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This is daily thinking, daily inventing, and fictional stories to share through blogging. |
| "What shall be known onto us humans when the time arrives for us to divide and stretch our lemon heads towards a greater future?" |
| When the Father annihilates the human race, I shall endow greater esteem with the grandest individual known to humankind. The burden of sacked intrigue blesses those who come in the name of Jesus Christ, forever concerned and available to the massacres that shall tower above the seas gaze. The heavens annihilate the treasures of the earth, suffice to believe in the treasures lost, humanity throws their arms up, and says, “Save us!” But God looks down from His mountain tower and responds, “You had your chance!” The curse of humanity drags down the individual with breathing qualities nonstop forced field destruction. I am jealous of men who care for women, dressed in black or treasurable appearance. Why do I confess jealousy among the tombstones of death? Transfer me a woman, who does invade and becomes obsessed with me, loved, and understands the basics contents that dress me in appearance, too, advanced through peaceful mental cross execution. I shall divide the nations, create sardonic love, and confess nameless sins throughout the highest fortressed world. I crafted a dream, lucid sin belonging to me, and I dressed in attire meant for small vessels chanced, blessed over a body of journey, and mastered clause, I expected friends to arrive, which did occur. The friends dressed in black and several women were astounded with our group, advanced in joining, and I fell in love for a desperate woman, lost, terribly chanced in this world with self-destructive introductions and passing events. White hair on a woman aged twenty, blessed in the name of severance, causality promising her entire life to devastation through her counteractions with humanity. Yet, she demanded hate towards me with chaotic entrances. This woman with white-silver hair loves attention to the astounding proximity of doing destructive deeds to advance to a man, comforted, but ruining the relations with her attitude and undesirable personality, which is definite destruction onto me, knowing that she is beautiful, that I can handle and endure most concerning is the word of God. Dreams that pass through the vented tunnel suffocated with fog deepens in curiosity and density, allowing passage within, trek across the dead, and someday, the promise shall be made true upon awakening. In all the authorized courses, to the conclusion of the magnificent dream, I awoke questioning the imagination, answering the intent, allowing rational thoughts to progress without digression or repulsiveness. I love destructive women, I concluded. “I love their appearance, their personalities, and the educational wisdom their hearts do contain. I wonder if I’ll ever maintain a relationship with someone who cares little about most but depends on loving onto me, without argument, though she tries and attempts to conclude argued understanding. “Doesn’t she appear with the same exactness, but to a facial difference, like Victoria Peacock, a woman I believed in, tried to attend, and loved? Now, without destruction, I become riddled like the end of a stressed rattlesnake, in wonder, “How can I aid to find a woman again?” “Those humans must respect me for the questions and answers detailed in conclusion. I remember those women, those dancers, those child molesters, the confinement their hearts did invent. I command darkness and complete and absolute chaos without the mattered element of personality.” |
| “Lord, whatever You ask, I want to obey you, let my heart be like a servants heart. Lord, give me courage and wisdom, Lord whatever you ask, please.” I refuse to reward myself for wanting to change, but I admit, I love to change, each daily living prospect. The medication has sufficiently conversed with terrible notions, clearly blaming me for the drug intake, which infiltrates prognosis, belonging, belonging, in the darkness that pounces from the nurses' rhyme. |
| What a different sound produced in the inner ear, congratulating the formations of concrete imagination. What more can become sufficient for interaction with humans? If there are people who become depressed because their minds can not endure the hindrance of drugs, illegal substances, or the contractions that cultivate from the intake of chemicals, I do not exceed my hand out for them, for this is the qualified reason for druggies to appease their appetite with stupidity. Worse are the drug dealers, the scum of confine in themselves to allow inhospitable efficacious positive life through the sedative effects of prominent drugs, plants, and the chemicals therefore asunder in the plants. I do not exceed further implications unless the narcotics needed are basic, controlled, and available to heal the mortal body, eternal soul, and everlasting mind, sometimes I wonder, maybe even the defiance of the spirit! I will never, no, not once, have an appearance with druggies, or drug dealers, as this concurs the beliefs of reminiscent stupidity that propagates itself into the insanity that not one man has heard, nor will attend, and lusted obsession until the human mind can handle not one more inch of imaginative thinking. Do not become consumed, not like the eternal fire, flickering in the darkness, while the fire might make reflective light it casts its central death onto the night should shadows be concerned, which become accumulated to flames, for even love consumes the outlined shadows in the pertaining darkness of the lesser light of day. “What nonsense of digression and separation when two characters are meant for the opposite attraction and become united only to be separated, again. Towards what separate end but depression wondering if humanity will transform into defiant and resilient knowing that they shall never attend such miracles? Allow the main characters to destroy the human race cause the planet earth to become dulled into rugged rock and concrete, like burning glass. The humans had their opportunity those fat mouthed liberals, cotton spoke particles, and mentoring rapers do testify their deeds as if they had an excuse, or that raping little children, men, women, and homosexual defense were considered righteousness, rather than a demoralizing superiority complex that beckons the question, “humans are abominations, aren’t they?” |
| “Indeed, the truth comes out from the mouth of a liars bowl of flies, countering the factual with evidence more precise and of an exactness more perfect upon linear lines. Regular deformations do not exalt the current leaders in this terrible, almost completely lost and forgotten world named Earth, but as I mention the trust invigorating like a cancer cell, I become naturally inept to the formations of life. “He who is made appropriate cancels himself to the dedication of a woman's heart, which is void and clueless, almost the outreaching portions of naive or baseless accusations do pretend to harm her, almost casually.” “The coffee is ready, dear,” she aims towards the coffee machine, lit with a reddened orange light, occupies the coffee holder, and pours coffee into her cup. I am amazed at her technique as she obtains closure to the fashioned liquids falling into the cup with miraculous intentions does excite me with internal compensation. “Would you like some? I can make it?” “Does a man understand his dreams, correlated with desire, and the compassion to build rooms without fail? A friend of mine is under the whelming construction of terrible ideas and masterclass divine unbelief that is unreconstructed but matured in a different mindset. What is the reason for life when others die, such as friends, or become estranged from the individual with the evil contractions to believe in nothingness? The promise to combat desertion and surmises to become strange is not the factions compelled? Membranes of thoughts congratulate the brain to pass chemicals into a different location without the maintained balance to signal. “What a heavy day, signaling the thoughts that pasture through the high hills, burdening the heat from the summer sun, sunshine bloating like conceived understanding that propels men into the future events, catastrophic undertones activated, or sometimes inactive.” I mistook her trust for something more vibrant, almost correct in her inventive mind, as she does think more about humanity rather than herself. Comforted with desire and messages to obliterate the incoming transportations of human souls, I began to think to myself, why would someone want not to harm a murderous human intellect? I asked Trisha once, “if our mother was dissuaded from the earth, crying from the soils in blood, what would you possibly do?” she answered me, saying, “I’d forgive the murderous butt-head.” What exampled me into a fiery rage wasn’t her naive composure, but the abstract motioning of her mouth gestured in a smile. “I would like some coffee,” I said, leaning back in my comfortable chair bought at a particularly fascinating store out on the bends of the surrounding Houston area. We had been skimming for pieces of furnishings all about the Texas edge, into the mainland, elevations broad in San Antonio. We were riding towards the more luxurious bends of the earth, figuring things out, and got to a mild secular store. I laid eyes on a fascinating piece of sitting furniture, which we added into our current wallets, pasturing back home to our same mission. Darkened and dredged were the clouds, pestering the blue skies above them, clouded like mist. Dawn Rathkamp, our small timeless intention of seed, thought with curiousness that their definition and astral constructive formations were “ice-cream buds” lingering in the middle summer setting, which I couldn’t help but think of Hemingway when my daughter initiated those words. |
| You wouldn’t believe me should I describe how I murdered a woman with a full-blasted revolver, eh? Of course, the mature audience, or the reader, does captivate his unconsciousness for relation to such inquiries. But, what can be done when the unconsciousness controls man’s emotions immeasurable? My personal life is devastated to a complete numbskull thinking pattern, resembling the maturity of a twelve-year-old child, bored with deliberate intentions, considering the past, building strongholds made of human flesh to compute ideas and structured stories without resemblance to who and what he demands himself to appropriate among society. The dealing hands shuffled, the cards placed, all meaningful in their strange dilemma that occupies the preoccupied mind, spirit, soul, and body. What can execute for a hopeless love machine such as I, determined to love humanity, women, and the countenance of God? Breathing, talking, and shuffling hands, shaking fists, and mourning crucified photos of the late January cold, belonging, like branched trees in winter, depressed light from the sun blames the branches, and creates a scenic value of curiosity and promise, never-ending. I assemble my team with passive thoughts and wonder with arid depravity why I continue to ramble, ramble, and rumble the fruits that beckon me to excite? Life is meaningful, there is hope, and we entrust that hope into the performance God entertains! Who accomplished the devastation of death when its hands close in, concerned and called? My anxiety perpetuates abundantly, confusing and demoralizing me with the voice of Trisha, continual, unforgiving! She blames me for her creation. I portray an entertainer, massacring the ideas; concepts of human ancestry. Again and again, never satisfied until I loom the mental illness with compassion and determination, strong-willed and proportionate to dissociate the ailment. This damned disease never ceases to amaze me with its stupidity, moronic envisioned possibility. Echoes of fortunate time corrects and finds me accepting mistakes, knowing the difference between a bug, a swatter, and the hand that judges the context allowed. I continue to pray, asking God for hope, achievement in life, and a successful life away from worrying thoughts and negative strongholds built up and up through the never-ending skies, changing constant colors, without appropriate demise. “And still I reside here on earth, but the matter is concerning me. Why does God command me to live in a place of looming dread? I am not competent of God’s capacity for pain and torment, or am I? I say again, “don’t pass life by with a mere doubting mind. The world has enough troubles as is; what more to think about tomorrow, rather than the thinking passing days compassed before us?” “God,” I ask, “What do I do in this world and that which I am skilled? Will I ever know, and will I be successful with said such skill? Is it the appreciation for literature, the true classics, or the barred hatred for authors of modern authority? Companions of disdain and inappropriate singing? Someone aid me that I find and discover the truth behind the mattered world. It’s lies astound the greater extensive trust I have with the ruins labeled across the arid deserts, companions to desertion, and lissome contractions to destruction. I acknowledge the mature concept tranced with words signifying predated eternal life through Jesus Christ. I breathed softly, extended the borders of the mind, and said with astonishment indebted, “So much coffee and time, do I not treasure the caffeine without the disorder, but the mind possesses textured rituals, and I abide with idleness to escort me in the dreaded pandering that sedates me, become esteemed to resemble? What must I attend to construct? What shall I do in time?” I want the compassion to love, the kindness to chance, and the tenderness to return wellness for the livable expense. “What manner of music does invite the listener to the inventiveness of a Creator who demands us to love, not by repercussions, not by forced entry, but onto the fortress of desire, confession, and the magnificence of love for other humans, no matter how contrived these beings do request.” I pressure a forefinger over the birded bridge command, wondering how astounding the music laid wastes to the desires and tolerant control that mutates into steadfast control. I continued to express, saying, “How can I possibly absolve humans for what has happened to me? Can I forgive myself, too, in the abundance of faith?” “What reason do I attend to interact with video games for the sake of desire?” I questioned the desires sparking in my mind, constant reprisals of differing trusts and faiths that protrude from the intellect like a blistering mole on the forehead, begging for natural reconnects, the horrible, most awful conviction that man can achieve, alone. Maria does invade the proportionate mind with natural occurrences, predated to the presence of lit-up cigarettes and slender views of bodies, ours. She adjourns a cigarette between her fingers, compelling me to listen to her contrive to understand that bases love and astonishment, similar to the manufactured false emotions that demand me to represent onto humanity. These humans continue to watch and view me, waiting for me to “let up” or “screw up” to the point they can shoot the afterlife, the difference being that I would become foolish but reminded of trust to the Christ, none onto others. Too abundant the amount of love confessed, therefore I maintain with the God who loves me, cares, and wants me to be successful. I command myself to bring the harbinger who states his accompanied compassion. All I confess throughout the entire document is this, “What can man accomplish when the heart of Christ Jesus remains in his mind?” “Pretend I don’t exist then,” Said she, cornering her cigarette over the mounted mouth. “You don’t have a clue,” she said, as she shook her dominant head, the black hair dressed in converse understood basics, short. “You wouldn’t mind me killing someone, but when it comes to that thing over there,” she directed, “what am I assumed to believe?” “What kind of question is that, saying I don’t misinterpret humanity? I treasure humans, but I also fucking detest them.” “You like to bury your thoughts and never let them resurrect, am I right?” she crossed her arms, her behind laying against the front of her black mustang from the managed past. She adorned a black colored sleeveless shirt, which populated the darkness to the proportionate understanding that her favorite color, in all cases troubled, is obtainable to the knowing of shadowed understood conception. I lit the hand-made cigarette I made earlier in the day, “You know, Maria, that that isn’t true. Don’t make accusations that don’t make sense. You want me; I want you,” I said, breathing in the toxic comfort. “Don’t make it something more troubled or currently investing. You can’t do it, you know?” “Some would tell me, “I want flesh, not spirit. What do I tell them in response?” Maria said. I answered her within the measure of the Holy Spirit, and he said, “What manner of thinking does persuade a human to choose his life’s teachings, behind the natural love of other humans, human-on-human contact, or the spirit of God, which shows the real world? The fallen distortions never compromised even onto human love.” “Human passion?” she said, in the sense of a question. “Like sexual love, or mother and son love, or the kind of love that condemns?” Maria said, brisking a cigarette intake, which she jerked and coughed, three times in successive order. “Hold on,” she stammered, “I think I need some water.” “Here, have the rest,” I handed her an original tasting Monster fountain drink, which she inclined to accept. “You’ll have what is needed, but more so onto what we were talking about; I believe the human on human love can be much of all things, besides the love of the Lord Jesus Christ. You know, yesterday, I wondered to myself, “how did Jesus not masturbate?” and I calculated with outlined context, which Maria instructed I refuse. “I don’t condemn love,” she replied, terse and firm. “You can’t make me believe in something I can’t see.” “You are weak, then! Oh, how far the weak have come, to know the meaning behind strength, and lavish with the tones and strengths foreboding in natural light!” “What are you talking about?” “Humans have such pride, don’t they?” I flicked the cigarette I was smoking to the side, nearest the corner of the parking lot we stationed the vehicle on. “You can’t challenge yourself unless you profess your faith to other humans, and excellent intentions are made clear. I continued to a conclusion, "Do not throw it away, Maria. I know you blame God for everything, but do not, it is not the truth.” “How would you know what I’ve been through, huh?” Maria shook her head, arms tense as she held them at the biceps. “You wouldn’t know a damn thing...you can’t know...it’s not...viable.” “Viable? What a word that is!” “Indeed, what can become counted to our conversation is little but short conversing of topics like "how we are doing?" in the purest sense, factual and dated in the record. Where was I during this time, swinging on the platted seats, morose like a child, dearest to the wind, shuffled winter cold, and memories belonging like fine wine dismounted from the cellar of the mansion, as seen in movies, or countered encounters lesser-known. Therefore, I mentioned the accident, when she fell down her stairs after tripping on a small children’s toy that resembled a kart with wheels, model corrosion had started to deteriorate the fashionable, attractive colors. The small item had concealed itself under the shadowed floorboard, blending in with its surroundings, she did not realize her error until the fall had countered, in which she attempted to stand back up while she fell, her bones matured, and her head measured minuscule, the inclusion of wounds. “But I lived. Tommy wasn’t maintaining it that night. I told him to pick up his toys, place them in the treasure chest, that’s his toy chest, and find himself walking down the stairs. The next thing I find is Tommy standing over me when I noticed my son at the bottom of the stairs; Tommy was watching me." "I don’t know what kind of face he had on while I was falling, but I reached mid-way until he ran to me, climbing the stairs as fast as possible, saying, “mommy! mommy!” I still hear the edge of his voice shaking.” “That is mostly because of the toy, do you remember?” “Do I remember?” she asked herself more than me. “I remember a loud bang, both ears popped, and I was becoming fudged, but I quickly gained my senses. I got mad at Tommy, but I don’t know why I became so pensive.” “You sound like a good person that had finally had enough with your son’s behavior of leaving things around. I think that is how it is.” “You’d be wrong.” “I am?” I reached for my mouth, shielding it, then thinking a cigarette was in the corner of the mouth. “That is insane.” “You’re insane,” she coyly; smiled, staring. “You wouldn’t know pain, would you?” I scoffed, chuckled like a child congratulated for his correct answer, “You mind taking me away from here?” “I’d try if you’d let me.” “Then I’ll let you try…” we agreed, made demands, and counted our footsteps back inside the Mustang, blackened like the devil’s transportation. I settled in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel with a firmness not felt before. It was a cold hardened winter, and I was mustering the ideas of sensual identification. |
| The possibility extracts exceptions, granted daily living that live like the air continue passing like chaff in the corrupted wind. Never understanding, but directly interested in the human race with flaws that expedite and success that treasures the flame, the wind blows them all with a strengthened funnel, but memories completed within measure. The unbendable fixed measure of dreams has invested time and counted the passing reluctance, naturally fixated on the fortunes of these dreams, I did vision, but I became commandeered with sound ideas to wonderment! The measuring stick in human concept decided the continual flying passion, thinking, “What can be done for this man in his fathomed dreams?” and still, without concerning countenance, I say, “Blessed be the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” I dreamed of a man, someone who decides the fates of those who are cosmic beasts or monsters in blackened trench coats, snaring in a constant retrial for the cigarette located on the corner of their mouth. I do wonder in amazement, “whose command does invite trust without measure or defined corruption, dedicated to love?” The conversations I indebted to understand did not cross with ideals but with measured hatred towards me that could conclude life in a mere fashioned second. The man in the dream liked me, demanded we understand our hearts, our continual love for God, and the command for hatred to humanity's deformed existence. And I wondered with amazement, the advanced love he had for humankind, dancing in the favorable sands of echoed passed chance, forever concerned in love. The man I describe and I smoked our small white cigarettes to the keenest end, and dash the smoke from our comforting mouths like chaff, and disabled the emotional destruction, the irreversible pain, and constant insufferable sufficiency to believe in our trek, and we belonged to the correction of the thunderous world. The endless mind has endured and advanced into itself; compassion has endured the mindless irresponsible thoughts that pass never concerned, nor ending in bellowed judgment but through the Christ who demands the traveled little demon to remain where he stands in content, constant in diverse understood basics. The nightmare progresses forwards with his feet after several conversations inducted with himself, stable and reprised to walk the endless deserts where clouds do not partake in understanding the image of the heavens. “You want to eat something? I can cook some eggs or something, I suppose?” Trisha’s head continued to move as if she were attached to a torso, labeled on her fleshed slender shoulders. “Well?” she asked in counted understood withstood breath. I shuffled towards her, drenched both hands over her forehead, and said, “do not confess death onto me until the time comes for me to add into the Paradise Christ promised.” The words she commented, “I will never leave or forsake you,” quoted the terms of Jesus Christ, our Lord. Jesus reassured and still reassures the faith, the understood love, and the infinite forgiveness to annihilate all lingering, almost creeping nautches of death and absolute contained destruction launched righteousness somewhat attacked and defended, rather than the formidable negative influences conducted since the congressional childhood retorted. I structured a kiss and placed them on her lips. She suckled them as an infant does with the mother’s breasts for nutrients. I moved between the air and said, “I will not forsake you, either, Trisha, but I must not communicate with the imagination unless the stories are brought forth on written sheets, onto trees, and the formidable forests on the mislocated earth.” “That’ll do,” Trisha answered, and we comforted our hearts with deepened love, which satisfied the incoming torrents of understood constructive love, the human love that we all desire in a companion, or a beloved truth that sustains from the extracted memories of the past thoughts; indecisive little things. I contained more sentences on the sheet of digital paper, compromised within the computer screen, labeled in the storage drive, and I wrote: “Beloved is the woman, awhile, the central lover is the man. Husband and wife content to understand, without absolute manners or distorted directions, we channel our feet forth on the narrow path routed in our continual existence to pass forwards towards the absolution predominated since ancient cries and memories, when the wind demanded attention and the foundations planted the earth with trees from seeds and growth bounded in heretical answers! Domination of the world interlopes congressional thinking patterns, defiant and obtuse in nature calls.” I wrote forth demanding results, and said with the written words I sentenced into formative information: “Whose demand conquers the world, giving all the treasures within it to satisfy the human context that brings forth desire, disdain, and the pouncing tigers claws to extract blood, which is human, over the crossing decades to come?” With fondness in working, Trisha opened the letter, danced about the room with the content of a gentle Italian waltz, and read the paper, seizing the importunity to praise me, she said, “This is wonderful, you should attempt writing fictional stories if that’s what is viable for you.” I agreed, nodding my head, crossing my arms over my chest, adequately understanding the berating tone to a beating sound natured as the heart mustered silence as the eternal flame condensed into smaller elements. Trisha handed me the offered love she disabled her vessel to content with under surveillance. She obtained her hand, stretched her arms towards me and held me, held me, wrapped me into shared fleshed unification. We became one flesh, united, hands connected into sexual and sensual understood love. “Forgive us, Father in Heaven, that I might not die or become afraid of this woman. Please, offer us merciful blessings!” “You are beautiful, dearest lover,” Trisha said, authentic emotion that did desire me. “Don’t tell me that when that’s what those people want us to think,” I hushed into her ear, where she leaned forwards, biting the rum-bottom of the ear that associated with my head, extracted small sufferable intentions, she whispered into mine, “Let’s make love in the entertainment these men and women want us to include in their data?” “I don’t want to be a puppet,” I answered. She shook her head and said, “We are the children of God!” “I know things that shouldn’t become conferred in the natural sense,” I said, with consciousness bearing the fruit of human will. I breathed deeper, passion inducted. “Someone could kill me, murder us, and discuss God’s will in their vision, unable to understand the true will of our Savior and Master, our friend, our best friend in all sense. There is no escape where I can’t find the lock and break it. But, I wonder, what will become of us when we are found and discovered, sued into the judgment that secludes our lives with content and masterful happiness? Is it not enough? What matter does continue in the passage of the human time we have created?” "What case scenario does invade our minds with their intellect the studies continue to frustrate me." I lashed out, turned from the woman I desired, and functioned the vision I maintained to the cameras dedicated to our small flat room with cushions forced into the interior with white blankets of comfortable intake. "Foolish humans do not contain or understand the concepts that contend the desire. I denied there be undersized ruins in this world, and their hearts did seek, knock on doors, and wonder what reason it would not receive them, let alone open! What sort of communication is required for their intellect to become minuscular and definitive in stupidity?" “Be stable,” she said in her comfortable voice. We both understood the meaning behind our words, contained, and the evidence does persuade me to continue. “Remain calm! We can have a friend in here with us, should we endure this possibility to the final thoughts getting our heads into the vice.” “I’ll attempt frustration, minded with hate, and addled with love that commands legions to enter the seas, with or without course due to affection for humankind.” As time continued within the measure of our human interaction, within the mother, I birthed those children which, I demanded I decide the choice of reasoning and reality for the sake of reasoning dreams to a conclusion. Does she invade me with her confidential, more secure dedication, with those stunted hairlines between the walls of her vagina entrance does sedate against the formative walled cock erected, as we became union! Warm and filled with desire, we contained our love and made entertainment, for the turtle sweater neck, the intellect of humankind with the dedication sufficient in our eternal passion for our promise to one another contained in the ever membranes memories of human love. Who could resist masturbating at the entertainment we created, but we shared our tenderness in secret with our delicate answer to the opposites name, called out from the stuttering mouths, quenched with sweet tongues, detailed with pronounced understanding, reproducing; mild devouring soul, spirit, and body. As we laid on the bed comforter, we held each other like tangled vines and talked about the mature and immature traditions I over encumber with this life, burden onto suffice endurance. Trisha was the first to speak a word, saying, “You can be such a small child, in attitude, confidence, and even in the appearance of such delicate matters. You are a child in the name of God, but do not act like a brat that defines his logic with unfairness and bothersome emotion. You can achieve more lavish, more substantial attributes, instead of childless, which none are viable to understand in mere decades, stranded in seconds their attitude makes a situation concerned. |
| What a demanding trust I have offered onto humans without a delicate balance of natural cause to insinuate their entire confidence onto me, like that of a child towards their mother at short earnest age. “What can be accomplished, mom? If one believes in himself and onto that which God is working miracles and positive influence in our lives?” “Then one must praise the Almighty God that demands us to love our neighbors, and find justified reasoning in those who commit destruction in their own lives and that of those their lives harm.” “But, mother, what reason do men hate each other that this seems almost impossible in the aspect of human involvement degrading interests has always prompted mankind to abound themselves in leeched theories and mediocre control.” The mother looked below her chest at the diminutive child, her son of blood and vessels opportune. “You must continue to love all abominations and all sinners, for we too were once unsaved, becoming like the dead, until Jesus Christ came about and allowed ourselves to follow Him into the unknown. What a life, indeed, isn’t it, Mattheus?” The child, feeling his mother’s quiet love and admiration, shuffled his feet and stammered into her arms, beneath her chest, suckled in her breasts. “Mother, I do aid that I become like God, and come to realize the positive things in this life, and remark on them, not with negative influence, but onto personified trust and balance.” “In other words, desire Peace, and all shall be made known.” “Those humans scare me, mother.” “What do we say to fear, my child?” “That through Jesus Christ, anything is possible, which strengthens me.” “And…?” she tilted her head. “And, that if God is for us, who can be against us?” She smiled thus; Mattheus smiled in answer to her facial gesture. “You are a brilliant little one someday who will be much taller than your earthly father.” “Dad?” “Indeed, do not worry, for the day has enough trouble. What can man do to achieve more days to his life?” Mattheus cuddled close to his mother, Trisha, and belonged to her slender frame; her hourglass torso shaped the comfortable interests of her child’s behavior. “You will be released soon in the power of God’s domain. Do not fret, little one.” Mattheus looked into his mother’s eyes, noticing purple hesitating in the outer circular vision of her magical gaze. “I love you, most sincerely, mother.” Trisha leaned inwards, snuggled his nose, and said with opportune guessing, “It’s almost time for bed. How about you go brush your teeth after dinner eaten and in that small tummy?” Mattheus looked around the house, his vision blinked, and he noticed darkness befallen onto the outside world. “Lights will need to be performed into existence tonight,” he said. He continued after a brief pause and said, “I can’t wait until the time comes; when all finished when all have resurrected and believed onto the Son of God. When the time creates eternal life in Paradise, continued.” --- As I lay on the bed, beside the woman I treasured and praised with consistent trust, I answered her with an almost exotic chance at heightened relief. “This is the belief I have instilled into the heart of our child. He demands we love each other, or that he become graced with love that all possible things are available that which is coincided with the will of the Almighty God, our Creator.” “Now, we must enter onto slumber, love.” “Indeed, beloved,” I answered and, she cuddled with me; we entered onto our vows and commuted to ask of them each night as the darkness laid out in our view. I repeated words with the conclusion of each sentence with good kisses, all about her vessel, white and vibrant with sensual abilities. I cradled her, she breathed, and I kissed her more so deflate. “I love thee more than I love the wired writing that condemns me into obsession,” I would state and conclude with a kiss on her white skin. “I love thee more than the appetite of food that is delicious without the honor of contorted control,” once more, with more emotion indebted into the kiss. “You love me so…?” Trisha said, building her confidence. And I answered in agreement; she rolled her tongue and lowered into the musical concert of our abilities and faith. Different life does conclude with our mutual agreements. “I love thee, as well, forever.” As I entered the darkened slumber, the thoughts I forced to remain outwards remained still. The darkness coincided with tremors of echoed memories lost in the deserted lands of arid nations. I wondered in some sense of the word, “How hopeful to know the moring arrives shorter than the night.” I continued to dream of Trisha holding our child, comfortable, measured in beautiful traits and genes, most advisable to her beauty remained the constant reprisal of her faith directed in order and law towards that of herself, and which she received; even in the direction of dreams crucible to the central mission in our lives. “How simple it is,” I started to tell in the dream as roads measured in constant rebuilt fashioned intricate love from the hands of the dreamers, “to flabbergast the entire crew without a measure of containment, all the while spending time with the written word of God and commending the artistic vision of the Spirit.” --- The final countdown started as we entered our symbolic dreams of romance and childish endeavors made clear since the dawn of our mission on the earth. Dread has entered our hearts in enduring remission that settled and deepened without judgmental confusion to sedate and shut off our breath within our devoured constant reprise. Venetians continued to ask, “What can we do?” while Serial maintained his posture, thinking about the romantic involvement with Lilith, perhaps; but Serial seemed seamed in a ball and chain, connected like some pessimistic narcissist who panders to the poor, demanding that he trick the users of the blackened culture. And whose culture is more detestable than the Pride Pirates that function without primitive resolutions? |
| I am tired. The whole world is tiring me constant berated love towards the human world is dissuading the abilities I have come to understand, issued from God, contain these thoughts, and progress them further down the line. “Indeed, verily, I am exhausted from the nighttime, the darkness that blackens the film, converses without genuine opinions, and dismantles the production epidemic that surfaces across the national-international statehood we consider the world. “What would mankind do without God in his heart?” I think, therefore trust, I have entangled pressures me into boundless love, and understanding the basic rule to that question; should have God disbanded from us and started over, leaving us to morph into beings unknown to the world, we should become like fish or detailed hatred at one another that is more forced than needed in opportune classification. Do not resent me this idea because I have understood the plans and schemes chaffed into the air, like brittle wood staking the fire cross over the landed surface. I am Exhausted but maintained and knowing that through Jesus Christ, I can continue on-wards without detention of hatred to the written form of writing and the tiptoed all together formations of sentence after sentence, becomes contracted with desire. “What does one dream when he rests in slumbered peace?” I wonder, complaining about how I do not interpret dreams, nor have them in constant jangle with a brown paper bag, noticing the challenge before me. I staunch forwards, lean an arm into the opened stung package, and lift out several opportune love handles that measure the compassion labeled before men and women of all nature. “I do not want to write, nor have the desire to compose at the current wave of emotion settled like breastfeeding, the child desires the breast, but the milk is the substance that maintains life; what comes out of the mouth is sickness, but what goes into the mouth is an alliance. The woman in the white dress, lingering the edges to the ground floor, witnessing bald feet without shoes or socks, does watch me from the windows, converses with me, dresses me each time I awake, and finds fault and function in these hands of mine that represent the work I have maintained and issued throughout the past, present, and Things To Come. But what reason does she hold a knife so close to her thigh? Morning is on route to the skies, to the earth, and to all the creatures that reside underneath the heavens. I wonder who’ll become surrendered to the darkness when all is said and done? The compromise I have with God is completed; I shall treasure each moment that reassures itself into the functional working environment. I desire a mission in life, rather than hoping for success in the written values of these words, pretense and valuable it might be towards some, but most would consider these words natural, almost influential to their barren heart filled with the warmth and comfortable issued blood that resonates about the chambers of the heart. Does she want to take my head and show the children our devastation? The woman, she is a woman, isn’t she? Overwhelmed black hair astounds her whole head in circumference, length, and diameter. Her head of hair seems to float over her facial structure, seems to have a visible light of its darkness compelling me to understand necessary wind. “Writing is a foolish errand that is never complete, nor accomplished without the desire to confound the difference in stale and measured words instead; one should communicate with different and more substantial words to find dimensions unknown to the human race.” Life demands me to feel better now that the darkness has left the world; the shining light of the eternal sun does investigate these properties around me. The sunshine flares like a burning possibility at a chance of future hope, demanding that the life I lead is important, not ceased in the darkness where I can’t stand nor see where I walk, in which I stumble in the blank stare that fronts against the world. Instead, love has entered. The Scriptures are true in total truth, I believe, and thus the sentence: “In the night there be despair, but in the morning, your hope is not cut off, but reborn.” That’s how I label it in paraphrased circumstances. “Jesus,” I tell the Son of God, presumingly, “I can’t wait for the eternal light presiding and offering in the Paradise promised to us followers. You are the salvation I have sought, thus I was found in those thoughts and minds of the Almighty Loving God, the Father and the Son, and the Spirit that relies on entrance into my spirit. Thanks, Jesus Christ, or should I title the name “Yeshua?” When the music balanced the imagination with severe detail, I noticed mother beside her door, near the entrance of the mine, and she maintained the head of a creeping thing. She had the head of a mosquito, which longed with darker detail and deepened blackness and gray called call, which hair and light did protrude her existence. As I watched her, she waved one hand over her needle-like nose, and the thousand skin scanned film of her eyes did resonate with white light, finishing the imaginative frustration. I believed in death when I noticed this head, this woman, this love of mine that determines the future prospects for me, and me alone. But, she still remains alive, and I shall endure the corrosive thoughts that pasture into realities sake without numbered measures to confine and determine. Metal music endures the musical worm, sustained in the challenge without the determination to confine and obliterate. Is this the stoic icon of metal in modern music? Can I believe in the aspirations and understandings of my brother in blood? Say those words, again. I’ll detest the malfunctions humanity has endured without constant retreat, I’ll allow the human dead to walk over the border, and I’ll confess sins onto the God that determines their resurrection. Will my sins overflow, and become a tidal wave over the bodies of the dead? What is the color of sin? Does sin know the difference in colors, can sin see? “Why do you confess to die?” James Sunderland asked, his voice suspicious of the constant retrieval of answers beckoning in his jurisdiction without laments or tight-wadded plausible explanations subservient to examine. “The sunlight itself is a beginning to an ending that hasn’t become appropriate to the times, not yet anyway,” I answered. James became resilient and shivered in his long green bomber jacket, with an American heritage badge stitched to his right shoulder sleeve. “What’s the meaning behind your badge?” “This?” he said. “This is something that my grandfather once wore in the one-hundred-year war; you remember that war, not a lot of people don’t know about it.” “What are you waiting for?” the question distilled into performance after attuned performance, never abiding without concrete evidence; I asked James if I could borrow a dollar. He searched his wallet, found one, and handed it to me. “This here,” I said, stating the fortune before him, “is a compromised version of what God demands in our hearts towards the poor in life, poor in spirit, and poor in the damsel in distress.” “I don’t understand,” James said, smiling. “You mean to tell me I can do things with this dollar, but not for myself, correct?” “You have a mind to you. I like that,” I handed him the dollar, green and backed with wrinkles, and he stated that he needed to relieve himself in a restroom closest to our positioning, a couple of feet from our location. “Damn insane.” James continued to rail on-wards in his mind as he pissed about the toilet bowl contained in stress relief. “I can’t seem to think about loving that woman without having an inch to scratch beautifully, almost certainly demanding it is.” Once more, in distress, I infiltrated to become Remanent, traveled about the mall, found a remote location beside a bench, and sat in wait for mother’s arrival from her relocation in the stores she shopped about. “She can be a handful,” I wondered. The impulsive instantaneous revenue of conscious thoughts progressed against me inoffensive force. “Through Christ; anything is possible, which strengthens me.” I recited the phrase once, twice, and three times. The sentence prolonged further intentions. I was on the attempted matter of remaining positive, as long as possible, though I had upset myself in despair several times more in the after-mentioned morning. I continued to repeat the words. “Through Jesus Christ; anything is possible, which strengthens me.” over and over, like a broken record sealed in a correctly inducted thought pattern, almost like a strategic routine. I remembered in long hazy thoughts, memories some call, where I was instilled with a dedication to these words, consistent and constant to the point of remembrance through the treasured, but theorized, version of the unconsciousness. I do not relent to tell, but I do not recall times back when I was younger there is the prominence and domination of pain and suffering until I started to have suicidal thinking patterns, which were comfortable until the mind could not handle the unbearable sting of death as a neighbor. --- Battle plans have always been about coordination and rescue relief, never satisfied with the endurable endurance that pesters the ever glowing force that beckons grand schemes shall announce the probable examinations studies that prospered about the lab in mere qualities of satisfaction. One soft motion into the chin satisfied the knee-bent arm, confused and unsettled the foot spun on the high low ends of the shoe, that commanded attention to the inserted facial pressure that determined the fight. The mightier hand in the combat stance shrieked into the muscular vindication of the knuckles burst forth into the cheek, continual assault battered the opponent with direct intentions to bring the opponent into a knockout with a majestic right hook that labeled the detention of the user's abilities to remain standing in constant form. With a minor influence to create forced ambition, the prized fighter spun on his heel once more, with the leverage of the leg in approximate tender anguish, he landed another foot staged intake on the opponent, determined to kneel him to the air, swirl like a battered chatter, demanding confusion. Vincent trampled about the area, his vision punctured with each kick, his head built-in distress. But, he continued to relent. Constant battery avoided his intentions to collateral punches which he used on the minor and former wounds of the main character, whose aim does intrigue the reader more constant—the facet of time does intrigue me, continually embracing a nightly done stuck chin stretch that matured blood. What reason at all? What reason do I confess trust to these humans when I am demoralized within the treatment of the user's agenda, compromised without proper evaluation? I think of those who died in the former events of the American Dream, who are now witnessed as dedicated writers of American Culture but did not resonate well with the culture of their dominant period. What reason can I aid the survival of written works when the shorter stick is more viable than the longer; become short and sentenced without a credible voice? I am but a classical reader, and the written style is much different than the modern use of contemporary writing styles; I demise to think of Hemingway for creating such an abominable crafted venue of treasured written works. “What to achieve, indeed?” The figure of a black, muscular man made an appearance, situated in a high throne over the domain he controlled, he asked me, as I laid keeled to the floor, “What nonsense. Bring the accuser here that I might know his intellect.” At once, I commanded the legion officers to track down and eliminate the former constructive accuser, whose name is Satan, and watched as Cherubiel lowered his guard—but for a moment! “It’d be easier to shoot down the one that hurt the families reputation, wouldn’t one agree?” |
| My mind won’t cease the involvement with the mental disease. I continue to pacify the thoughts, continual inheritance to bleed out the thinking process, all without concerning damage? Indeed, there is irreparable damage included in this mindless ramble. I desire peace, settled forth in directions from a God who commands love and edifices trust with me. I can not divide the world in different directions or throw mountains in the sea, but I can make the heavens flounder with billows of black smoke. I desire the confessions of a sinner rather than one who amplifies his voice to raise concern to the world. Men, or children, appraise themselves on pedestals with the foundations of the world, with the earth in their deaden vibe. I notice evil men can smile, too, like Jesus said: “Though you are evil, he can love his children.” How do I produce the initial voice to combat the tested and true force against human nature? The desire to kill raises eyebrows; questions ponder the limitless imaginative formations buried deep within; substantial death does invite itself to the field, where I avoid striking the baseball to the area it guards. “Fight the incoming tears with peace,” I hear the God I love to say, “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” in modern terms, “love your neighbor as yourself.” “How can I when I worrisome over everything in the world? How can I with a mind like mine? I don’t mean to sound rude, or different, or dark and edged with a sword, but I sharpened my thoughts and plagued them with negative influence without saying a fucking word! It’s similar to not having a single word mentioned within the borders of the sane memories that result in false worries; in the earliest of the morning, wondering the images and the production of such images shifting into movement. The words repeat from the dream, continual, and device. Yet, I shall explain how it is. Whoever demands me dead shall instead, die and none will survive the incoming fortress of moded hate that burns like fuel onto an irresistible fire. It is relentless, inconvertible to all humankind. I recall a time, back in those horrid venues, when an English Teacher, which I will maintain his honor with decreed classification, said to me, "You can not be human if you have never thought about beating the living shit out of someone." Father in Heaven, do I not ask for healing? Do I not tell that I believe because of what the Son has done? Does One not supply me like the promise stated in Scripture; confidence to combat the world? Must I have a well-natured reason for these mental scars and wounds that refuse to appease healing attributes? What the fuck am I doing here? I want the humans all dead, conversing in their dead languages and still tongues as if in frostbitten substance. Must I be mute sounded involved in this amusement? I want death onto the world, but still, I am submitted to pain and suffering to advance these thoughts. "Father in Heaven, what reason do I contend with such terrible imagery that passes as reality at times left undone, caught off guard, and belittled with human voice?” I refuse the desire to kill or maim the fortune of others, but sometimes I come to wonder, "how can this be acceptable this far into the nation?" I await the answer with some motioning works to sedate the violence striking against my feelings and emotions boiling in a tempered pot, unable to release unshakable vacuums. In the total truth, I do not want to kill, but something inside me continues towards embarking treks across domains of ill thinking and, I am the suspect behind each murder that occurs within the membrane confusion settled as chemical imbalances. Dare I tell; Trisha has sent rude love, submitted to Sheol, I have been the judge of her departure. Now, I talk with memories, a walking ghost that doesn’t apprehend the meaning of death, for how can she, she doesn’t exist? I awoke in the morning to feel better, to think more advanced, but now I know I can’t escape this mental illness no matter what conduct of thinking processing I achieve, nor its predecessor, the mind, does invade the opportune moments that I can achieve within reasonable doubt the awesomeness in the Glorious version of God’s Creation. I don’t want to live forever, more so in the intolerable suffering that shows; I follow cancer and build more bile; I embrace the long sleep, will I continue to dream like a slumber well worth the wait within the boundaries of narrow roads and to a small hut beside a flowing river? I will abide to know that I am contemplating to know that Christ Jesus has saved me from the torments of insufferable devastation and destruction that mounts like the heavens without their glorious stars to persuade the nation to fight back, to defend the honorable traits of democratic embrace. Who wants to be disconnected to the main flow, to the source, to the God who created us and allows our minds sane portions? I admit I feel sickened deeply invested in thinking has caused bile to build in the stomach; there is not a hint of release, as it all seems fair and normal. If I could bend these bones into impossible directions, I would be quaint and able without pain---there must be a reason I contain and mundane the recommendations in obtuse and direct suffering that comes from within the mind. Satan must have his fun, huh? Desire to find the fallen and cause their souls to format into deletion; have consequences to their answers and their decisions to emblem me awhile I remain alive with breathing formations and chest leveled. You fuckers don’t know the possible escape that reinvites me to decide the future. You bastards would harm me, dissuade me, and think it fun and would believe in their hearts that God does want the same, for how can a demon harm me unless God ordains it? “Protect me, Father in Heaven, through the Son of God. These impersonal demons want flesh and blood, want the soul, and the spirit. I can’t allow them to maintain such decrees of love, kindness, and compassion; forever worked for, offered onto me like a gift, that I have fought to maintain; to find disorders and pull them out of their basket, and restart; removing the code that degrades the program, and keeping the well-versed coded words available in numbered situations. “Please, Father in Heaven, do not disown me, the child that is through the Son! Please.” “The caffeine has resulted loosened figments in the brain a little, closure here, and little closure there. At the moment, I am contrasted with anticipation, considerable, are the same qualities that divide this fruited inheritance.” “Fuck; The strength granted to me in this dire moment is contained, done, finished without a memory to divide the base of family relations. Fucking Elton John, singing shit that doesn’t concern me, making me want to enjoy life. What the fuck? I’m not even in the central personality at the moment, trigger head doesn’t want to keep me living in this world, and he might have finally pulled the trigger. But, if somehow I throw up like God makes the muscules do some crazy shit, then all the worship to Him who has saved me. If the world could hear me, the ambulance would be here. I’ll die alone, but with the wings of God hovering over the heavens, accepting the truce that belonged between me and Christ Jesus, the savior of this world. I wanted to dissuade this world cause death and devastation, but that was a childlike dream to obtain. Still processed clean and clear as the day I started to believe in its cause. These fucking actors and their pissant trolling problems. “You ain’t going to die. You talked with mother quite normally just now.” She scared the shit out of me, I was writing hearing loud musical instruments vibed, and as I struggled to look behind me, I became frightened in an instant. Mother looked at me like, “What the fuck is this shit You okay?” I said, “I’m,” I staunched the word with effort and released the sentence with a mild turn of the head, “really tired.” I wanted to say, “I think about dying,” but that can come later in life, I’m not dying here. You hear me! I haven’t completed what I wanted, what I desired, what I function to breathe inwards into the bellied life of starving children. The one thing that is keeping me from sleeping an eternal sleep, is the dreaming realities continuing even now, continuing and rolling like a bad film that I created, and all the eyes of mankind can see it strolling, creatively investing, and criticizing the film, animated, not animated, devoured in a mouth, and simplified into an extreme resistance to current producers of the movie theater. “This is the corner I say, call the police there is a mad man around.” “You fucking die!” Venetians said, whispering voices in the advertisement broadcasted about the entire world to hear, to listen, to care. I don’t think humans care about the films, the cinema, the current ideas that continue to result in the decline of a movie theater. Instead, we watch international movies from other more refined and creative cultures, there time has been shared. The same plots and characters are used in American movies, constant, movie watching butthole surfers with their pink deplorable invention making sense of the grass getting greener, awhile here I am in this delusion, this partaking artifice that sucks my whole belonging into a heart of glass. “Venetians,” I said. “The motion of the world doesn’t care. I’m alone, and I’ll die without someone to hold my hand. I won’t have children, if I survive, I’m finding a woman who will bear me children. That’ll be the first thing I ask an attractive woman as I did with Aya Mizuko. When I saw her, out of the instance, I smiled and bowed, and said, “Would you kindly marry me? You are the most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed.” Okay, okay, I might have been more sincere with the wording, and shorter, but I realized without compulsion that she returned the words with a smile, and, I don’t remember the rest. I swear to God, I’m falling into despair and death, and I look at the fucking word count? What is this bullshit that results in human routine? Am I on the verge of death, balancing out and in of blackness? These tremors in the heart, the courage to write is skilled with permanent pressing temperatures. I’m too fucking fucked up to care. The damn result of pain, there is none, and yet I have a loaded gun to my head. Maybe if I move it lower, lower dumb ass, into the mouth, and wield the Cherubim, and finally let the fucker win! “Venetians, motherfuck!” “What is it?” “You’re a complete bastard, you know that. You fucked me over completely, the drugs and the fucking thoughts are not persuasive to my intellect. I sound like a retarded man. I sure act like one, don’t I? Have been for a while, fucking retarded life I’ve been living, and for what? Even if I somehow remain alive, what the fuck do I care what the sentence looks like, as long as the fucker is written and edged in stone, I don’t give a rat's ass. “Haul ass,” as father used to say. What if I awake in a bed, in a clean room, and hear the sound of strollers and wheels spinning on white tile glass-like floors?” “You fucking talking about some damn hospital?” Venetians said. “You got to be fucking kidding me. What the fuck is this? You dumbfuck, what the fuck? You took your medication and now you are closer than the thoughts you have realized are becoming. You can’t fight the feeling anymore, bro.” “Are you fucking singing?” “What?” “Are you singing the current song playing in my head?” “Uh, I think so.” “What do I think so mean?” “Are we going to sit here and chat like old friends out of town?” “I hate you, you filth.” “Well, that’s not nice.” “This is the last conversation I’m having, and it’s for the stupid entrance of the thing I hate and detest most, more than sin, in God’s command, I hate you. This is all some big joke, humorous little bastard. I’m kind of afraid to slumber now. Talked it out, had our fun, but now I know I might die from an overdose. “This is so dumb. Retarded, reclined. I’m was supposed to be like Christ, able to throw mountains into the sea, able to swim to the bottom of the ocean, able to love humans with a savior call. How odd, Venetians; what are you doing? Venetians? “Where did he leave to?” “He’s singing the Gambler for you.” “Don’t give me that.” “I’m being serious,” Trisha said, seeming amused. “You deserve it.” “Fuck.” I see that the sunlight is branched in this direction, covering me with the whole room in spent darkness. Just me and the sunshine as I write this stupid shit, constant and viable in some promise to contain health. Mental health has degraded me into submission to die. I couldn't believe or think it’d be a medication that did me in. Casualness brings devastation to the vision endured, conquerable little worm. “I think it’s time for me to sleep. Let it be simple, let me snooze, and if I don’t die by the grace of God, allow Christ to save the soul and burn this pitiful body in a wholesome venue of flames until the love of God can change me, like how I promised. Cherubim, could you hold me for a while? “We didn’t obtain treasurable food in the morning hours of this time-limited day. Instead, the mother went to the doctor and has told me that her medication remains inconsistent with the former medication she consumed. Simple means in a game of trance dancing does embrace a rhythm unfounded and concerning without the statements performed in the act. Mother asks me with a soft voice, “You need to find a mission in life.” I answer with the same default response. Needed to remind of love, I confine in the ancestor's promise to cultivate the natural course of human life, coursed with the waves of the sea. “It’s bedtime, come on. Off to bed,” I tell. “You must obtain that slumber and sleep within dreams, for it all that is needed to reassure the next morning into the next incoming hours. Dreadful and breathtaking these motions of muscular activities indulge without prominent examples. “What can be done for me, to the human race I will continue, must struggle. What reason does there need to be an opponent? Because Satan knows that I’m capable of saving humans out of his filth reach.” “Refuse the ambitions of the pulse straight and narrow towards the infernal heart without dedication.” I dreamed slow movements, cleared and perceptive in the night hours without that flame burning holes in the heart, constant hatred does invest me to take command and lean in on love, with who? To those of fellow companionship bordered on the stage shouting embrace of the casual human thinker, whose aim does become worrisome. ”So a human?” she answered with wise correction in her tongue. “Indeed, humans.” “You want to make a Yakuza series in books, but the main thing does invade with central characters filled with roughness, seriousness, and dead-struck voice control that demands trust and respect. One look in their eyes brings the entire civil unrest, individuals die when stared direct. Does not concern me, I am not who I tell who I am. What am I supposed to extend in this life but to become a better individual? To earn a normal, almost casual, respectable job driving a taxi, and being satisfied? I understand that I haven’t taken into account the main reasons for understanding fictional stories, but don’t I converse with words on a daily appreciation construction? The building blocks are asunder the foundation, confounded and deliberate in their texture. Slime-like feces brainwash the walls, maggots are viable and alive, squirming with their tiny white bodies, confused, and unable to make withstanding resolution without disgust. Do not these beasts leave slime in congress, when moved, or taken into consideration for said movement? “Just need some water, father in heaven. Just some water and I’ll enter into slumber, once more with attempts congruent with the mind's uneasiness. “Let’s do this,” I can hear the excitement in Aya’s heart blowing into her throat, then resembling outwards through her small tongue. She is Japanese after all, and I’m American, but I maintain culture without the need of sacrifice.” “So, in other words, you’re a loser?” “What is the status on those heliports?” “Fuck you on?” I exclaimed a relief sign, and said “isn’t the starlight braining me with its desires?” I said, changing the subject the best manner I could conceive. Trisha labels her right hand on the constructive gestures of cringed bounded on her forehead like a shield. “What am I going to do with you?” “Can Christmas come earliest this year?” “Exhausted?” “Seems so.” “What distortions of realities sake beckoning me to chance higher than myself.” |
| “What promise does give me offers, sensical little child? The formations caused in life are concerning, but the laughter engrossed together in harmony; please the Lord, our God. Now, the functions of life are different than the functions of death, that’s apparent, but when death does involve closer relatives or friends of the faith, remember: “We are not of this world, we are conquerors of the field of Death, and maintain truth through the Scriptures.” The last man on earth will offer onto the table of the Lord, and we shall feast with him, belonging to his carcass, contained in his love, treasured without abominations to signal our peace. Indeed, we will dine like starved understood men for thousands and thousands of years, to which the Father already has seen, and done, accomplished without meaning of trepidation or fault. “Wake up, Vince!” I hear a faint quiet voice speak, talking in riddles and challenging prophesy, denied in the fortunes that bring salvation; I seek the pleasures of the world. But I refuse to accept such fortunes demised with one-armed fumbled little child, with hands outstretched to me like a vise grip thinking, reeling in the entertainment venues which confess is in dated theater, playing again. Returning from Vietnam, I couldn’t help but think that the gooks were planning some hostage showdown, prevailing the sunlight to enter the lonesome concrete jungle and bring further devastation onto the world of democracy. What to do with humans who desire death onto their brothers? I had climbed into handicapped tradition, fornicated with love, and decided the best strategy is to stay outside the moving and rolling tanks proceeding to evacuate into the jungles. The explosion came from below after an elderly old bitch decided to flash a grenade, which coheres with desire from the Southern country, our side was decapitated with a desire to kill, to flush out the bastards without a motion of hints or direction blameless with bullet fire, torrents of hell and fire, flashing in existence. I swear I could hear the flushing wings of angels mounting their wings, flashing their bodies, and conveying truth through the Word of an Amazing God! “Hey, dumbass, wake up!” once more nullified in a purple haze, a perfect voice, somehow familiar, signals me to awaken from a deepened sleep. “Would you wake the fuck up already? Get your ass in gear! We are leaving!” mechanical birds floating above the ground, speed immensely in sheer force, and flame burden the skies above, without the promise of salvation determined in feelings and sensations, I plunged into the battle, rifle cocked over my shoulder, and damned in the fiery heat that bustles from the burnings bushes surrounding our environment, the tree’s where they hide their bodies, tempered with weapons forced from our dead, our carried, and our vision. “Damnit, evacuate ain’t coming, Philly!” Charles Bornstowe said, communicating with the firey hell burning our flesh like hot coals against a fired and active firestone, belonging to a treasured world that demanded our blood for the sake of boiling atmosphere. I noticed several things were wrong; disarray and childish endeavors never satisfied me contextually. But, there was a challenge to appease the God of creation with mass euphoria. To bring forth the democracy noted in our songs, our country, and our nation shared in retrospect pledged into being; awhile, the damned northern parts of Vietnam eradicated of nihilistic things, but maintaining treasured endurance to stay backed out, flamed, and eroding in a corrosive bullet shell, a former statesman of congress digressing who to send next. What reason do these children cry out for their mother, for their father in a balanced prospect? Is it because only monsters are snubbed with delicate tissue, replaced with a machine, to devise a conveyance with the dead? I've heard the saying proposed to me from the past from the man I admired with great proximate estimations until later filed as a fool; what my earthly father advised in the statement was: "If you weren't crying for your mother, you weren't human." Possibly all mankind does invite these thoughts to progress their attempts. Shouting repented in our voice conducted without the measure of contained love, severe and devastated we halt the incoming charge; bullets flew through heads, possibly eradicating our brothers and traveling salesmen. The furred burrows dirtied the holes, compared the national debate for consideration in our bushes, hidden to attack as we learned from the enemies strategic advancement, direct a natured heart pull and tear, all made a quaint sound, when tornbed, or torn in their fabrics of nature. The billows of blackned smoke entreatied the skies, caused hesetric inductions of possible escape an meaningless effort. Foregin lanugages were being produced from the mouths of men, touched our ears with their sound, and embraced the weapons unbound. I did not care without intellect to prosper, but I admired the consideration of their deaths as the fires raised and burned them out of their secret locations. Charles was efficent and proper with his flamethrower, but I take great desire in attempting the same fortune. Damn, Charles was having a hell of a time, brisk and viable to his constructive nature. Human nature allowed him the controlled substance of flame and weaving gas, that penetrated the air with deaf dried content. And Charles does invade the minds with curiousness, as he smiles while the Gooks metabolite themselves outwards from the trench. The world widen and opened again, the nature of mankind defiled the soils, and their blood warmed the greenery that surrounded our blackened blindness. As Charles finished his detailed order to abolish the Vietcong hidden in three clicks partway from the normal captivities, he sounded like a man with tempered accusations filed against him. This is the problem with Drafting human beings into a war, to fight, to die, and to contain love for their normal human brothers. “Denied, he accepted his life with fortune and blameless eviction, awhile his hands continued to hold the pressure trigger to initiate the fortress of fire over the bodies of the already burning, and of the dead, in which case he might join them with a mild curiousness that sedates life. Lifeless curiosities are blatant fractures in the human soul. The demand for retribution piles dirtied bodies higher and higher until the upward foundation is sedated and contained in one single tower. God’s tower blames the fortune of life without a measurable stick to rule out the weeds and the formations of hatred. Charles devises to be of these, the one that Venetians must sludge through death, and absorb into hellish heat. Venetians have infiltrated the base of head command and were ordered from the likeness of Grant Ulsesses, who commanded the troops in all fronts and backward trusts of the battlefield. Of course, our General of War did not recognize Venetians as a mere mortal but confined in him to the date purified in his existence with the AIB, or Alien Incentive Branch. Indeed, Venetians couldn’t be considered a demon, nor a being of greater authority than that of human extraterrestrials. The bombastic news did not invite such wild ideas, far from the truth. Charles wasn’t concerned about his date or death sentence to accomplish the membrane main treason against his very human nature. Instead, without cause, his mind drifted from death today, today to death; mindless intentions contained and murderous venues of hatred vilified for outward war. In some manner of life, Venetians and Charles Brownstone were contained in the heavens as the sun is to the moon. One is of the lesser light for the night, and the other is more attracted as the greater light, but it’s up to the reader to find the reasoning behind those two different lights shaded in the gas glow smile. “You want to fuck?” “No, I don’t. I think we've seen enough horror to know where this is going. I think we need to have a different perspective or something along the lines. Wouldn’t you think so too, Cody? I’ve fallen in love with you, and I’m not a fake relation to you, I’m not fake, nor am I not real. I am who I am. “Then fuck me?” I ordered. “You can’t fuck, can you?” “What are you talking about?” Trisha responded, breaching her hands into the comfort of her black denim jacket. “You can’t go up to a woman and say that.” “You’d be surprised.” “You can’t be admired that way. You need to stop thinking that women are toys or objects to be used or abused. “Too much of a woman and I might die.” I cornered the thought process with natural abilities in the human conversation for another three minutes until Trisha told me to remain seated in the vehicle, which I obeyed. “You wouldn’t understand Trisha, the things we have to go through each time I wake up. The morning darkness is brilliant, but the sunlight harms me in ways that are formatted since high school, in which I was alive most of the time in the awakened light of the heavens.” “What?” “Don’t what me,” I said. “You can’t understand the responsibilities in this dog-eat-dog world.” “It’s all perspective, Cody.” I silenced. I wanted to believe that, wanted to believe that I could fight and struggle for the next paycheck and hope there was some incensive in doing tin can shooting. “You have a negative personality, is all.” “You know how I was able to have it, don’t you?” “Do I have to fuck a vampire to get some attention around here?” Trisha said. “You don’t think I’m curious a little about it? You don’t know what I’ve been going through remaining close to someone who is completely forgetful, disgraceful in bed, and thinks he’s higher in power to other human beings.” “I think nothing of the sort. You know that. Don’t make up stuff like that,” I became able to whimper, almost like a naughty animal that is teased, then refused. “I’m cold.” We remained silent for a few seconds, and we removed our gaze from one another, switched to our advantageous personal thoughts, and returned to examine our bodies, opposite attraction to the same formula. “You’re cold, well, here.” I removed my comfortable denim torso clothes and laid them on her, which she invited to let me become closer in moments. “You okay?” “Yeah,” she said, snuggling closer towards me, laying her small blonde head on my right chest. “I’m so tired of this Cody. I want money, but it’s making me go crazy.” “I wouldn’t know anything about money.” “You’ve never worked in your life, is why.” “I want to be able to be someone, but I think I’m unbearable, let alone smart.” “You are smart,” she said, leveling her head away from my chest to look me in the eyes, which I started to appear expressional with a clear viewpoint of sardonic sadness expecting bitterness. “I’m not smart, or how I want to be smart. I think it’s something American that is caused in our culture to believe we aren’t smart, and we need to be intellectual to survive in this nation. I don’t know, that’s how I see it.” “It’s funny because people who aren’t smart get all the fame.” “I don’t understand it, either, love.” As a consequence of asking a question, she leans in on me and asks me one of her questions debatable in manner. “Why do you not like black people?” “Black people?” my thoughts shot through torture. “It’s---nothing. I promise. I don’t hate them, I just hate humans who think they are higher than I am or something like that.” “So you do hate black people?” “That’s not what I’m saying, dearest,” I answered. “I don’t like their culture. But I tell you, Trisha, if a cute black woman decided to like me, and was attracted to me, I would marry her without a no, or a who say what?” “You are so odd,” she smiled. She laid back into her head position, and her cheeks became warm on my thoughts, processing gradually in-depth thinking strategies, more coding in the dinner plate. “You love me, right?” “Of course, dearest.” “You are the apple of my eyes, dearest.” “Good,” she closed her eyelids like weights had perpetrated to sink, and she fell into a deepened slumber. I was unable to move, caught in her hook, she completely dozed off and sank closer to me. I failed to awaken her because I did not attempt. “Now what am I supposed to do?” The mind does command me to continue the repetitive formula that disbands from the formidable walls that decorate the separation from the delusion of danger to the possible consequence of natural homicide. I don’t understand the basic animal beside me, Ares is his name, contemplating his strange version of dreams and wildest annunciations to proceed, advance, and lock me in a cornered movement that deforms from natural human motion. Laid there on these shoulders with a direct motivation to comfort and disorder me into the playing interactions of the grander scheme of things, the playing field, against the world and its unnatural horrors that predate centuries into mankind's eventual fall. But it’s not the horrors I’m afraid of, it’s that fucking pessimistic voice, that ancient demon loving fucker who can fuck himself with his little rod, that starters me in the middle of the snarking day when the un is the brightest and highest in the heavens, like a shining star of the limited hours, apprehending to return to the desert and finish me off with a bullet-ridden and fired from his loaded pistol, or is a revolver of casual aim? We are human, damnit, and some of us are true believers and are born into a new world through Christ thought-provoking challenges do not dissuade me. I ascertain to exists the entertainment versions of hatred with mild proximity, saying, “what can man do when it comes to the One who has been enduring the cross for two thousand years to the more advanced settlement of the incoming years from a mastered score that defines divinity? Formation Zero has introduced a cognitive arms deal with the new species that creation, now, has fulfilled in exacting in measure, or whatever belongs to the core. The central life of these businesses is inviting me to temporarily position myself in the higher command of central intelligence. The bastard who was aiming his head in the halls the other day, believes I’m countering for the Russians, bah! I said, “You wouldn’t know a true message from Russia if one kiss you in the ass, and stuck it up to your piehole with your own two God-given hands!” and he returned with, stating, “What would you know about Russian spies?” The audacity this man brings to the front is frolicking in embarrassing harassment to the Government of the United States. Since when was Democracy a chance to fling shit at once a consequence and runoff in the nude, without portions of clothes to comfort his shoulders? Would rather ding his shit over his skin to feel the warmth against the cold winters. “Russians,” I continued. “Do better with their pies do amount of better-qualified cooking than the previous elected wife of the Main Office of the United States. Probable exclamations are never that different from the consequences of based demand. All these men in their offices do is sit, dwindle their expenses and throw their arms in the air like a lunatic when on added differing based fringes, possibly dark-eyed, and a swollen prominent underneath that luminous thought-controlled prerogatives. I examined the sheet of written paper in the digital flux that demanded attention. Dawn, feeling pensive, looked in our current direction from behind the driver’s seat, settled in the safe rear of the comfortable chairs made available to her small frame. Trisha had earphones labeled with music in her formative years. I heard Dawn tell of something, lower the volume of the music surround sound, and listened. “I wouldn’t mind three packs of gummy bears, daddy.” I wondered if she was able to task and ask me these certified things because I’m the one who listens to her desires and wants the one who admits to comfortable submission in control over her. Dawn answered into a severe deposition of fleshed compression and trifle confusion did understand and comprehend her desires. It transferred her voice to concrete thoughts and ultimate demand in desire, almost like continual love incircled between other circles, made of steel and constructive detention. Dawn understood we, her parents in the flesh, couldn’t obtain or purchase her treats this ride to the store, visiting the food market, and all that was considered and necessary. About the mind of this current week, the falsified version of me unable to feed the little one I answered to accomplish the seed produced. If I can’t handle or endure the children in this current age and prominent generation, then what can I accomplish to satisfy them? I’ am becoming closer and closer to the numbers of time, divided into thirteen thousand months. I examine the road in front of me. The wheel statures simple measures and there are none there to format a crash with the vehicle, on the outside, at least. I close both eyelids to the light's final burning hours, fashioned in some sort of imaginative decree, and tell Dawn, my child, that I hope she becomes available. “Close your eyes, dearest little one.” “You read one book, I’ll reward that mouth with sweet candies worthwhile and venture than what is usual, or casual,” I said, entertaining both Trisha and Dawn with odd senses of constructive wording. Trisha examined me and said, “What is it?” I became doubted, wondered, and released to the vortex of the abysmal void. “Contain, contain, and contain tomorrow!” “So, does that mean I can have candy?” Dawn said, but also did Trisha. I sighed deeply, as if in great thought. “You guys are ripping me in half,” I thought. “Why do you make it sound like,” Trisha said before I interrupted her mouth. “What is the problem?” “Probable exemptions that digress without proper examination are filed with full stomachs, endurable small traps that don’t tinker around like a counting hand, desperate to fall into the same formula again and again. In the aid that someone hears the instructions, do I embrace the nature of humankind or severe the loose connection between Creator and Man in the name of God? “I don’t have the main medication to consume tonight. So I’ll pleasure the thoughts with divided attention, surreal understanding, and the basic concepts that eventually fall from the glancing heavens, over endurable. Within the room, there be languished heat in comfortable statures, arid, and misinformed to the casualness of the outside weather. I examine the outside world from a clear and perspective intrigued window, balanced with curtains and brown shades. I understand its pure coldness, the hardened winter demands interaction, but fails to interact with me, causing me to believe in natural lies. It’s cold out there, and daylight is fuming from the compartment of the universe; compassionate small little children know that it's time to come inside and find a safe harbor with their mother or father's memorable hands, the father's roughened, and the mothers with delicate care. And for the orphan, finding offered friends to abide by and trust as a unit with brothers and sisters of different functions. I suppose the best option at the moment would be to interact with the video game console, with a blue darkened sea color of a controller depending on the mood; I could join in on the fun, discern the natural call, and abide in the warmth of intellect and mature mastered visions to correct the formerly advanced unit. Who commands me to divide the institution? As we motioned the vehicle to corner other more advanced machines partaking the road, we turned on Bickmore street, the main avenue to collect data and treasured hints to our next location. Dawn appeared, with her happily invested gestures, to find comfortable peace at the sight of the store market nearest the corner. Built-in the nineteenth centuries protocol, I was answered to the thought process of strange mentions of visions. The detrimental promise to compromise factual evidence did pretend to interact with the woman I hold dear to me, both of them, daughter and wife. I did believe in some fashion that Dawn acted more like a tomboy than most other girls her age. What she wanted, she made sure to let someone know, someone who can abide money to purchase her gifts. What do I appear to resolve and result in the purchasing of what I can, to make sure I can do so? When our vehicle became apparent to parking notions, Dawn was already bouncing in her mind, drastically handling the door to leave the vehicle before I had the chance to loosen the seatbelt. Trisha removed her earphones and laid them into a casket charger, and we all left the vehicle. “You can cease the written word at the moment and do an acitvity that pronouinces your justice for the consideration of the remaining day.” |
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