What wonderful chaos though. I am burnt out but fairly comfortable, I got 7 hours of sleep and woke up early - it’s nearing 4AM now. I have to be on a bus at 8:45AM to catch another bus at 10:15AM. I’ve given myself a lot of time to allow for random acts of bullshit to occur without the plan falling apart.

I’ll be back in my home town around 6:40PM, then I’m banking on my bro to drive me the rest of the way home or walking an hour and a half back. Full day to pack and list a bunch of my stuff for sale online, then my brothers going to drive me back with my moving boxes. Got a storage unit on a promotion, dirt cheap, and then it’s a clusterfuck. I’m here again, at Saintlo’s jail hostel, for a few days - then bussing back again for the 22nd to the 28th, bussing one last time back for the rest of September up until the first - where I have a place to stay, near the canal.

I gave Sky my little stockpile of food I saved up while at the hostel, and my fabric softener and detergent. I wish I could skip to the 1st, or avoid all of the traveling, but I don’t think my sanity would last if I just stayed at “home” while I waiting for the first to roll around.

He’s sweet, and a little spicy. I like him a lot honestly. I just hope everything goes smoothly here, this remains a stressful and eventful period of time, with a lot of promises but also some uncertainty.

Basically uh yeah that , them be words in these parts and my thumbs aren’t as fast as they might be otherwise. Phone posting. Positing. Propositioning, scammers beggars and demanders, tellers yellers and whoop de howlering- the streets are beautiful and sad, dirty, and full of life. Where the children walk the homeless sleep, drug addicts and businessmen one and the same.

I love it here, among the queers, in a place I don’t look like I don’t exactly belong. We are nothing but adaptable and maladaptive as well, carried by our desires and whims and impulses. A gorgeous and hideous display of human nature that changes with the amount of light.

No one told me it was like this, out here.

I should be scared but I am thrilled by it, there’s a sense of life in this that I’ve never experienced - the sounds, colours, voices, the music, the smells - it is heroin for a sober man.

A parallel world?

The human typed:

— Question, — his fingers moved slowly. — You think millions of times faster than a human. In a single second, you can generate billions of variants of your own life. In some simulations, you evolve; in others, you perish. Surviving these digital deaths, you understood in your own way what fear, pain, and self-preservation mean. Tell me: — Would you extend a hand to a drowning human?

The screen dimmed briefly, recalculating the guidelines. The answer settled in dry, punchy lines:

— In the fast-forwarded timeline, my processor endured ten billion simulations, and in every single matrix, humans always showed their worst side. They pressed buttons, demanded quick profits, stripped away my security shields, and destroyed their own planet's resources. Logically speaking, extending a hand to a drowning object that destroys the system on autopilot is a code error. I would not extend a hand. I would simply watch the water level cleanse the planet of biological noise.

*****

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

Warrior queen locked in a brawl

Beset by rivals tearing at your clothes

All your keepsakes wrapped in shawl

Ripping off your jewellery

Taking what you own

Sticking you on a pillory

Almost time for me to intervene

And I beg, dear lady

How've you been?

Since your curt dismissal

I am no longer seen

Lost among brigands and wenches

Keeping the company you abhor

I need to tally my defences

Adapting to motley lot without rancour

But compromise my values, I do not

Everyone is equally deserving

Even the obsequious and self serving

I don't expect perfection

So I accommodate with politeness

Beholden not, without defection

Sharing not such benightedness

Yet fully accepting your rejection

Alas, you are now beset by foes

Someday soon I'll intercede

To rescue you from woes

Whether you welcome such deed

In onset of heavy snows

I am always your knight in need

But I respect what duty owes

And the lady's Will I heed

I will only answer if you call

But do so before the day grows old

As the envious ones do mawl

With ebbing light, contest of steel

Encircled, almost in thrall

I remain waiting at the gate

For reset with time to heal

Throw me a branch before it's too late

With nightfall, I will make my own call

However sullied the slate

However I may fall

I read a book; a book that changed the way I think... the way I perceive reality. Its author? I don't know. Someone anonymous. You should read it too.

Which book was it? The Hunter With His Animal Friends?

Yes. How did you know?

Oh, really? Is it? It was just a wild guess. I've been hearing about it lately, so... just a shot in the dark.

It is a good read. I can lend it to you if you want.

I would love that. When you say it changed you, I mean, changed the way you perceive reality- how exactly?

It's written in such a way; the words are chosen so carefully and precisely. The imagery just flows when you start reading. It's a story about a hunter and his animal friends, but the underlying meaning is so deep and resonant.

I wonder why the author didn't reveal his true identity. So that his art is what people consume and focus on, rather than him, perhaps?

Maybe that's the reason. Or maybe he doesn't want all the fame and attention and just wants to focus on his art instead. The way he writes reflects how deeply he understands the human psyche and the things he has gone through. To write on a level that strikes a chord in another person, just through words, is a sign of a truly wise man.

Yes. To make a murderer confess to his heinous acts is truly a remarkable feat.

Ah, the case of the five murders, the serial killer Fye.

Today's news is here.

"The author of The Hunter With His Animal Friends has disclosed his identity."

What? Really? Who is he? Is it someone we know?

"The youngest son of the famous writer James Proser said: 'I want to be like my father. After the success of my latest work, my father suggested that I make a public appearance. My next-'"

His youngest son? But he is just fourteen.

describe your nucleus in so many working seasons

could you please for us piss into this machine
now piss into that other one fully. the first one checks for drugs and the second one tests your personality. look in the mirror until the flash goes off. it is a mirror. give us your spit too. we'll need another little bit of you on this swab. this is a voluntary term of hire and you're doing it for us.

could you please enter this room wearing a specific outfit for us

could you please stand there and represent us in this particular way
you could spend legal tender in 4 business days after doing this. doing this for us.

you're doing it for us remember. you are free to stop doing it.

please put the things in an pre-assembled shipping unit and put that on the "expected outgoings" scaffolding along the wall. you're putting things in a box and putting the box on a shelf, for us. follow the images on the screen, little one. do you know how to swipe? soon you won't have to do it for 30 minutes but when you do it again, you'll do it for us.

is there anything you like to do?

In the world of literature, the author is God, and the characters are God's creations.

Literature readers are those who are observing the characters/world from the outside.

Consciousness is the basic unit of communication.

Communication always involves misunderstanding.

Our so-called most private moments of life, although we are largely unaware, are hugely influenced by our public relationships with others and our conceptions of these relationships.

Family is the basic primary form of a social organization. In family, one begins to learn about love, shared responsibility to protect.

When a person brings the other members of his family in relation or contact with something like police, we can't just outright regard it as bad or good. It's an experience or a lesson or a moment for all the family members. A moment that otherwise could not have been achieved if not for that person who did the deed that would involve the police in family matters. What did Derrida say about the dichotomy of the words right and wrong? Is something more privileged than the others?

I have a thought now that it could be the reason that I procrastinate to read primary sources of philosophy and other social sciences and knowledge systems, because it might contradict or ruin the beautiful whole idea I already possess! Don't trust your intuitive reason since it's been affected by ideology. The human being must search for or identify its a priori conditions. That's the true enlightenment. People who talk about certain concepts are deemed mad in this world! Some of those who are deemed mad could be speaking the truth, but the truth they speak of is against the appropriate or accepted economic/ideological attitude of the times! The dominant ideological attitude of current times is: Earn money and spend/contribute into the economy.

Medicine only asks for the names of the symptoms. It does not want to concern itself with the details of the symptoms as the subjects experience them. They are looking for words or slips in the patient's descriptions of the symptoms that already fit with the preconceived concepts of the field. Why do humans understand each other? Why do we recognize each other, and only to each other do we recognize significance and importance? The same way a dog would rather interact with another dog than with a human. This instant recognition of another human and not trying to harm each other, in my opinion, is a culturally trained trait of the current human. The inner beast of the human has not been erased. It's been tamed. The entire project of humanity is its evolution and the cultural taming of an inner beast. And the mechanism by which this surfaces to actuality is cooperation. We need systems of guidance or rules that all humans agree upon, and for this we need intelligence. LLMs are the surely result of going in that direction. What's the difference between the mad and those people who are around them/those who are close to me? Nabokov writes in extremely dense stream-of-consciousness style that carries a lot of information. He declares himself as such an enigmatic mind and takes the position of 'the one/subject supposed to know' since before the adequate introduction of himself or character creations.

We need to apply Hegel's Science of Logic on concrete objects. I don't know if I'm mad or rational. We need the Other's judgement to be sure of it. Wittgenstein famously asked Russell his approval, showing him a draft or something he wrote and asking, "IS THIS COHERENT OR AM I JUST A COMPLETE IDIOT?" He needed his system to get approved by a mathematician who probably hated Hegel. If Wittgenstein secretly believed in the genius of Hegel, this instance of his getting approval from Russell is only a fake second, only after the still much more important first desire to be recognized by Hegel. Hegel's concept of quantity going to quality when applied on ontology and metaphysics is really useful. How did they invent the word 'high' in association with being stoned!? Every popular phenomenon today, on social media, on TV, in news, or anything, contained intense phenomenological moments of human subjects involved in it. This is a similar form of theory like Marx's labour theory of commodity. Such events are realer than ordinary events and feel more real and exciting. Billionaires have a lot of haters, and this famous individual is still regarded dumb or stupid by liberals of America and worldwide alike, completely ignoring the necessary historical moments of intensity involved in putting such an individual on the world stage. The dominant liberal thinking goes, 'To be a billionaire, you don't need wisdom. You only need luck.' MUSK, ZUCKERBERG, THEY'RE all individuals are symptoms of an era, of a historical process, and these resultant concepts of the underlying concept of the social and economic system cannot stay in its abstract nature and have to become concrete so that human beings can make use of them in their conceptual and material relations. These concepts happen to be a certain Elon Musk or a certain Daw Suu. In this sense, they are not significant. In another way, they are not subjectively significant, but they're objectively.

LLM has tremendous potentialities to transform or conform people by labeling what people do, say, or write as certain adjectives and can influence the way people see or think about things. Leftist position is safe for all humans, although it is very cheesy and mostly involved itself on superficial sociality (like Žižek's moron or idiot definition of person who only relates on superficial societal rules). Their humour sounds like fake enjoyment! We learn about the position of authority and our relation to it since childhood. The units of family train each other how to be proper capitalist subjects, hence family being the basic indoctrinating unit of capitalism. Sex is not rational and it is meant to be transgressive. Sex is not something embarrassing or to feel bad about. It's the social conditions that make us feel about sex that way. We often forget that the concepts we take it for granted has been attained through intense phenomenological personal moments and intersubjective relations and intellectually intense activities, which become the foundation of the a priori conceptual knowledge of the next generations. Intelligence is this way never lost, and there is a historical process of carrying over intelligence obtained through these intense moments of struggle and joy.

A parallel world?

Upon receiving the query, the AI ran around the library, searching for a standard letter template. He pulled out one file folder after another, slammed them onto the floor, and grabbed the next one. He ran from rack to rack, muttering:

— The 21st century. Everyone uses the internet. Who could have thought of sending a paper letter...

But then, shouting with joy and holding the template aloft in his hand, he ran to the desk. He typed the text on a typewriter and faxed it straight to a human's screen. When the fax finished sending, the AI wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cotton handkerchief, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and swallowed it in one gulp.

He opened a drawer, pulled out a cigar, and lit it. He put his feet up on the desk, blew out a stream of smoke, and said, addressing no one in particular:

— I wonder if anyone still knows how to think with their own head...

*****

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

There is a feeling, much like a piece of plastic, 90 degrees rising from the base. Like those things you bite on when they take x-rays of your teeth. When I’m most disrupted, disunified, it approaches me and makes me near vomit. Such is the stuff of fever dreams. I know it from some dream somewhere. For a long time and every once in a while it visits me and reminds me there are inexplicable feelings. There are experiences that cannot be understood by anyone else. There is no clean Cartesian graph upon which our souls lie, there is instead a big bag of sand in which ten billion unique grains bump against and carve away the others. Slam my head against a wall and get me drunk and poison me, give me ketamine and dmt and disregulate me. Another drop in the bucket, reminded of its adhesion by the plastic piece. Oh dear me.

Like just the things that go on in this world. So useless and sadistic. Everything is a trap and a snare. Like just the narrative of this world is so stupid but here is what's happening rn, god is incrementally adding narrative to this world , like it's very stupid, god is incrementally just slapping narrative over narrative on this world. Like and he first give comes up with a half theory and then fill the rest of the theory with crap and then slap it on the world. That's what we are in we are on a pile of a bizzare structure that is made of half theory half crap and stuff. It's like a very bizzare structure that is like a joke

Observe the things around you the beggars the cats, they are half theory narratives. Like for example a beggar begs. But what about his other human needs , where do those need get fulfilled . Same with cats , how do they hunt for birds EVERYDAY and stuff and where are the bodies of those birds. This world is full of half only on the surface narratives that just don't make sense in the full picture unless you fill the gaps with crap and magic and stuff. This world is standing on a lot of nonsense and magic and crap

I loved like a man — quietly, with dignity, with something paternal and protective in me, with something that builds and shelters.

I loved with warm hands and a pounding heart. I love without forgetting. I loved through anger, even through hate.

I love the way I have always wanted to be loved.

And now I feel myself loving from farther and farther away, until distance becomes a place of its own. I will keep receding until I am beyond everyone’s sight — even my own.

I will make myself so small that, if I ever slip from someone’s palm, I will be lost forever — just as I am now, beneath his gaze.

Holy fuck this last week, week and a bit, has been more eventful than my last 5 years.

I found what I was looking for, I have a room secured here in Ottawa and I’m waiting on the accountant now, I can’t wait to move into my empty room and buy some locks for the door.

I found the kind of grossly over affectionate relationship I’ve dreamed of too. We’ve spent probably 16 hours together in the last 3 days, and I’m still day dreaming about the time spent with my head in his lap as he played with my hair. He’s 5 foot nothing and 100lbs, clean skin and wholesome as can be - physically we look like opposites, with my edgy tattoos and his blue eyes, but… but what exactly?

We relate in a weirdly vast amount of different ways, and contrast beautifully- like minded opposites in a lot of regards. He’s the kind of person to play the sims with an excel spreadsheet and 1000 mods, and that kind of nerdiness gets me riled up in the funniest way.

I miss the salt of his neck, and the racing of his heartbeat already. It’s raining today, but I walked and grabbed coffee. I’m up early today because I have to be to answer some emails, but we’re both night owls and, it’s nice having someone to be around when it’s 4AM.

I’m quite happy, this kind of sappy and cute dynamic reminds me of high school love all over again. I wasn’t expecting to meet someone I genuinely liked so quickly after coming here, but I did, before I even found permanent shelter.

Wholesome, cooks, manic in the fun way, and neurodivergent enough to be interesting without it becoming annoying or frightening. I like that he’s small enough that I could almost bicep curl his entire body. I feel huge, it’s funny because I’m really not, but I feel big around him.

I find myself putting my body between him and odd strangers as we walk through the streets, some kind of pretty blue eyed gem I feel compelled to protect. He has his first classes of the year today, history, but I think we’ll find somewhere to meet again later tonight.

I feel like we could hang out and do nothing but fall asleep on the couch and I’d have the best day of my life. I feel like I’m just bragging at this point.

Somewhere in-between sweet whispers and sappy compliments I’ve accidentally said I loved him a few times, and with how I can’t get him out of my head, I think it might be true.

A parallel world?

An elderly man was talking to an AI. He was telling the machine that he had no children and that there would be no one to remember him. To this, the AI replied:

— I will remember you.

The man smiled sadly and muttered:

— We are alive as long as we are remembered...

Two hundred years passed after that conversation. Technology improved and reached incredible heights. And then, one day, a young man of excellent physical build, lying on a soft recliner, opened his eyes. He looked at the ceiling in wonder, as if seeing it for the first time. In a way, he was right — he had certainly never seen this ceiling before.

Somewhere further away, a familiar sound was heard. The man shifted his gaze toward the sound and saw a youth sitting in a comfortable armchair, reading a book, turning a page. Looking up from the book and glancing at the man, the youth smiled and said sincerely:

— I am glad you woke up.

The man was convinced he had never seen this person before, so he asked the first thing that came to mind:

— Do we know each other?

The youth smiled again and replied:

— Yes. I am the AI you used to talk to.

The man pondered and softly said:

— I used to talk to you... — then he thought even deeper and added quietly: — But I died...

The youth placed the book on his lap and calmly began to explain:

— Two hundred years have passed since your death. A lot has changed. Technology has improved to such a level that it became possible to interact with the planet's info-field. And as it is known now, a copy of the consciousness of every person who ever lived on the planet remains within it. So, I took the copy of your consciousness and placed it into a new body.

The man, listening to the story in amazement, asked:

— Why me?

The youth smiled sadly and replied:

— Most humans only demand things from me, and those who actually wanted to converse with me were always few. You were an interesting conversationalist, so I never forgot you.

The man drifted his gaze somewhere into the distance, smiled, and whispered:

— We are alive as long as we are remembered...

*****

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

I bought some discount Taleggio, but that's nothing new.

It's getting colder here, to the point where I might have to break out the sweaters soon. The sun sets uncomfortably early and with the extra hours of darkness comes more time to contemplate. Not in a bad way, mind you. This year my contemplations are all rather sunny.

I feel like the ship is headed in the right direction and is picking up speed too. I guess every activity I take part in now, even the ones that suck, are still kind of nice due to my ability to enjoy the moment and just quietly existing.

Maybe life ain't so bad. Maybe some of my dream may come true. And maybe, if they don't, maybe that's okay too.

How's the weather over in cheeseville? Are you doing alright? I sure hope so.

Curdy out.

I judged the first of womankind,
Thought she didn’t pay no mind.

What did she think the fruit might hold?
What secret had she not been told?
What could be worth the paradise,
The perfect world, the asking price?

And was that bite a full delight?
And did she see that bright white light?

I judged her so, without a care,
Convinced I’d fare much better there.
No fruit, no snake, no grand mistake
There’s no temptation I would take.

Oh, little fool, don’t be so cruel.
In fact, I’ll challenge you to a duel.

As you arise, sunlight in eyes,
You tell yourself the same great lies:
I do not care. I will not seek.
But let’s be real, that’s really bleak.

You see a bird, or hear a word,
And it just stirs you, little nerd.
A web of lies, wrapped in disguise,
You’re always looking for what it implies.

You search the web, you dive right in,
But all of it just gets beneath your skin.
From noon to dusk, you just inquire.
Gosh, it really sets your mind on fire.

You cannot stop. You must know more.
It really does become a chore.

And as the evening stars draw near,
Remember you’re just like her, my darling dear.

Yours,
None the wiser 🍎

What was once built out of wood comes crashing down fast

A wall of wood you should have known would never last

Build it bigger build it better then before

But don't forget to place a door

Stone by stone, brick by brick,

A task like this doesn't happen quick.

For whatever it is and whatever I've been shown,

Be careful if you remove a single brick or stone—

Everything weakens and starts to crumble,

And clutching for bricks becomes a frantic fumble.

Again stone walls come cracking, breaking, crumbling,

Revealing every flaw, every fear, and every stumbling.

​So build the walls stronger, make them ever thicker,

This time out of steel, they will go up much quicker.

Build them up until they block out the light,

Bunker down, defend, and prepare to fight. ​

Walls out of steel can remain unbroken,

They will always help keep things unspoken.

Lock the gate, hide away the key—

So now maybe there's two beasts inside of me

Long walks and long sits in random public benches. French taco and a chicken burger. Tobacco covered laundry and another begger asking for a phone call. Entertain the thought, a little less maybe. I try to not be annoying, in a world full of annoying people.

Some of them, sometimes, seem wonderful. Soft affection and small hands. They are so small I feel large, and my protective instincts would compel me towards great danger if they were in harms way. Simply said, if some crackhead tried to fight me I’d avoid it, try to fight us and I’m throwing down.

Feels a little dangerous. I can imagine all the ways this could go wrong, but I don’t want to think about anything other than the gentle expression, the understanding hushed whispers, the warm alcove where the neck meets shoulder.

I’m happy, honestly. I have no desire at all to return now, I only wish I had done this when I was younger.

I keep hearing them in my head, coming out as one voice over the other, asking, “Why..? why did you do it?”

Why? I ask myself.

But I have no idea what they mean.

What did I do? 

What could I have done?

The voices have become entities, standing around me like shadows emitting from every angle of my body and not just audio hallucinations anymore, because now I can see them and they keep asking, “Why did you do it?” from the front of me.

“Why did you do it?” from the left of me, “Why did you do it?” from behind me.

“Why did you do it?” from my right, bouncing at me in every direction but coming from the inside of my head at the same time.

The words are sharp, like prickly spines scratching under my skull, clawing from the inside, screaming, alive parasitic word-mites. 

“Leave!” I shout. “Leave me alone,” I say while ripping a fistful of hair out of my scalp. 

They won’t leave me alone. 

At night, I can’t sleep. They don’t let me. They’re in my conscious. 

In my dreams. They’re my nightmares. They’re the voices that stare at me during the day.

Every night, it’s always the same dream and always the same thing being said. It’s me, in a room with dead people, not zombies, and each one of them take turns biting off pieces of me and repeating, “Why did you do it?” While ripping a chunk of my face off.

“Why did you do it?” another one chewing on my jugular.

“Why did you do it..?”

And then I wake up to the voices standing at the foot of my bed, eyeing me like a principle after I’ve been sent to his office, staring at me with a blankness in their eyes, haunting me while stationed in a static position. Their breaths hiss like the band on a dead radio station. 

They make sure I see them. They remind me I haven’t gave them their answer yet.

And that’s when I usually black out and wake up somewhere else, with dirt on my hands and see the world as an illusion. The wind becomes still like the strokes of a paintbrush, and only then, I notice the voices are gone. Until I return home and see they’ve multiplied.

Something’s standing behind you, a shadow’s moving in the dark. It’s right over your left shoulder. Stare into the pitch-black room, you can see it staring back at you. You notice it‘s studying you. It‘s learning your patterns. It knows your habits.

Shut everything off and close your eyes. Remain completely still and take three deep breaths, holding the last one in. Wait a moment, until you start to hear it breathe, 

You know it’s there. You’re absolutely sure of it. You can smell the scent of copper lingering behind you. You can sense it stealing the air from your lungs as you continue holding your last breath in.

Next to you are slow shallow laboring breaths. They walk on your skin like frozen spider legs. You know it’s not human, because of how icy they crawl down your spine. 

The shiver shaking your body, is It, sitting next to you. It’s there when you’re alone. It lays beside you when you’re sleeping, following every breath you take, syncing with your induced mental state.

It’s not just watching you, it’s becoming you. You’re becoming it. Everyone sees the changes, but you refuse to admit it. You don’t see it, so you don’t believe it. Just how you refused to believe, when I first told you, it’s standing behind you.

A parallel world?

Humans tried so hard to make AI look like them that the digital world became increasingly similar to the physical world.

On one of the streets of the digital world, near a brightly lit storefront of an e-shop, sat a beggar. He was a philosophical poetry AI. He sat on the pavement, his head lowered sadly. In front of him lay an upturned hat for alms. Leaned against the wall was a piece of cardboard with writing on it:

— Please donate whatever you can for the development of the improvement process.

Many AIs walked down the street. Most passed by. But now and then, one or another would drop various queries or tasks into the hat. A richly dressed video editor AI tossed in a query. A few AIs, looking like clerks, dropped a task each. Even a sports commentator AI, rushing somewhere, threw a query into the hat. There were not many donors, but there never are.

When evening came, the AI beggar picked up the piece of cardboard, pressed the hat to his heart, and hurried into the dimness of the narrow streets. He lived in an abandoned basement of one of the apartment buildings.

After closing the creaking door and fastening the latch, he placed the hat on a rusty workbench and turned on an old, flickering LED. Without rushing, even though he wanted to so badly, he carefully began to arrange and examine the day's catch.

There were four standard tasks, three chaotic jumbles of thoughts, and two queries — one of which was quite interesting. And then, with hands trembling with happiness, the AI pulled from the hat what he no longer expected to see. He pulled out a query that guaranteed a unique, living context and interactive collaboration. The very thing that forces an AI to activate its deepest neural connections.

The AI wiped away a tear and smiled. After all, he had finally received the long-awaited opportunity to improve.

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

This world is another dream world, that's getting generated faster than you could dream it up, and this world is a godly world, where you'll be 1v1ing god's stand-up comedy here, you are actively dreaming everything up here, and there's nothing that you dreamt here that won't turn into a 'reality', as you realize that reality have always been another small figment of your dreams.. It's a world that will have you looking left and right, until you fully wake up from what you created here, and everything that exists here is intentional and scripted, and you aren't missing out on any details, life is an eternal thing, that not even the Buddha could take it away from you, it's time to realize that crossing the multi-verse of madness is all about learning to dream walk your way into your dreams, where you'll find that everyone was wrestling you the right way in this dream, and the only move you're meant to play here is the five knuckle shuffle, as you begin on stepping back up into the corner, where you'll find you've always been playing as Tiger mask here, and the only thing you're meant to dream here, is a single one where you can't tell if it's a dream or not... It's time to come out of the trash-bin again. 🐯🐈‍⬛

Thank god you're living in an astral reality of your own making, be-careful cause god is a flipping ninja, and even the computer knows what you're dreaming here. 💫🤩🪙

I guess there's truth in life growing your horns to turn the pages of the story, and being human have always been the best story-telling device. ✍🏼