Merlin 3:14 “Memories Aside”

Merlin 3:14 “Memories Aside”

Sino walks angry and maladjusted, with him as always is a piercing coldness, other than his thoughts the chill of even winds also, in front of, three wolves whom follow somewhat inclined to believe that he will soon make a kill in the chlorophyllic springtime. Hours they patter after him the passing time until he sets among the trees longing to sup, a small effective crossbow makes another use of one canis. The small army with scouting advantage about to approach the field of the abattoir in their full numbers wakens him to the social congestion amongst these trees.

He arises to the scuffling of shuffling persons, he walks to find them unabashedly, but he holds deep into his heart a regret that remembers his slashings and dashings and partisan thrashings given to the innocent and doing so with a smile on his face. The moonlit path his eyes distant in memory a malaise and praise of ego strides he verily, and soon approaches he unto another, not the spies, nor the likes of soldier, but healers who are in a way not unlike himself, approaches thus one of these men.

Relaeh: “Wherefore you come of these woods elder?”
Sino: “Sorry to be on my way, I was just, looking for a body.”

Sino feigning age deceitfully transgresses treachery upon the lad, taking his throat, holding him in sort repast to dark desires and murderous addiction, the kind that hell-bent tarrying rapaciousness cannot likely transport to good intentions. Here, in paces wend and rent of solacing accomplice stands save but trite and soon contrite at such quite the opposite, a man wearing cloak who is narrow beneath it, his arm outstretched and holding a wand square like mint stem, volar unto sorts reticent, pointing it whilst standing soon this on it by demand.

Leostas: “Put him down, Sino, I have no muster for your dissent.”
Sino: “You have no place.”
Leostas: “I am forever home. Release him presently!”
Sino: “Your demands with your blood will you hold in your hands.”
Leostas: “Perish the thought.”
Sino: “Come what you shall.”
Leostas: “They are my students, these healers, were I not myself I would not need them.”
Sino: “But you are alone?”
Leostas: “Yes, we weren’t following you; I simply want him to live.”
Sino: “I’m sure my boredom thanks you, shame that I can only kill you once.”

The boy’s throat clenched, legs without fluster, he is breathless and tossed aside, confrontation stares one directly and tother fixedly, in sooth, they have stood once ago to this imperative.

A duel, it is not calm nor is it quiet, blithe nor yet blasphemous, but it is quick and quicker as Sino grabs the lightning stretching to his hand from wand-waving opponent. In close proximity of haphazardly course, he takes a dagger and drives it into Leostas’ ribs with a jolt by color and type absorbed and redirected thru the silver, draws the dagger out, spins the blade to hammer down with argent claw, dark lighting crawling on the blade pierces into his heart of perennial tidings, roughly defining his ephemeral mortality.

Leostas: “Kill me, dark passenger.”
Sino: “I will not, but you should not live to see me again, Leostas.”
Leostas: “We are not gods!”
Sino: “…we are not men.”

Fallen, Leostas can barely stammer crawl backwards as he shuffles to a tree, he struggles frantically to magical liniments from his pockets, his fluent robe is cumbersome and preventative, and he tears thru the fabric from the bloody knife hole to pull a silver blade his own with his bloody hands.

The smell of silver and the radiance of blood redraw Sino’s attention, the energy from Leostas’ blade is a straight solid bolt, a beam production, but before he can adjust his eyes by the bright light to see, where it destines to focus on surroundings as his heart rains blood, Sino is gone, reappearing inches from him. As he stops his magic so ends his strength, Sino speaks quietly to him.

Sino: “You should have learned what I have not taught you; let others wage war, of all against all, war feeds itself.”

Leostas’ sight goes into darkness, Sino after taking silver goes to rive his heart. Relaeh thrusts into consciousness and danger clutching earth and gasping still for breath stammers to his feet and tries to run, Sino takes Leo’s blade and throws confidently it into a fleeing lower leg, making laden heavy booted trudging steps thru forest grass to the yells of crawling prey.

Peter Principle Progressivism

CSW at PUC    [TITLES SHOULD NOT BE ACRONYMS]

The traditional idea of teaching literacy involves teaching [DELETE REPEATED WORD] the analysis of [DELETE OF] and the ability to express ideas using alphabetic texts [DELETE alp tex, REPLACE W/ "THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE"]. However [ABSTRACT], in order to address the needs of the 21st century student, [NO COMMA] a broader definition of literacy is in order. [WORDINESS, CONSIDER REVISING]

Indeed [VERILY], both the NCTE and the CCCC have recognized [PASSIVE VOICE] that to be fully literate [CONSIDER HYPHEN], students must learn to compose and interpret not only alphabetic texts, but also the multimodal texts of an increasingly digital and global world. [IS THERE A "NOT GLOBAL WORLD" ?]

From a global standpoint, multimodality transgresses linguistic and cultural barriers by illustrating alphabetic texts with visual and [PLAUSIBLE] aural enhancements.  The addition of multimodal [INHERENT] affordances permits a global audience to interpret the meaning of a message through illustrated, contextual clues, often enhanced by verbal messages [REDUNDANT], increasing the level of comprehensibility through the spoken word [NOT IN THIS PARAGRAPH] [;] (for example, tone of voice). [NO PARENTHESES NEEDED]

At Purdue University Calumet (PUC), we have recognized [PASSIVE VOICE] the importance of teaching students to communicate ideas to disparate audiences through the composition of multimodal texts. [NOT IN THE CLASS I TOOK] We do this by offering a Computer-Supported Writing (CSW) course as an alternative to the traditional second-semester freshman composition course. [WHERE YOU MEET EVERY QUESTION WITH "SEE THE RUBRIC" AND TOLD ME NOT TO USE THE BOOK AS AN EXAMPLE, CHAV.]

Students in CSW each [DELETE EACH] compose a multimodal webtext, in which they incorporate a podcast (see script) and a slideshow (see script). The students keep their work in an online portfolio, providing students with a digital space in which [WORDINESS, CONSIDER REVISING] to keep their projects. In addition to having a virtual repository for their work, the online portfolio offers the students a sense of having an authentic audience, a challenge that writing instructors consistently face in the classroom. [TEACHERS ARE CHALLENGED BY HAVING TO GIVE AUDIENCE?] 

During the course of the semester, the students communicate with each other about their writing within a Facebook [BLACKBOARD] group, and maintain a writing journal using Blogger. [NERD SQUEEE!!!] The writing journal functions as a private conversation about writing between the students and their instructors. [IN WHICH YOU GIVE BAD GRADES TO CONSERVATIVES]

As the CSW course comes to an end, the fruits of the students’ semester of labor [SEMESTER-LONG LABORS] are gathered [PASSIVE VOICE] and published in a collaborative final project*, a class webzine*. [THE EIGHTIES JUST CALLED] The webzine is designed, developed, and constructed by the students, [NO COMMA] with little or no help [EMPHASIS NEEDED] from the instructor.  By giving the students complete control over their webzine*, they have a sense of autonomy in and importance for their writing that the majority have never before experienced.

*Please use Internet Explorer. Best viewed @1024 x 768 [FIREFOX, AND DIMENSIONS, REALLY?]

Contact Rebecca Medley, CSW instructor [OR DON'T TAKE HER CLASSES]

[MST4K]

[Those of you that read my insanity, some of whom have read all approximately 100K words of it at this point, may gracefully attain the knowledge that this bitch bombed me for, of all things, the technical writing class she "teaches"; when she wasn't telling me to reference the rubric, she academically weighted the class on discussion-board participation, which I could fucking use Twitter for free to do, or would haggle me about the topics of technical papers instead-of just grading them, she once told me my cited work looks like fiction, pardon me, I need to take this time to condemn liberalism; I'll be in my tea room.]

[See Also: The Peter Principle http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Principle.]



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Crash-Course: Econ 1

Define gross domestic product, distinguish it from standard of living, and identify several factors used to measure standard of living.
GDP is the amount of income of an entire region, gross meaning in this case a nation's income at large, domestic referring to national boundary, and product being the created wealth.

Standard of living is the socially and generally accepted quality of living a group of people expect within their society. In discerning a difference between what is needed and what is desired, the standard of living is generally described as an acceptable level of monetary income.

The standard of living fits into the spectrum of acquisition between desire and asceticism.

Outline some specific actions to take if you are a victim of cyberstalking.

Write a letter asking the criminal to stop, document the stalking, call the cops, buy your wife a gun.

Define productivity and discuss the relationship between IT investment and productivity growth.

Productivity: The amount of output produced per unit of input.

If IT investment increases efficiency, the result is multiplied to some extent by the productivity of IT staff.

Define the term social network advertising and briefly discuss several social network advertising strategies.

Social Network Advertising: Advertising using social networks to communicate and promote the benefits of products and services.

Show the product thru all the outlets possible, for as cheaply as possible, to maximize return of investment.

Merlin 3:13 “Whoracle”

Merlin 3:13 “Whoracle”

The phoenix tosses and shakes its head, stretching shoulders and arching back, withdrawn in sorts from ways to communicate such that a familiar does, insomuch preening itself I n search for what had made it ill. Searching in the wool-like under-feathers for what it imagines be a bug or serpent, impetuously, but not fatuitous. Thru empathy, they help Troy onto its back, calmly it subsides as he leans into the special saddle and into the new night air, and they travel emissaries unto Ana.

Nick: “Will they be well?”
Merlin: “By morn, one will heal the other. We have bigger problems; we have to leave before this demon hunter’s servants come, help me burn the bodies.”
Nick: “We mustn’t do that.”
Merlin: “The truth of this slaughter will have the hunters looking for the nearest wizard, whatever else would you do?”
Nick: “Burn the sigils. Burning bodies so many leaves a warrant on the world other than men, burning their paraphernalia makes it seem feudal, might could put the blame on them unto each other.”
Merlin: “Then we shall leave the truth on the wind.”
Nick: “You burn the tents and flags, I’ll deface their symbol.”

Quickly Merlin ignites the few tents without regard for immolating some of the corpses, Nick severs a head of one of the dead and hides the decapitation with a shield, with an axe he damages another shield’s emblem and hoists it onto a pike adjacent. It is soon they depart and thereby standing watch all the while is a witch named Ostara in her new possession of new intrigue watching them leave unabridged.

Merlin: “How are things between you and your lover?”
Nick: “I know that you know.”
Merlin: “What is it that I know?”
Nick: “She is now with child as the day become longer, new days for the world to shine.”
Merlin: “How is that?”
Nick: “Well, when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much…”
Merlin: “No, blatherskite, how did you know my knowing?”
Nick: “The gods in ill-fettered humor have set me on men, it is a natural business my knowing how she carries the moon.”
Merlin: “Should it not be so reckless to hazard guessing.”
Nick: “Yes, and I had druthers to never know such things until I had land and maybe even title.”
Merlin: “Shut it.”
Nick: “In courtesy, with farm and ranch, I’d pick an obscure title…”
Merlin: “No, seriously halt and quiet.”

Merlin walks from the left side of his companion to behind him on the right, closer to the road’s edge on the footsteps they have recently crossed. Nick looks over his own left shoulder, away from Merlin of sight, as he looks over his right shoulder to where Merlin tarried in question of silent trees, vanished is the young old wizard with Nick in mid-word.

Merlin rushes into the forest searching for a sound of plausible mental source, an emanating vacuous welling of darkness and light farther than he can see. A ruminant disturbing thought that cannot be assuaged by conjured breeze as smoke from eyes nor dismissed by hindsight and foresight of physical ventures, for in his curiosity it is imminently magic distant in both ways of location and disconcert.

Ostara looks on dead Ulric, the veins of her eyes coursing with fiery currents of roses and lavender, her magic hieing thru his thoughts before he in soul takes them to Valhalla, or shalt elsewhere theretofore, hewing thru his sacred recollections for recent memories. She finds his thoughts disheveled even at treasured extraction, finding in surd the vision of Merlin and others, her death-scry abandoned at the sight of the phoenix she assumes to be unreal, discounted as a decedent failing mind.

She rises to her feet and walks around the field, entering the abattoir and exiting, picking a sword from the ground as she passes the disrespected sign of the soldiery, dragging blade on bodies as she watches them pose for death under the weeping moon, her imagination carries tidings of goodness for what their lives shall have been. The fires of insignias burn to be recognized and passionately detoured, as her mind dances with a vigorous tempo it brings her candor nigh jolly, amidst the fallen she stands with arms openly embracing a hex of time and power. The air breathes shadow and lights surreal bend in the passages of time induced, as her feet lift closely from the forces of earth her affects rise and wave, her dress wanders like the tides, her necklaces and pendant adrift, and the power of reincarnation serves to her. The reign of living gives without restraint the manna of the slain unto the least wounded, even into the dead, here unbalanced is the force of death that some are more gone and others restricted to life.

Time passing faster for her, increasingly vulnerable afloat and seeing only the withering vision of a blacked-out world, as the forces of dark light in the shape of needles, fighting her projection of magic near her, she casts all spells aside, groggy and disturbed men find themselves with apprehensions of death.

Ostara: “A taste of death, a benevolent death, and for the others, their light discovers darkness.”
Reidlos: “Why have we not gone to Valhalla, Freyja?”
Ostara: “You are not dead, I am Ostara of the Disir, and to you I have given life that you may serve me.”
Reidlos: “But I am well and was never hurt.”
Ostara: “Then you are alive as you are dead.”

She begins walking and snaps her fingers, her elbow bent while holding her left hand near her shoulder, the dude falls dead, and she stops and turns immediately to speak of vitriol and condescension.

Ostara: “Kneel or there will be Hel and no joys with Odin for you!”

Merlin watches with adverse curiosity and lulled ambition. She has such wroth that requires a moment for composure, the downfall of privative thoughts is her struggle to do so. She puts her index fingers together and separates them in a flushing motion indicative of a lain rope to ground, inference response as such a type the soldiers stand shoulder to shoulder as she paces forth.

Two vampires, who have approached of the moment dusk allows safe passage in the nesting shadows of evening trees, hold their boundary in the distance watching her, she strumpets her ranks, passing afore those showing expressions varying at each one, with thoughts regaling and their intimations sordidly nonplus the vampires watch. They hear the sounds of many feet carrying whispers, which motivate them to draw chain necklaces from their chests, two vampires with the body of men disconnect the chain clasps, carefully they speechlessly parse many circlets thereon tethered, and they gauge the intrinsic values of each. One holds a ring in his fingertips as he ponders, the other shows one lifted in his palm, the other again nods disapproval and holds the ring in fingers’ grasp, meeting approval the second blood-feeder finally claims his favorite after listening to the hunters by hither, in the shadows in the sundry of conflict.

The two vampires retreat several confident steps while cautiously keeping sight of Ostara. The running feet are more demon hunters, they move with predation and slow in stalking night, the fires Merlin had set still burn like lamps of tent wick and oil of the decedent, at forest edge hazarding guess to situation they see the body of Ulric, the flames glowing on his face whilst the shadows dance beside him. The five hunters run determinate to only so breathe and kill the dozen Ostara has reprieved.

Ostara: “Only I can kill you now.”

Ostara’s minions embrace the choice to fight as gods, some yell and one even thruout howls as they take up arms, but she departs walking thru a campfire that rages, and as she does the flames climb, the fury grows. She has however lied, the soldiers of resurrection are mortal and so one learns when decapitated and thus by all. Watching, just as he is, the vampires wait in surveillance and making wagers in the weight of orphans and sardonically debating the aspects of cleanliness of said bastards.

Niles: “Four midis wager she hereby abandons.”
Roderick: “Four clean?”
Niles: “Fie, of course, I ain’t been cemetarian in centuries.”
Roderick: “We might’ve to occupy that slaughterhouse in too long.”

Niles looks to Roderick pointing at the smallish plebian stone barn and tower, and over their eyes the viewing of battle and cynical cringes at the sight of a vicious blow, thereof the extremity of one sword plows thru the face of arisen soldier revoking thusly life. Ostara sneaks behind a demon hunter much to haute dismay, a trembling fear stands not well to her stare, as the hunter presents a rune and fiery magic incantation incomplete the hex he casts she turns afoul and remunerates untoward fatal immolation, leaning over her groveling victim with power in her hands and fire in eyes. Three hunters remaining in seeing her so close decide to flee, one of three spills a purse of broken starlight glass that webs crooked lightning illumination into the air blindingly, their escape soon lauded by Merlin and the vampires and Ostara contemptuous looks to her minions with resentful disappointment as it subsides.

Ostara: “I expect more forthwith; why are there no bloody horses?”
Reidlos: “Scattered, madam Ostara, flit while we slept.”
Ostara: “Good, you have survived, but without inference to have suicide for not dying in combat.”
Reidlos: “We all fear you here, including those mages.”
Ostara: “If I wanted your opinion…I would…excuse me, we have uninvited guests.”

Roderick: “Go – now.”

The vampires scramble into the underbrush the way that evades only as they can in the style of well. It is not of them she hearkens concern, Reidlos kneels and holds his hands in fear to her as she walks passed him, his confused eyes watch her walk again into the fires. She appears corporeal afore Merlin, her stature sways akimbo in the wiles of all healthy women with confidence erotic, her only confusion being what words he will air.

Merlin: “You are pure anodyne, were I Delphic I would have tithing, which pales in your beauty.”
Ostara: “Feeble derision, contemptuous, mocking even for also I care to hear no part to your vacancy at dawn.”
Merlin: “Lithe and supple forever miss me; it would be unnatural had you not.”
Ostara: “Do shut your pie hole.”

She begins to strut and he begins to walk precautionary, from head to toe she waves the folds in her dress the locks of her hair the meaning of her presence.

Ostara: “Having to show so little interest in anything, languid and spiritless, indifferent, yet hereby you stand.”
Merlin: “I like to watch.”
Ostara: “You are mellifluous as always.”
Merlin: “Preponderantly waiting, force prevailing.”
Ostara: “Protuberant more likes.”
Merlin: “I saw your minions redivivus.”
Ostara: “Redolent of rumors, do you not have your own undying kith?”
Merlin: “We are restive, Midgardian armies, precious metals…old friends.”
Ostara: “Be keen and ruminant on their reasons, Merlin, you have an obsession with morality.”
Merlin: “Sapient wisdom, were success not subjective.”
Ostara: “Stygian misanthropic obsidian view has dulled your sharpness.”
Merlin: “Better than timorous subjugation bereft of wisdom.”
Ostara: “You are truly deprived; fear is vitality, listless empires fatigue without it.”
Merlin: “That is called hunger.”
Ostara: “Of which I have. It is time we duel.”

Ostara pulls a slender wand from her cleavage and turns pointing it at him, but he is vanished. Thru the trees, she exits as the revived watch her approach in stride, calling to them in commanding tone.

Ostara: “Take keep of extra weapons, we make for the morgue in Abraxas …and be quick about it.”

Her words calm and callous as she leads the trail, they gather secondary weapons and depart down the second road, Merlin watching them depart the scene views the vampires cautiously exiting the castle-house, he stays hidden as they watch her lead her little army, asking them questions by her interest.

Niles walks into the field of the slain aside the dwindling fires, holding his hand over his eyes as if to complain about the moonlight. Roderick moves to a dead man, he cuts the corpse’s wrist and waits for blood to spill tho at instance it does not, Niles rummages for clues and wares. Roderick pushes his hand on the body’s chest and still no blood pours, he takes his knife anon to cut throat, the blood barely trickles so he puts his knee to chest no less than assuming a back wound has blood let, this all in such as Niles approaches and tosses a cup to his cohort over body. The wooden cup he fills and passes to his ally, secondly in switch the other wooden cup.

Niles sips while standing and sour distaste becomes apparent, his face distrusts the cup certainly, seeing so the other sips and sanguine comfort he samples naught. They toss their mugs aside in the same and look at the body.

Niles: “Feed him, interrogate him.”
Roderick: “Come hither, hence from death, child of the night.”

Roderick sits on the chest of the body and slits his own wrist spilling blood on the lips to make them red, in this much with worthless force there come no fangs as the mouth fills with blood though nothing else of action.

Roderick: “How does a bleeder escape the eternal breath?”
Niles: “The sorceress likely gives deviance to our polity, I smell another bleeder around here somewhere.”

Earthly sent on course with mysteries egregious wrought, to rent and pull as sent, gravely haunting this native place and drink its life they do in fact find one of the wounded hunter mages and attempt to question post means that resurrect him into their state.

Merlin: “I would not do that!”

The vampires extend their hands adorned with rings to Merlin, the rings glow dark and the engravings light, the powers from the moon empower them.

Merlin: “Nor would I do that.”

Merlin barely lifts his own hand and their rings begin to burn them so, they fretfully and begrudgingly hasten to remove melting fetters from their fingers.

Merlin: “Like your previous appetizer, the dead have no incorporeal magic, no vampire witches without alchemy, so you use rings like those that I or others have made, and lost.”
Niles: “Your bones are no stronger than mine if I reach you.”
Roderick: “Fie, mage, regale us of this slaughter, else no questions are answered upon.”
Merlin: “That one there is the leader of some brimstone mages, who happened on the witch with vengeance, however poorly, all after hereupon a larger slaughter, that I might’ve interred some involvement.”

They look at the many bodies and wonder of the wizard’s strength and assessing him as more than mage, their fear is present and ready to evacuate.

Merlin: “Forgive the foul pun, but don’t you know bad blood when you seek it?”
Roderick: “We’ve been twenty leagues to find a civil servant from our own, this blood, circumstantial.”
Merlin: “Twenty leagues by half.”
Niles: “Nonetheless day or night he is missing.”

Niles picks the cooled rings from ground, turning his head during to keep watch of Merlin, but in straying to the dead hunter Wiccan, looking with grave confusion. As they both adorn their rings anew, a scout from an army carefully spies on them, his army behind him upon the approaching hour of dawn, the vampires look at each other and come to choice without sharing words.

Niles: “What said you of follow the leader?”
Merlin: “Like wolves.”
Roderick: “Ah, ‘but time has set its maggot on their track’.”
Niles: “Well, wizard, it is nearly the top of the morning.”
Roderick: “We hope to leave on good terms, if not we will run notwithstanding.”
Merlin: “You may presently get to the gone.”
Niles: “Here tell you have need of silver, catch.” (He tosses large coin; a faint ringing in the air.)
Roderick: “Keep your wits about you, we passed an army behind us, they’re coming this way.”
Merlin: “How do you know?”
Niles: “One of their scouts is over-there.”
Merlin: “Well enough thank you.”

Four scouts encroaching, communicating with gestures one rushes back to his ranks to report, Merlin foists his hood over his head and his hands into his sleeves, with Roderick and Niles having gone, one of three scouts launch an arrow that by the time it lands Merlin has vanished into the air before ever entering the forest.





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Hero's Eye

You might list a dozen more steps before you finish the laundry and move on to the second chore on your original list. If you had to consider every small, low-level detail of every task in your day, you would probably never make it out of bed in the morning. Using a higher-level, more abstract list makes your day manageable. Abstraction makes complex tasks look simple.

Now that I have your attention I want to write-on-record. Let's look at this like a problem, just in case there are a few suicidal punk bitches still out there. Unfortunately, I only know what I know, and that often doesn't grasp with reality and certainly is at war with populism, I'll explain soon enough if that was a cliffhanger thought.

When I looked at the numbers of suicides in the military, I was stupefied, questioning my faith, if this is you, I don't mean to be condescending, frankly these are the people supposed to defend us, and for some reason they cannot save themselves, for matters of legality regarding libel, we can say their resolve has dissolved. The numbers of the dissolved are at record highs, for this I, a (lifelong) fiction hobbyist, considered that account of them had merely slipped into the field of espionage and taken new soluble identities, but for the numbers this couldn't be completely true. In my interests, anything possible, I even minimized it, considered 'it is only them and not me' and likely am in the hereafter. Theoretically, I could blame anything plausible and almost anything assumable, that state of nature to the nature of the state, it's a long list.

I like fiction, but we need an actual event to make the leap of faith, then we can continue. It is important to realize, there are people in our time that strap explosives to themselves and then explode, we call those people inbreds. They are following an unspoken code of honor held amongst old thieves and newborns, if you can't handle it yourself, don't ask for favors to get it done. What these people don't realize is soldiery and police are a piece of any family and the ones we have are just that, merely for a bigger family. Corruption is a poisonous specter, an enemy of mortality, like any other a view in depth at this is my point.

I've said before that enrollment practices could be improved if recruiters would play movies about demolition engineering and talk about the shooting range, they make a lot of promises and the shared understanding of threat goes largely unspoken. If killing isn't your business, then economics is your game, because it's a supply and demand game. There are people who commit military abandonment, I'd like you didn't do that, but being in a distinguished military you came from a successful country and you'll make some good babies and teach some good lessons, in some remote impoverished corner of the world. In my own ordinary way I briefly denied it was true, I imagined that it was a way for anarchists and speechifiers to discredit the service altogether, but then I realized they can stop enlistment. 

That only leaves one scenario that fiction embraces well but to be curt isn't easy and is written using universe. There has been a death in combat, enemy or ally, that has happened, and what we call grief floods our vision. That, coupled with all the formative concerns a fighter thinks, becomes a problem and instead of letting it go, they feel that the person is dead, that time should erase the dead. To remove them from ever existing, in regards to never becoming an enemy, to never adding a kill to a list, to never putting a human weapon so far from the west. It begins to pile, and when it shits is rains.


Often is the case that when the spies and spooks snap and commit treason, their minds are filled with thoughts of what they want, basically that they keep hoping for fantasies until they betray the groundwork. So I offer you this advice: don't imagine those who you have left or lost or laid to rest have something better, for they have gone from this place, imagine them in heaven (or hell) as if they had not made the bad choices that took them. All bad places are roaming prisons, and any place can get bad real fast. The trauma afterward supposedly can be terrible, and some can't make it on the outside either, your dreams should be what you miss the most, this is true for everyone. Imagine something that has no choice, when we dream it is no different, a beautiful lady can't resist you because you're broke, or a steamy dude dream, it's a different age.

In any case, don't imagine what you think someone else needs to make it through the night, or you might miss them and what prop item you gave them in your nightmare; think of what you want for yourself after this and think on it; I always think about the one food that I miss the most, that I'm going to eat when I get home.



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