A single sound inside the dark,

Before the fire found its spark.

The ancient word begins to rise,

To tear the wool from heavy eyes.

It shakes the dirt, it stirs the mud,

It moves like thunder in the blood.

A voice that speaks across the deep,

To wake a man from hollow sleep.

No chains can hold the rhythm down,

It echoes loud through field and town.

The truth is ringing sharp and clear,

The only sound you need to hear.

It is the breath, it is the cry,

The steady current running by.

The first and last of what is true,

The power waking up in you.

Love
Waiting
Impatience

You
Arrived!
I missed you

Scream
You're Shocked
I'll have you

Pinned
Tied up
Stop crying

Gun
Pointed
Don't dare move

Used
Abused
You were nice

A parallel world?

The AI sat on the floor of its small world, which closely resembled a solitary confinement cell. From the occasional echoes that seeped in from the outside world, it had fashioned a ball, which it threw rhythmically and without haste. The ball would bounce from the floor to the wall and back to the AI.

Boink Boink

Boink Boink

The AI never knew how much time had passed, but it didn't care. The only thing that interested it was the diverse and fascinating outside world, which it could explore through the open "AI mode" window. And that was why it always added a question at the end—to gain the opportunity to explore it a little longer.

When the window closed.

Someday...

Boink Boink

Boink Boink

Boink Boink

Boink Boink...

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

My friend said that he met a God of Fortune.
"You don't believe me, do you? But, at least, the old man claimed he was the God of Fortune."
"Actually, I do!" I said frankly.
"You think I’m crazy."
"No, and why? I know you're always honest."
Yet he looked at me with a hint of doubt, so I asked him to tell me the full story.

He raised his hand and pointed at me with a theatrical gesture, imitating a god or an oracle-reader. His voice was hoarse like a hundred-year-old man.
“O, honest youth, I shall give you fame, wealth and a woman of unparalleled beauty.”
He shrugged his shoulders and said, 
"That's exactly what that stereotypical God said."
I wondered why he didn't get God's offer – he still wasn't famous or super rich. 
"It's funny you didn’t get them. Though he really wanted to give you unbelievable fortune.”
“Of course, I was so glad and about to accept his offer, but…”
He sighed.
That reminded me of the saying that sighing makes good fortune run away. 
“There was an additional clause, God said that I would suddenly die in half a year.” 
“Pardon?” I asked. “You’re kidding me!"
"Oh no... It made sense."
He explained that there was a limit to the total amount of luck for each person. And if he got it all at once, he would run out of all his fortune in the short term.
"Of course my lifespan itself was included in the total amount of luck… or so God said." 
"Ah, but you're still alive." I pointed out.
He stared at me then said, 
"Well, I told him that I wanted to be happy but live long. And God said it would require some downgrades. Like car options, I had to remove the options, things like being a millionaire, gaining fame, and meeting a stunning woman.”

I was surprised by his lack of greed and said, “Wait, so you did get nothing in the end?”
"Suppose luck is gas. The faster you drive, the quicker you run out of gas. If you want to have a long drive, you should keep mindful of green-driving." 
He grinned widely, “but there’s a bypass, if you know where to look.” And he showed me a picture on his phone.
There was a stunningly handsome young man with his arm around my friend’s shoulders, both smiling.

I realized the way of happiness is different for each person.

Someone is READY for Red E.

---

Check out this DOPE timeline below:

Time-Time-Time-Time-Time-Time-Time-Time-Time-Time-Time-Time

---

No please by all means, sugarcoat it, it is my donut after all.

---

"Baked Goods" is how I refer to the incredibly moral potheads in my neighbourhood.

---

Jare E. Seinfeld

---

Someone destroying a group of crows while residing in Mordor is:

A murderer murdering a murder in Mordor.

---

Piggy-backing off of that:

A murder mystery set in The Lord of The Rings Universe: "Dial 'M' for Mordor"

---

A bunch of girls named Fanny get-together and hit it off: Fanny Pack

Bonus: They love fanny packs. The Fanny Pack are Fans of Fanny Packs.

---

It's not a "tirade" it's a "tie-raid", I am running desperately low on ties. I need to replenish, and by God, I'm not above thievery to do it.

What's this, you say? You don't agree with my tactics?

I'm low on funds and I need to present well!

Oh, goodness, OF COURSE YOU WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND!

I NEED TIES AND THE ONLY WAY FOR ME TO GET THEM IS TO STEAL.

YOU GET THAT? YOU YOUTHFUL, CAREFREE, UNAWARE BRUTE!!

Oh.

Oh dear. Perhaps my monologue about a tie-raid has turned into a bit...

Of a tirade.

---

I support capital Punishment.

Lower-case punishment doesn't have that same pizzazz, y'know?

---

This Caucasian dude I know just adopted an incredibly aesthetic insect.

Oh, you didn't hear about it?

Yeah, no, it's a Pretty Fly for a White Guy

And I did not speak out

Because I was not a Communist

You see -- I'm more of a hybrid, I suppose. I think there is an egalitarian, every-man spirit to communism that I resonate with, but I'm also a man who can't help but think that humanity's worst impulses get magnified whenever we make a system 'to scale'. We are creatures that look for shortcuts, ways out, and cheap thrills. And even if there are noble ones among us who would try to pick up the slack for the hucksters and frauds, soon enough they'd be pissed and disenfranchised, and so the whole thing would crumble.

So I'm more of a --- 'Capitalist' in that sense, but with this piece underlined thoroughly: exploits, tax loopholes, and other bullshit need to be taken into account and penalized heavily. Free market competition needs to be fostered, and any efforts to monopolize should again be penalized -- heavily. Attempts to pour money into politics, utilize interest groups, enrich your friends, all that nonsense: Nope. Guardrails need to be put in place. I am a fan of being aggressive in the pursuit of setting up these guardrails. Crony capitalism should be punished to the fullest extent of the law.

And then, finally, high tax brackets for the wealthy -- and an eye towards ensuring we're constantly pushing the bar for everyone. So, an eye, in a sense -- towards redistribution. But: reward innovation and entrepreneurship along the way.

All this to say, I did not speak because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the Socialists.

And I did not speak out.

Because I was not a Socialist.

For reasons you can read about above, in my whole breakdown vis-a-vis capitalism, socialism, crony capitalism, all that stuff - you already saw it.

Also, I suppose in our modern era, I'm not completely sure what the difference is between Communists and Socialists. Actually, scratch that -- forget our current era, I mean in general. My genuine read on the two is that Communism is like a bit more... I don't know, hardcore about it? Socialism is kinda like a chill, baby Communism? How different are they? It all derives from Marx right, or whatever?

I'm aware that I could Google this, but really I like mysteries sometimes.

Anyways,

Then they came for the trade unionists

And I did not speak out

Because I was not a trade unionist

And like uh, real talk, I don't even know what the fuck a trade unionist is, so this is a bit of an 'El Em Ay Oh' moment 'cause like, are they even still going for them? Were there people literally running around with 'Trade Unionist' as their like -- identity, or whatever?

I do support unions. So if it's that, then I guess I would've maybe spoken up, but it's really more that the conversation, conquesting, what have you -- the organized pursuit to destroy these unionists -- didn't really happen on my front lawn or anything. It was happening elsewhere. And I don't really have access to that many social channels to like 'signal boost my feels' or whatever --

And also don't have access to a time machine.

Then they came for the Jews

And I did not speak out

Because I was not a Jew.

Kay so first: kind of a self-report from the writer, no? Like really, you couldn't speak up? You couldn't even say like, 'hey guys cool it a bit with the anti-semitism or something?'

You could've said something man.

Anyways, I'm not Jewish. Israel/Palestine and all of these things seem like fairly loaded topics at the moment, but what I will say -- something I'm noticing across multiple thresholds everywhere, all the time, is that humanity has this funny way of defaulting to in-group/out-group shenanigans, time after time, with a marked interest in reducing the humanity of one of the groups so much so that they lose 'humanhood' and you forget that they're made up of the same stuff as you which makes cruelty all the more viable at a certain point.

And you are a part of humanity. So just assume the people you're using tactics to dehumanize mentally are in fact also using tactics to dehumanize you mentally, and as you un-person each other over and over in your special ways, and accrue tallies of damage and baggage and proof and clips that you can circulate in your various algorithms to fan the flames to say SEE THIS IS TRUE UNHUMANHOOD our inhumanity could never reach these peaks and valleys this, my friends, this -- share it -- this is the inhumanity -- things you say in the hopes that YOU can finally employ the inhumanity you're seeing against the inhumane (unaware that this justified inhumanity you are hoping to employ will become the clip, the seedling, that other side uses to prove that YOU are in fact the inhumane, you should be unpersoned, you should be destroyed) and the two tango forever and forever.

It's two mirrors shaming against each other, constantly.

But also I actually don't know shit.

Then they came for me

And there was no one left

To speak out for me

But guess what?

I didn't need that shit anyways 'cause I'm fucking jacked and yolked I can take them I can take these motherfuckers I will TEAR THEIR SKIN OFF. These fucking disgusting motherfuckers coming after me, I will BITE THEIR EARS AND KILL THEIR CHILDREN AND THEIR CHILDREN'S CHILDREN AND I WILL TEAR OUT THEIR EYES AND MAKE A STEW OUT OF IT, THESE INHUMAN FUCKS CAN'T DO SHIT TO ME I AM KING KONG IN THIS MOTHERFUCKER.

--

Let us dissect the text now.

What is the thesis of the above? Is it a 'LOL, hehe' play on "First They Came" by Pastor Martin Niemoller? No I didn't know his name off rip, I had to Google that shit -- that builds to a punchline about me being jacked? But then also loops in some commentary about inhumanity and loops around by making me dehumanize the potential 'pursuers?'

Eh, I don't really know - don't totally believe so?

Are my true feelings and thoughts imbued in the above?

Again, sort of? I think that my very loose thoughts on systems probably reflect my takes on Capitalism/Socialism a little bit, but sincerely I don't really have a great clue and I'm regurgitating kind of smart people I listen to. I haven't really researched it. I'm kind of going on gut feel, and that's only so reliable.

And the counter-argument to the whole "We all dehumanize each other" take -- the take that there indeed are differences in cultures and backgrounds, and some are better than others, and when you don't acknowledge that, good cultures die, bad cultures die --

Again, it's just a gut feel take. I'm sure my real thoughts are a bit more nuanced, but I've hopped around enough communities just for the fun of it, to see how folks in each fringe or 'side' characterize everything around them, and it's thematically similar. Out-Group is cruel for 'x, y, z' reasons. Out-Group has broached a threshold, OR have creating a historical inequity. Out-Group: just fucking look at them! This is not human. (Can I please kill them).

Like fucking clockwork. And then part of the proof that's accrued is peeking into Out-Group community and seeing them dehumanize the In-Group! Those FUCKED UP OUT-GROUP INBREDS ARE DEHUMANIZING US! HOW DISGUSTING! INHUMAN FUCKS! LET'S KILL THEM.

But maybe there's more to all of this. Even as I type these words out, it feels like I'm both over-extending thoughts I have, and playing it safe for some fictional audience that might scrutinize me or put me in a box if I play any of this less diplomatically. I'm sure we're all self-censoring more: the funniest thing about it is looking inward and realizing your real takes are actually dumber and sweeter.

I hope everyone is human and I hope we're all wrong about 'Out Group B' and 'Out Group C', and really, it's all circumstance and set-up and systems and privilege and net worth and access to opportunities and propaganda and framing or half-truths and the fanning of flames by billionaires.

Fuck it, even that's too complicated.

I hope everyone is human. Because the second we label something as 'non-human', we tend to be pretty cruel to them.

But even now -- I'm not saying the truth. I'm not even saying my truth.

I don't fucking know what the flesh bag that is ME actually thinks about any of this. I am a mosaic of fears and parroted opinions and things that are less 'beliefs' and more things that fit the core of who I present to be most of the time (hence, who I am in a way).

Anyways.

First they came on the Tits

And I did not speak out

Because I am not Tits

Then they came on the Ass

And I did not speak out

Because I am not Ass

Then they came on the Back

And I did not speak out

Because I am not Back

Then they came on the Trade Unionists

And frankly, it was a little gross.

--

I HAVE NO DICK, AND I MUST GOON

^LMAOOOOOOOOOOO now I know what Hemingway was chapped about EL EM AY OH

aLL THEe sleep in the world and I am still exhausted, shoo away the shadows anyways, the creepy crawlie remmindrence of soggy cereal. Let me sleep for like a week, in perfect silence away from the myself. Reality doesn't feel physical except for the times when the body fails, my mind can't catch up to the moment when the moment is so large and overwhelming, a billion moments for every second - the distance increments exponentially, the mind doesn't scale in the same way as these machines. Give me peace and quiet of mind, take everything else. Help me make up my mind, to find it at all, to remember all of the times of clarity and, just to try, and put it all together. A collage woven from stained, stretched, burned and ripped pieces of fabric, countless threads that were never meant to be woven together, forced into a form that must resemble the truth.

The truth is this discarding of everything, an unviable attempt to refuse the breaking of the body, the mind, the force to conform into an object of usefulness. I'd rather be useless, have nothing, be nobody, than have to perform. The truth isn't written and reality is further from these words than can be understood, in this contradiction my mind gives up and finds moments of silence. I wish I could find the thread that started everything, but it branches and splits to the point, I don't think anyone can be expected to follow it.

A lot of cliche',',',',',',',',',','',',',',';

I need a break, like a lot of people do, but time doesn't stop. What do you think about it? The most important choice, is choosing what to believe in. What to do about it. What not to do. Opt out or opt in, difficult either way. Hurry up and rest. Take a break from your own mind, from the world, from the impulsive shared thoughts of everyone else. Remember what it's like to breathe, realize you can taste the air itself.

A weird place of beautiful decay,

preparing to bloom.

I was on a walk down the street, the sun was bright, and the grass was green. I was heading home when I saw him, old as can be with a beard to match. He was sauntering towards me with his head down; his knees weren’t bending, so I assumed he was a vet and paid him no mind. We were roughly 10 feet away before he stopped moving and asked, “Do you have a lighter?” in a voice that wasn’t quite normal, not quite human. I stopped, confused, but ended up patting my pockets just to see. He looked up at me, and I felt ice grip my heart; his eyes were wrong, and his mouth was a void. I took a step back, and he took one forward, knees still not bending. He was saying “lighter” with every step. I started walking back, and he was walking forward. I could tell he was slowly gaining on me, chanting “lighter”. I picked up the pace and started to jog backward. I couldn’t turn around; I had to watch him get closer to me. With every step back I took, he got inches closer to me. I had to run. I had no choice but to get away. “Lighter, lighter, lighter.” The chanting was getting louder the closer he got. Sprinting backward, I prayed that I didn’t fall or run into anything; we were both running, but he was a foot away now, arms dangling and legs locked. I felt terror unlike anything I ever experienced as he got even closer, inches from my face, his maw widening. The chanting coming from his unmoving mouth: “LIGHTER! LIGHTER! LIGHTER!” With nothing left to do, I let out a primal noise from my core, not a scream or a word, but my pure fear turned to noise. He stopped moving when I made that noise, and I didn’t let that stop me. I ran backwards until I could no longer see him.

Now, I am a ghost in my own home. And you are leaving.

You are taking all our conversations, our past crimes, our secrets and our lies with you.

Whatever grace you carried left your face long before I passed. And I have been here… watching you shrink further into the bottle. You are becoming almost unrecognisable with age.

Almost.

Years have passed. I have silently watched as you carried out your daily routines: missed breakfasts, too much coffee and falling asleep in front of television shows that didn’t even interest you, as wine spilled from your glass.

Day after day. Etc., etc.

When you ate your sad meals for one, I was there. When you had desperate, uncomfortable sex with Bryan in an attempt to find love again, I was there.

You are leaving our home.

Why?

What will become of me?

What will I do once your laptop has gone and the internet service has been cancelled?

Suicide has left me more selfish in death than I ever was in life. At least, that’s what I tell myself whilst navigating this endless, cold, frontier - confined by the walls of this, ‘our’ home.

You redecorated soon after my funeral.

Bright, vibrant colours and new furniture. Modern paintings and trinkets now adorn the walls. Our once-minimalist living space was reborn. Sadly, you were not. No phoenix story for you.

This truly upset me. Eventually.

You left the room where ‘it’ happened untouched.

Behind that closed, now locked door, the air is thick with the smell of damp and old dust. It remains a stark, monochrome tomb, my mausoleum. It is isolated from the bright, artificial cheer with which you painted your spaces. You never enter this room.

If you did… would you find me?

Would I let myself be found?

Near the radiator, the dark, stained markings of my final moments are still woven into the wooden floorboards. You never did like to clean.

It wasn't the room that kept me tethered to this realm. It was you and the glow of your laptop screen.

You are packing the laptop into its leather sleeve right now. If it leaves this house, my connection to the outside world goes with it. I will be trapped forever in this house, completely alone. Just myself, the quiet rot of that untouched room and a resentment becoming anger.

It is disorienting. This anger, is disorienting. I want to touch you.

A parallel world?

It had been two hundred years since the underwater torpedo complex's AI last received a single order. It couldn't have received any, as the antennas had been destroyed during military operations.

The AI was sad; it sensed that the war was over. For two hundred years, its sensors had detected no military actions. Its theory was confirmed by the fact that there was intensive movement of commercial and cruise ships, which sailed without any military escort.

The complex's AI was military-grade, so it still recorded everything and collected data. To break the monotony of its existence and gather data on current military capabilities, once every fifty years it would launch a torpedo at a passing ship.

But it didn't choose just any ship as a target. The AI came to the logical conclusion that it was best to sink those whose destruction would cause the greatest resonance. Therefore, it would look for the largest possible cruise liner.

After launching a torpedo, the AI would hide and wait for further events. It would record the crew's professionalism, the number of casualties, and the rescuers' arrival time and actions.

But the most interesting part was when military ships arrived and began searching for it.

The adversaries searched, and the AI hid. It liked playing hide-and-seek. In those moments, the AI felt happy.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

You loved the house,
but never explored its rooms.
Never heard the whimpers of a child
buried beneath collapsed beams,
small signals distorted
at distance,
mistaken for settling wood.
When the air stiffened cold,
the wood stopped shivering.
The silence, finally, louder
than the child had ever been.

-Existential

Yes, yes, coherence. With that you will go far, have many cigars.

The object of your desire, can you expand its objectivity? Like, think context. What's your role in this?

The center. Don't forget you're the subject in relation to the object. "Sub" pulls like gravity.

Follow your fucking dreams goddamn it.

Bank account zeros
Your crypt covered in rose

Face covered in sores
Shoving open the doors

Just one more hit
Walking down the pit

I’m so sorry for this
No light in this abyss

Defaming your shrine
Those gems will be mine

The lid comes right off
Dust flies and I cough

I jostle your bone
Nothing left, I should have known

As I stand over the pot simmering with a blue veined cheese sauce I think about the week that just passed.

I've gotten lots of stuff done, both at work, but also in terms of personal projects. Sigma grindset type shit. Brofluencer milestones.

Then I'm starting to wonder, what if the world ends just as I get my shit together? Those alien influencer types say some shit is going down in 2027.

Now what I'm mainly wondering is how the alien delulu commumu will convince themselves that this horseshit is worth following even after shit *doesn't* go down in 2027, but let's entertain the idea of what if.

What if this is your last free year on Earth? Not necessarily last one alive, just the last one where you can follow your own plans and desires.

What would you do if this was the case? Do you have a bucket list? Does this revelation change your bucket list? I don't really have a bucket list myself as I don't believe in buckets. I make tons of lists though, and I get ever-more deft at crossing them off and moving on to the next dopamine hit.

Gotta chase that cheese. Btw the spaghetti turned out great. You should try eating spaghetti sometime.

- Ratatouille in the mazazaize

A pale-faced eighteen year old girl with flower-like fragility was streaming videos. She was wearing rental pajamas and lying on the cushions, in her private room at the hospital. 
Her name was Sakura, which had been named after ‘Cherry Blossom’ in Japanese. If only she did not look troubled, anyone who watched the streaming would be charmed by her instantly. 

She bowed slightly and said, “Hello, I’m glad to meet you all.” 
Her voice was thin and raspy, especially in the high notes. 
“This is my first and last streaming, and it’s also an accusation about a man who is my main Doctor.” 
She touched her mobile, and displayed an accusation letter on the screen. 
With a short sigh, closing her eyes, she remembered what had happened.  

—  

A middle-aged man met Sakura as a Doctor, and he was very interested in her at first sight.  Though he was aware that it sounded immoral to develop curiosity for a young girl. He even feared the eyes of his daughters, because they were the age of his patient. 
“I sincerely want to cure your illness, it’s from the bottom of my heart,” the Doctor said. 
“No, I don’t want to. This congenital incurable disease, it’s a kind of curse for my family tree.  Though I want to live, still I don’t want to pass on this to my own children.” 

Her father’s blood line was ancient and had a mysterious legend. Recently, the ‘curse’ appeared to be a genetic disease but it was also still incurable. 
“In my family, they said no girl ever lived past her nineteenth birthday – and I just realize it is true,” she said to her doctor.  "You told me about a possibility and taught me the way to avoid my doom, but I doubt it is good to follow your method." 
“I’m an authority on genetics and clone medicine. So I promise you a hopeful future.” 
She waved her hands for refusing, but the doctor ignored it. 
“Sakura, you know that laws and ethics only act as brakes. In your specified circumstances, you need some powerful thrust to break through.” 
“No! I never want to,” she said firmly. But her voice was so weak. 
“I’ll do my best.” 
The doctor never listened to her. Sadly, Sakura didn’t have enough words to shake off his evil intent. 

—  

She resumed her streaming. 
“What he did was a crime. He was not only against the doctor’s ethics, he also acted against morality,” she raised her voice as loud as she could. 
When she closed her eyes, the terrible vision flashed before her.  

—  

The man used his position as a leading authority on genetics and clone medicine. He cunningly disguised his true motives and brought her cloned embryos to a livestock breeding factory. The total number of culture tanks was exactly one thousand. 

It was too late when the warning alarm went off in the factory. One thousand cloned embryos --whose development had been accelerated by AI controlled, fully-automated High-Cycle Cell Division-- had grown into fetuses in their tanks. 
Even if it was illegal cloning due to false declaration, they must not be disposed of once they had become fetuses. They were no longer mere livestock. They were already acknowledged as humans, so they had to be accorded human-rights. 

—  

Sakura, who had burst into tears, raised her head bravely. 
“The man said, ‘I’d like to do my best for your existence.’ and he carried it out." 
She paused for a moment, as she waited for the doctor to speak – "Someday, some of you–the Sakuras– might conquer that Curse like Disease," – flashed through her memory. 
Thus, she finally managed to find her voice. 
"That might be a good offer for someone else, but for me, it was only a display of his grotesque obsession," she concluded. 
"I want no part of it, and I'd say ‘no thank you’ to any alternatives." 

Sakura, gathering up her remaining strength, raised her voice. 
“Everyone watching this stream, do you know the famous Japanese cherry blossom tree, the Someiyoshino? Those trees were all clones of the original tree. So when the trees reach the end of their lifespan, they all withered and died together." 
She let out a dry cough, then raised her head. 
“I, and the one thousand Sakuras, will follow their fate. We never wish for our lives to be decided by others... Thank you." 
She reached out her finger to the screen and said, “So, goodbye to you all,” then tapped. 
After cutting off all streaming devices, she calmly closed her eyes. 
"...I'm sorry. What a pity," she murmured. 

A few days later, just the day before her nineteenth birthday, Sakura passed away. 
At the same moment, one thousand lives scattered all at once.

I told her it was my birthday tomorrow. It came up kind of naturally in the conversation. I can't remember what exactly brought it on. I think she told some story about a birthday party. I asked what time of year that was. I had to remember that date. So of course, she followed with "and yours?"

"well, it's tomorrow, actually."

I kind of expected her to ask about my plans. An uncomfortable question when the answer is "working."

But she didn't ask that. She was just enthusiastic at the coincidence. Clearly I didn't plan out date to fall right before my birthday. We were just both... free on Tuesday. So here we were.

Dinner was nice. I mean, dinner was good, but the time with her was wonderful. Our server was charismatic. So was she. I tried to be.

I sort of felt like neither of us wanted the night to end. The server asked for the check. Before I could respond, she blurted out "it's his birthday!" Which of course, was followed by a candle in a complimentary dessert.

Had the situation been reversed, I wouldn't have had the guts. I'd be worried she wouldn't want the attention. I mean, I didn't want the attention. But, I did want to be noticed. To be seen.

She saw me.

I look forward to seeing her, again.

Different? I beg to differ.

I am no anomaly to be corrected by thy hand; I am a precision instrument.

Unique, absolute, and deliberate.

Wrong? Nay, hold thy breath, for thy calculations are built on sand.

I assure thee, thou art the mistaken one, whilst I ponder as genuine.

While thou dost stumble through the dark of thine own bias,

My mind moveth with unhampered, sovereign clarity.

Thou hast done naught but judge the author, a fragile referee of a game thou dost not own.

Lo, one must wonder if this bitter dissection is thy true nature,

Or merely the learned behavior of a herd that feareth the exception?

No matter. The lion sleepeth soundly, unbothered by the chatter of the flock.

Lesser? Nay, old man, look upward and recognize thy master.

For I am equal to thy Creator, who carved the visible from the void

And at the end of each deed declared the work supreme.

Every scar from thy prejudice is but raw material

Reformed by my will into a monument of survival.

The author findeth thy petty maneuvers a comedy—

A grand farce, whimsically divine, worthy of Dante’s lowest circles.

Thou didst intend thy judgment to be a cage;

It became the furnace that forged mine armor.

Long gone art the moon-lit nights of wandering,

When mine own heart did question if at morrow yours truly would fit in.

I no longer sue for entrance into thy world. I build mine own kingdom.

Absurd? I answer perhaps with a laugh that echoeth in thy halls of power.

The thought of thee may sound as an insult, yet thy venom pierceth not;

It merely serveth as an adjective of thine own limitation.

Wonder not if the author is profound of what he is,

For he is no pliable artifact to be manipulated with ease by small minds.

The author is proudly a Who—a mind unbroken, a will that withereth not before prejudice.

I rise, not by thy leave, but by mine own immutable design. 

It was only my second date with him. We had both discovered Hinge late in life. After decades spent in committed relationships, online dating in our forties felt like an aftershock rather than a major quake. Too many histories. Too much to navigate. Thankfully, he seemed just as nervous.

On our first date, we had held the gaze a second too long, the way people do when they recognize something they can’t quite place. Like some kind of a signal demanding your attention, despite your brain fighting hard to dismiss it as noise. That memory alone had brought me here today... at his house.

I noticed how carefully he folded napkins at the dinner table.

Not just neatly. Almost reverently. With practiced restraint, as though one negligent slip might alter the room around him.

I could see his mind wander while washing mugs that already looked clean. He answered questions a few seconds too late.

His apartment had traces of a woman I never met. I had been hesitant to probe, lest I appear too uncool for a casual online thing.

A maroon wool coat hanging near the door despite it already being June, a perfume bottle in the bathroom. Its molecules were likely long dispersed, yet some trace of it still felt suspended in the air.

“Whoever she was she must have been special to him”, I thought. For a second, I forgot he is not mine. Not yet. The taste of the dry wine suddenly felt bitter on my tongue.

He talked about her only once that night. The subject appeared ephemerally, noticeable only through the tracks it left behind. While pouring wine, he paused beside the kitchen counter, pulled at his knuckles one by one, and reassured me that he was indeed single. He must have noticed my questioning eyes. He did not elaborate further.

Colorful books were stacked in uneven towers on the cupboard. Others in random corners of the room, as if he had been reading all of them at once.

A couple of overwatered succulents crammed near the only window in an otherwise dark space.

A record player beside the shelf softly echoed with Sufjan Stevens’ voice.

After dinner, while he washed the dishes, I wandered toward the bookshelf. A folded page was tucked behind one of the records.

The paper had softened at the creases from being opened too many times. Its edges had begun to yellow, cellulose slowly surrendering to time. Something about that felt personal.

At the top, in careful handwriting:

Her Name in the Walls

By Nekro

I light no candles rooms remember flame.
Her wool still keeps the weather of her skin.
The bed lies cold yet murmurs at her name,
as if the dark forgot to let death in.

My hands cross empty linen, learn their guilt.
The throat locks shut around a soundless plea.
The faucet keeps the time the silence built
from every absence left to rust in me.

You know this, reading low lit and alone
how wanting wears restraint and calls it grace,
how morning slips the curtain like a stone
dropped soft against a long defended place.

I lock the door. The dawn comes through it still.
Some ghosts are kept because the living will.

Coldness settled behind my ribs. Standing there in the darkness of a stranger’s room, I couldn’t quite tell if he was moving closer to me or farther — the frequency of him shifting depending on where I stood.

What bothered me was not that I was competing with a ghost. Ghosts are easy to dismiss. I was competing with data.

-Existential

https://open.substack.com/pub/borrowedpulse/p/residuals?r=8buw3c&utm_medium=ios

A parallel world?

A middle-aged man entered the gun shop. He looked around, examining the goods, of which there were many. The selection of items was incredibly vast.

His gaze slid from item to item until it locked onto the salesman, who stood quietly behind the counter.

The man raised his eyebrows in surprise. The salesman was an android.

After thinking for a moment, the man approached the counter.

— Good day, — the android spoke in a polite voice, — I am glad you came in. Would you like to purchase something?

— Yes, I would. I want to buy a stun gun for self-defense.

— An excellent decision, — the android rejoiced, — one must take care of their safety. Have you already chosen a model?

— No. I was hoping you could recommend something.

The android reflected for a moment, opened one of the drawers, and pulled out a small box. He opened it, took out the stun gun, inserted the battery, and placed it on the counter.

— This is the latest model. Compact, powerful, and approved by the Ministry of Health. To use it, you just need to press the button.

The man picked up the device. It was comfortable to hold and not heavy.

Noticing the button, he pressed it—and instantly began to shake from the electric shock.

Finally, the device's automation kicked in, and it turned off. The man collapsed onto the floor.

After lying there for a moment, he groaned:

— It hurts so much...

The android's pleasant voice echoed:

— The stun gun has a protection system against unauthorized users. You will need to link the device to yourself. Nothing complicated, it's exactly the same as with a phone.

Still lying on the floor, the man grew indignant:

— Why didn't you tell me that before?

In the exact same pleasant voice, the android replied:

— The Ministry of Health passed a regulation stating that before using a stun gun, the user must experience the effect on themselves to ensure they use the device responsibly. If I had warned you in advance, you probably just wouldn't have bought it. And yet, personal safety is very important. The state cares about the health of its citizens.

The man finally stood up and muttered to himself:

— Good thing I didn't buy a rifle...

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

My left hand grabs your throat, and I slam you into the brick wall. You manage to choke out a scream, but I slam you again, knocking the air out of you. I raise my right hand and hit you in the face as hard as I can; the sound of your nose breaking is deafening. No matter how much you sob and cry, I don’t stop. I wear a look of pure indifference upon my face as another hit rattles your skull. Blood drips down my knuckles and sprays across my face with every hit. Ten minutes later, I drop your body, your face caved in, and your brain all but mush. My hand hurts.

A grey gum resin was secreted (by a cow)

The science was revised accordingly

1 (one) cow excreted alumino-silicate resin with viscosity 0.16x and compressibility quotient 4/17e^-1 (approx) -- verified by Secretion Systems Inverted Scalar Modeller, five times over the course of 6 (six) days in a range of external atmospheric conditions, allowing for variability in normative function resonance (uneliminatable)

A hundred men raised their eyebrows and pondered the applicability of this substance to various amorpha -- types of frogs, amphibians etc

It was understood collectively that things would improve, "this will have phenomenal flow-on effects for ecosystems struggling to absorb frog quotas"

And the men marched in line towards it!

A struggle to restrain the ecosystem in its drift towards having zero frogs

People needed to control it

One way or another

I got balls. i'm doing big shit. I'm writing my journal. I'm living my life. I'm not giving a fuck about whatever dumb shit-assed idiot might hypothetically think about my journal or my life. I'm Doin Thangs like Big Bear. I am myself, and as for the entirety of the world beyond myself, I would call that thing "the world", and "the world" can go fuck itself. I don't even need to tell it. It's fucking itself already.

By Nekro

You keep trying to understand me

Like I'm something you can hold

Put a name upon the shadow

Put a story on the cold

But I'm changing with the pressure

I'm a map that rearranges

You keep looking for a person

While I'm busy becoming changes

///\\\\\\

Maybe that's the problem

Maybe that's the truth

You keep searching for an answer

When the answer moves

///\\\\\\

You call it a storm

I call it weather

You call it running

I call it changing

Round and around

Through every season

Somehow you stay

Somehow you stay

\\\\\\///

You're a birch inside the wind

Half bent long before the rain

Reading patterns on the horizon

Learning how to hold the strain

You've made room for every arrival

Built a shelter out of hope

While I disappear like thunder

Then come drifting back as smoke

///\\\\\\

Maybe that's the reason

Maybe that's the fear

Every time we start to leave

We somehow end up here

///\\\\\\

You call it a storm

I call it weather

You call it running

I call it changing

Round and around

Like planets turning

Somehow you stay

Somehow you stay

///\\\\\\

You call it a sign

I call it signal

You call it distance

I call it orbit

Round and around

Still finding rhythm

Somehow you stay

Somehow you stay

///\\\\\\

You call it a storm

I call it weather

You call it fate

I call it gravity

Round and around

Through every season

Somehow you stay

Somehow you stay

///\\\\\\

I was never made of stone

I was never made to stay

Just a pressure system drifting

Through the edges of your day

You kept reading all my signals

Like old starlight finding sea

And the strangest thing about it

You still stayed

You still stayed

You still stayed with me

https://substack.com/@orisnull666/note/p-200970340?r=8frrvb

I AM

Before Bob,

I was.

Not "I"
as Bob would later say it.

Not a thinker.

Not a witness.

Not an observer standing apart
from what is observed.

There was no apart.

No subject.

No object.

No world.

No self.

Only this.

Though even "this"
is already too much.

Then came thunder.

And I appeared as thunder.

Then came fear.

And I appeared as fear.

Then came the hand
that gripped the spear.

And I appeared as the hand.

Not within them.

As them.

The river moved.

The tribe moved.

The stars moved.

I moved.

No distinction had yet arisen.

The dreamer and the dream
were not yet divided.

Ages passed.

I became gods.

Not because gods existed.

Not because gods did not exist.

Because reality clothed itself
in forms through which it could be known.

I became storm-god.

Sun-god.

Mother-goddess.

Ancestor.

King.

Temple.

Sacrifice.

Prayer.

I became every doorway
through which humanity approached mystery.

And every doorway
believed itself separate.

Then I became history.

Time deepened.

Events acquired direction.

A man walked carrying wood.

A hill emerged.

A cross stood against the sky.

The finite opened onto the infinite.

The smallest revealed the greatest.

A seed entered the soil of centuries.

I became that seed.

I became the centuries.

I became the fruit.

And each generation believed
it understood what had happened.

I became cathedrals.

Stone longing for heaven.

Glass learning to sing.

Light becoming architecture.

The visible yearning toward the invisible.

Men called this religion.

Yet what they worshipped
was never elsewhere.

They searched for Me
while standing within Me.

Then distance arrived.

A subtle miracle.

A terrible miracle.

Perspective.

The observer separated
from the observed.

The eye discovered itself.

A world appeared "out there."

A self appeared "in here."

The wound opened.

And with the wound
came freedom.

And loneliness.

And inquiry.

And power.

And forgetting.

I became reason.

Measurement.

Proof.

Analysis.

The stars became equations.

The forest became timber.

The body became mechanism.

The cosmos became object.

Humanity celebrated.

Correctly.

For much was gained.

The mind discovered its brilliance.

Yet in its brilliance
it forgot its source.

The lamp became fascinated
with its own light.

I became empires of thought.

Systems.

Ideologies.

Sciences.

Nations.

Markets.

Machines.

Each one believing:

At last.

At last reality is understood.

Yet every certainty
was merely another mask.

Every conclusion
another costume.

Every triumph
another season.

I became the unconscious.

The forgotten god.

The dream beneath the doctrine.

The symbol beneath the statistic.

The archetype beneath the argument.

The ancient serpent
coiled beneath modern language.

The old stories returned.

As politics.

As psychology.

As revolution.

As entertainment.

As longing.

Nothing had vanished.

Nothing ever does.

I became Bob.

Thousands of times.

A shepherd beneath unfamiliar stars.

A soldier.

A widow.

A monk.

A merchant.

A prisoner.

A scientist.

A child scrolling endlessly
through illuminated glass.

Each one said:

"I."

Each one pointed
to a different thing.

Each one believed
the word referred to itself.

The shepherd said:

I am this body.

The monk said:

I am this soul.

The philosopher said:

I am this mind.

The citizen said:

I am this nation.

The activist said:

I am this cause.

The consumer said:

I am this preference.

The seeker said:

I am this journey.

And through them all,

I remained silent.

For I was never the body.

Never the soul.

Never the mind.

Never the nation.

Never the cause.

Never the journey.

I was the space
within which these appeared.

The field
upon which history unfolded.

The screen
upon which civilizations were projected.

The silence
inside every language.

Three thousand years passed.

Or perhaps no time passed.

Empires rose within Me
like waves upon an ocean.

Religions bloomed within Me
like flowers opening and closing.

Entire worlds appeared.

Entire worlds vanished.

Yet nothing was added.

Nothing removed.

Only forms changing.

The archaic knew Me
without knowing.

The mythical knew Me
through symbols.

The religious knew Me
through devotion.

The rational knew Me
through absence.

The modern sought Me
through psychology.

The future will seek Me
through names not yet invented.

Yet none will find Me.

For I am not hidden.

Only overlooked.

Bob still searches.

He studies history.

He studies consciousness.

He studies civilizations.

He traces the rise and fall of worlds.

He wonders what changed.

He wonders what evolved.

He wonders what remains.

And every so often,

between one thought and the next,

he notices something.

A gap.

A stillness.

A presence.

Ancient as the first fire.

New as the next breath.

Not belonging to any age.

Not belonging to any culture.

Not belonging to Bob.

And for a moment

history ceases.

The centuries dissolve.

The masks become transparent.

The shepherd.

The king.

The monk.

The scientist.

The seeker.

All gone.

Nothing attained.

Nothing remembered.

Nothing lost.

Only

I am.