Pierce the Veil

52ndth/Kincadohoyom

1/ Silken Light. 2/ The Vacant Spirit. 3/ Lover of Slave. 4/ The Soaring Swords. 5/ The Twins of the Secrets. 6/ Edge in the Shores. (2019-12-30)

1/52 Pierce the Veil

/1/ Silken Light


The sun on the silk over the window, the fabric glows and dances taunting the shadows on the castle wall, the warm summer air drifts new blades of grass and tempers flames beneath the steam of baking grains. King and queen prevaricate melodic thoughts in fancy and in spiraling play tangle themselves in the window silk and fall wrapped laffing with the morning birds. A shadow travels from the trees of forest edge to the foundation, soon hissing and raspy clasping at the walls and dragging her feet the shadow witch makes handfuls of sand into the smithy coals, and pulls molten glass gloves, when caught by the smith she burns thru his chest to claim his heart. The witch charges royal chambers, only waves of shadow between tall walls and thru royal halls. Searching for the murderer palace guards warn the royals, to find and fight the Netherwitch, her blood mixes with glass, remelting into a black mossy sphere, they fly to her as she pummels and persists. Queen takes infant to flee, but from three there is one king facing the witch, the bright darkness from the green glass orb. He swings sword, electricity scalds the steel, his arm numb the sword drops unable to feel, but is able to strangle her to the ground, bashing her temple with the orb. He is thrown, as she rises. Her scar vents black smoke and she becomes a gathering of fog on the ground as the king rushes to her to attack again. The smoke fills the sphere.





/2/ The Vacant Spirit


He throws the sphere against the wall, the residue of the sulfur so potent it burns his hand, he pours wine over it and drinks, looking for the queen and child finds none, panic beyond fear he eventually kneels and prays, manic beyond peers he gathers the shards of the sphere as advisors perseverate stages of calmness before her clears all he can find and with bloody hands gathers in fabric and runs to the stables, ordering the fastest horse and squires able to follow fervent ride and as many knights to follow their trail by mark of arrows each turn for the riders behind each turn. He hangs over the saddle at quick speed stopping at in the shadowy woods, he arches over horse as a broken soul, then falls to the ground from the sleepless toll, and marches cradling the shards of the dark sphere shoulder first thru the door. The cabin thicker than the walls as the light echoes thru sound of astral halls, he screams for the tenant wizard and the sound of cavern brings with thunder and tremor as dust falls thru cracks in the single level cabin. The fireplace dies quickly out, the windows close themselves, and a wizard brightens a lamp. The king demands answers for his fraught misery, magic pins the king’s men against the walls, he unfurls and looks at the pouch covered in dried blood, puts the fabric on the table, takes the king’s wrist, stabs his hand to the table, pours the cold green and black shards onto the wound. The king screams, and in the moment sensing needles pouring thru his wound, a place of echoing lightning and mirroring darknesses where time is wind and place is swift river, he sees and chases his queen holding child, close enough to hear them in the swirling maelstrom, only to return to the cabin conjurer. He does drop to his knees forcing his hand onto the table and shards refusing the vision’s end. Merlin asks if the king saw them, learning so, declares they are held on a dark world beyond any shore of Midgard.





/3/ Lover of Slave


In the netherrealm, the queen looks for landmark, the air with lines of smoke like painted rivers a magenta glow, the sound of stirring coins becomes a demon stirring them on throne of stone with low back and long bench, a sluggish slouch and lazy stare only eyes glowing from beneath black hood. A tossed coin becomes rising black smoke that forms shape then the body of the Netherwitch, two more as three witches make her dream and take the baby, only to wake her from illusion. A screaming queen held by smoke, watching the witches chant whispers of forgotten languages to the child. The demon is gone, appearing behind the mortal queen, places fingers on her temple and they close their eyes, a lack of words from both as she reads thru implanted dreams without reflex and captor enjoys.





/4/ The Soaring Swords


A room of infirmary beds in barracks rows, nurses pouring sips of white water, by a day they rest and wake, tired men slowly gaining strength with each breath, at sunset they mount and ride each step stronger warriors and weaker horses, brashly charging a camp of nomadic witches and shamans, capturing the warlocks and priestesses, freeing the human sacrifice, defending themselves against attacks from the cult. The king’s men’s wounds heal when cuts become fresh webs of silk as they search for vases and bottles. For each one smashed, acolytes become aggressors, violence awakens villains, fight against foes summons a netherwitch champion, forty four men fight the netherwitch, they are cut down between their healing wounds and dwindle forces until nine men surround a body, thinking it the king the demon approaches as the king axes the netherwitch’s back and takes its unholy heart.





/5/ The Twins of the Secrets


Merlin takes the heart and performs a spell, the skies spin and a tornado the size of a country begins circle surrounding, darkness swallows the heavens and a sound fills the breathable air and the power of life begins tearing the wind-filled shadows, thunderous avalanche shakes the ground in rising as a needle sized hole of light reaches into the sky and celestial doorway opens, Merlin paralyzes the king, who curses Merlin with worthy words of pure contempt, staring into the gateway at the wizards dark eyes and pale face. The door closes, and Merlin attacks his foe, the hood reveals his demonic twin.





/6/ Edge in the Shores.





They face each other and walk slowly counterclockwise, Merlin asks what his goals are, the Demon denies any plans are in effect, Merlin approaches and the demon hugs him, they trade insults of familial terms, Merlin disappears by falling into the ground feet first, appearing as smoke behind the demon, cuts throat and draws blood. Doppleganger, evil twin, holds his throat and holds his throat, summoning spectres and smoke with his hand he waves them chase Merlin, laughing thru blood and healing himself in disbelief. Merlin takes the bloody knife and cuts his own hand, holding out a glow hypnotizes the shadows, they run faster than ever had, toward the demon double and attack him, he summons new smoke to defend himself against a second wave and hacks thru the first, first in anger, then with rage, then with amusement. More puppeted puppets attack and the demon raises stronger minions of red stone and yellow veins and bluest eyes like rivers of night, as more come he fights with the demon knights in the final circle of hell. Until his demon blade falls and time slows, Merlin raps the blade in his fist and stabs his darkened twin in the heart, pulling aside the bone left and right, gnashing the way of tooth thrashing the way of claw faster than necromancy can heal.





Merlin takes a glass bottle and fills it with his defeated foe’s motionless blood and then summons fire burning the body. The shadows run to him growling and caterwauling, but he holds the bottle and his hand glows, they cower reverently and crawl backwards slow into the winds of darkness. He returns to Midgard and the towering light fades into a breaking dawn, as the blue fog fades and the loud rain wanes the queen screams for her child, with winds of change and echoed pains the child cries for its mother, the knights thank the king for the battle, and the king thanks Merlin for their safety. Merlin begins to bless the land to ward against the return of spirits, as the others leave he drinks the demon’s blood, his hair slowly changes color like a wick setting in ink.

The Other Way Around

I found a device that finishes my thoughts if they're mine. Tho it could be my first conscience, my thought comports recording myself more, but could be my subconscious coping with what can't be told without sounding crazy. Antagonistic lizards from space, hyper-intelligent koalas from the future, and the sound of nature as a secret code to shine a light on the shadow governments of the world, thank you ever so.

Sixers, six act short stories, two will be written per day and the other will be posted here, so if you'd like to unsubscribe before January 1st it's now or never. When I post/schedule Dec 31 I'll add the day it was written to knowing how long it took me to do it. Replacing and timestamping the occasional post with some other projects. After that, whom knows.

Dekm'Hetnos.Was gift years ten for me now, On have learned nothing to me,When becoming days years how,Become growth of summer tree,In winter trees never will bow,From spring a decade's roots climb,The seeds with potential to vow,Sunlight searches all of time.Dekm'Hetnos.

I'm about to hide morals in stories and quandaries in poems for 366 days, but I'll leave this year and decade with a contradiction that can't be countered because it's a question as every answer.

The tree waves it's leaves at the giraffe, the fruit at humans, and the thorns at its thieves. Bears with honey and sharks with blood. The first newspapers attracted buyers with headlines to improve their printing press, the first blogs gather eyes with clickbait, and arguably we all cherish the truth for what truth can be, or at least what doesn't split our wigs and russell our jimmies. Is appearance clickbait, does it mirror our truth, can our opinions even be changed by who knows the truth or who doesn't?

Sing a song of the past and study the future. Not the other way around.

/

Basis to Bias

We app for roadside-assistance, are assigned a tow, and the phone rings labeled 'possible spam', but answer it just in case, and it's the tow guy. My mechanic isn't on google maps yet, so I'd entered the destination as 'other', so he asks me where I'm going because 'source and dest are the same' and it's just up the road. Working on something I hear chains, he's already picking up the truck, grab a coat and run outside, 'oh there you are' and finishes loading it, doesn't shake my hand, doesn't say hello, just shouts 'do you know where you're going?' - I tell him a block up, a block over. He wants an addy, which I tell, he can't hear it, I shout it, and I now think this upset him. He hops in his rig and I pull a locked door, he starts driving off, I slap the bed 'hey'...he stops, looks over his shoulder and stares as if I'm crazy. 'you gonna open the door?' and fuckface says "no"....

He drives off, my mind is complacent, but I can't still help but wonder, what if that was the last I'd see of the truck, and jogged to the pole-barn. 

He's unloading the truck, explained why ran, and I ask pendejo 'why'd you take off without me' and he grunts 'insurance'....'my insurance is why you were called'...fuck all...'why'd you take off? your insurance or mine?' ...grunts again "ours" ....confused >> confucked I just started speaking, 'i don't do ours, my insurance, my truck' -- he doesn't even look at me and leaves. Can't imagine being on the highway in a blizzard what this means. So I write roadside assistance, write a shite review on maps, little else to be done. 

Partly, could I be the asshole, as a point of pride, yes on general principle, after the facts. If there's time to piss off anyone else, please form a line of dipshits to the left. I can't imagine it happening with T&A. 

It's not like I'm starting a men's rights rally, and now I'm in a parade by myself, altho I'd bet those groups are needed, for defense of fractured liberties, but some just need reminding....sir, you can't take your son to a strip club gun show without a designated tour guide. 

Well, it's free beer for little people, and he gives them to me, and him staying sober means he can pass the count backwards from ten test, hell he can count backwards better than me when I'm sober. 

edit: I'm teaching progressive values...tow guy knows what I'm talking about, don't you buddy...? he just fuck's off with my truck, damn that's cold blooded

I don't drink, but I'm thinking of saying I'm on the wagon to explain the gaps. Maybe dude was cold, pissed he has to do his job. Be nice to retail workers, unless they are screaming at you, and even then maybe they're just screaming therapeutically. Could be why the Vulcan emotional guidelines appeal to me, because you're all intentionally second to yourselves, IDK it was a conscience monologue framing device from earlier. 

What was the first word for the title of this one? ....cognitive-bias, where you stop when you get the answers you want, like 'well that's good enuf because I don't want to learn how to read' kinda bullshit. Lotta shitty people get mad when the outcome isn't what they want on the spot, maybe I've just heard this too many times, so to say, or looking for trouble. 

Walked around the block to check the weather, 25F, if I was walking, it was hot, and've really gotten big. The tennis boots or wtfe, balanced my step and maybe the $10 tennis haven't support. It turns over, but doesn't fire. I thought it'd be spark plugs and he added possibly distributor or sensor. Gonna walk a few hours tomorrow, if it rains kabosh the walkabout and nosh and text another blog post with coffee until i need to piss in the woods and gnaw a tree. Fuck that full moon is really tomorrow night 12/12 @ 12:12. 

Have been eating vegan before gym, after gym half/half, and low-to-no carb late, seems to bring focus, waking up to natural motivations, and if I don't have a date, meat really makes me start lion around. 

Echoes of myself within the network, dreams bounce against the atmosphere as my thoughts focus on the solar winds, where glittering solid corrosive metals cut into the unknown clouds of perfect dark. 

D'rachanya

...the many styles when in the wild with forests kept within, like handfuls of diamond eyes given to a tree for passage into the forest prison, magicians and nymphs searching for treasure to bribe their way out, in unity and silence to not disturb the leaves using coordinating gestures, sassy flower seekers that cover the sleeping ones before they rest as much as vines of thorns that grow beneath the surface to protect the trees, but to find that all this time the wealth of darkness in pockets of oil make fire all but complete, and waving hands in ceremony fashion with the passion of orchestrated delight, spraying sparkling yellow sulphur as the path begins alight, streams of red and orange and ashen smoke billow arching from the ground, like the wings of butterflies in metamorphosis, my new form has now been found, I am angered wind sill burning as it waves against the breeze, give me rage and hate unturning as I lash against the trees, I am dragon in standing proudly ever loudly as the skies begin to cry, give me vapor never waver as the ground begins to die, cower as the dark in darkness gathers as I tell, arching over to devour all the kindling in this hell, wings of stone from ash and bones now breathe soot and veins of lava seething from my scales, I am hallowed unrequited without war from head to tail, break your throwing axes against my eyes and horns of bone unbroken, take this token of my bowing in delight and your next fail, all the allies now surrounding pushed beyond the pale, carve your living trees into arrows and throw your enemies at my heart, I shall eat the smiths and forges from the very start, a scream of volcano song and spray of fire-water, a path from my talons to my target burning friend and enemy to the grave, for your screams I will drag myself thru the remnants of the forest to coat my leather in ashy delight, to smell the meat of the great beasts and soon to be my treats, crawling my talons are anchors that hammer into soil, trapped would be to run in darkness between my furnace and my wings sweeping and raking rows with wing tips and mounds where my wings of armor span, so that my talons claw before me as I smash all those who stand, to the edge of your prison I slither like a ship of shadow sea, in the wake, my scaly scorching and a deathly smelling breeze, golden egg buried beneath these prisons of mere warlocks and witches infestation, beneath the black night sun, must hatch the other one...

Wiwan Cw’o

2019-10-18 / Wiwan Cw’o

I take the bones from out my hand and give them to the sea
A pleasing song of aftermath where waves roll unto me
1,001 spiders weave a tomb around the setting sun
Then the lava creatures bring me gifts of gold and grapes
In the rivers of opinion are all whispers made of slaves

The list of lines are serpentine and coil above the trees
And make new homes above the stones the raptors of the seeds
Where falling glass and quicksand are delicate reprieve
This circumstance of rivers’ glance is draped across our eyes
The flickering of tonguelike knives and sticks at once was paved

Re-circumstance the fire plants and moons beneath the soil
The army ants and prominence with heads below the foil
In parallel the mirrors are the times that echoes chase
With any stave and heartbeat are the soldiers on the ground
Who can’t behave reflect the caves the spectrum spins around

Odva

Odva, Faith

\/

A field beneath too many stars

In seeing no differences in their glow

Against the tall grass against the moon

Low and in the cold horizon of night

Blackened ashes beneath the coals

\/

These stories go endless into the sky

Darkly irreverent space consumes thought

Another long and horrible description

The shaman speaks volumes of knowledge

Where tails and teeth are best described

\/

Now the stars are falling without paucity

Where suns are spies and knowledge light

Storms of fervent clouds cascading skies

Apart and growing worlds of thunder

Interrupting the voice echoes insane

\/

Stars rain against abandoned fires

Breaking imagination with parody remorse

Until stories have no answers becoming

Seas of lost waves of interpretations

Desperate sensations and emotions wild

\/

Waves to shore and falling moons

In the mystery of substance

Surface questions never deep

All the pictures post and prospect

Shouting endings that won't keep

/\

Ablaut Logic

Do you believe in your cause?
Would shouting at you change your mind?
Then why would shouting at them change their mind?

Poetry in motion, not in motion, inactive. It could be the emotionally lost, an emotional sea, an emotional hook, and we seek ourselves outwards. If there were any truth in this, it would be that we must be the new humans of this planet, and the next. Some are the ribald and ire of the season of reasons, and we adults can tell you two of many unknown things, with age comes focus not forgiveness, and the eyes of the mind seek what we've always sought, hear what we've always heard, and as you can tell from this, all things are test of time.

So I will sing sang sung with this tongue, and in the ancient tongues I might have spake to speak of spoken words, in timeless ways it sees, it is seeing, and now we see, of when and where you'll need ask and pray tell as has been what begs pardon. I don't know who I am anymore, but not born yesterday. These times of children raising the next adults, and infants crying to be kings, we have had made possible opportunity, in the ways that must not be, our regrets make us characters in a sad time, our lives make us none of your business. I speak, I spake, I spoke.

It's true in some ways that I study the way of words, gathering the anecdotes of antidotes and wars, all for not as pages rot, coyly to describe the way my inner dialogue prays to demigods, only to say the names of emotions to the souls met along the roads of this world when seen from the moon like veins of an eye forever staring at the sun. Fittingly, in ways, how some would like to see it split and need and want two halves of one mind. The active, the events, the results, or the series, all of these are aspects of humanity, and in some cases human is what you are and not what you're doing -- to this we hope you study or train or work.

There is a magic I have seen, where time stops, where all elements of humanity can be observed to perfectly observe, in ways to perceive the elements of society without the hypocrisy and barbarism and stupidity of censorship, to see aspects of life as easy as poets throw words for ideas. When we adults are emotional, more so than every, the chorus of minds with words best silent, the extent at the moment inescapable of better questions, you so I ask this.

Do you believe in your effect?
Would shooting at you make you want to surrender?
Then why would shooting at them end war that kills humans?

Æh'lla Temarh

The Nightmirror - Æh'lla Temarh

This accidental second place in race against the seconds, a power that can't be bought, wasted describing a light that makes the sun seem cold. With shadows echoing and darkness sending dreams in war with stars, but echo collapsed the many darknesses and one unto the next the quintessential doors of perception fell into frame, collapsing stratos structure pentagram the architecture of five archways became illumination and gateway, the Æh'lla Temarh.

1-Whispering Flowers
Three moons of red and white and red the likes of shadows soft and high above the moonlight paths, staring at morose verdant grass, the blades without sway holding the dew while threatening the afterglow. Shining glitter drops across field fallow and edge of frost where the circles of moons soon followed each other than passers by the tide of dark ocean air distant from the valley, where the tally of footsteps are forty six and two, and two, and two…the crickets from the thickets or the easy breeze or the snap of twig and thatching from the woods stares back at me. The whispers behind me and everywhere I see, the thunder in the distance, the sleeping leaves on guarding trees, intent to listen where bright darkness takes curiosity there is a song of petals in imagination that tells as much as rain, but at the sudden loss of fear completely lost in trust, certain everything is nothing wide awake I fall asleep in the road beneath my feet. Kneeling as if into a bed, in my head a need and indeed I’m clawing at the dry soil as if falling from a dune, and in soon of sundry sunder comes thunder of men and beast.

2-The Silent Moon

My feet are bound to a rope and a tarp that drags beneath me dragging, crags and gravel grinding, against my skull the stones reminding little choice but pain and waking, and their gentle time are taking, twenty less than men and more than wolf, whose sight in passing see me laughing at my trappings only a web of dreams can make. So they take to stopping thusly and in my eyes inspect and push my face to see my teeth, my fear is confusion their amusement is my status less than pet. They sit like dogs and haunches quick to rest on their spots in hunches bothered not, to such their leader rises on four pawed limbs not quite standing making whispery demands at the moon in sounds like “draeull, lsevi, aeihlluei, iq ahofvi ea,” but the moment returned the thoughts of the moon, mind of madness wars of sadness as the colors moved the world, shelves of hillside slide like rivers of spectral diamonds while thoughts from marrow self-consume, a soured nepenthe, followed by the first moment of sanity described in panic as tragedy or the screaming hells full of snakes of trees. Again the werewolf speaks at the lunar deities, “el minur, roraed, ihrhueit’d, oaurr’iq’ae,” one of the moons seems to be different and fall asleep while the waves of moonlight crashing against my mind, and the beast turns to his pack, now standing tallest “arr’um” he yells, “Reimnae,” and another of the larger rises to marching orders, “ejh, Esova,” to superior, and to Reimnae the order was given, “arr’omni,” which is order to hit me on my head.

3-Ship of Shadow
I pretend to sleep as my eyes open, dragging along a black river with fighters readying for a fight, I can’t tell the rise and set of moons if closer day or growing night, and now sounds of waves from an ocean of darkness, moonlight in the echoes of contrast where glimmering shadows and glowing sea floor insulate the world from the passing stormclouds. It’s not an ocean but a swamp with tide with vines thinning at the shore and in the distance giant spines of beasts that came before as mountains waiting for the rise of the black sun. In the vast swamp of rivers a small boat of black steel and obsidian with sails of black raven and red raptor feathers and I am sold to sailors three.


4-The Voyager’s Birch
This river runs slow and the vines crawl looking for ground and ghouls to nourish the vast wasteland of moss and black roses. One of the vines grows toward the ship, as water turns red aside the vine a sailor shoots an arrow a single time, missing completely the vine almost whips to coil around it, hoping it would pull it free it crushes to consume, and in the arrow a single seed to grow a birch that thrives on the cursed water. The white bark cracks as it grows new leaves and moves almost as fast as if were living to fight the vines from beneath the moss filled sea. We watch as it grows and stops the vine, but from behind another holds its feet forcing roots to dig deep for water to grow and making it slow, as it is torn in two as if the swamp was looking inside it, only to discard it. Another vine, another seeded arrow, again.

5-The Edge of the Snake
The sky grows light and shines thru the clouds as they drag boat onto yellow sand, but dark clouds recover control and day becomes shade, the sand is soft and light beneath my feet as they make we walk across it. Ahead and around are jagged edges of broken paper lanterns, farther not lanterns but husk, farther still not husk but molted snakeskins. We come to the ruins of an ancient city of stones and hallways whose canvassed windows have turned to dust and wooden roofs decay to kindling, filled with curious holes at walls and floors where snakes come to observe only to be hunted by others. Sight thru window of bones whole families now dining skeletons with plates of bones and many floors with long empty grain sacks. They throw me at the feet of the crown serpent king, a patient squinting man with scales like fingernails from hand to head as armor of white tiles.

6-Dying in the Souls
The serpent king whispers, “aerraekhielhoan,” and the few tiny serpents scatter, in their stead two guards with smaller beaded younger scales bring a prisoner out, cutting her restrains and unmasking her, tossing her at them they all run from the desert castle without regret. I stare at the reptilian king, unblinking, tilted stare and jilted guards who leave us to wonder willingly who the villain is in each other’s story, his fork tongue tastes the air and fear makes me run, colliding in corridors at each turn, taking a torch that doesn’t burn to swing as he finds me. Clubbing him does little and none and he holds out glass sphere, a yellow eye much larger than his. I run and he catches me with clawed hands, like thorns stabbing tearing my arm and chest and throws me to the ground to rest. What could be a smile and this laughing reptilian foe rolls the eye to me and shreiks “dinnra-aenne'ssiuhj”

I wake in the throne of the moon in the forgotten city holding the eye, tasting the air, checking my scales for flaws, and hear the wailing battlecry of a cat echo over the ruins of stone. A tale that swaggers counting methods of attack as it breathes before pouncing as I dodge before running back. Across the discarded sands, thru the bleeding swamps over the heart of darkness, into the forest of werewolves. I dash at the ornate obsidian mirror in the road, in a new world the pentatonic gate closes and breaks into five meaningless objects, but I am still a new beast with magic eye in a world of humans who are to have seen their first.


/6ch /mjbanks

Buckaroo Banzai vs The Illuminati

I once made a giant word in a gavel lot, to signal to the cold depth of Cthulhu's space, but I can see how that could easily be incontratable by talisman standards, yet I did it to show impatience, and not to signal the god of the sky, yet there was a point where I was 7 and used a payphone, which is the other possible determinant for how I joined the illuminati.

I don't remember much of my childhood, only the major and minor chords like anyone else, the extra clothes, the play acting, and has to be my recount of the spectral age mixed in with some of the first stories I told to the council of the illuminati.

It's not like there are reptilian aliens hiding in human skin, but I can vaguely remember the day that was a game in my head. The years training for the apocalypse, despite being the amorphous neurotic rekt mess today, I can easily remember inventing things like the tick and the adventures of dark journeys and mostly unpleasant monster chasing us night, amongst the wildly spectral obsession where I'd sing my first songs and count the atoms in their colors simultaneously, splendid visual effects patterns in the air, perhaps the fractal years, and we can see the similarities in park poesy amateur hour editors that could stipulate as any other that I'm telling that younger self this, or that he's reading it as I write it, not as far fetched as I'd hoped this entry would be.

It compares to writing a reddit post to my profile page, where people would play and talk with themselves like the insane population that they are, then and now. It breaks my heart the way that greetings beyond a standard will offend, semblance of confusion like predisposed politicians, i think i digress, who can't rearrange all answers with prearranged statements. I can almost still remember vowing to avoid politics at all costs and be a guardian instead.

The ability to know the illuminati is with me in most places like a surveillance doctrine, came to be effortlessly, and effortlessly I speak with the holy communion of global domination and speculative essays on Reddit, never thinking any ill of the shadow, that with the omniscience of sentient audience was just another person to fill the seats as it were. It wouldn't be until many years later, and now many years ago, that I would find, and almost break, myself in audience with the audience that suits this regard.

In some respects I wouldn't post this to my blog because it sounds to absurd, to be with a literal can, and a literal string, playing telephone like children with the greatest minds of my time, and have let's say my parents or a babe read it.

The annoyances, the intermittent proliferation, that ceases to amaze for it's depth at the moment, was writing this's purpose. I do remember vowing not to write one thing and here do, in golden ages. With many human, or I guess animal, instincts like needs to know of this different incapability, or beset by better truths, with those different vanquished, to make myself forerunner and famous, etc, that in parting ways with the misconceptions of such misanthropies of childish adversarialism or quotidian negativities, in rediscovering the mere concept of a fractal encasing the world to discover conflicts with my sight, or my ability to see I guess.

The constant interruption still goes unnoticed, or my twitches go unpunished, but are just the vacant reminder of trivial nature, despite it not affecting my chores it does give time to remind me of them. To have opinion, it seems insulting that at the top of the world it would take the, countless days to build the tower of babel anew, for them to just text me their grievances, but for me to recognize the pettiness, would take some named or marked experience the like.

Perhaps even my, yes disgusting, habits were my hatreds and that in this spiraling out of control conspiracy that I've embraced them like a distorted memory, distorted once more to include this present darkness. The self-destructive complacency of apathy, paired with the intrigue of them reading this in real-time and not interrupting it for the umpteenth time, spurn of derision, spawn of decision, amazing as it's not, that and this, allows yet another reminder of what I'm doing when I'm not doing anything. With urgency I remind you that I have nothing and am held in the confidence of world lords and war lords both.

I remember a possible opinion at four star some day like this where shadow of summer were cold of confinement and thinking there would be a better way because there has to be, something better than a world at my fingertips instead of a woman, global envoys of the greatest empire that, at least that -I've- ever built, instead of missionaries of mercy the instinct, altho the harmony of such could arguably be the same.

The lazy never have any time, and yet can't be bothered to bother, and I feel the same way when thought not to twitch and taught not to bitch. Who reads this is in the know, now I incriminate myself of the impossible. Not above the menial, just resentful of the way it's come about, which makes me resent those with meaning and distant from they who can expose themselves so vulnerably.

I'd end this as rhetorical. What makes many stories, but has no title? What has many chapters and cannot be finished?

There is a practice, to be rid of emotion to make room for the next, unpreventable wave of emotion innate of the human condition. Not to ban emotions, nor to exploit. Part of me hoped that I'd be more than I am by now, and can't seem to care. They play music now, without annoyances, while I type, like voices in my head, like switching tracks at the gym when I'm tired, like screaming internally when my goals can't be visualized.

Writing break. I never know how to end these letters.

Movies, music, nations networks, and I think I'm approaching my middle age, if not clear by looking haggard at the gym, my newest hobby, songs and guitar, peace and scars. Perhaps it's to not meet some potential, whilst somehow raising a few billion people a day, a lot to take credit-for, and would love to play the electric, but it reminds me I should nerve up and get working, my worthlessness is why I can't be with. I'd had a time briefly, the rude type that would be worse with wealth, and what wealth is this to own a world and be king of clowns. I just rewrote a call for charity, and now to brag about it, and this embellishment per se, and isn't. What worth is it to be in a way about a world that only turns during the day and only dreams at night, the tonal languages ruined by song and nomads distracted by it's title. There is a larger part ruined by the biggest performances in history used to treat me like the new bard, what is the story, where is this world going, etc. Refreshing, exciting maybe, yet I'm sure this seems lethargic, suicidal, and clinically insane, but wildly absurd, vague, and contradictory. Or so he hopes, to be psychic, and only hear her sunlight thru the rain.

/LLAP

You're legs still work, use them

One of the coolest things I've read in a while, paraphrasing, 'students acing a class, we'll reimburse full payment of the next course if right after it,' so, get a perfect score for the ride and essentially you're only paying for the final class-es, which is great if you're overexerting scholastically, and need to reduce your schedule. This idea is genius and should be instituted on my planet.

Still working on a Vulcan font that applies key combinations, dzh can j, but there are more clusters than slots. Still have to edit the SVG files to fit the target window of each letter, but the found github project will do the rest, hopefully cutting out the white-space, and if not, there's vector and font software somewhere internet.

There's a theoretical language group called proto-indo-european that takes the oldest known languages, and finds the linguistic community consensus of what their hypothetical roots would be. I spent three days OCD dumping it into a Memrise course from a PDF with some fun Spanish/French typos, or the occasional European-ism, perhaps those with linguistics doctorates are from a previous generation and speech. In a few months I'll release the beta. I like it better for not having IPA symbols, and seems way easier than the heritage languages that spawned from hypothetical-it. This is in hope that my proto-mind can find the right grammar to finish my rule, the search might be unending tho.

Going to try a new workout method, if a set takes 20 seconds, then only 20 seconds rest. For HIIT if the high interval is 30 the max rest/stop is 30.

The Korean alphabet is very logical, but the Armenian alphabet is easier to remember. Both seem like better substitutes for Vulcan if the purpose is to represent one sound with one syllable/symbol. Vulcan's circular script doesn't seem daily practical, and the modern type, based on media usage is letter-branching for combinations and sharing with the cursive version is admittedly hieroglyphic in nature, whereas the Armenian alphabet comes closer to approximation and the Korean alphabet comes closer to maturation.

Nonetheless, the Proto "europajom" has so many similarities with English that I'd considered making an eventual post called 'Words in English that are 4,000 years old,' which is interesting to say the least. The anthropological term for these people later was stolen/corrupted by despots, and only because the possible/likely speakers were the first to domesticate the horse, and let's say, drove on their enemies. 4ft person on a Clydesdale as much as 5500 years ago. Eventually number_chan shitlords claimed the name also, so there's no need to call it that.

In helping me assess the turning place it covers some 2/3 of today's languages, and I've already seen a lot of similarities with Spanish and English, and as an American, we've done this place with less than that at times.

Lookin' at you, KWYJIBO.

Besides that I guess the standard updates are due. There's a game called Trivial Pursuit, which I'll understand if you hate, but each card is easily an episode or chapter of any story. Finish the card, finish the A-plot. There are a few countries that I wouldn't go to on principle, and others I won't go to for practical safety, but you have to commend their criminals for embracing capitalism, so you can fear the free states all you want, it's when we start working with your criminals that you should fear. Some countries are shit enough on their own, I just had time to type about conlangs, and might edit my own vlog, I'm not in one of them. As the southwest US homeless crisis won't suffer the arctic winters, it's reached levels of depravity that classical stories solved with fire and brimstone -- fix your problem or be in forfeiture of arable territory. I will throw out liberals with the lunatics and convince myself there wasn't any difference, not exactly a stretch of imagination.

Let me stew on an idea and 6ch in 100 hours. Just enjoyable to use blogger without the google docs and 600+ trackers, once in a while, for a rant.

Proto > Modern, PIE > MIE; it seems to have expected traces of many languages, simplified, a variety of uniform verbs-types, endings, ablaut, does't write in IPA, object infinitives, druids, which doesn't appeal to someone previously writing about Merlin, blah blah etc, to end with a quote and my favorite from the textbook at the moment is:

"7.- Jos ghebhlām nē õike, podn̥s õike. 7.- Who has no head has legs."

/mjbanks

A Cup In A Waterfall

Logic will do to chaos what spirit does to warlords. Considering that if their debates were instantaneously turned into a game show they'd all be sent home early.

It's my belief that dark matter is the water, and the big bang is just a bubble of light matter on the surface of our omniverse pool, that would be just about big enough to make us small enuf to witness a blackhole as the invisible gravity that pulls against the smallest states of matter, and that we're inside the atom, and viewing it simultaneously -- and I'm still kinda loving the idea that black holes are the byproduct of really fast space vehicles and we just lack a complete picture of how space and time work. 

Hell the idea that the deep has little between worlds it's not much different from society. The middle ground of space and time, I kept thinking until I was thinking. I kept listening until I was listening. 

Two enemies in the light and truth, the scarcities of reason, the scarcities of resources, and in that act, being the enemies until they were enemies. It seems disturbing to peace and long life that two worlds would be one war. Needless to say that the cost of your own ranks means you weren't meant to lead them. 

Now onto the ones afraid of laughter and standing. The subject, in the old sense of the word a person is subject to rule from another, would be forced to joke until the warlord laffs. The warlord, would have to stand and find something entertaining. One learns to speak to fight, one learns to fight to speak. 

There is a fun game of words called Improvement. Two warlords sat drinking tea, in a monastery far from their homes. They decided to discuss the shadow downhill until they could truly be discussing the shadow. Then decided to discuss the growing grass until they could truly be discussing the grass. The name is the rule, improvement, and serves as the basis of conversation. In order to be wise enuf to debate or conversate, they made rules against disagreeing. Only statements of perception, this improves communication -- and only questions, this improves perception. 

One very much loved shade and all shadows, and the other very much loved grass. 

Blades of grass grow in light. 

Blades of grass grow in light making shadow. 

Shadow of night lets grasses cool. 

Shadow of night lets grasses cool while they wait for the sun. 

They argued and argued for twenty days, but in the spirit of improvement, so that their armies wouldn't fight until they were just fighting, so their armies wouldn't die until they were just dying, the two philosophers never got emotional. 

Understanding they are very much two different people. 

Understanding they are very much two different people, with important different perceptions. 

There we are, left to understand that the two philosophers found a fusional goal, the way fog surrounds what we can see, and covers what we can't see. Our memory is synthetic, not a photograph. This risk of passing bad analytics, or bad logic, we can pass to ourselves. Analyzing sometimes takes the form of doubt, the way fog also reveals nothing. So it is, the vague image of peace had to be held in their focus until the fog lifted when they could truly have peace. 

Words have power and shouldn't be wasted until they are truly wasted. Your memory is a cup in a waterfall. Learn to learn, drink good memory until you can drink the river of time. Toss bad memory until you can fill the space. 

A blade of grass does not steal the light any more than a brilliant star steal darkness. And when a star dies, the other stars don't share thr light, they become one, as they shine until, they are shining. As two, as one. It is that nature is the governing principle that we should strive to be natural, not at each others throats. If you all need to collectively worldwide meditate maybe you should try something easier first, like tea or waterfalls, instead of blades and darkness. 

There will be time and space for that until there is only time and space. 

Fires of Shadoworld

Fires of Shadoworld - mjbanks

A world in a handful of houses, secret orders of secret languages each, by special skills, and special weapons.

The secretive societies and varying varieties with narratives imperative and motives different and the same, here is the briefest longest saga ever written.

With cutting edge technology was great house of night.

Secret society color darkness can see all past perfect without future, in their mind can dream like waking in history.

It is here I tell you the setting is a world the size of yours, but spins so fast that days and nights are short, Shadoworld.

It began with the war for the Pasi ocean, and the nations of Prima dominated the night skies and begin to control the water, and the nations of Seco made secret ships, an orbital war fought, an act of sabotage source unknown pointed the weapon at the world and weapons impact turned a continent upside down, tossing molten lava in a place we now call the Obsidian Sea, and spinning the planet faster.

A royal man of Seco in orbit while the nations and lesser countries fight over names unawares.

A royal woman of Prima joins him, pregnant and aloof and out window looking.

They are watching the planet spin the opposite direction of their orbit and the daylight passing as if hours were minutes.

The royal man plays chess in deep orbit, the pieces of Seco and Prima, the armies of which have defenses of lesser orbit and ground weapons.

The royal man moves the pieces of his family, she moves pieces of hers, controlling the low-orbit satellites.

The magician winds his watch in the city built from the upside down ruins beneath the edge of the Obsidian Sea.

Title credits?

The magician drinks the water filtered thru the charcoal and obsidian overworld and the nutrients of the ancient once buried soil make the magician's eyes glow.

A dream he tosses and turns about the day the earth turned, all the fires and the millions of altars at the edge of a newly molten sea, of the nations born that day, of the oceans boiling away, and a finger pressing a touchscreen wearing a ring like his.

He wakes and watches a multi-channel video, switching with the keyboard from camera to camera, following a squad of assassins, switching between them and the man wearing the ring, back and closer and forth, until entering rifles aimed and autarch alone, a passage filled with fallen guards, and another.

One angle their leader seems to say 'any last words,'  another angle the autarch says his final phrase, the prince replays the phrase trying to make out the words.

The magician uses his magic power to become strong and enters a cage with a once small beast, now large from science and sorcery of the day the world was changed; it can't be trained, it will not attack uniforms of one side nor other, nor can refrain from killing trainers of either cloth; especially hating the magician's internal light matching the lasers that struck the earth.

The ringed hand had hit the button, the two forces stopped firing at armies and air forces, concentrating their weapons at the city in the sky.

Societies banded together, clearing entire cities into levies to stop the lava from spreading, behind the barriers areas of land like a great dry moat, agricultural potential ignored, and defended from the great fire until meeting and dividing at the other half of the reformed steaming planet quickly becoming one jungle.

The comm notifies there is a Prima caller, underneath a city begins covering with faint lines of lights.

The comm panel notifies a second caller, now Seco, underneath the city in combat slides by view from the satellite, more times in night than day, the passing daylight seems to hide the battle, only to show it resurge in nightfall.

At the Seco base, equal shifts sleeping, and training, and eating, and learning, at all times, the leaders plan their next stratagem, their leader enters and they bow to a witch in black robes as she approaches their digital target diagram.

The image becomes real, across the Obsidian Sea, in the caves near Atlan, where the wizard asks about the tides of Paralon, the fires at Blackwater Gate, and the light of Anipri, and is told the tides are opening, the fires are broken by diamonds, and the light is washing slower by a centillion.

There the quiet places were old towers of industry and new cities of obsidian mining or colonies made of containers in marshlands once deserts.

The wizard needs passage to the Atlan reservoirs, but his patrons learn his plans and demand more of him than any worth.

As Seco chieftain waits for words, his daughter, commander of the Turquoise horde demands payment in a secret worth much more.

The wizard pulls the demon blade and kneels like servant, pushes it sliding over smooth mined floor.

Fighting heard from distant mountains and thunder, the Seco return lightning and storm, the sounds draw closer and the wizard is escorted by the command structure elite to safer confines.

I see the commander obscure a coin, and one side of the battle moves away when ammo low as both sides sleep and repair.

I woke up too late for this reality, but I can keep working until I make what I need.

Kept hitting the snooze button and now by body is full of subspace anomalies, the thought of immortality is being blocked by psychic inter-dimensional pirates trying to control the collapse of all matter into a single point, after downloading data from proton sensors a dimension of fluid space attacked an anomalous neural network overloading the primary isotherm energy packs from an already volatile state to critical

As the research laboratory exploded I was forced to use my magic to survive, and seek answers.

While the witch ordered her warriors scavenge the site for critical resources, she looked for the wizard's body, hoping to find at least the magic and science he was making, not knowing that he shielded it from the blast himself, and gave it to the first new recruit in passing before heading toward the witch's home base.

She makes magic from the pieces she finds; at night he infiltrates the enemy base walking in shadow, with access to archives sends all the information to another code-named 'razorwolf', then is discovered, the enemy base uses weapons made of the wizard's own magic, only making him stronger, as they barricade against him firing dark pistons, he vanishes as a second wave of them bring dark rifles, wasting munitions where they only think he is.

The witch tries to divine the location of the wizard by the pieces recovered; under the heat of two suns she sends troops to each place see imagines in her magic vision, each place only traps and tricks, she smells the tatters of the wizard's robe, she falls into a diving daydream, her sentries gently approach her, whispering to wake her, the one fearfully voted to wake her is met with a wall of white light.

The wizard meets with fighters insurgent rebellious, using the information from the witch's fortress they connect to the royal satellite and download files, from both house Seco and Prima.

Each document full of caches and depots, forts and training grounds, royals and regents, targets and agendas, then among the photographs of hypocrisy with members now foes friendly, perhaps the treaties of the past or treatise planned to last, then among the technicians proof of dates and movements recent and soon, set for conflict, as the wizard sees an image of the man of Seco and the woman of Prima and their newborn.

The wizard has lured and attacked soldiers, but now has no more places to hide, one of his attacks on others heals himself, he is outnumbered and chased into public arena.

As her troops chase him, the witch arrives to the hunt, the wizard's commander orders a counter attack, and the witch's commander begins a firefight, the protectors retreat and the attackers move into an area with many innocents, the witch orders them to halt, when they refuse, she uses a magic fear to freeze them in place, as the defenders attack the frozen, the wizard electrocutes them all, healing his wounds.

A day later and the witch is at a launchpad, wearing the wizard's uniform, fighting the wizard's men, when the witch's troops come to support her, she attacks them also.

The wizard walks thru the shadows, thinking about what he knows, escapes his allies, hides in crowds thru the city, less than footsteps, quick as whispers, enters a safe-house, a weapon pointed at his back.

The witch meets him, they bond then make love, he giver her his uniform, she leaves, meets the wizard's allies, infiltrates her own base.

Attacks the wizard's comrades, attacks her own comrades, while the wizard sneaks into the launching area, breaks into the secured control room, convinces the operators to ignore him, gets caught, stops an attacker, makes an ally of a controller sick of the war, another person comes in the room, attacks the wizard, but kills the controller who just switched sides,

The wizard throws him out of a window, finally able to access and open the rocket-ship, but unable to launch the vessel, but that's what the witch does for him,

He shouts at her to run from the launch process, because he broke the control room's windows throwing that guy out, suddenly the witch is inside the rocket with the wizard, she'd put a spell on a villain to assist, who realizes his moment of clarity is just that as the rocket launches

They approach a military space station, security waiting for them, guns drawn, eyes open and serious, the doors open and a blast of air and then silence, only fog exists the doorway, nothing can be seen, as it pours out and air clears the witch lies on the floor, they approach and a flash blinds them, by the time they can see the wizard yells threats, the security shouts a final warning, while the witch is missing, now behind their leader, whispering a magic that orders them pause, then all of them a poison grips their stomachs, the pain puts them to sleep.

The wizard and witch take a military shuttle and approach the outer royal satellite, slowly approaching they formally request docking for repairs, the royals confirm the shuttle's authenticity, hiding their faces from the pilots, the shuttle docks, the doors open, guns are already drawn, holstered, the wizard and the prince hold forearms, matching wolf tattoo to royal symbol, witch and princess hug, matching branding and royal bracelet.

Col Rizada

Their service to the ancients was with labors in the sun, and by this they were weaker getting done, but sleep as any other sleeps until the rising light. On the soil their muscles burned and work relied on memories and nerves, where structures of feat are built on stronger thoughts and stronger words, but toil the wary for the world. Dreams beyond compare as they finishing planting works of glare, and even tired of waiting and contemplating during distancing repast, just as seasons are cast, making limits of repair. Breaking waters of the mountain running bones of earthly fountains, pulling limbs across the family trees, with their teeth and bones both grinding while their joints request to rest. The tides of blood brutality ache echoes immortality, and continue thru modality in wages of the smoke, it was burden by necessity that task woke. Mounting distress and impacts depressed between storms of mind and collective, they could fight against oppression or miss the seeds of dreams instead, in the strange revenge of boredom had the jesters come and read. As imagined lighter sunlight like so many telling outright do the higher wide and far do the middle miss the stars while the signs are drawn on darkness, we imagine from this hardness there's a wanted need for tools of conflict, and forgetting we planted them.

Status, body, system, cost, adversity, mentality, emotion.

Dah'rak, The Second

Dah'rak, The Second

and had become the language of reason, everything so loud, the keys beneath the wrong fingers, the words in the wrong place, the rain on the wrong blades of grass,

had for ages seen the limelight, the time where brazen storm with evening vanished into the paranoia of well-laid plans, interior without inferior manied storms in first wave over minds of sullen caves where the brave were here to save, where the next were meant to look,

for the time this seem prophetic and was nearly not it's ones and zeroes, like sophist heroes or assassins with muddy feet, all to say what had been promised like the start of every message for sale,

the most of many which, the scorn of others stitch, and the likes of matters circumspect the laggard with the mile, so haggard with the smile, replacing gift with prosecution as if stain and turned to style,

most for asking had to ask them, both were trivial insane, yet the heart of butcher's mercy was the start was not the game, it seems, and by much the very circumstance is tethered to a breeze,

for quit come near with start this gives, at best the sort of ending naked in the rain complaining about the temperature being one and one half degrees wholly unbearable, like the sins gone incomparable, ever incomplete,

quit of some, writ of none, parser barren of the sun, watchers taken, shakers shaken, and the rivers cried and won, at least match the gussied catch with waves like that would make eyed all the flitted crossing snake eyed,

of it tiresome glow shining stars across the bow, pull the string and cross the ocean of the mind, and yet it seems that many mercies have gruesome seas, and by their human sacrifices, do we all carry this blood,

it became dark and rigid warfare in the sands inside the stone, bones of bathing made of weapons others teeth were meant to hone, recorded nonsense as if kindred, should they bear that cross alone,

became the sleet many bricks against my skin, endless waters sinking a rebuilt fortress, floating in the stars itself, impertinent endless irrevocable need for rhyming like the flag of skull and bone, were the wind of sons and daughters,

the darkness doesn't blow, just as a cloud in the night it rests on stars, replanting eyes at night to count the days, a storm bending the newest blade of grass, crassly dust stares dawn and the light bends the same,

darkness at the base of the empty throne, lightless mist spilling into the walls of colors unseen, but more unimaginable by mortal heels, a castle and ship whose doctrine roth spoken true, decreed of of suns and waters,

at the seems the honest claim of exchange, surfeit a word, afeite absurd, eschew procured, written textures read of leisures where the ground is warm and sewn, and the wars were blood and bone, tragedy of home unknown,

the latent pasture of this mastery as escape from time and atrophy were those genes of human hatchery that give dementia its final crown, but the passing of the weeds by nest is rare, latter edits more profound,

latent of the wicker and the light around the moon, and as we look around the room, fewer eyes would soon subsume, temper tantrum motus random apparatus vile contraption twisting capture into blatant, hardly, truth,

of this we knew of one, one of many like a scarecrow, but if it is shadow that can't be caught, make this nonsense into parcel and then gag them on the spot, which the rest of us won't need it unless all of us are caught,

this was peace and that was past like the smoke among the grass, now it's daylight and the clouds pull rows and sheets across the surface of the droves, currency in positivism, and skills sets scores,

was there something in translation, spending days to learn the order of subject, and object, and verb, and the code for secret words, all to have made peace with lazy learners as the larger tribe attacks,

there was indeed water between the reeds for the blood to fetid sour all the ragged wooden power, as the earth would sift thru light and dark as has the earth before it, the seed would reclaim the forest, unless the dust had covered frost,

was the world to shake it would split in two, if you had asked an ant or an ox, but the farmer can see downhill like the child can see a thrill, motive brandy or tequila turning pages shapes the world,

the one yelling at books has burned them in dreams, screaming about bloodshed between the seams of society and patiently and quietly and in some avalanche effect now so riot-ly, had cut themselves bleeding,

one who lost their voice screaming, scorned themselves burning, torn themselves turning, be search Achilles surfing off Chile, did not swim to shore to bury his head in the sand,

who had made, valleys haunt my vision for the trenches of oceans listening where old moons from distant systems are burned and buried and their foreign soil raise creature, like false prophets do,

had any made it to ache from toning like this, the way rest makes tense, and direction relax, the many joined in making better forgot to put their own to task, surely three or more when one is less,

any time to tip would be valuable, no more than others in the quiet riot, or giving some such sort, when we die the worms retort and the fish curse gods of tide and spears, and fishers block the light from the surface,

time was given, and gratuity was not, and these unordained inordinate rigid colorblind kleptophiles keep punching at the skies, oh you're disparate disheveled not without so many lies, and hands out with fewer tries,

was what who, where how many gave their all, so that none giving none was the quantity of sum, and the total of parts wasting on assembly lines that don't exist, for the storm would so persist deep into thunder,

what is behind the typhoon is the water, not the ground, but the sound of the atmosphere spiraling from god in your language's control, pulling cold from space, condensate rain, and swelling oceans just the same,

is this miracle on elm street not the surface or the fire, which the songs of better winds bring truth to our insane, where we make our bones to claws to climb the darkness, and use our skulls to dig,

this alarm began about them with the notion of extremes, then the fires started smolder where the lava was a stream, then where forest roots the waters flaming river at its edge, throne alone with fog of darkness pours from darkness edge, like the cliffs becoming blood fall in the spirit of the night, dawn will follow every fight

And we have killed him...

So many assumings that nature has rules, when there are rules and then against all laws there is this magic too fast for me to write, something true to emotion and the echoes blending together, where anglophones see oddly difference between empire and expire. It would be a farce, protesting contesting by the roles reversed, and yet almost there are none in the lunatics. Searching for thoughts and somehow a need to strafe and launch, above and below. You do listen to songs, and somehow music is larger, antethetical, perithetical, postthetical, the self important poetry, and already there are despots who can sleep, not so much as a matter of ethos or logos or pathos, but mythos, for o how many times have the laws and songs and poems wrote of despots who never woke. 

Difficulty is an instance, not an infinitive. 

Lunikkh t'Kraith

Quiet here in the reckoning place

the sentient noise and the endless sleeping sea

my mind screaming with fear of what waits me

and make it thoughts and sensory emotion

to be here aware passes actions to the past

and am here in now and then wandering not

not wandering then and now in here 

but where i am the microbes blunder microcosm

outside of this planet's atmosphere four moons

four moons to wax and wane in frozen time

beginning eclipse, and ending eclipse

the setting and the rising of the twilight horizon

in immortal, this way, un unbearing, this way

outside the sphere of influence and dismay

that mortals weep and children play

and the atmosphere is just an end of life

as we know the nothingness nihilistic stares at stars

as if the sky looked up to the earth

and the earth looked ever down again

and from the night sky a night moon watches me

after the night carrying only starlight

any darkness echoing against the body

at the starts against the world

all the many moons of darkness

with the daylight skies are echoes of fires and life

why the plasma of two great eclipses battle the atmosphere

where ever day makes dawn and dusk

whose light bounces within the world and sky

winning prize of fire's rest and mountain's eye

wander to the center of the sea and seek land

winds of change move over nations

winter pushes against brilliant sand

whereof another star watches like the pendulum

between the day and night in the lavish

where the summer and winter will not ravish

is the worst for place to sleep among them

the histories of towers and shadows demanding

with the memories of pages demanding

make this place for every wandering moon and star

to live in the place between day and night

the night sees the sunrise

the day sees the sunset

sharing discord sowing state of dishonest seed

in the request of remission of time's paucity

or is it pausitude, or passingness, 

and the sound of flowers blooming like thunder

in the rumbling caves of time

that the only war is wasted to find three moons

three moons watch while I sleep

three moons watch while I eat

three moons watch while eternity cannot wait

they are the best three to be

to survive the beneath the sky without so much as why

always watching two of four and never watching one

with time to see beyond the air

as winds winds engrave a mountain stare

and in the time forgotten in the particles we share

wondering what sleeps deep within them

and what moons think is down there
and would time have found a cure.

Lunikkh t'Kraith

(The Kraith's Poison)