to dent it, make a crater, make an impression to everyone around. i want them to know how deep my compassion is found. i want to show someone-even everyone-the genius that can be had if you just open up and view. let your eyes see it true. living in a space that?s too close for someone as paranoid as me i go beyond and in my head. i am walking out, the sun up in the sky, the squall going away, and i crave. i crave to taste the air, crave to taste your moving temple, crave to make something above and beyond the usual. i crave to be known as an unknown and shown the things in life i cannot find. i crave to always feel the imagination within my mind. but here i am, on the outside, in disguise; i am wearing my stone skin, i am a gargoyle, i am on top of a summit, a pinnacle of my existence and i feel fine. physically, i read between the lines, i pass it on by, but i am caught up in this reality that?s in my eyes. the beauty is what i crave, and it is time. i will have it all. don?t disturb me, i am festering by the rose-the red thorns poking the side. i want to be exposed, no longer alienated, isolated, below this shine. i will find myself in myself and give it to you. a rose a flower, it is in bloom. someday to wilt someday to gray and line, someday to push away what is really mine. i will not waste this taste, i will come to it and devour, dine. i will bend, i will excel, i will feel beyond this empty. i will push it all aside and see myself as beyond a human being, beyond this useless greed, beyond this useless temple i am grounded to be, beyond this mental heed. all that matters is the feeling, all that matters is the desire, the lust, the need to weed. i am a dandelion, i will be picked, i will feel my seeds. i will flutter in the wind, a disease, and supplant myself within you all. i am the king of myself, of all i see, and i need a queen to spread this creed. the bible is devoid, but what i say is true. close your mouth and speak with your mind. there?s more deep inside than what?s outside. this weed-what i am. it?s summer, i shall cover the ground and fester. the worms will nourish on my roots. the rain of fallen angels will make it divine. you will smile in my presence, i will strengthen it all. can i smile? i do not think in my entire emotional head i have the breadth to open up these two red bounties and allow the curvature which enunciates happiness. happiness in slavery, i am most happy when i am least happy, and i am least happy when i am most happy. i am most happy when i am fighting, when i am passionate, when i am alive; it?s when i feel above it all that i crash and fall-can you not just hold me in your arms? but you do not see me, i am a statue, i am rock hard, i am indifference. i am a cratered surface, a satellite orbiting about the earth, a moon with no place no home. there?s no angels here. the only way it comes is when it goes. it?s all falling up. there shall not be a smile but there shall be contrived happiness. i will only open up when you?ve given up. this is the game i play, pounce and pray. i go to my temple each day and worship your name. do you do the same? you know you?re my god, and i don?t have you yet, but i will have you in the end. then i will clutch you till it drains. till the rain goes away, and what?s left is just me gone. the feeling of frustration endlessly embraces my face and goes all over the place and makes me feel wasted, useless. but i am above it, i will succeed. i do not need to worry, it will all go as i please. i have the potential to make more than i am. but deep down i know i am nothing, i am dust in the wind. but i have gone beyond this self-depreciation, this self-lament. i have hit the cement, and broken in the rain. i feel wet, but i am on fire. i will forget. i will be cynical, but i will go and do what i must. i will give in to these intentions. it?s all for you, it?s all so futile, but i will build my empire, i will be king, you will be queen. love is only a feeling, but that?s all there?s ever to need. this is absolutely a machine. but when i covet you each day i see it all fade away. all i care for is beyond what i see. i am in a haze. this contrived happiness, this fake, i know what it is. but i am so sick, i am so tired, i just give in. for a moment, i?m not a gargoyle, i?m just within. my temple doors are open and i need to stay in. what?s wrong with my head? don?t you see, i was already dead. i?ve gone beyond death-i?ve conquered myself. i want to sell myself away. let me just fade away. let me just be here alone. i will pine. . .pine. i will pine. this is fine. the rain stops. i never even cried. i crawl back in my broken statue and piece it back together. i breathe in the air, full of exhaust. if this is anything, it?s rigormortis. this is the hardness of death, and how strong it makes me. i?ve gone beyond. i am king of what i see. i rule this dirt mound. the worms, they all squirm, and i pluck them in my hands. some of them have so much potential. they will go beyond with me. it?s back to my stone skin. i?m back within, extrovert, schizoid, immaculate in my presentation. i dislike this civilization in my head, so i paint myself another picture as i lie here in bed. i am flying tonight, and i have no wings. i am going on a magic carpet ride. i?m setting the controls of the heart to the sun, it?s to the great gig in the sky. future, past, present, it all goes by. i never knew each one and i never will. it all happens as it happens, an endless time machine an endless dream. all this is is a dream. i dreamt the same thing i did last time i dreamed. i feel the end is a rubber band of this beginning, and it will come back and wound my soft skin. stone wings that aren?t even there, i fly back up and perch myself on the building?s top. i look over and look around. down there the busy scuttle. they move and go about their way. i feel isolated, what dismay. this is goodbye, for today. on my bed, i fly away, close these two eyes i?d like to call windows to the soul. and on these windows i shut the blinds, and i keep everything going on. outside it?s too fastidious for me. too meticulous, tedious, too crowded with suffering. so i cover it all up with imagination, with dreams. this somnambulist is me. i?m sleeping beauty. the world better open its eyes and get ready, because i?ve got lots of things to say. i will show them all one day how i can change it all. i will make my mark and count it in this prison cell, this neon distraction we call Earth. get ready, get wide, i?m gonna do some surgery. the scalpel will cut away the terminally ill, and will make an incision to your heart. you?ll feel it, and everything that?s your foundation will fall apart. this world?s gotta get a little work done, and i?m just the man. this is the plan. today i walked till sweat blushed my face. my feet moved all over the place and i was off in my own space. i will show you all this place, i will give you it like a waitress giving a plate, like a caveman writing on his slate, like the killing hand of fate, like the warmness of a handshake. i will give you a taste. put it on down and swallow. this is my moving temple. worship me. pray for me. one day we will meet. one day my name will come to you. one day they will all know my name. it won?t be fame, it will be my will done. it will be my perseverance sung. it will be my intuition, what i deserve. so get down, let?s serve. we?re servile, ancillary, helpless, hopeless, hapless catering creatures. what monsters are meant to be. let?s shout this discourse, our wounded, beheaded dreams. there is no american dream, there is only this dream. dream with me higher than the stars. higher than mars. higher than you can. i have these wishes and these wishes will be real. this gargoyle goes on, surveying.

when i lie in bed, i imagine the bed can take me places. i imagine it taking away all this empty world-this place i am forced to live in-and i imagine my bed is like a magic carpet, it takes me for a ride. sometimes i can feel myself drifting on it, and i try to see the stars, and feel the wind in my hair, but then i open my eyes and see the same i?ve seen forever. i think forever is a long time, and that even forever has an end. i do not remember my dreams, and as i lie in this bed, i remember being younger, and how simple that life was. i look at myself in the mirror and wonder what?s happened. i want to blame something for taking this all away. everyone used to ask me what i wanted to be when i grew up, and i was ignorant and dumb then, and would tell them i wanted to be a scientist. i used to read books about the universe, and space, and i used to say if i were to be a certain kind of scientist, i would be an astronomer. i remember i read in a book that eventually the sun was going to destroy the earth, and i find myself thinking about that more and more, and fully understanding it now that i am older. i remember i would look up in the sky, and i would look at it and think how beautiful it is. now when i look at the sky, i just realize i cannot stand it anymore. it is no longer beautiful. when i look at the twinkling sky, i feel it?s alien, and i feel i?m alien. i wonder if there?s another form of life out there quite like us human beings. i wonder if they live like us-wasting our lives away, slaving for money, wanting and lusting to succeed. always wanting to be better than the other. i wonder if they actually have a better world-one that i can only imagine of now. for i never dream anymore. there are two types of dreams. there are those dreams you dream as you sleep, in that thin wall of subconscious existence. then there are those dreams we soar to achieve. one boy might want to be famous one day, one boy might want to be a scientist, as i wanted to be, one boy might want to be a teacher. that?s the other dream there is. to me, these two variances of dreams are the same. the dreams i now wish for-to be a writer, and simply live off that-and the ones i dream in sleep-are the same. they are the same because neither happen in reality, and i don?t remember either of them. i don?t feel this dream anymore. i don?t even know it. it?s as alien as looking up at that twilit sky, seeing those twinkling stars, and seeing how vast the universe is and wondering if there?s actually anything more-anything as amazing as i dream-out there. if there?s aliens out there who feel as alien as i do. when i think about it, i am a somnambulist. i am a sleepwalker, and i have been my whole life. i don?t prescribe to this contrived reality i see, but rather, i live in the depths of myself, in my imagination. my imagination isn?t child-like anymore, it is a deep monster, a black hole, that at times has glimpses of a child. but in and of itself, my imagination is still child. it is a child bitter with this world, but not angry. i have never been prone to anger-instead, i am prone to holding of a grudge. i like my feelings served cold, and revenge is, quite correctly, one of those. my imagination is like a friend to me-one that understands me completely and fully. it does not speak to me, but it does create, and it does destroy. my imagination?s main way of communicating outside of me is words. at times, my imagination, the monster it is, will grab this reins that are me and whip me to blood with its words. sometimes these words feel written in cold blood, sometimes these words feel written and smeared; sometimes they feel other things-but in the end, they always feel right. i do not know what i would do without my imagination?s finding of words as an outlet of expression. i do think that if i hadn?t found words my imagination would?ve died, and a long time ago. maybe me with it. i feel like an alien. the only thing that doesn?t make me feel like an alien is my imagination, and these words. sometimes even these words feel alien, feel like they?re further alienating me. maybe sometime i?ll be growing those big bulbous eyes, and those petite, pallid hands. maybe i?ll be an alien. especially when i already am. have you ever felt beyond this world? have you ever felt those two eyes of yours go in your head and dig? i?ve heard there?s some graves there. even some bones to throw. maybe there?s a rocket to the stars too. maybe it?ll let us escape, being the aliens we are. just give it time and we can go wherever we please, and go beyond this world?s disease-and be free. it all starts a little way above the knees. just a little reaction to this attraction and then it starts to please. this is release. we will be astronauts outside our suits, i will slowly take your suit off, and you will take mine off, and as aliens in space, we will float through this wide beyond to the end. it will be cold-numbing, even tiring-but i will know which direction is south, and i will know how to feel. with my hands i will touch and it will be an out-of-body experience even though you?re in-body. let?s take some time and take some more, we have nothing to lose but ourselves-and don?t you tell anyone. aliens are meant to be above. they?re meant to be ahead. they?re meant to be in the string-held, orchestrated sky. we?re just puppets-we do not deny. our strings lead to our hearts. let?s play with the strings a little longer, and become tangled in this maze. i think i?ve seen this before, but it?s nice. this twilit sky, these stars, the blackness. space is the best way to see. space is a real image of imagination. vast and endless, never-ending, over-encompassing, going on and on, with planets-those spheres-and red giants-and black holes-and galaxies and nebulae and novas and meteors and asteroids. i think i wanna take my suit off again. i wanna see you breathing through me. i wanna take in this whole sky. i wanna see how beautiful it is to float here and just fly. without this space suit i?m just here in this sky, my imagination cradles me to go beyond and ride. i love the way your skin looks tonight. the alienation in my bones, my deepness stark. do not leave me, do not leave me. let me love you here in my head. i?ll just hold you till we?re dead, floating, in my imagination. dream for me because i can?t dream anymore. let?s go beyond. you?re my god, i?m your christ. let?s be crucified in the end. i think my life?s just a bend. i think i?ll be crucified when i go. this life?s done it to me. don?t you see how grounded i really am? going beyond this space here in my head, i?m stuck down below. it?s always the edge. you can have my body of christ, my bread of life, i?ll feed it to you. you can dig the inches of nails into me. you know one?s gonna go through the heart, break it down. i just wanna hold you then. corpus christi, corpus christi my dear. mistress, do not fear. the misery the agony, you?re making me alive. you?re a frankenstein. oh dear, my dear. the clouds in the sky made it rain. the lightning bolt was bold. it hit me in the chest. i felt it openly caress and make me alive. won?t you just be mine? i live for you, my god. i live for you. through the window of your eyes, i saw what you were covering up. everything was steel, the automatic feel. they all smiled but it was fake, wasn?t real-it was contrived, an affable thing. they were all machines. android eyes, death?s-hands, they had the eyes of something inhuman. can i have you back? can i just hold you in my arms? i wanted to shut off your safety alarms. i meant no harm. i grab you by the arm. you shove me away and i?m left here alone. robots have my heart and they tore it apart. your batteries just need to recharge. i freefall to the ground and make a crater with your form inside. a space cadet glow, and i?m floating in cold space. i look on over to touch your face but it?s got a see-through helmet covering it up. were those tears in your eyes? i wipe away. what was that you tried to say? your lips moved. your lips moved and kissed me away. i wanna take off my space suit and yours too. why must we float in this devoid? inside i?m wanting to disappear. it?s lonely, it?s lonely. i go off and land on the sun and burn up for a while. you just sit there and float. i?m burning for you. the flames scorch me raw. the fire inside is irascible, i see your eyes burn. let?s burn all else away. the time is running out. the dancing flame. we need some rain. the rain shoots down and like a bullet to the chest i land in your arms. we put the flames out together. she?s burning me away. she?s my sun and i orbit her. and sometimes i need to wear some sunscreen to keep away her ultraviolet rays. skin cancer will eat me away. i just want to get inside her. this cancer is terminal and malignant. it eats at me. i just want to have her. her ultraviolet rays are too strong. i?ve got skin cancer, and it?s for her. it?s eating me up. it?s summer on my planet, she?s close to me. she burns cloudless in the sky. what would i do without your rays of sunshine to my eyes? what would i do without the skin cancer you give me? when winter comes it?s gonna be mighty cold. she?ll still burn but not as bright. she?ll be too far away. too distant from my arms. i savor this season and watch everything grow. one day her sun will hit my earth. it?ll boil away my water, destroy my population. she?ll expand to a red giant and burn out with a bang. then she?ll be a white dwarf in the sky. my planet?ll be disintegrated. i?m gonna miss her then. i think i will cry when she burns up. she?s still wearing that helmet up here. i rip it off and embrace her and tell her it?s all right. up above ourselves, it?s night. we fall asleep in each other?s arms. my weary eyes look to when she?s gonna fade. i use my imagination and make her last forever, even after that day. this is just the end of the world. and we float and coalesce. we feel and caress. we live as if we?re going to die. our lips together shape a why. our bodies together make a because. all this will fade, all this will fade. she?s my god and she crucifies me each day. i am not a blasphemer. turn the page on this book where i write. what do you see? i looked to the last page of my book, and i found you. i tried to erase it but it came back down. i felt it crash my car. you?re such a blazing star. this universe is empty without you. in a burst, the sky is blue. i am sad, it?s true. what am i to do? i look at the pages of my book and tear. i wanna get rid of everything that?s me. you hold my hand and color me in crayons. you?re coloring me in crayons. this isn?t crayola. you?re such a blazing star. your colors are so bright. i?m a coloring book for you to color in. i?m black and white at the beginning, you make me feel. there?s too many colors for you to use. there are two colors in my head. you?re coloring me in crayons, you?re coloring me in crayons. i?m full of hue. do you see what this imagination drew? did you see the niche of words? i felt it change. without it i am in chains. you rust the steel that is on me. you make it breakable. unbreakable toys are used to break breakable toys. i know how to turn your crank. i know how to position you. you?re my action figure. you come with accessories. you?re a doll. i wanna see you for a while. i take off these rusted chains and smile. it?s all so futile. i keep along. my imagination holds you in its arms. it gets stale, i feel i want to bail. i exhale at this world and brush it away like i?m brushing my hair. some of it gets stuck on the brush in thin strands. it looks like a spider?s web. did i catch any insects in there? you look like a swarming fly to me. too bad i?m not a spider, then i?d have you for dinner. this world is like a hive, and all the bees live for their queen bees. the queens rule with an iron fist. this is her monarchy. i am not her king. this is uxorcide. how very uxorious this is. i am submissive and give in. for her i have sinned. she has me in her web. i comb my hair and look away from the mirror. i get up and leave. the pages are full of nothing. they?re yellowing with age. but the words still stand out, bold and engraved. my queen bee, i?ll die for you. my stinger goes in my own skin. i feel it go deep in. it hit some bone. the bones are my chains. she makes me go beyond this flesh. she makes me more than a human being. through her i am not mortal. my stinger comes off of me and i spasm back and forth in pain. she makes my bones go away. she makes me die. i know why. my book is full of the answers. i pull her-a thin strand-from the web. i wet the comb and watch the fibers of the world go down the drain. it?s just me and her, nothing else to put me in these chains. she rusts my bones. she takes the calcium away. her milk keeps me sustained. we make honey. the sweet stick. her honey?s the best. how it feels as i lick it away. she?s the queen. she?s all i?ll ever need. and so-here in this space-i dream of you. my dreams are empty as my soul. this dream of you is as weak as any other. it is a human need. i sometimes put aside the human side of me now. i take it away and interrogate it. i find that it?s so undefined. it is so lost. i find that it is cowardly. and mainly, i find that it is human. my imagination is a bed i sleep in and dream in. it is a comfy cushion for all this world tries to break me to do. i am not afraid to serve this reality, just as long as i can look to my unreality. i can go deep in my head while i?m doing fine outside. i can be up in the stars, an alien. i can be in the twilight zone. the child i once was is replaced by this fiend. i look over, and go on. the death of the child is hard to overcome, but it is just another page in my book. someday this novel will be published. someday she will be what i write for. my bible will be for her and her alone. i will read her verses of it and go to her church and pray. i am unsanctified, i am broken, open, and displayed. she will cover my bullet holes. this is the fiend i am. i am not afraid of it. without the words, i have nothing to say. without them, i have nothing to win anyone over with. as albert einstein said, ?imagination is more important than knowledge.? i will keep this as long as i can. this destruction is a better form of creation in my head. i will orbit the sun and be blinded by its light. i will slowly edge upon death-that bloodsoaked fan. it will suck me into its blades. i will become part of that offal. i will look up at the cigar smoking sky and smell the violating smell of smoke-how it lingers, and grays my lungs. i will watch my world die. and i will build a rocket straight to her sun. i will forget everything about me and know everything about her. my imagination will get me through. i don?t need anyone else?s help but its help. here?s to boldly going where no man has gone before.

[size=1][color=red] Sara lives in Michigan. Not I. And I second what he says. I'll work through what's wrong myself. I'm glad I'm cynical, I wouldn't have it any other way. I never want to be positive like you. I will never attempt suicide like you did. He's not a person I know, really. Just another face in this world. And he's exactly right. This isn't about what we're even talking about. This is the internet, there is no reason to discuss this. The reason why I reply is because it's fun to see how much I can play with you, and see how deep you can go into the holes I dig for you to claim. My words are a hunting dog, they are heightned with immaculate scent, and a bloodthirsty desire for hunks of flesh. They draw you towards the rabbit hole as the dog edges its proboscis over. Will you claim this hole? is the questioning glance from the dog. There's fresh meat down there, somewhere, in that hole. Who knows how deep it goes. But it's safe to say it goes deep. I know what the word digress means. It means to go off on a tanget, rant, non sequitur. That's all this is here. It does not follow, it does not follow. My words have no purpose because I have no purpose. Nothing is the purpose, and it serves me well. That's the problem. Just because you don't believe in what I believe anymore, you won't even listen to me, and you won't even give me dignity. Don't you see this is what I said? The irony is blooming. You cannot even give me enough respect to listen to my words. My words may be empty, but they strike a thing which has sustenence. They do have something to say. The words are a vessel to meet the end. And you cannot hear them, and my vessel is useless for you. This is the truth for me, Alex. I see life as a skeleton, deep down, as my primal feeling, as the singular, anomalous thing that's crawling on down there. I look towards the end because in the end, my world ends, and this world goes on. And I see that my affect on this world is quite small. I find it's more fun to be negative about it than see it any other way. I find hilarity in this control. As a laugh finds breadth in the chest, I find breadth in what holds me in, too. What makes me tick and what makes me beat, like a heart, I find control. This discussion is over. For time is a tick crawling in my skin, and I've got to go about festering over the day with it. Alex, I'm not trying to redefine you, so why are you trying to redefine me? Again, you're being condescending to the fact that you cannot and will not give respect to my beliefs, to my purposes, to my feelings. You will not accept me for who I am, you are trying to change who I am, you think what you think is absolute--that it is the only correct thing to believe. This is a provincial approach. But I am done, continue being who you are, I shall continue being who I am, and so will the entire world, the status quo with it. [/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] Alex, realize I don't [i]always[/i] feel nihilistic. It's when I feel negative that I write most. I thought Undefeated's post was quite enlightening, unlike your posts in this thread, Alex. Regardless of what you think being an individual entails, Alex, my views on the subject differ in their defining. Just because I think the world's out to get me doesn't take a thing from you. I also have yet to see some positive feedback on this poem from you, Alex. And just as Undefeated said, it's an "expression" of a feeling at a certain time. Do you think I walk around feeling like this all the time? If you do, then I guess you do. I know I don't. I've written happier things before, such as the recently posted "Meety Your A Pock A Lips," which I thought was great fun. Also, so what if I think the world's taking away who I am? Alex, you don't even know my feelings, and why I feel this way, and how it feels, because you are a different person. How do you think you can just brush all of me aside and somehow think you know exactly how I feel and that I'm exactly wrong? You can't, and that is called twisting me to be what you want me to come out as, putting words in my mouth. Before you can just write off what I feel as petty, wrong feelings, you first have to try to feel what I feel as much as you can. And you can't, because you don't even know me, other than from what your conception of me has been from what you've pieced together here on the net. You don't know me, and thus you can't label me down or say, with absolute security, what's wrong with me, how I should feel, how I should be, and what I really am. I would hope you would have the decency not to do such a thing as that is, but it is apparent you can't and won't. Obviously you didn't hear my first post to you on the subject of dignity, and other things. I've been trying to make you hear me for a while, but you just let the words hit not in the heart but in the ego. I don't even see a reason to digress any further on that point, or do it with you. Once playing possum with my words, always playing possum with my words.[/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I think you need to go to a page in this forum: the one titled constructive criticism. You have to give the good with the bad. This poem isn't so terrible that you can't give me some positive feedback about it. But, as evidenced, the poem's message, and other issues with me, blind you from actually giving that. Just because you believe life's something different than me doesn't mean you can't read this poem and get something from it. I may have beat this subject to death, but I cannot help what I feel, Alex, and I need to write my feelings down so I can remember them. If there's something wrong with that, then I guess that makes it okay for you to endlessly write off everything I write. In the end, I don't care what you think. Obviously, this poem must be good for the reply above yours to have what feedback it gave. You're just too hubrant to care. And in the end, what matters the most is that I like this poem, and I feel it's quite honest and coherent in what it's saying (despite having been written at 4 AM, as you seemingly point out as diminishing its coherence). I think I have a gift with words, and I will continue to pursue it. It's people like you that seemingly don't understand, and cannot, because they're so set on what they believe is correct, that it impedes and stymies them from really seeing good writing when it's there. You've been here before, Alex. There's another side to everyone, and I believe that this is the most true side of me. I cannot help what I feel, and the least I can do is express it. But expressing it, to you, is a bad thing apparently. All you have to do is be dignified, Alex. Be civil. Put our petty differences aside and look at this poem, do not just write it off as you have. For all you've said of thinking outside of the box, you're still stuck in your own box, unable to come out of it. Life is not all happy, nor is it as extremely sad as this poem portrays. But what this poem says, rather, is that our existence is futile. That in the long run, our lives do not matter for the bigger picture. That is true, if you think about it, that our lives are a waste of time. But the main thing life isn't, or is, is what you think it is. Sure, to you what you think life is is what you think it is, but it's not like that to everyone. Show some empathy. Even though you're at a different understanding of what life is, that doesn't mean you haven't felt this before. You're a human, you feel, thus you have felt a wide brim of different feelings. You must have felt this sometime. You may even feel it sometimes now. There is a different way to see everything, and to me, this is the truest. I understand your approach to life. . .I don't disagree. I feel empathy. I'm not so stuck-up that I don't respect what you believe life is. And from what I see, you are. You cannot come to cope with other's feelings in a well enough manner. It's all about what Alex thinks and what Alex believes, and what others say you must throw in their faces, because what they feel isn't what you feel, and what you feel is all that matters, and all that is. It's not like that. You need to look past your inner feelings, what you believe, what you think is, and come to an understanding of other's feelings, and what they believe, and why. You need to respect these feelings, and, although perhaps not agreeing with them, accept them--feel empathy about it, on some level. You cannot just write all else away. You aren't some omniscient being, some omnipotent being. You need to be more open. Don't force what you believe is truth on other people in a way that's condenscending, that makes you look hubrant, that makes you appear that you're having a holier-than-thou attitude. Say what you say with dignity, understanding that it isn't an absolute thing, but just what you think. So try and think outside the box, Alex. Read between the lines. See what this poem says instead of just giving me your same old run around that you give me with everything I write. And mainly, open up your mind and see that, although I've used this subject many times, it is quite relevant. This is speaking of life. It is speaking of it in bare bones fashion. There's something to learn from it. [/size][/color]

Just another face In a crowd I walk What is this sound? I feel it All around I try to Have something left To hold onto Something left to say But I find It is all much like A crumpled piece Of paper of trash of rubbish In a garbage Bin I do not Like being cared For I do not Like being here Every day is A brand new day With me Walking about Wondering what It used to feel Like I push it all away. . . I'll push it all away I will Push It All Away Give it All Away Throw it All Away Make it Go Away See it gone I never Want to be Like you I never want To be like you who Smiles at this world I never want To be like you You who Smiles At This World Your smile On your lips Is a contrived Happiness Your smile On your lips Is fake It does not exist I know, I do What you feel Deep down You can hide it Say life is Beautiful, wonderful Eternal, great You can tell me You have will to live But deep down There is shaking There is destruction: Beyond our poised appearance We are out of Control And I Am another face In the crowd Another waste Of time I can feel Everything die For we are But a blink Of an eye We are but Dust in the wind. . . We are but A place where it begins Our place In this universe Is the smallest And you the smaller And I the small We go about Our ways Thinking we make A difference When we do not make A difference at all I want to see a certain breeze touch the lips of mine I want to see a certain disease poison all this wine I want to see a certain sting open up the inside I want to see a fallout of a world gone in time. The end is all I see The beginning is far away I have stayed here too long I have outweighed my stay One day This race of mankind Will find itself At its end It will find That this long dredge Has ended In apocalypse In an armaggedon And if I were alive then I would smile and greet death warm For on this world, we plague about-- A swarm And we live this existence For this world we have called born And it is not the real world, but the world torn Divided to function as a machine To not live life to all it has It is here I find there is nothing Left for me What I need is an end I need release I need to be set free I care not about this world I care not to let it govern me I would just as soon be set free Or never even be Or have to see For it is blinding me One day --I see it flash before my eyes-- Our race Will be gone, forever Our struggles for nothing But death. And I think In this world today There is something more important Than that education Than that bill that needs to be paid Than that job that they say you need to work It does not have to be this way This world is superficial, material, It is a neon distraction Open up your eyes--open them wide Do you not surmise That you live your life not for yourself But for that which you most despise? And one day --Our race, our mankind-- For our struggles, for our battles, we will die. If I am alive When it happens I will smile The most happy Smile I have Ever smiled Upon my face In my memory. It would be as real as a child's smile. It would not be A smile such as The one I see From you who Is happy with this World. So go ahead Worry about tomorrow While I worry about the end So go ahead, worry about how You're going to afford to live While I see that life is a given right And should not be taxed, should not be Suffered, should not be a machine. I hope one day You will come to see And believe How useless your life was How you threw it away To this status quo, this endless go At nothing. So go ahead Worry about petty things-- About getting your college degree, About getting your "love." For in this world, there is little happiness. There is only Contrived Happiness, A figment, A lie. There is only love Where you are blind. Love is not real, It is only in your mind. The only thing real Is that your body Is an organic Mortal, Breakable Weak Puny Existence. What your body gives you And shows you Is all you will ever know. And I, I want to go beyond This body, I want you to know That what you feel doesn't matter. It is just an illusion. This pain is all an illusion, the only thing that is real is nothing. In nothing there is the most beauty. Nothing is what came you, and nothing is what will take you back to where you came from. So go ahead Go right Ahead Fret over Anything Over everything In this society, this unreal world, this hell-hole over your eyes. So go ahead I'm just gonna close these eyes And yearn for death to release me To take it all away. Death might hurt, But I am not afraid. It will not hurt As much as This world Has hurt me. Nor will it hurt As much as living My whole life Would. And will. I'm just gonna close these eyes Gonna hide. . . Just gonna close these eyes and hide. Why was I given this life When I just want to take it away?

He sat in his broken down wooden creaky chair with legs missing and screws loose and a hell of a lot more like he always did. That same vacant stare in his eyes as he watched his TV with the crooked antenna and the hazy reception and the black and white color. This night unlike any other that came before it in a ceaseless cycle he was watching the news. A reporter by the name of Donald Roole was blabbering on about something. The man had big wide staring eyes and rotund puffy cheeks with big fat man?s hands and the morbidly obese look of so many countless Americans because of their wonderful love of food. Mr. Roole at this moment was talking about something dealing with a poor little girl who had leukemia and who was in the hospital fighting for her life. Mr. Roole?s fatingly unarousing face was replaced with a sad morose picture of the poor little girl. He watched with uncare in the same creaky chair with legs missing and screws loose and a hell of a lot more. Did he mention he didn?t care. Perhaps he had and perhaps he hadn?t but at least this little girl wasn?t going to have to suffer through what life had for her to rigor through. She did look like a little broken angel who never had any wings, though. The way her eyes peeked out at you from under her bed, all those machines hooked up to her, all those tubes. Now that looked like the life if there ever was a life. ?The doctors estimate she will only live for a month, and even then. . .they say it?s hopeless,? said Mr. Roole as his fat unappetizing face reappeared on the screen as if trying to bear witness to the sadness of the story and peak on it. Water of oncoming tears were reflecting in his eyes, making it look like they were irritated. He kept blinking and blinking and blinking to try and stop the oncoming tumult of tears. The black and white lips of Mr. Roole?s face were fluttering. His double?no triple?no quadruple?chins moved up and down as he contorted his fat face. There was a moment of naked silence, just Mr. Roole and his lips fluttering like they were scared and his wide staring eyes repressing water and his double?no triple?no quadruple?chins going up and down. Then it was over and thank god. The dramatics of the situation were like watching a soap opera. And he didn?t like showers. Especially not soap. And opera was a terrible form of entertainment?when they sang they sounded like women cooing during orgasm at ungodly high screech. ?In other news,? began The Fat Morbidly Obese Man, ?scientists say it may be likely a meteor will hit the earth sometime this week. They say the meteor is five miles wide and could be devastating if it were to hit the Earth. This is not the first known case of scientists saying a meteor may hit the Earth. But still, some are saying it is the end of the world as we know it and are preparing for it. While others say it?s a farce.? The screen went to an old woman?s face with dinky glasses and white hair clinging to her forehead in small tufts. ?Yes, we have predicted a meteor has a chance to hit the Earth; however, the probability of such an occurance is not too likely. But there is more chance with this one than any other meteor that has come close to the Earth.? Her voice was like listening to hell, it sort of was so frail and so damn broken. The woman looked like she would just fall over dead right there. Seems she was still ticking nonetheless. Tick tick, tick tick. Tick tick tick tick. He smiled at this and had been paying intent attention. It was going to be the end of the world maybe! It?s what he had prayed (well, not really) for his whole life. What more was there to ask? And there was nothing. Nothing to ask. Nothing more. The TV went back to Mr. I?m So Fat I Have Rolls To Feed You With And Enough Girth To Crush You Like A Worm. He looked more collected, and ended with, ?That?s a scary thing to hear. I know I?ll be praying. . .lord yes.? Oh dear god, now he was getting all religious. He smiled again and thought how weak this bastard looked right now. Like god, if there was one, cared. Like he really cared. ?This is KMY News, Channel 7. Have a good night.? Yes. Have a goodnight too. They say heart attacks come when you least expect them. Maybe you can expect death to drop you a line. Or maybe you can burn off those calories over calories over calories Mr. Piggy Pig. Then death won?t have his deathly way with you. Either way those scientists said the meteor is coming. Better hope one kills you first Mr. Oinky. He got up out of his piece of **** chair. He needed a new one but didn?t have the funds. He always spent his money as fun money and that was good for him. Money is just paper inked so who cares. Commerce is like sex: it?s worth something only if everyone puts a value on it, and if everyone believes a piece of paper with ink on it can rule their lives. But everyone thinks sex is the greatest thing ever and they put immense value on it and it?s not paper. Since it?s not paper maybe it isn?t like commerce. But then again, the sameness is so damn obvious. Sex can be given, can be received. So can the green paper But sex is a king and money is a ten of spades. Read em and weep. He couldn?t understand how they could just write this genius thought off, veto it like Gerald Ford, give it pardon like a rolicking crooking Richard Nixon. He didn?t know and realized he was pretty crazy if crazy was crazy. His thoughts were all over the place. This was a massacre. So in his mind he reached on in and shut off the lamp. Night night. It was late anyway. He had work tomorrow. They said work equals force times distance and they were right. The force is being forced to work your entire life just so you can live in this bureaucracy with all the money the greed the ?fiscal? (the word sounded like fish, only not) financial matters. The distance was the isolation the work forced upon you because you were coerced to work and be a slave and say, ?Yes master. Yes master I do as you say, for you are master and I am useless slave *****. Useless slave ***** is useless and he does only as master orders useless slave *****.? He felt the distance right now sure as hell. If work were a bunny he would be having some bunny for supper sometime soon. But it wasn?t so it just wasn?t. And that meant he couldn?t have any bunny and it also meant he had to work tomorrow so he needed to sleep. ?Tell me about the bunnies, George,? was the last thought flooding into his head like a drying dam. It was too bad dam doesn?t have an ?n.? It would have so much more power if it did. But damn, dam doesn?t give a damn so it?s just dam and not damn. That?s just the damndest thing if there ever was a damn thing that was damndest. Damn dam. He was in his broken useless missing the springs hard as rocks and steel bed. He closed his eyes and he was free. Free like an eagle in the sky with the feathers and the beak and the immaculate eyesight. And he was seeing through special eyeglass crafted by master dwarves (read: himself) that let him see the dreamy-est dreams he ever dreamed. It was here that he dreamed a harrowing dream about a certain meteor hitting the Earth and the causing of a certain cataclysmic apocalypse. In this dream I can tell you he smiled a smile so wide it is an understatement to say his mouth did not fall to the ground and did not crack in half for joy and amazement. For it is the cracks we always see. He opened those two spheres we sometimes call eyes that look like two planets on the face of some alien that is really ourselves. The eyes were full of happiness and he said aloud to himself that dreams usually come true and maybe this dream he dreamed was going to come true. But then again he said to himself maybe not. He made a personal note within his thing called a mind and told himself to write in his journal about the dream as well as write a story?probably short?about it. For he was a writer and writers do one thing and only one thing and that?s the only thing they do and that is write. Sometimes they get a bone now and then too. But that?s rare. What?s even rarer is a writer writing something that is genius in person. Writing words that will be kept within someone?s memory banks for their entire lives. Writing words which shall be remembered for ages and ages until there is no more ages. The hot heat of water torrented his skin and he was naked. Maybe you don?t want a picture of him naked in your head but I can say he is a nice looking man. I am not gay and I am not homosexual and I am not metrosexual for this. I am a straight man and straight as the Strait of Gibraltar. Mr. Bush can shove it with his "We need an amendment banning gay marriages because I am a stupid religious zealot!" For it does say in the constitution "All men are created equal," and obviously it is not correct. Inebitably they will get their rights. So **** all you who think being gay is wrong. **** you to the depths of heeby boo. Thank you and adieu. There was steam as he stepped out and wiped his naked body with a towel. He is now putting on clothes. It is a wonder we even wear clothes is what he is thinking. Clothes are so confining they are like another form of chains only they aren?t chains because they?re clothes and clothes are made of fabric and chains are made of metal or steel or something like that. He was now fully dressed it was a fully monty. Work was going to begin in thirty minutes so he got on his way. He changed into his work habiliments in the bathroom. When he was in the bathroom he looked at the walls?there was always fresh meat to read here and it was addicting. More addicting than addicting is. Or ever will be. The freshest meat was a message written in a crude scrawl. ?NeD Sex? CaLL 555-232.? He knew one thing and that was that he didn?t ?Ned? sex. Maybe need. But not Ned. Ned was a pretentious asshole upstuck name. That wasn?t the type of thing he wanted. He took out a napkin and decided, spontaneously, to write down the number. Maybe he would give a call and take them up on this ?Nedding? sex. He stepped out and came to his manager. He said his greetings and was on his way to work when he went in the back and saw Geraldo and Rosie in another one of their goddamned tustles. The two were like lovers and it was the truth. Only lovers got in a tissy like this. A big tissy fit over nothing. This time they were fighting over the fact of the matter of how to ?correctly? make bacon. He stepped in and told them to quit it with the goddamned tissy tustle. He said they should get married already they?re just like lovers. Just like two lovebirds. They responded with laughs at his amazing sarcasm. He said it?s okay, his sarcasm was just a chasm that never ended and was always full of things to say. He also instructed them there was no certain way?no ?correct way??to make bacon. Bacon was bacon was pig and you cooked it however. No one cares as long as it is bacon. That ended that and he had saved the day. He was superman and they were cretins?small little peasants in the caste system. But, they were ?pleasant peasants? to him. And pleasant is a nice word. As beautiful as pheasants. Why, they were pheasants. Two lovebirds. What a genius connection he thought as he got an apron on and prepared to cook.

[b]word scramble[/b] the words i remembered-- the ones i was gonna tell you-- mess onto the ground, fall all around, and i look down see them scattered all over there see some in pairs, others alone. i?m wondering how i could let them fall like this. must?ve been in my wrist, how i tried to fling them out, and hope i could let you catch em with style. it?s gonna be a while, just a little bit don?t worry about it. they?re all on the ground, it?s true. there?s one right there--i see a u. it?s staring at me and i wonder if it?s kinda blue. it looks kinda sad, i?d say. wonder what happened to make it so. must?ve been this show, the way it kinda kills you. it?s OK, i know you can make it. you?ll get through. and what?s this i see, it?s all over me, many I?s staring over now. they?re all bent, crooked, wretched gnarled and crude. who the hell let it get so nude? it?s like they?re wearing bones and skin?s falling off them. the I?s, i believe, have much to mean. they seem strewn on the floor, bloodless gore, naked, sore. wonder what these I?s looked like before? too bad i can?t find out. they look kinda lost, all point when and where. wonder when they?re gonna find their place? maybe never, maybe someday. maybe it?s not too far. now the letters, all over the floor, they?re coming together, selling themselves to me. it?s like they?re whores. but they?re not--they?re much more. what the letters spell doesn?t cost a thing, it?s the least expensive rose i can give, or the least expensive assassin i can hire. the bullets will penetrate your skull, you?ll expire. the roses will red in bloom, love?s swoon, and hold you close. whatever you want i can give it with these. don?t you ever doubt me when i use these. i can make you fall, in amazement, to your knees. i can make you numb, in indifference, with ease. i can touch you with hands i don?t even have. i can grab you, caress you, seduce you as i please. i can do most anything. and you look kinda blue. i think you need them now. i think i can lift you with them, up as high as you want, pound-by-pound. you don?t weigh much right now. what is it you want? you wanna be on top of a skyscraper? you wanna be down in the ground? you wanna see me inside? i can do it all, just hold your seat, because you?re in for a ride. i?ll take you wherever you wanna glide, or wherever you wanna go. all you gotta do is put my words, all over this floor, together. then we can get going to forever, or to never. i wish i could show you all the letters down here. they?re spelling words i never knew i had, and making things i?ve never seen. this is really the weirdest thing, it?s really the most bizarre. i wonder where you are. i wonder where you are, you falling star. i wanna have that scar. and the letters they are a mess all over, and the stress, and all the things i wanted to say. they fall down on the ground scattered all around, and i wonder what?s here i still haven?t found. so much to see, so much to be, but i?ve gotta go. the words spelled out cold like water in the winter?s spring this is a blue green, this is a red spleen, the heart, it is a wondrous machine. let?s not wilt, for there is much to see. love?s gonna sting, the words into me, and you?ll kiss, your hips, the way it lips, it?ll kill but it?ll spill, don?t let it go, let it show, give it grow, i?ve got something to show. i like the way you walk, i like the words you make me say. let?s find the letters to spell. it?ll go well in this deep well where many night-like waters trickle. can i just give you a tickle? it?s all right, i?m not gonna stab you with a sickle. can i just give you a tickle? it?s in this water, the gloom, where wet, there is set the words, all a mess. we?ll put em together, we?ll coalesce. it?s just a wishing well, don?t get so riled up over it. you don?t have to yell. the words will find it, climb it, and tell. let?s listen i can hear the trickle just the tickle of the words. how wet they make me, how dry they take me. it?s gonna flow, the words?re gonna row to the edge. you like this ledge? then let?s just stand for a while, looking down while it looks back to us. i think this is where it?s best. let?s just be here. the words all over us, nothing to fear. let?s just be here.

[size=1][color=red] Good thread, Anime Gurl. Now, let me try to give my two cents. For a penny given--two cents, no less--is a penny earned. How does a person, change you ask? How? A person changes in many ways. Physically, mentally, psychologically, spiritually. There are many ways. But I am supposing we're focusing on mental, psychological change. A change is a reaction to a stimulus. When something's put in front of you, or lingers ahead of you, or effects you, it changes you. Each and every day we are changed. There is change which happens within us--changes brought on by our inner feelings, our inner thoughts, or inner selves. Then there is the stimulus of people who you see each and every day. And the problems of reality we face on a day to day basis, as well. Simply put, there are internal changes, and there are external changes. Stimuli on the inside of us, which change us, and stimuli on the outside that change us. And, the outside changes can cause the inside changes to change; the inside changes can cause the outside changes to change. These two dimensions of change are directly related, in a way. You couldn't have one without the other. If you could not take what changes you inside of your mind, then you would not change. All change happens on the inside, at least if we're speaking mentally, psychologically. It happens when we are given something from the outside of us--a stimulus--and it does its changing. Or inside--some thought pops into our head, it festers and grows over time. Or we are inspired right then and there. Read this above as babble, or as genius, or inbetween. It is your choice. I'm not even sure what it is, exactly. But it nudges some idea. To put something in the reality versus perception debate: think about it. The way we see things in our mind, the way we see everything is perceived by what we see with our eyes, smell with our senses, taste with our tongue. The way the mind works is from memory--and from talking this so-called "reality" and turning into something of its own. Our minds learn and grow and become what they are because of our senses, and because of what we see. Without this so-called "reality," our minds wouldn't have a tangible way to see things. We wouldn't get a certain image in our head of anything. Our minds are tainted by so-called "reality." What we see is what we take in mentally. This is what's called perception. Further, there's endless ways to look at the world. You see the differing philosophies. There's the naturalist, there's the realist, there's the romanticist, there's the trascendentalist. There's all these ways to look at things. There's the question of God--and his existence. All of these things are undefined, and can be seen via what someone sees--their perception. I've said this many times, but I say it again--what's bad is good, what's good is bad; what's foul is fair, what's fair is foul. By this I mean there's no one way to look at something. There is no reality. There is nothing real but what we say is real. And when you say something's real--that is perception. That is seeing it one way and only one way. There's few things that are real. Love? Hate? God? Fill in anything here, it's all abstract, it's all intangible--you can't touch it, you can't feel it. You just feel it's there. It's just a perception. Life is a gift? Life is a curse? Life is a waste of time? Life is lovely? Life is. What's life? We don't know, we question it each and every day. We sway from one notion to the other, of what we believe it is. Life itself has nothing secure, certain in it--all you know is you'll live, one day you'll die. So there is one thing humans seach for--rememberance and validation. They want to feel their time, their effort, their strain, pain, emotions, are not [i]in frustra[/i], are not in vain. [b]Is a person defined by those around him or her?[/b] Of course they are defined by them. When a baby is first born, it gets what it gets from its parents. Those around. It listens to all it hears, it gets memories from all the people around, it grows because of their love and care. A baby learns from many things, and these things change it--influence it. A baby may watch their parents walk; it may learn from observation. It learns to talk from its parents, listening to them speak. It may get some pronunciations wrong just because its parents say them wrong. A baby eventually learns manners in the world, how you're supposed to be. Don't belch at the table, don't stare at others, eat with a fork and a spoon and a knife. Taking what I said before, what we are is actually what the outside world makes us. The people we see each day--every outside stimuli--it's what makes us who we are. Our entire perception of everything is from what's outside. We take it all in and it comes together to make us. It's a system of mistakes fixing insufficencies. It's a collection of your reaction to the stimuli. We are who we are completely by what has made us outside. That's our Fate. We never become what we truly are because there is nothing we truly are--we are a collection of safes and mistakes fixing each other. By learning, we are further destroyed of anything that we could be--we learn something and we become different. We change. We begin to expect the stimuli we'll feel, and react. [b]. . .how can one be certain they are aware of themselves at all, or if they are sure of who they are, if they are constantly being redefined by the outside world?[/b] You can't. What you are is what this so-called "reality" has made you. The conditions that've made you. What pressure and time's done. What it's created. There is nothing we are truly--if you want to know what you really are, then you are a being. A collection of teeming cells all working together to make you. A frail being who has a larger brain than any other animal on Earth. That is what you are. That is all you'll ever be. Just a human, flesh. That's what you are. You can't be any more certain than that. [b]Why does one have this...desire to be with someone else? Is it to feel validation? Love? Peace?[/b] When we undergo the rapid changes of puberty, our bodies begin feeding us full of sexual chemicals. Our body undegoes changes which make us attracted to the opposite sex. It's natural. That's the answer. It's a natural inclination. It's something that nature has built into us as animals. A natural need to have the opposite sex. We need someone else so that we can come together with another and try to understand ourselves more. To try to fix something. We're all broken, we need repair. Feeling mutual feelings, as well as having another helps this. Plus, having another allows us to further divert our attention away from ourselves and the endless plethora of questions of who we really are. It's like a lot of things are--they simply divert attention, they make it so you don't have to face these pressing questions. Instead, you live only to serve someone who you feel strong, passionate feelings for. You live for them rather than yourself. You stop being so innerly selfish and instead become selfish to them. This is what we do most of our lives: we keep our attention away from the pressing facts of death, what life is meant for, who we are. We are happier this way. Happier in ignorance. Happier not to question, just to do--work our lives away, love our lives away. [b]Do human beings honestly feel that they can be whole when they are with someone else?[/b] Yes, but eventually, they learn love does not last. Nothing good can last. All things good die in life. The death of the child, the death of the love you've fostered, the aging of you. The eventual death of you. And the endless question of what happens afterward. Love does die. I've seen it. My mom divorced my father when I was only three. My mom and my step dad don't even love each other any more. A divorce of them has been a constant reminder to me of how much history repeats itself, endlessly, like a circle. There's no angles. . .just 360 degrees of a wide open space. It all comes to survival. . .that's what keeps us going. This feeling we can do what we feel we can do. Just remember Neo, and what he said. He gets up because he can, because he chooses to. . .he doesn't know why. . .he just does. It's survival. Having another one to devote your life to lets you survive. It makes you stronger because you're worrying about you less, and worrying about the other person more. Human beings can never be whole. What is being whole? How can something broken be whole? Certainly, the coalescion of two beings of the opposite sex can sew together something that's whole. But it doesn't last. Everything dies. Everything good does and will die. A ship, above the darkness of the Machine, does and will rise, but just the same, it will fall because it has weight, and inertia, and it will hit the ground and something will die and something will be born. [b]Is the human race so weak that they are unable to live alone?[/b] The human race is weak. Look at a simple-minded animal--they simply live their existence, and they don't even know they are living an existence. All they know is their natrual proclivities and what it is nature has told them to do. We rebel against nature. We are weak because of this. Intelligence makes us weak because it gets in the way of living and survivial. The constant questioning and the constant struggle of survival gets in the way. We live a pained existence which we try to keep to ourselves. We are weak, feeble creatures: our intelligence makes us this. But intelligence has its positive aspects as well. But in the end, it is not worth it to me. We will go extinict either by nature or our own foolish device. Atom bombs. Robots. Whichever. Our intelllect will kill us someday. It already has killed many in wars, in other petty things. We can live alone, but the real question is will we? The people I talk to each day are what make living most worth it. I agree with John Steinbeck: we all need something to keep us in balance. Just like Agent Smith and Neo. Just like George, from [i]Of Mice and Men[/i] did. Living with someone else makes life easier because we divert our attention from the pressing concerns of our life, and what it will become, or is. Or has been. When we don't have others--or a lover--we are left alone. When alone, we become egomanical--we look inside ourselves, searching, probing endlessly at the questions which have no answers. Other people divert our attention from this--make us realize our lives are pointless, and their lives mean more than our own, because if you put your heart to someone else, and they do the same, you can feel more whole. [b]Is the human race so weak that they are constantly driven by a deep, burning desire to feel validated?[/b] Yes. We want to be remembered. We do not want to die. We want to survive and live all of the time. Validation brings about a feeling that we've accomplished something in our lives, and that is the main force that drives us to live. Our intelligence and our knowing that not everything we do will last drives us to supercede this existence and Fate and become something that never dies. This is weak. We are weak creatures. A worm is stronger than us because it lives in harmony with nature, and has a purpose--as does a baterium, who rids the soil of waste. Or a plant, who gives the Earth oxygen in exhange for taking carbon dioxide in the process of photosynthesis. We live a plagued existence, and we use our intelligence to try and validate it. We fight to make something that will last. I'm running out of time. I'll answer as succint as I can. [b]What is reality?[/b] Perception. [b]How do people define themselves?[/b] By what they see, and their memories, and what's made them who they are. [b]Is there such a thing as individuality?[/b] I think so. Again, it's seeing things and seeing them in many ways, and doing your own thing. [b]Is there such a thing as a pure individual, who is somehow unaffected by any societal influence at all?[/b] Not in this day and age. Perhaps in the past, when we were but normadic tribes. [b]Likewise, if someone is not confident in their abilities, what drives them--compels them to take solace in others around them? To feel validated by being in a relationship?[/b] Since I'm out of time, I'll say I said this somewhere above, lol. The second part of the question's much like one above. I'm sorry if I was "outrageous" in what I said, lol. Who knows. All I know is I tried to say it how I felt it. [/size][/color]

[size=1][color=red] I would still be posting in one thread--the one thread I posted a while back which was for Ms. Asphy, and was to encompass everything I wrote--but not a soul replied, nor did a soul reply to my last thread I made yesterday, nor did a soul reply to "The Child." So I'm left with making new threads until someone actually posts, it appears. Either that, or stop posting altogether, which is fine by me. I'm just here to share this stuff, and I can understand someone not posting completely. So sorry about that, Ms. Asphy.[/size][/color] [b]happy, sad, and the girl?s fate[/b] happy sits on his window-sill he thinks it?s going to rain. while, across the street sad stands on his roof thinking things are never going to change. happy is a ray of shine, mouth?s corners held. sometimes it seems forced. the eyes seem to tell happy?s not all he?s made to be. sad is a quivering mass of fear, mouth?s a metal trapper. sometimes it seems dramatic. the eyes seem to tell sad?s lonely where he is. happy can see sad and sad can see happy happy yells over, ?you know there?s things to be happy of,? and happy says more, but sad?s not listening. he?s on a shingle on the roof pouting his eyes out. sad thinks he?s going to fall from the roof he can see it in his head. he?ll be pushed down by gravity, land in an organized mess on the ground. everyone will smile more because he?s gone. he can see happy?s smile widen-- with a smile like that, he thinks, you could tame the world. sad?s legs are dangling over the roof?s edge now. hanging all fancy free. he thinks he?ll just drop now. happy?s watching it all. he?s yelling, ?don?t do it! don?t jump!? but his words are lodged in sad?s throat. he can?t hear them--won?t hear them. sad?s tears fall to the ground, stain the cement on down. then, slow, sad pushes with his arms and gets ready for the end. there is a sudden jerk and then sad?s held by his shirt. in midair. looking confused, defeated, sad looks on over. who?s just saved him? he wonders. it isn?t fair. kneeling down on the roof is a lady, and she is sure fair. long wavy hair--it blows in the wind--and eyes to kill for. this is the type of woman that makes fires burn. ?it?s OK,? she says, and sad?s quite taken. the way those thin lips moved was inviting. what less is there to do? and happy?s looking on over too. eyes wide, his smile?s as big as texas on a good day. sad comes up from the edge, looks in the fine lady?s eye. ?why?d you save me. i wanted to die.? sad?s still putting up the act. ?killing yourself wouldn?t be worth it,? she says. sad doesn?t know what she means by that. all he knows is he?s taken by her. ?and what do you mean by that?? sad asks. he expresses his puzzlement with his hands. ?i don?t know, really,? she says, and pushes away her long bangs from her face. now sad?s looking at her legs, the shapely curves. he thinks she knows more than what she?s saying, but maybe she can?t put it into words. ?OK then,? sad says. ?let?s get off this roof.? sad leads her by the hand, being extra careful. this woman?s such a doll, and dolls are brittle and break easily. once something?s broke it can?t be fixed. they?re off the roof now, in sad?s house. sad?s house is decorated with blue wallpaper, and the woman comments she likes it. ?glad you like it,? is all sad can say. he feels nervous and wonders if he looks good. ?say,? sad says. ?would you like something to drink? some food?? he?s trying to make her comfortable. ?i?ll take something to drink,? she says. ?tea?s fine.? sad goes in his kitchen--the blue wallpaper makes him look blue. he fixes up some tea, comes out and sits beside her. hands her the tea. outside sad?s house, happy?s on a dream. he?s sneaking around, looking in the window. being a peeping tom. he wants a piece of this action. his grin tells it all. inside, sad?s gotten up the guts to tell her how pretty she is. ?you are the most beautiful gal i have ever seen,? and ?the most beautiful thing i?ve ever seen ever,? sad tells her with a deep reach in his heart. he reprehends himself mentally for being so bold. he probably sounds like an idiot. he waits for a reaction, reads her face. ?you?re beautiful too,? is what she says. sad almost seems to smile and frown all at once. he?d describe it as bittersweet, a hard candy to chew. they talk a little while on, but happy knows what?s going on. he watches from the window, a sun in the sky seeing everything. happy watches, with glee, as sad and the woman touch each other?s faces. watches as they smooth on in for a kiss. happy feels jealous, but resists the temptation to barge in. he?d be killed alive if he did. then happy?d be no more. now they?re both naked and exposed, and happy has to admit, sad?s got a tighter body than him. it?s full of more emotion--more devotion--than he could ever give. he watches with a passing satisfaction and feels jealousy more than anything else. the woman?s quite good eye candy--happy just grins and grins. he grins until it?s a wonder his face doesn?t just fall off. then, all of the sudden, happy seems to get mad. his eyes click, his mouth twists and contorts. there?s nothing stopping him now. inside the house, they?re all over each other. sad can feel himself coalescing into her. she can feel herself coalescing with him. they breathe in the moment and hold it in. it?s palpable, full of emotion deep within. it?s because she?s the type of lady that makes it burn. but the hand of fate is puncturing, grabbing its hold. soon the hand will come on in. out on a farm, the hand of fate?s doing no harm. it sits, with its glove on, and watches as a calf is born. he makes this one especially full of scorn--they?re better that way. it pokes out its hand from its glove, caresses the calf, threads its fate. an angry ingrate this one?ll be. this calf?ll die, shot by the farmer out in this farm for being obstinate. fate?s doing it all good and well, there?s no harm. just another life to make. to take. then his hands begin to tingle, he can feel his arm nudging the way. it?s off to sad?s house--things are set in motion that need to be handled and put away. it crawls on off, fingers knick-knacking in a walk. sounds like the gallop of one hell of a horse. sad?s about reaching climax, she is too. the pleasure teeters on in, climbs in the moment--a demon angel from heaven sent to hell. she cries in her mounting pleasure--he feels it in. then the moment?s over, it?s grown its wings and flown, you can just see the demon angel go home. happy, now mad, is still out there. he sits oh-so patient, as if waiting. then he feels it?s the time. happy breaks the hell on in, finding them both naked there, in each other?s arms. in a big voice, he screams, ?she?s my girl! i want her!? happy holds his fists. and just then, the hand of fate, with its glove, goes on happy?s hand where the fist is made. happy can?t even control his hand, it goes wild with rage. begins hitting sad again and again and again. blood begins to dance in the air, ballet dancers with torn scarlet skirts and dead hair. happy begins to respond, a deep yell from his mouth, from the deepest reaches of the bowels of his heart. he fights back, counters with a one-two punch, and another one-two punch. happy gets one straight in the face, it breaks his smile to a seething pain. blood ebbs out of the mouth, stains the carpet in a bleeding shower. they fall to the ground, and the fair lady tries to break them up, but the hand of fate?s all over them. there?s no way to break its bond. she?s flung, lands in a river of blood, and is carried off out of the house. outside the house, the blood flows out, her on it, and begins to drown the entire sunny day. soon the blood?s risen all the way to the sky, and she?s still on top of it, but now she?s falling in. her hand, held out, grabs at nothing, quivers, then she?s gone. she?s drowned. she sinks to the bottom, and the hand of fate zooms on by. rips open her chest, and takes her heart. it?s such a soft innocent heart--it bleeds free. fate can?t help himself, and in glee takes off his glove and feels it up. and?s off back on his way. happy and sad are still fighting each other, punching each other, but they?re slowly being drained. they?re both in the depths of exhaustion, about ready to pass out. but the whole time it?s been a stalemate. and it ends with them both falling in the blood. they sink to the bottom too, next to that beautiful woman, whose heart is now gone. and fate comes back on by, takes off his glove, and digs on in. takes both their hearts. sad?s heart is so big for something so small, and happy?s heart is so small for something so big. fate?s just going to have a big feast now. he?s going to eat like a pig. slowly, time passes, the blood evaporates to the sky. their bodies deliquesce to rotten skin and bones. it begins to rain. happy was right--and the showers cleanse it all. and outside my head, i feel fine. but inside, the hand of fate sews its twine. i think he?s put a machine in there now who keeps me in line. he knows how to work me just fine. and everything he?s doing?s no harm. no harm at all.

I just wrote another part of this. I'm not sure how it turned out, I just had a feeling to write it. It's odd, because I don't recall ever writing much during the day. It's usually at night. But I guess I just wanted to write it. I kind of feel like writing more, but we'll see. I only have the first part here, and I don't know how good it is, either. Reading it, I think it's good, but it'd be nice to know what other readers think, perhaps. Things like: what parts of the dialogue need work? What works in there? What doesn't? You get the clue. I have plans to keep going on this. We'll see how it goes. I think it could turn into something nice, if not something more nice, or better, than what's here now. "Wilt" I ?She walks on over--flowers?re in her hair, wavering in the moonlight.? ?Daddy, what kind of flowers are they? Are they pretty flowers?? ?Yes. Pretty flowers.? ?I like pretty flowers.? ?I do too. So where were we? Ah. Yes. The moonlight on her, flowers wavering.? ?Daddy, what color are the pretty flowers?? ?In the moonlight they look a pale, dark red.? ?Red?s a pretty color. The prettiest, daddy.? ?I know. Now honey, you?re going to have to quit interrupting daddy. Or else he can?t tell the story. OK?? ?OK daddy.? ?Her face is right in the moonlight, the light on it. She has beautiful quaint little lips. Round, sphere eyes, glimmering in the light, green. One of the flowers is falling from her hair, it rolls down, hangs like a bang. Then falls--to the ground. It blows over to me. I pick it up. I still stare into those eyes. She has eyes just like you. Green and round--you?ve got her eyes.? ?You aren?t kidding daddy? Do I really have her eyes?? ?Yeah, you do. You?ve got her eyes. Now--I?ve still got the flower, it?s over here, in the back somewhere. Hold on while daddy goes and gets it, OK honey?? ?OK.? ?Ah--here it is. Let?s look at it. What does it look like to you, honey?? ?It looks old. And it?s not too green. It?s not too red. Daddy, what?s wrong with it?? ?That?s because it?s wilted. You don?t know what wilted is, do you?? ?No I don?t. What?s ?wilted??? ?It means the flower?s dead. You see how it?s drooped over like this, how it?s lost most of its color? How it?s not too green--how it doesn?t look alive?? ?I do.? ?That?s what--this is what wilted looks like. It looks dead.? ?Oh.? ?I will still keep this flower forever.? ?Why daddy? It?s icky.? ?Because it?s all I?ve got left.? ?Left of what?? ?Your mother. This flower?s a lot like your mother. Your mother?s wilted and not too green, just like this flower. Your mother?s wilted.? ?I see, daddy. Daddy, why are you sad? Wilting?s not too bad. I think this flower?s still beautiful.? ?Oh, daddy?s just remembering mother. Should I go on with the story, you think? Or did you want to look at the flower a little longer?? ?You can go on with the story. Daddy, just don?t be sad. I don?t like you sad.? ?It?s OK. I?ll get over it. Here, let me put the flower back. It?s bad memories. I want to remember the good memories.? ?OK.? ?All right. It?s back where it was. Now, back to mother. It was there, in the moonlight, I first met her. It was like we were meant to meet at that moment in time. I felt the flower hit my leg--ever so gently--and I picked it up, looked at the flower. I held it up to my face and smelled it.? ?And what did it smell like, daddy?? ?It smelled like flowers do--pretty and nice, sweet but bitter, tasty but missing.? ?That sounds like a good smell. I wish I could smell that smell.? ?Maybe someday you will, honey. I?m sure you will.? ?Do you think so, daddy?? ?I do. I?m sure you will. And when you do it, I?m sure you?ll feel something like what I felt. Because when I was smelling the flower, I pulled it from my face a bit--I could still see it in my line of vision--and there she was, there was your mother. I saw her and the flower at the same time, it was almost like she was the flower. The pretty eyes, the petite face, the flowers in her hair, the wind blowing it all around. There she was. ? ?She sounds pretty daddy. I wish I could see her.? ?I wish I could too.? ?So what happened next? Did you go over to mommy?? ?Yes, I did. At first, I just sat and stared at mommy. Her beauty was so striking, I was scared to go over to her.? ?You shouldn?t?ve been afraid, I?m sure mommy didn?t care she was beautiful and thought you were.? ?Maybe. But daddy was still scared. I did walk over to her eventually. I talked to her a bit. I said to her, ?Is this your flower?? and she looked at me, with this smile--it was there and it wasn?t--it was a genuine smile--and she said, ?Yes. Yes, it is.? I asked her, then, if she wanted it back. The same smile, only this time I could see her teeth a bit. White teeth, even whiter in the moonlight. ?No,? is what she said. ?You can keep it.? And so I?ve kept it ever since. I told her, ?Thank you,? and stood there looking at her a while longer. We got to talking about more things, and the more we got to talking, the more beautiful she got. I liked her voice, it was a sweet voice. Her voice--it reminds me of your voice. You?re so much like your mommy.? ?Why is it making you sad daddy? Aren?t you happy I sound like mommy?? ?No honey, it?s not that. It?s not you. It?s just. . .it?s just daddy misses mommy.? ?I miss mommy too, and I never even met her.? ?Oh, I know. It?s OK. Maybe when you wilt you?ll meet mommy too.? ?I?d like that.? ?I?d like that too. We?ll see if it happens. So, back to the first time I met her. After we talked a while, I kissed her on the cheek--she asked me to. I kissed her like this.? ?That?s a nice kiss, daddy.? ?Sure is. It was pretty late then, too. And I asked her, ?Do you want a ride home?? and she said ?Sure.? So I gave her a ride home--dropped her off. And that?s the end of that story.? ?That was a nice story, daddy I liked it more than the ones in books.? ?I?m glad you like daddy?s story. But now, it?s time for all the little girls in the world to sleep. Don?t you think so?? ?Yes daddy.? ?Do you want your night light on, honey?? ?Yes daddy.? ?OK. I?m going to go now then. Daddy?s got work in the morning.? ?OK daddy. But wait.? ?Yes?? ?Don?t be sad. I can see it in your eyes.? ?I don?t think daddy can help it.? ?But daddy shouldn?t be sad.? ?Why do you think he shouldn?t be sad?? ?Because he has his memories of mommy. And spent times with her.? ?Oh, I know. You?re right, honey. Now, daddy?s got to go to sleep. I?m going to shut off the light.? ?OK daddy. Goodnight.? ?Goodnight.?