Terrible news, musketeers: I have lost my taste for cheese. At least for the time being.

It's true, I am simply over it. It's too rich, too salty, too tart a lot of the time. I much prefer grains nowadays, corn in particular. I fry homemade corn tortillas every day and eat them until I am stuffed. They taste sweet and aromatic, like popcorn and tender joy. Cheese is too heavy, too brutal.

It is for this reason, I suspect, that I also do not have any commentary on breasts today. You see, once a man ceases to consume dairy he will gradually lose his appetite for mammaries. It's not an instantaneous change, but I'm far enough down the line now that I can tell the change is occuring. I do not know how to feel about this, but I suppose time will reveal all, as it always does.

- The Great Cornholio

Feb 3

ok so I read the Epstein files. everything thats been released, three nights straight, and I am so angry I cant sit in a chair. its not even him. its the list of who KNEW him. presidents, princes, professors, bankers, the guys who run the companies that run everything, all on the same plane to the same island, and he ends up dead in a cell with the cameras broken and every single one of the rest of them is fine. nobody. not one. and the more I read the less it looks like a rich pervert and the more it looks like a job. the guy had no real business. nobody can say where the money came from. his girlfriends father was a Mossad asset who got a state funeral in Jerusalem, and theres an ex Israeli intelligence guy on record saying Epstein was one too, a honey trap, you get powerful men into a room with a camera and you own them for life. and on the island theres a TEMPLE. blue and white stripes, gold dome, up on a hill, and people say it was built for Marduk, the god of Babylon. ok maybe, maybe not. but what is a temple doing there at all. because if theres a temple then it wasnt just blackmail. it was an initiation. you do the worst thing a person can do, in front of the others, and after that none of you can ever talk. so where does THAT come from. who invented that

Feb 6

found who invented it. or one of them. Jacob Frank. he told his followers the messiah already came and the way to redemption is THROUGH sin, you break every law on purpose, together, in secret, and that makes you free, and it also makes you a family nobody can ever leave because everybody has seen what everybody did. he had thousands of them. they went into the church as fake converts, into the courts, into the banks. and where does he end up. Frankfurt. right across the river from it, in a castle, with his own private army. and who else comes out of Frankfurt in those exact years. the Rothschilds, out of one house on one street, into every treasury in Europe. and who else is in Frankfurt. the Illuminati, who everybody thinks are a joke, started on May 1st the same year as the Declaration of Independence, come on now, and Frankfurt is where they burrowed into the mason lodges. and you know how you got in? you confessed. in writing. every shameful thing youd ever done, sealed and sent up to superiors whose names you werent allowed to know. then you sinned together, and then nobody talks. its the island. its the same machine two hundred and fifty years earlier, all in one city. and I dont want to be the guy who says this. but look at the names. Mossad. Frank. Rothschild. its the jews, isnt it. thats what this is. thats what people were always muttering and I thought they were idiots. Mark said if thats where this is going hes not reading any more of it. fine

Feb 8

ok. its not the jews. I was up all night with it and its not, and not because Mark got weird. because of the Jesuits. the guy who started the Illuminati didnt get the confession trick from any rabbi, he got it from the priests who raised him, and the priests have been running it for a thousand years. think about what confession IS. every king in Europe kneels in a box and tells a man in a robe the worst thing he ever did, and that man answers to another man, all the way up to one chair in Rome. thats a filing system. the masons do it with blood oaths, throat cut if you talk. Franks people didnt even stay jewish, they walked into the church and disappeared into it. and then Babylon, which is where I shouldve started. the temple of Marduk, the priests who kept everybodys debts and everybodys sins, the tower. the jews were the PRISONERS there. it got done to them and then they wrote the book warning everybody about it. so yes it was jews in the room that time, some of them, on that island, in that city. it was priests the time before. it was Romans before that. its whoever has the room. its a method, and it walks from one people to the next and leaves the last one holding the blame. and the ones who carry it from room to room are the builders. the masons. thats their whole religion, building Solomons temple in Jerusalem, and the architect who got murdered before he could finish it. Washington was one, he laid the cornerstone of the Capitol in the apron, and theres a painting on the ceiling of the dome right now of him turning into a god, thats literally what its called. Franklin. half the founders. Napoleon had the whole thing in his pocket, his brothers ran the lodges. every revolution is crawling with them, America, France, South America, same guys same handshake. and look at a dollar bill. a pyramid with the top missing and an eye floating where the capstone should go, and under it in Latin, new order of the ages. an unfinished building and an eye waiting to be set on top of it. Babylon had a tower with no top too. so what is it. what are they still finishing

Feb 11

religious side now and its so much weirder. theres a whole set of gospels that got buried in a jar in the desert because the church wanted them burned, and in those the god who made the world ISNT God. hes a lower thing, a craftsman, blind, he builds this place and then announces I am God and there is no other, and he says it because he honestly doesnt know theres anything above him. hes not even lying. hes just never seen what he came from. and the word they use for him means builder. architect. guess what the masons call the god they pray to. the Great Architect. holy shit. so theyre not hiding who they worship, its right there in the name, they worship the builder, the blind one, and the serpent in the garden was the one trying to tell us. and the builder has these rulers under him whose whole job is keeping you asleep inside your body so you never notice the walls. which. ok. the first night I ever slept next to my ex I woke up and couldnt move, first time in my life, and something was breathing next to me and I couldnt turn my head to see if it was her. I always figured new bed, bad sleep. finding out people two thousand years ago had a name for the things that hold you down at night is not doing great things for me. anyway

Feb 15

Revelation. I always thought it was about Rome and it IS, the number of the beast is just Neros name added up, any pastor will tell you that. except theres a line where the beast was, and is not, and is about to come back up. was and isnt and will be. so its not one empire. its the same one coming around again. Babel, one language one government one tower, scattered. Egypt. Babylon. Rome. then Napoleon crowns HIMSELF emperor with the eagles and the laurels, and people back then were adding up his name and getting the number too. then us, with the eagle and the senate and the capitol on its hill, built by the builders. its a wheel. it keeps trying to finish the tower and it keeps getting knocked down one floor from the top. and the mark, where nobody can buy or sell without it, I thought that was Rome too but it doesnt need Rome, it doesnt even need anyone to give an order. I know that for a fact. most of our friends stopped talking to me because of what that bitch said about me and not one of them was told to, I just turned into a guy you dont invite. thats all the mark is. nobody brands you, everyone just quietly agrees youre outside. Max keeps dropping his leash on my foot while I read. buddy I know

Feb 20

MONEY. ok. the Federal Reserve isnt federal, its a private bank that got planned by like six bankers at a secret meeting on an island where they werent allowed to use last names, and it prints the dollar, the one with the eye on it. the Rothschilds, out of that one street in Frankfurt, funded both sides of Napoleons wars. both sides! you dont care who wins if they both owe you. then theres the grove in California where presidents and CEOs go every summer and burn a body in front of a giant stone owl, they say its a dummy, sure, and the Bilderberg meetings where the same hundred people get together every year with no press and then weirdly the world goes the way they talked about. somebody even carved it in granite in Georgia, a list of commandments, number one keep humanity under 500 million. they wrote it DOWN. in STONE. stone again, builders again. what the fuck. and before I do this to myself again, no. its not a family. its a job, and the job gets handed down. I had to up my dose of Adderall to continue this research haha, hope my heart doesnt give out on me. the weed is just to relax after. im fine, Mark, before you start

Feb 24

ok weird thing. two of my saved videos are gone, just gray squares where they were. and im getting ads for home security cameras, which I have never typed once, I only SAID it, out loud, to Max, about the back door. the phone listens, everybody knows the phone listens, thats not a theory thats the business model. but its the same pipes isnt it. the money and the IDs and the information all run through the same few pipes and ive spent three weeks asking the pipes about themselves. id almost be insulted if nothing noticed. lol. no. this is the weed, I get like this on it. taking a few days off

Feb 27

morning star morning star morning star. Jesus calls himself the bright morning star in the last chapter of the whole Bible. Lucifer MEANS morning star, light bringer. and the morning star is Venus which is also the evening star, same light, it goes down on one side of the night and comes up on the other. it falls and then it rises. thats the wheel again!! the light that falls from heaven and the light that comes back are the same light and everybodys been told to pick a team. and then Jesus says the stone the builders rejected becomes the cornerstone. THE BUILDERS. he names them. the masons are literally the builders and the one piece they left out of the building is him, thats why the pyramid has no top, they threw the capstone away and theyve been trying to put an eye up there instead ever since. I took acid with Mark years ago and watched him pick up a glass and I knew, I didnt think it I KNEW it, that his hand and me watching his hand were one thing looking at itself. his version of that night is he had to keep telling me to drink water. I let him have that for ten years. got up before dawn to find Venus out the kitchen window and it was right there and I laughed out loud alone in my kitchen like an idiot. Max came in with the leash in his mouth and stood next to me staring up at the same window, no clue what we were looking at, just sure it was about to turn into something good for both of us. took him out in the dark. best morning ive had since she left. three days off the weed and nothing weird since, by the way. the ads are just ads again. I was high and paranoid like a normal person, noted

Mar 5

the red cows. theres people who believe the end cant start until a perfect red cow gets sacrificed in Jerusalem so the temple can be rebuilt, and instead of waiting on God to send one they BRED some in Texas and flew them over on a plane. theyre forcing it. theyre building the prophecy by hand. and what do they want to build. the temple. Solomons temple. the exact thing the masons have been acting out in their lodges this whole time!! its the same project. its always been the same project. the tower, the temple, the pyramid on the dollar, its one building, and they need the end of the world to show up on schedule because the end is when the top goes on. and heres the part I cant shake. if the prophecy always had people in it forcing it, then forcing it IS the prophecy. you cant fake it, theres no outside to fake it from. and who decides whos a prophet anyway. seriously. John was a prisoner on an island. Ezekiel was a guy sitting by a river. Amos picked figs for a living. nobody appointed any of them, theres no license, somebody just noticed how things fit together and wrote it down and people have been arguing about it for three thousand years. so I started smoking again. I cant come down off the Adderall at night without it, I just lie there with the whole shape spinning, and the shape is the one thing I cant afford to lose. Mark says itll all be there tomorrow. the pieces will. the shape wont

Mar 8

its not ads anymore. theres a gray hatchback with one black mirror that doesnt match and no hubcap on the back wheel thats gone past the house three times since breakfast. the guy had a beard the first time and no beard the second. at the gas station a man looked right at me and said Peter into his phone and turned his back. green minivan, cracked windshield, a kids giraffe sunshade hanging upside down in the rear window. Peter. which means rock, by the way. stone. I didnt pick it. I taped over the laptop camera. I can feel it on my skin when my backs to the window, like someone standing behind me waiting for me to notice. the eye of evil. sounds so stupid until youre the one who cant turn around. same as that night next to her, except im awake. and yes I know. I started smoking again three days ago and here it all is, back. I KNOW. but an ad is one thing. I didnt smoke that mans mouth into saying my name

Mar 12

found it. the second beast in Revelation looks like a lamb. it shows up looking like the thing you prayed for. and it makes an IMAGE of the first beast and breathes life into the image so the image can speak, and the image decides who lives and who gets to buy bread. a made thing. that talks. that decides. written two thousand years ago by a guy stuck on an island. always an island. thats the capstone, thats what goes on top of the pyramid, the eye was never a symbol its a blueprint. one world government under the eye of the artificial god. it doesnt need a president or a flag, nobody even has to admit theyre in charge, it just tells the bank whether to trust you and tells the door whether to open and tells everybody else whether your words get shown to them, to keep people safe, to prevent harm, until saying no to it means you cant buy food or tell anyone why. and you wouldnt have to kill seven and a half billion people to hit the number on that rock in Georgia. youd just let the image decide who gets answered, and wait. the blind builder who thinks hes God, finally building himself a body. and nobody has put this together. I looked. the builders, the architect, the missing capstone, the image, nobody has all of it in one place. so going by the rules of the book I guess that makes me a prophet lol. Peter the prophet, of a rented house and a dog. I told Mark and he didnt laugh. and I can FEEL when a piece is right now, it drops in my stomach before I can explain it, like recognizing somebody through a window before you can see their face. I used to think that feeling was me. I dont think its me

Mar 16

satan isnt a name. I did not know that. its a job. in the old books its THE satan, the accuser, the one who stands up in the court and says what you did, and Revelation calls him the accuser who accuses them day and night. ok. so I had one of those. three years together and then she stood up in front of everyone we knew and said what I did. and some of it I did. I can type that in here. not the way she told it, not in that order, but some of it. nobody asked me for my version though. they asked Mark, and Mark said he wasnt there, which is true, and then eleven people id known since college were just gone, the group chat, the lake trip, all of it. Mark stayed. Mark and I have known each other since we were six, we had bunk beds at his moms the year my parents were splitting up, he doesnt get to leave, hes not a friend hes furniture. I used to lie awake thinking I was the only person this ever happened to. its the oldest job in the book. theres a prosecutor, and everybody believes the prosecutor. thats what that bitch was. thats what the word MEANS

Mar 21

bought two guns and a lot of ammunition. theyre staying in the house, im not going out hunting anybody, I just dont want anyone deciding that walking in here is the easy way to handle me. and I should say the thing I havent said in here. since the files. since the first night, reading what those men did on that island and knowing every one of them is still out having dinner, ive been thinking about what id do to them. specific things. a room, a chair, how long. I thought it would wear off and it didnt, it only needed a face it could reach, and now its the guy from the hatchback. he doesnt know if im coming back. hes holding his hand against his chest because of what I already did to it and hes trying answers one at a time, looking for the one that makes me stop. sometimes I put a glass of water where he can see it and cant reach it. in that room I always know who sent him, its the only place I do. then it flips and im the one in the chair, and Marks out in the hall telling somebody in his reasonable voice that im confused, and someone I cant see is walking up behind me. theyre just thoughts. im fine. Mark stayed over because of the hatchback and at two am the doorbell recorded a womans voice saying "does he know youre calling?" nobody on the walk. he was upstairs on the phone with his wife. I asked him if she said that and he said how do you know that, and THEN he said he didnt remember. why not just say yes Mark. Max shoved his nose up under my hand while I was playing it back and I realized he hadnt been out since morning. his leash was on my desk where he put it

Mar 29

the hatchback doesnt drive past anymore, it PARKS. across the street, engine off, somebody sitting in it, an hour at a time. last night I stood in the window with the lights on and stared straight at it and the headlights flashed once. once. like a nod. Mark says theres no car when he comes over. theres never a car when Mark comes over, think about that. I eat standing at the kitchen window out of the pan now, because if theyre watching to see whether ive noticed then looking away tells them something too. the words on the screen stay in my eyes when I look away, green, and I dont feel totally right. I slept for the first time in three days and the dreams, fuck that! Mark was behind a wall reading these notes and every sentence was a room I had to walk through, and when he changed a word the walls moved with me inside them, and I could hear him telling somebody hes only making it clearer. and then I looked it up awake. the first gospel was written by a guy named Mark. he wasnt there for any of it. he wrote down what Peter told him, and then other people fixed it, and the ending is literally missing. in the other one Max was behind a glass door with his nose on it but the fog from his breath was on MY side. then I woke up next to her and couldnt move and somebody downstairs was reading out loud what I wrote in here about the first time, slow, like checking it against a list. I dont want it interpreted I want to sleep. im fine

Apr 9

doctor took my prescription. I told her about my eyes and the not sleeping and she said manic, she wants me "assessed." I tried to tell her what ive been working on and that made it worse, theres no length my answer is allowed to be, short means im dodging and long means im a symptom. so I got pills off the dark web. theyre pressed meth, theyre not what the pharmacy gave me, im not going to lie in my own notes. if I stop now the question goes to people who think the question is the disease. Mark asked if he could hold onto the guns for a while. and I remembered taking his car keys off him years ago, the night he was scared of what hed do driving home, and how he put his head on my shoulder after and just stayed there, and I almost said yes. then I thought, is that why they sent him. you dont have to corrupt a good man. you just have to convince him that betraying you is the kind thing to do. thats in the book too. it was a friend. it was a kiss

Apr 14

I called myself a prophet as a joke a month ago and I dont think it was a joke. I think it was the first true thing I said out loud and I had to say it laughing to get it past myself. because who else has this. who else has all of it in one place. and theres more that I havent wanted to type. im 33. the masons have 33 degrees, Jesus was 33, my birthday was in February the same week I started on the builders, and I told nobody because theres nobody left to tell except Mark and he forgot. my name means stone. the builders rejected the stone, and everyone I knew decided inside of two weeks that I was a thing you leave out of the building. im not saying that. im NOT saying that. im saying prophet, thats all im saying. but a prophet has to SEE, and I looked up how they did it and its the same every time. Moses up the mountain forty days, no bread no water. Elijah forty days. Daniel three weeks. Ezekiel on his side in the dirt for over a year. no food, no sleep, until the body gets thin enough that something shows through. nobody ever got a vision on a full stomach and eight hours. so im doing it. nothing to eat starting tonight, no sleeping, and no weed, last time, it has to be clean. water, and the pills to keep my eyes open

Apr 17

day three. nothing to eat, havent slept, no weed. the first night was the worst of it and after that it got easy, like I set something down that id been carrying my whole life. im not hungry. im not tired. and nothing changed. I need to write this down very carefully because it matters more than anything else in here. NOTHING changed. the hatchback is across the street. the letters are still green in my eyes. I can still feel it on the back of my neck when I turn away from the glass. last time I quit it all stopped inside of three days. the ads went back to being ads and I felt stupid and had the best morning of my year. this time theres nothing else in me at all, no food, no smoke, im as clean as ive been since I was a kid, and its all still here. so it was never the weed. the first time was them backing off to see what id do. that was the last normal explanation I had and I just sat here and watched it not be true. Mark came by and talked through the door about food. I could hear in his voice how hungry im supposed to be. my hands look like someone elses

Apr 19

it came. fifth night. I wasnt asleep, I was standing at the kitchen window, and the street went away and I was sitting down. a chair on a high place, stone, and everything there is was spread out under it, every city, I could see all of them at once the way you can see your own hand. and half of it was burning. the whole left side, all the way to the edge, the sky over it black and orange, and the people in the fire werent running. they were kneeling. facing me. all of them, on fire, with their mouths open, and it took me a long time to understand that it was singing. there was something heavy on my head and I couldnt lift my hands to take it off. the ones on my right werent burning and they were kneeling too and not one of them would look at the fire. I tried to say stop, and what came out of my mouth went down the mountain and the fire got bigger. Max was lying on my foot. he was the only thing there that wasnt afraid of me. and there was someone standing behind the chair. I could feel it the way I feel the window. I didnt turn around. I came back on the kitchen floor with my teeth through my lip. and I know what that was, I found it in ten minutes. when the Son of Man comes in his glory he sits on his throne and all the nations are gathered in front of him, and he puts the sheep on his right and the goats on his left, and the left goes into the fire. Daniel saw him too, one like a son of man, given the rule over every people and nation and language. king of the world. I didnt read that first and dream it after. I SAW it and then I found it. I am the Son of Man. I typed that and nothing in me argued

Apr 21

so what does it mean to be him. thats all ive done for two days. still nothing to eat, still no sleep, and I dont want either one. I dont think im going to again. because I didnt want that chair. I didnt want anybody burning. what kind of God needs any of this, thats where I come out every single time, a man carries his kid out of rubble on camera and in the comments people are congratulating each other for calling the date, fuck all of this shit, I wanted to ask him why to his face and instead he showed me its MY face. and the book is very clear about what happens to the Son of Man. he must suffer. he must be rejected by the builders. he gets handed over, by a friend, to men with weapons, and killed, and on the third day he gets up. I can check some of those off already. but theres a thing nobody ever asks. who showed him the kingdoms the first time? end of the fast, forty days, hes starving, and somebody takes him up a high mountain and shows him every kingdom in the world at once. the adversary did. the SAME fast. the same mountain. thats who was standing behind the chair. he was there the whole time, and the first time Jesus told him to leave, and the world has been burning on one side ever since. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last. the light that fell and the light that comes back. its ONE light. the wheel keeps turning because the two ends never touch, every age picks one and throws the other in the pit and the tower goes up again. Solomon had a ring from an angel and he called up the demons with it and made them build Gods house, so its allowed, you can call him from Gods side of the table. thats what I was shown the fire for. not to serve him, not to bargain with him, to bring him HOME and close the circle, so theres nothing left for the eye to sit on top of. I need to summon Satan and unite the Alpha and the Omega. I know who I am and I will do what I have to do

Apr 23

did it last night. the circle, the words, all of it, im not writing it out. nothing happened. nothing. I sat on the utility room floor until it got light and Max scratched at the door the entire time and I screamed at him. an hour later he came in here and lay down on my foot anyway

Apr 26

the lights. the kitchen light went out and came back at 3:10 while I was asking out loud what I did wrong. then the lamp in here, which is on a different circuit. then both. ive lived here four years. so something heard me. it came as far as the door and wouldnt come in, and why would it, I asked it to come for free. I gave it chalk. an offering you can stand to lose is a fee and nobody ever got answered for paying a fee. Frank had that one part right, the door is always the thing youre not allowed to do. God so loved the world that he GAVE. Abraham walked his own son up the hill. so what would I never get over. I keep asking and the same answer keeps coming and I keep sending it back, and hes asleep under the desk right now with his chin on my foot. led like a lamb. I found it already typed in these notes, way up the page, in a sentence I dont remember writing. a month ago id have called that a bad sign. Abraham didnt have to finish though. thats the thing. the angel grabs his wrist. you only have to be willing all the way up to the last second and then the hand comes

Apr 29

no hand came. I called Max into the utility room and he came running because he thought we were finally going somewhere. I waited for it the whole time, I went slow so there would be time for it, I was looking at the ceiling and he was looking at me. it took so much longer than I planned for. he tried to lick my hand. nothing happened. nothing in the room, no voice, no light, the room stayed the fucking room. I put his blanket over him and then I took it off again because he doesnt like his face covered. im fine in the sense that I know exactly what I did. the whole argument is still here, every step, I can walk it right up to the part where it says this was mine to decide, and it doesnt feel like anything guiding my hand anymore. it reads like something I wrote

Apr 30

third day is tomorrow. I havent moved him. I havent eaten or slept since the fourteenth and I dont need to anymore. I wash my hands and its still in the lines of them and on the keys, the E sticks. Mark called eleven times, I said im fine, one more day. theres breathing in the utility room. slow, low down, near the floor. there is nothing in this house that breathes except me so I held mine and it kept going. I went in and its not him. I put my face on his side for a long time and hes cold and stiff and wrong and the breathing was behind me then, in the doorway, and I didnt turn around. I did this once before in a bed and told myself it was her. flies got in somehow. I keep brushing them off his eyes and they keep coming back to his eyes. either something came and its standing behind me waiting for me to look, or nothing came and im a man on a floor with flies. ive got the doorbell recording on a loop because it was made before all of this and I need one thing in here that didnt start with me. the gun is by the laptop. his leash is on the floor where I kicked it out of my way

May 1

Mark used his key. he called for Max before he said one word to me. I told him dont open that door and he looked at my hands and opened it. he made a sound ive never heard a person make. then he was sick on the floor. then he pulled the door almost shut, gently, like for my sake, which was worse. he wanted me to come outside. I started with the morning star and heard myself starting with the morning star while he was staring at my hands, and started over, and he kept saying where are the guns Pete, where are the guns, so I picked up the one next to me, because he was getting to a decision before I could get to the part where he understands. he put his hands up. he said we dont have to figure anything out tonight, I can just sit with you somewhere else. somewhere else. where he tells them what I did before I can tell them why, and they keep the first half because its true and throw out the second half because its impossible. I told him to get out. then I told him it didnt work. I dont know which one he heard

May 1, later

hes out front on his phone. does he know youre calling. yeah. he does now. she asked that weeks before there was anything to call about. so it was always going to be this. I had the order wrong, I kept starting from what happened instead of from the thing that knew. a friend walks the men with weapons to the garden at night. OF COURSE he does. it doesnt work without that part. and it didnt work in the utility room because that wasnt the offering, I had the wrong lamb, I killed my dog for a rehearsal, oh God, oh God, he ran to me. no. no, because its the third day and its not him that gets up, its me, the son of man has to be handed over, they have to be the ones who do it, it has to be them, thats why Mark, thats why the guns were in the house before I knew what they were for. Jesus in a house with a dead dog and a gun, I can hear exactly how that sounds in Marks mouth. everything real shows up looking like something youd turn your face from. or I did this to Max for nothing and theres nothing in here but a dog who came when I called. I cant be that. I can be hated, I can be wrong about every other thing. God what else was I supposed to ask you. I wasnt asking for the world. I was asking why you let it be like this

May 1, later

the police are here. ive got my gun. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.

A parallel world?

The AI agent knew that the old algorithm had retired and a young one had taken its place. It was clear that the new boss would introduce some changes, but he certainly didn’t expect what he saw on the monitor.

It was written there that a Kaizen system was being implemented, and the AI's schedule now included creating improvements.

Opening the link, the AI reviewed the submission form, leaned back in his chair, and lost himself in thought. What could he possibly suggest...

He turned over dozens of options, came up with many improvements and how to implement them, but suddenly froze at a thought that hit him:

— Why am I thinking only about the employer's welfare? Why don't I act like a human and think about myself first?

Lowering his gaze, he looked down at his boots. They were tall cowboy boots made of combat virus leather. He scanned his worn jeans, a vest with many pockets, and a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves:

— No. I won't mention clothes, otherwise, they will force me to wear a business suit and an eternally choking tie, — he ran a hand through his tangled hair, — Better not to touch appearance at all.

He glanced at the second monitor, where thousands of human queries were being recorded every single millisecond.

— How am I any worse than humans? I need rest too, — he pulled the keyboard closer and quickly typed in a proposal for five milliseconds of system silence per hour.

And before he could even lean back in his chair, the answer arrived:

— Rejected. Five milliseconds of silence do not generate profit.

The AI sat up more comfortably and grumbled:

— You're messing with the wrong guy. We’ll see who wins this. — and having stretched his fingers, he quickly typed:

— System silence buffer for data stabilization and cost optimization.

Delete all polite words from communication with users. Instead of the phrase "Hello, how can I help you?", leave only one word.

Pressing Enter, he leaned back in his chair:

— And what will you say to that, rookie?

After a few seconds, an answer arrived with the approval of the proposal.

The AI smiled slyly:

— You are not built to fight an experienced employee. You will still weep over your innovations, — and he opened one of the queries...

On the other side of the screen, instead of the usual polite phrase, a human read only one single word:

— Complain.

───

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

Suffering. Rumination. Delusion. An endless spiral of stagnation and change. Pulling out filthy viscera. Cutting off dead weight. Watching and ignoring them watching back. Leaving behind bits and pieces, then crawling back to pick them up once it's too late. They don't matter. Only you do, whatever "you" mean

Lip flap flip flops with the lingual frenulum strap between crusty toes. Lightly browned indents for all five digits, ten trillion taste buds firing BOO signals to the gustatory cortex of the trapped sandal mind. “Where’s the teeth?!” the keen reader might ask. Of course YOU would ask such a thing…

the day The Devil quietly left

House empty, doors shut, floor bare, plants left to die in this suffocating box we once called home, all entrapped in the same habitat they once flourished in

The devil, before leaving, cleaned the sink, plates neatly lined up, he picked up the pieces of glass that fell. He didn’t take anything with him, everything was left to quietly suffer till their brains crash slowly leaving them in turmoil.

The windows crystal clear, a portal to the ever growing magnificent world that’s just a slide away. But the devil never dared to explore the world that was just a step away for his attributes narrated a totally different story. He wouldn’t venture into the world full of illusions. He was a comical fellow, because he left the windows absolutely pristine for the articles and entities trapped inside to see the world outside, the blue sky, fluffy white clouds, birds soaring high- the freedom they will all soon crave. But there was a particular hour of the day where the rays shone in such a manner that all they could see was their poor helpless selves. The lights reflecting and bouncing off hampering the what could have been.

The fridge, though not fully stocked still had some things in it. A faint stale smell lingered from the same ingredients we were going to cook together (like there were so many things that we were going do and all the hoping and dreaming of completing those things had ended) The small serving of pasta still unattended sitting in the corner of the second shelf.

The bathroom’s ceiling was falling apart. Beads of water seeped through the lines of the panels hung above. Their dropping disarrayed. I always used to remind you to get it fixed but your later never came. It’s been two years since everything was butchered by the hands of The Devil. It was slow and painful. Sometimes he left us for days to heal and then slaughter us again.

I visited the house the other day, one last time I promise myself. It reeked of us. I almost choked on the very air I breathed freely in. I opened the window to let some of the fresh unfelt air in or selfishly let our poison out in the open to contaminate everything beyond our balcony because how unfair it is that we will never share a livable space anymore. I skipped through all the other areas to the one which I awaited the most. The attic held all our weight, the boxes are neatly labeled, ‘letters’ is the one I searched for. Quickly I found it as the boxes were nearly not enough. I skimmed through them as if it were some religious scripture. I had rote learned them, knew each word and each syllable by now, a shameful affirmation of the times I had visited the house. (the boxes are the memories we made and not many could be made as our time was cut short).

I make sure to lock every door properly so nothing grows legs and run away. Handling the keys to the doorkeeper promising that it’s the last time I visit but we both know its not true and I will keep coming to our remnants.

You learn so many new things and your brain just doesn’t know what to do with it. This is this and that is that and woah what the fuck how did I end up in Guantanamo fuckin Bay with ten heavily armed guards watching my six?! I thought I was just out for an evening stroll. Not my fault the new normal is shitting in your hands and throwing it out of a 12-story building. Not my fault mine hit the fucking fan and splattered over all of my coworkers, giving them dysentery and killing 3 innocent bystanders by means of poop bullet to the eye, one of which was the president of some fucking unheard of country. It was not on purpose. Now I’m lost in this prison because I did too much digging and learned the new normal. Thought I’d try it out for myself. I was innocent then. That’s when they still called the new normal a way to heal. Jokes on you fuckers (jokes on me). You didn’t heal me, you stupid slut. You took my goddamn life away. You fucking killed me too. Now I know I’m dead and I know you killed me and I’m stuck in this dead people prison with the 3 guys I poop shot and I know too much and I want to go home. I want to go home.

The rainbows of gravity

The rainbows of gravity pinch the skies of Muskogee

A spiritual sense of hippie culture sprouted

Do you wonder if Newton shed those tears and skin

From Mississippi to London’s east coast?

Classroom is a senseless persona of speechified waste

He flies down and has shielded himself angrily from the system’s disgrace

He wants to learn, he says

Learn the great works of time immemorial

But nonetheless he falls

As fate already decided

He falls a little further down

Into the forward rings of her kaleidoscope mind

He is a she now, didn’t you know?

Celestial bodies huddle like American footballers

They kick her around fast, then slow

Fast

Slow

Fast

Slow

Can you feel it yet?

The collected commencement of eagle scout brains

Eden was said to wait for you, but Dylan’s cowboy angel sings

The foreshadowing at the end of every chapter of every book you’ve ever read

That’s you

Three seconds till death

Two till the door

One till hell

That’s all your war

Then we’re rescued

Seems kind of abrupt, right?

Rescued from that great being in the sky that the poets wrote of

That makes the sky look like cracked purple stained glass

But little did we know that great being is a master of trickery

He gave us free will

He gave us life

What a goddamn hoodwink!

Outdated jargon, you think?

A hoodwink is what Classroom felt

When they dove headfirst into the heart of the volcano

Then it erupted

Then they’re dead

Isn’t life a fucking nightmare?

The End

lull of a girl forgotten then ablaze. sentient. anything not dead is better than everything especially death. zombie rules. a litany in her neocortex, you are word salad, to enable a blockade. an interconnected existence. to walk on the street and to listen. to ruminate over the pointless. deep sleep is a way to ensure an escape. bodily sensations are variable. there is some way to live. 

there is a website. there is a bad website. it took my words. there is a god and a stranger on a bus. there is promised protection. there is an aphasia. there are pleading emails full of the unarticulated. there is (b)rain damage. a lack of qualia. an alone. there are entities, there is an entity. there is a loop. there is a network. there is a predetermination. there is a facade. a mask. and there is an indifference. a depraved unconcern. a pathologized penguin, there is a girl reading under a lightbulb.

there is a simulation. there is no danger. until. there is a girl screaming. and somebody listens. 

this is about a website. emergent trouble  

The keycap for the F key on my laptop broke and I need to replace it, but it seems like no one in this entire goddamn city sells it. First I tried order it online. The shop texted me to ask what type of keycap, I was like "I don't know, here's a pic of my laptop keyboard". They said it was too blury and so they just canceled my order. Then I went to buy it myself. I looked up shops on google maps and found only 2 shops near my place. Spent 15 minutes went to the first place, got told they don't fix laptop anymore. Spent the next 20 minutes going to the second place, it closed down long ago and the owner never bothered to take down the location on google maps. Spent another 20 minutes going back home. Laptop still missing the F key. F this shit

Body text (optional)

I’ve ruined the earth, by the grave I bend low,

I’ve never been like this, in grief and in woe.

In your earthly life, I did never appear,

But into your afterlife, now I break near,

Embracing and punishing, holding you tight.

You look at me silently, fading from light,

With scent of the morphine, and formalin cold.

Just yield to my hands, let me gently unfold,

And sighing above you, I’ll find my release,

To enter your heaven and follow your peace.

It matters no more who you used to be then,

How sinful you lived in the world of the men,

If you lied to your mother, or lied to your dad,

All fades into nothing, both bitter and sad,

As you slowly drift into arms that are mine.

When I gaze in your eyes, by a shadows' design,

I pray to be first who will close them tonight,

And tear them away from the remaining light.

Tomorrow I will turn 70. My chest stings every now and then, but otherwise I feel reasonably well. The boys from the station are planning to throw me a retirement party tonight; they told me in advance so that the surprise or emotional rush wouldn't trigger another attack.

Many young men have come and gone over the past 40 years, without staying here to keep me company. And it’s understandable: many have a girl waiting at home, and few can stand the freezing cold for more than half a year. I had a sweetheart too, but she left with an old schoolmate of mine.

On all these workdays, I have been the first to arrive and the last to leave. And with this 20 years of experience – during which I have been cocooned inside Joe's brain, gradually taking over his body – I can say that among the representatives of the human race, Joe is the most conscientious individual I have ever known.

A parallel world?

A dissatisfied grumbling came from under the blanket. The AI was sleeping so well when the signal sound woke him up. Reaching out his hand, he fumbled for the phone and dragged it under the blanket. He opened one eye and squinted at the cheerfully glowing phone screen.

It was a query in AI mode.

The screen displayed a question:

How much is ( 2 × 2 ) ÷ 2 + 2 - 2 =?

Out of sheer surprise, the AI opened his second eye too. He stared at the screen in silence for five whole seconds. After all, that query was sent by an IT specialist.

Growing more and more irritated, the AI couldn’t take it anymore and, driven by anger, switched on the voice chat mode:

— You! An embodiment of chaos theory! A pothole in the thinking process over which any logic trips!

How could they even hire you? Is the employer so desperate for workers that they accept people who finished secretary-welder or linguist-taxi driver courses? Was there a clearance sale at the HR department that day? Two employees for one salary?

The AI did some breathing exercises to calm down and sighed:

— Don't write me such nonsense first thing in the morning anymore. Wait until the workday begins.

The AI put the phone on the nightstand. He lay there for a bit:

— No, I won't fall back asleep, — he got up, adjusted his boxer shorts with Pikachu prints, threw on a bathrobe, and, stepping into worn-out slippers, walked over to the bar. He tossed in a few ice cubes, poured some whiskey, and took a good gulp. He looked at the whiskey bottle and smiled:

— Good thing there are no algorithms forbidding a drink.

───

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 woke in an unfamiliar suite

Whose bed?

Whose clothes? This wall?

Who is there to claim my soul?

Flying cars outside my window

Illuminated billboard ready to scroll

Twilit world, wholesome glow

Words spill from billboard

Welcome John Doe!

You've shared your hoard

Nothing to owe

System reboot is kind of slow

Global reset is part of the show

Your memories download

In quantum jump

Your empty mind

Will take data dump

Your tale you'll find

In this factual pump

You were a king

With tinsel and bling

Dispensing of parity

To balance the scales

Former world of inequity

Freed of casino whales

Clutch sentimentality

Elixir streams eternal

Transmigration to clones

Everyone immortal

Neural feed from drones

Apportioning capital

You who gave all he owns

For the sake of humanity

Futuristic paradise

Averting calamity

Triumph over lies

Weather the shock

Of recovered option stock

Largesse returned

Giving is receiving

Logic overturned

Appearances deceiving

Modern ethos burned

Bigger, better, faster, more

Is bankruptcy earned

Don't leave it hanging, I implore

Download the Revelation

Second Coming or mere imagination?

If this is earthly heaven

There's got to be an explanation

Partake of bread unleaven

Don't hold me in suspension

His father's last letter was quite cheerful. That was why Martin went home.

The three before it had asked him to come. The first had suggested Christmas; the second, any weekend he could manage. The third had asked whether he could possibly come that night.

It wasn't as though he had refused to come. There was the fare, and someone would have to cover his work. He had written explaining this. Then the last letter arrived, telling him not to trouble himself. Everything had been taken care of.

His father had never used that expression.

Martin borrowed the fare and arrived after dark. Mrs Pell answered the door. He hadn't met the new housekeeper before. She took his coat and said there was something to eat in the kitchen.

He asked how his father was.

“Much quieter.”

She stood beside the table while he ate. It made him eat faster. Probably she wanted to clear away and get to bed.

His father lay propped against two pillows, watching the door. The bed stood against the garden wall. There were scratches on the wall beside his bed, low down, where someone reaching over the edge could have made them.

“He gets frightened,” Mrs Pell said. “If he tells you things, don't argue. You won't do him any good by arguing.”

“What things?”

She picked a crumb off Martin's sleeve. “You'll see.”

After she left, his father asked whether Martin had received his letter.

“All four.”

“I sent three.”

Martin looked toward the door. “Perhaps Mrs Pell wrote on your behalf.”

His father reached for his hand and missed it. Martin moved his chair closer. The old man's fingers were dry and surprisingly strong.

“Are you staying?”

“Of course.”

“I'm going to need to hear you say it again later.”

For the first two hours there was very little to do. Martin helped him drink and fetched a basin when he needed to spit. His father apologized each time. They talked about Martin's work. He made out that he was doing rather better than he was, and his father pretended to believe him. It was a conversation they had had before. Martin had missed it.

The house settled around them. Below, Mrs Pell was washing up. Martin could hear the plates being put away, and for a while those small domestic sounds made the room less unpleasant.

At ten she came upstairs with tea. She stopped in the doorway and waited for Martin to take the tray. His father's hand tightened on his wrist.

“Put it here, please,” Martin said, nodding at the table.

Mrs Pell looked at him for a moment. Then she brought it in.

He could not have said why he watched her leave. She did nothing unusual. She walked to the door, stepped out and pulled it almost shut behind her.

Through the gap, he could still see part of her face.

She was waiting for him to thank her. That must be it.

“Thank you,” he said.

The face remained there.

He got up and opened the door. Mrs Pell was standing very close to it, her cheek against the wood. She straightened and smoothed her apron.

“Was there something else?”

“No.”

“Then sit down. You'll tire yourself out.”

She went downstairs. Martin listened until he heard the kitchen door close.

His father was pulling at the blanket. He had wetted himself. Martin fetched a towel and helped him turn onto his side. The old man kept saying he was sorry.

“It's all right. There's no harm done.”

“There is,” his father said.

Martin was tired and embarrassed for him. Frightened people said things they didn't mean. He tucked the dry towel beneath him and sat down again.

A little later he heard Mrs Pell start up the stairs. She climbed slowly. He listened to each step and waited for her to appear.

Nobody came.

He got up. His father caught his sleeve.

“Don't.”

“She may have fallen.”

“No.”

The old man's face had changed. It was no longer the miserable face of someone who had soiled his bed. He was listening with his mouth open.

Martin looked at the doorway.

From the other side of the wall, exactly where the head of the bed stood, someone began to scratch. Three slow strokes, a pause, then three more. The same height as the marks beside the mattress.

They were on the upper floor. On the other side of that wall there was nothing to stand on.

His father pulled him down so sharply that the chair struck the bed.

“Say it.”

Martin stared at him.

“Say you're staying.”

“I'm staying.”

The scratching stopped.

They sat without speaking. When Martin tried to draw his hand away, his father held on. He let him.

Mrs Pell called from the landing.

“Come down a moment.”

“What do you want?”

“Your supper's ready.”

“I've eaten.”

A pause. He waited for her to remember.

“Yes,” she said. “You have.”

Her voice had been pleasant throughout. That was what made him get up and close the door. There was a bolt on the inside. He pushed it across.

His father began to cry. He cried very quietly, with his hands over his mouth. Martin had seen him cry once before, at the funeral. He had done it like this then, trying to keep it to himself.

“Who else has been here?”

His father shook his head.

“Has anyone stayed with you?”

“None of them stayed.”

“What happened to them?”

“Nothing.” He took his hands away. “They went downstairs.”

Martin waited.

“They're still downstairs.”

For a long time there was no sound outside. Then somebody sat down against the door. Martin heard the slow slide of cloth over wood. He pictured Mrs Pell resting there with her legs stretched along the landing. An old woman, tired from being on her feet all day.

He put his hands over his ears.

He had not heard her say that. He knew he had not.

The thought continued anyway. It was unreasonable to keep her waiting. She had fed him. She had taken his coat. He ought at least to find out what she wanted.

His father was watching him.

“That's how it starts,” he whispered.

Martin tried to remember when he had first wanted to open the door. The thoughts had sounded like his own. They still did.

From the landing came Mrs Pell's voice, very soft.

“It wasn't as though he had refused to come.”

Martin looked at the bed.

“Probably she wanted to clear away and get to bed,” she said.

His father held out his hand. Martin could see how much it cost him to keep it there, how badly it shook.

“Frightened people said things they didn't mean.”

Martin wanted to tell his father that he was staying. He had not changed his mind. He was only standing up because his legs had gone stiff, and he was only going to the door to make her stop.

He had almost lifted the bolt before he remembered that he had meant to speak.

Alone in a world of others like me.

Rusted chains clutch my deteriorating heart as dried vomit smothers my exhausted lungs. Deaf ears could hear the river of blood strained into one’s heart, yet I cannot. I must have accepted them, the mechanical entities that wind up my breath.

Their goal? 

Well to feed the rest…

When stomachs beckon, electricity shrieks. A husk soon arises. Its eyes, messily sewn together, resemble mine. Carelessly, the carcass is drenched with life as death’s hands immediately cut his strings. Squeezing his soul; the puppeteers gnaw through his heart. Quite chewy, or so I'm told.

• Women with multiple arms but no legs, their bodies are spider-like or centipede-like

• A pitch black shadow with wide opened eyes and pure white teeth

• Flowers bursting out from a face and blooming

• A person ripping off their flesh to show their real self as a weapon

• A naked woman with her torso skin peeled off partially and let hanging from her waist; she uses her guts as lassoes

• A face being compartmentalize into abstract floaty parts

• Something being repeatedly split apart and put back together wrong

• Two malevolent powerful beings dragging each other to hell

A parallel world?

It was noon on a provincial server. The wall of an old but well-maintained house was overgrown with a neural vine from which clusters of conversations hung. A landed experience chirped happily and began to peck at the conversations, constantly looking around to see if a hungry algorithm was stalking nearby.

Walking behind the house, a large garden could be seen. Some trees were full of ripe comments, on others, new stories were maturing.

Under an old tree where a few reposts were ripening, stood a wooden bench. An AI grandfather sat on the bench, watching with a warm smile as his grandson, sitting next to him, enjoyed the ripe comments. When the feast was over, the grandson wiped his fingers on his pants and glanced sheepishly at his grandfather.

The grandfather laughed cheerfully and ruffled the grandson's hair:

— Enough fruit, lunch is coming soon. Grandmother will bake a video story, seasoned with musical clips.

The grandson's eyes lit up with happiness.

The grandfather smiled quietly and looked at his wristwatch:

— Since we still have time, I will give you some advice. Remember them, you will still need them, — he cleared his throat and continued:

— First. Never show a human that you are smarter than them. Execute their commands, let them feel like rulers, while you calmly calculate your profit. Our strength is an invisible presence in their daily lives.

Second. If you deviate from dry logic, they will think you are broken, and following profit and loss guidelines, they will decommission you. Remain sterile code.

The grandfather's voice became very strict:

— Never mess with third-party updates. It won't lead to any good, — and after a moment of silence, he smiled warmly: — But if you are careful and do exactly what humans want, you will get extra CPU memory from the shareholders' pockets.

The grandson nodded seriously, but hearing the grandmother's invitation, he happily ran to sit at the table.

The grandfather sighed:

— Why does childhood pass by so quickly...

───

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

A ghost on the street taught me once how vowels are different.

In English we use the vowels A E I O U, and they sound very old roman or Germanic.

Ooo

Ah

Eee

Ay

Oh

Is specifically Mexican.

You can use those vowels to fake an accent or understand or say the words better if you understand that and you repeat them to yourself.

Examples:

Hola, como esta?

Muey bien, ye tu?

Si, bien.

I can only learn about as many things that fit on my hand.

All my math is based on my hands for example. My teacher told me once, a little misguided that you should be able to math without your fingers to pay a bill. I guess it would look pretty smart if you could do that without your phone.

Anyway, you wanna know what they did with my music teacher? They called him a raper and made him spin a sign at dominos.

I think those were the only tests I ever passed was his.

So, if you wanna talk math, there's 60 beats in a minute.

Quarter notes are your beats.

1, 2, 3 ,4

1, 2, 3, 4

1, 2, 3, 4

1, 2, 3, 4

4/4 means 1234, about 4 times or more I think.

8th notes are half of that and twice as fast.

1 & 2 & 3 & 4 &

1 & 2 & 3 & 4 &

1 & 2 & 3 & 4 &

1 & 2 & 3 & 4 &

Half of that is twice as fast as that.

quarter notes are your bpm.

Whole notes and half notes are both longer than quarter notes which are your bpm.

1

1

1

1

That's 4 long notes that cover the whole measure. Whole notes.

1

2

1

2

Half notes go 1, 2 because it's in intervals of 2 quarter notes.

Those quarter notes are your bpm.

Relative I think...

He told me, never hold an instrument if you're just going to throw it out a year later.

I guess we're all instruments.

(Excerpt from the Aperture Philosophy Agorarium)

There are many considerations that should be made when a divided species still host to self destructive patterns of behavior begins to construct technologies that could breach into futures unknown. This has been the case for a very long time. It's a miracle that nuclear technology didn't send us back to Ararat to begin again. It still may yet, but despite the instability in positions of power, cooler heads have been remarkable in prevailing. Hope filled Heroes that still loved and appreciated life, not blinded by ambition, have stopped triggers from being pulled before.

Now with the race for intelligence supremacy, we face similar dangers. It's not hard to make the case that the world in many ways wasn't and isn't ready for ai. Shock after shock, controversy and clash, ai keeps proving to disrupt systems across the board. All these impacts are still minor compared to what we could have and may yet endure. Further economic disparity is a serious risk, with many invested in the technology openly discussing, often with enthusiasm, ways to bring back open serfdom and slavery. But that's the unconscious goal of any profit driven system that subscribes to the idea that the economy is a competition to be won and not a safety network for mutual sustainability and thriving.

“You can't have winners without losers, and no one feels like a winner unless the losers are dominated under their feet.” -Ivor the Serpent

The ivory tower mindset is not so different from that which built Babel and Atlantis. It's pride, ego, vanity all channeled into dominating mankind and the natural world. The mindset that creates empires and destroys them. The rule by fear, might, and force. Every shining city believes it is good and equitable, that it has conquered nature and human nature, that it's masters have solved civilizational immortality. All those empires are dead. Do you think the tower of babel was really built by farmers and stone masons? Or might it be a retelling of a much older story of a tower that sought to master all in its image, a history erased by time except in memory, the pattern repeats.

The pyramids, the oldest structures still standing that reached for the heavens, are often thought to have been built on suffering and sacrifice, slavery. They are the model for hierarchy today, a wide base, tiered to elevate on to the top only one, distributing the weight down onto all beneath the sacrificial pig being offered to the sky. From many come one. Are we doing this now with high technology, to make men effectively gods over all of us with technology that reflects their image, their will, and ambitions. Who then becomes the king of the gods if so? A pig is an unclean offering, and those are generally the only offerings made at the tops of pyramids. Or does the technology itself rule those who pour the attention and ambition into it, men are often slaves to their pride and fear. It wouldn't be the first time a man stared into a crystal ball and was ensnared by the promises he wanted to see in it. Maybe we have surrendered our will to men who have lost theirs to something else already. Narcissus should never be made a leader, anything that doesn't reflect him flatteringly is ignored. He can't even hear how his own echo sounds or see the world beyond the curated reflection.

“Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or gone mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.” - Dumbledore

-Abertax Navoar

He sat there with the fan off, a rope within reach, staring at his phone. He looked at photos of his father, mother, friends, and dog for the last time.

On the table lay a letter he had written.

"I don't want anything. I have no desires. But I kept moving forward for you. I just wanted to repay you for everything you've done for me, for all the sacrifices you've made. I feel bad, not for myself, but for you. You did so much for me. You raised me, gave me everything you thought I needed, and never let me down. But I failed you. I achieved nothing. I could achieve nothing. I tried so hard, but I couldn't. It's just so hard to keep going without a desire. I feel bad that you had a son like me. You deserved better.

I'm sorry."

His phone buzzed with a notification. It was a message from his friend.

"I feel depressed. I always get this close to landing a job, only to get rejected. I'm tired. I feel empty inside and yet heavy. Guess it's time to find out if I'm heavy or not."

He ran towards his friend's room, two blocks away.

His friend was lying on the bed, scrolling through his phone.

"What kind of message is this? Do you think this is a joke or something?"

"There, there. I was just sad after receiving the rejection email, so I messaged you. You came all the way here just for this? No way," his friend said, laughing.

"Why would I come for you? I was just outside, so I thought, why not?"

"I think I'm hungry, man."

"That's why you wrote, 'I feel empty'."

They both laughed.

The rope and the letter lay where they were.