Antumnos

Antumnos

Some story finds the light of day for they whom travel, a shale and coal mountain still being pushed higher is too fragile and jagged edges tumble and shatter many shards sliding from leaning spires as rivers of sharp objects grinding themselves into black sand itself carrying rivulets of morning mist and soft rains in view of a single courier guest, to see the mountains tall and darkly catching the sun it seems a lifetime to climb apparent by the treacheries of obsession and danger for here it would take more than one life to its rise his path him in demise by avalanche, with soot and sulphur cuts this mountain’s most ancient of soil enters his veins attempting to find home somewhere below the mountain. 

To the words a writer puts the courier’s end in the right and wrong words to reference the work and frame the knowable understanding to challenge the questions and choices to intrigue the reader, to finish the artwork before its time is done with images to forget the painter with words to forget the author who’s time is the essence and impetus both given and taken, in work blurring the mind with the stark lines of characters and lives in a real world within pages against the world of the many ages, into the depths of a storied land to find nature blooming to reveal the cruel truth of time, against the darkness in the ink of outlines and words of pictures become the shadows in the room again the darkness gets into the wounds of the mind and the sharp edge of a turning page. 

The adventures that life defines by self a prime number and with many and finite challenges a divine variable in as many three equal pieces and a miniscule fraction more with room for border art or boundary landscape, in the moving library each book truly infinite stories this game has chosen only one, different characters some too similar seek one unknown by all accounts with a familiar innocuous name, actions incomplete by frustrating design among which are our questions unanswered about incomplete mindscapes and landscapes and soundscapes of youngness and aging and answers found in habits in the ruins of vulnerable communities found in frustrations of age and youth, to bring the narrator into the world would be closer to knowing the outcome and farthest from the goals of heroes and villains in their stories of magic and might and survival where chess pieces are lost or games finish without continue or rematched eventual to fall, their adventerous discovery of clues leads to an honest fool who mentions their adventure is a game from a book of thorns with words of coal that smudge between pages until obscurity, with words of the greatest and finest wisdoms or the coal would cover their hands turning pages and unreadable soot would darken their eyes, only with acquired abilities to race straightly thru the known gathering the pages never where remembered along the path that leads the way, their journey designed incomplete and the dark story only told where they are now not. 

Many memories combined and collaborate on premise and make versions of an image, new old artists or perhaps old new artists as artisans recreating the image of sight or words of life, seen by many gazes in many ways, their opinions made from experience of the unknown fires and dangers of ash underfoot, their lives no different than possible dismiss the art or see it representing the foundations of inspiration and culture and survival, the first art stroke begins before the charcoal paint touches canvass and draws from interpretation known and imagination unknown unless imagined or discovered in the background elements, the days of the week wander between forms of time, depicting reality from mind to mosaic image, each drawing something the same ignored and unknown unrecognized the next discovery of all an artifact with the many sides of days and drawn dark in the shadows of the subject, the focus of the muse and detailed or focused by the artwork thinking to reach it, they attempt to finish it and describe it the same as something it's not, and even then the mysterious object belongs to who lost it, in shadow.

The language used is very real and known by few expertly and by fewer as it passes around them and by many who naturally speak it or other languages, to hear language or read articles the ideas that come to mind are symbols of logic and phrases of truth, the common beliefs of culture lets the style tell and appear as new when recognition begins defining sentences for listeners to contemplate, known are the grammar possibilities and patterns old and new and structures foreign but not indecipherable for now, for tis the potential of intellect conquers the shadows and shame of the mind with a darkness that sleeps until fertile synapses can compose again, precision with subliminal language and creation in harmony the many become the willing musicians in the cycle of ideas harvested for spiritual survival, patterns insult intelligence and break unnecessary focus so that composer also appreciates the symphony’s tidal foundation, distracting like a spinning blade with glimmer of danger that drills into wood dulling itself, to guess the owner of weapon or recognize whom, the nightmare blade severs vital cords of fate as a weaponized metaphor in a describable dream, now unbound by magic and mind wanders armed with a blade of coal in sleep to obsidian cold without sheath of consumptive emotions and intoxication vision, another world summoned in the shadows of sleep escaped, a malady melody hypnotisation. 

The walking night to stalk between fires without shadow, the mentions of the unknown explorer, described by the different minds in specific ways, knowing the views of viewers and images of artists the dark explorer continues, the oldest temples of the sleeping world protect the forgotten threat like fiction is written for the cusp of fantasy, the words written as the nocturnal knight replicate foot step by page and pen stroke by blade, author becomes character, in the story given dreams to the mystic laylines to travel and the common bond of men unbeknownst to them, he speaks to the author to praise the tale of himself, he whispers to the author the paranormal will and critical testament ethereal to find the world beyond the words, together they narrate to stand in all directions, over fortune and under skies of time and space, approaching a wall of solid cold and dark the dark character steps thru it like a curtain thus abandoning the author. 

Out of the light, the future is pure exploration by choice and design, the nights allure by combining the measure of time by a single sign, a changing magic reveals chaotic truth in forms of synesthesia and euphoria, glimpses of rumors soon sunken into panic bring stimulus and addiction, tolerable and malleable, unknown to the shortcomings of magic the luck of success relies on elements that shape understanding and simpler remnants of an older complexity, familiar piles of backless sacred books to some, split across different timelines as a single memory and lessons of allies as one, to be forced with these choices linear and abstract rearranged in order, the clues of losses to avenge lead a mystery to solve, navigation of enlightenment being forced by control to a single point of fear in the vulnerable chaos, here the memories speak to each other like voices at war, the first experience of frontier awakening a contrarian dream where even command defies itself and tools out of reach are erased by the conflict of instincts, remembering the abandoned past and trails lost and survived, the spirits of instinct interrogate the dark passenger from the central corners of the mind, calling him the only thing unknown these voices devour the stranger, and as darkness resumes itself... 

Thaumaturgy

"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one." ~ Albert Einstein

"Incentive Theory: The incentive theory suggests that people are motivated to do things because of external rewards. For example, you might be motivated to go to work each day for the monetary reward of being paid. Behavioral learning concepts such as association and reinforcement play and important role in this theory of motivation." 

It begins as incentives are the appealing lodestone, the personal reasons for having this element become part of the persona come from identifying it, and before quantifying it thru the lense of time or knowledge and finding it to fit the context of existing experience, how it will fit the persona, either because the incentive was isolated in one way or popular among others, and in time because it can or can't, and will or won't, become part of a curriculum with the clarity of intuition, some incentives speak to the meanings of our ambitions. As is the property of all incentives, it can be attainable or inherent, to reward ourselves with external results or internal reactions. 

"Drive Theory: According to the drive theory of motivation, people are motivated to take certain actions in order to reduce the internal tension that is caused by unmet needs. For example, you might be motivated to drink a glass of water in order to reduce the internal state of thirst. This theory is useful in explaining behaviors that have a strong biological component, such as hunger or thirst. The problem with the drive theory of motivation is that these behaviors are not always motivated purely by physiological needs. For example, people often eat even when they are not really hungry."

Between the debate of human mental conscience or sentience, sparing the differences and distances made when making the arguments dropping anchor far to one side of tug-o-war, there are the opposing perspectives of the different types of origins as the native or foreign, as a wildling like an animal made to survive the previously-modern past, or the community that raised and taught them, be it raider or royalty each can become the other, this life lesson of necessity being obvious for intellectual reasons and sophisticated demands of life, and cultivated in the many ways of many sects of many evolutions of the prehistorical, this then makes the motivation of stories a baseline for our imaginations. Moreso than two as one, a reflection ignorable or mimickable has less grasp than the drive to complete ourselves to shape the image in the mirror, less validity than trying to avoid looking at it, and less urgency than escaping a new threat, as with instinct and customs the drive often follows the best answer at present. 

"Humanistic Theory: Humanistic theories of motivation are based on the idea that people also have strong cognitive reasons to perform various actions. Tis is famously illustrated in Abraham Maslow's hierarchy of needs, Which presents different motivations at different levels. First, people are motivated to fulfill basic biological needs for food and shelter, as well as those of safety, love and esteem. Once the lower level needs have been met, the primary motivator becomes the need for self-actualization, or the desire to fulfill one's individual potential."

Our human intellect is a defiance of primeval instincts, within the limitations of conceptual scope animals with minimal effort have purer reactions and recreations, but are condensed to simple measure and sporadic if not emblematic of instinct itself teaching the wisdom of animalia, with acceptance of tabula rasa the potential dream state is unreplecatable in any creature, but these softer spiritual awakenings and enlightenments woke are ideas I can write here, so the scope or code of information is limited by wisdom and magic. The instincts solved with quick measures, are almost genetic, but so are the virtues building to life plans, some of what you want life to say later depends on the ruff draft of the future being reaction or description. 

"Arousal Theory: The arousal theory of motivation suggests that people take certain actions to either decrease or increase levels of arousal. When arousal levels get too low, for example, a person might watch an exciting movie or go for a jog. When arousal levels get too high, on the other hand, a person would probably look for ways to relax such as meditating or reading a book. According to this theory, we are motivated to maintain an optimal level of arousal, although this level can vary based on the individual or the situation."

When looking at desires of natural instincts or societal order, adding that which is beyond the neutrality of equity to acknowledge gender differences, and to define what styles we kept in the closet from long ago, it's even easier to look at the example of dogs and cats, as to know the differences between two different things to understand why the values of an action are inherent, the names are the separation and the habits to pick-up from something are to become more like ourselves, or more like the muse, as is the case that teachers become like students, the testing of success verifies sight of the unknown, or obstacle of the unanswerable. The nostalgia of truth or the adventure of reward are both an equal pair in any of those situations, the outcome of negative-returns (too much of a good thing) requires a fasting/diet from gambling on bias or the luck of compulsion. 

"Instinct Theory: According to instinct theories, people are motivated to behave in certain ways because they're evolutionarily programmed to do so. An example of this in the animal world is seasonal migration. These animals don't learn to do this, it is instead an inborn pattern of behavior. /br William James created a list of human instincts that included such things as attachment, play, shame, anger, fear, shyness, modesty, and love. The main problem with this theory is that it didn't really explain behavior, it just described it. By the 1920's, instinct theories were pushed aside in favor of other motivation theories, but contemporary evolutionary psychologists still study the influence of genetics and heredity on human behavior." 

You know what instinct is, or maybe you don't, and describing it with sophistry is the culmination of learned and taught behavior, the manied attempts to divide my fellow humans comes from their need to be challenged by divide, as much as asking you to describe the value of emotion in the last instinct of fresh memory does make inquisitive behavior, looking at the war of history even the wrath of cultish bloodlust farthest distant from civilised instinct was from a leader, albeit mad in the head, who loved them and they followed that air of emotion until contagion converted the lands, I guess that's the 'love is a battlefield' quote: we follow the inspiration, and take the poetic journey. The proof of our survival is different at times in history, the programming of humans is quite clear without destruction. 

"Theories of Motivation: Motivation is the force that initiates, guides and maintains goal-oriented behaviors. It's what causes us to take action, whether to grab a snack to reduce hunger or enroll in college to earn a degree. The forces that lie beneath motivation can be biological, social, emotional or cognitive in nature. / Researchers have developed a number of different theories to explain motivation. each individual theory tends to be rather limited in scope. However, by looking at the key ideas behind each theory, you can gain a better understanding of motivation as a whole." 

An insight into invasion, before enforcing the outcome they operate and live in a culture, of importance to them to thrive in familiarity they're motivated to recreate home in the annex, those in locality if in protectorate come to the fort now cities and trading time buy or earn amenities, motivated to acquiesce and return with commodity to their substrate culture, should they survive in name or nation the reactions are more clear to them than fractured futures as survival depends on solutions to new problems, as motivated as the enforcers of new societies to make sense of what truths may come, the forced perspective creates a conflict, telling of flaws or past forgotten in an opinion of a culture voiced optimistically applied to all and any, against a shot-caller applying a one-size solution of censorship, the worlds of this tale collide. Motivation is what you make with positivity and certainty, it's the visions of another world that flash your mind into next week, and the instincts you've developed and life has provided. Quick to imagine with mind proclivity action is remembered and often, without inspiration there are only guesses that will change your motivation. 

@swehttamxam 

Sviha

Nam fi’heya Rumara k’vohr wilat she yon

Lu d’rachanya heh sehlat vesht waklar eifa

Vesh-tor lamekh sal-tor esh t’ha-gel t’au

Khau au spo’te’kru tehnat igen vi’ek shi

Betau mu-yor ekonik rim il stukh dan’tsurik

Tal t’nash-veh eh rim vathsu t’veltra t’etek

Aitlun na’vokan la u’ahkh-shi s’weh vesht t’etwel

Eh sarlah s’toran t’ahkhsu eh nei t’mautiklar

I kastk’uh on vi’solektra u’ukrau vu k’glu’es

Rika dungi fiterpau Gol’kov t’ek solek 

Patience Takes Time

20211104 Patience takes time. 

mjbanks@swehttamxam

An apple, a drawing of an apple, an apple outline or blackandwhite, an obscurity or vague idea that is possibly an apple, and no apple as an empty space known as aphantasia. 

imgsrc: https://youtu.be/EKTRsvaP-tg

I’ve just learned about this the other day from RomanianTvee, where he’d said he usually imagines in black & white with some of his audience interacting with their surprise. 

I’ve never been a great artist, perhaps remembering the many times movies in mindless viewing had quoted some artists are savants, others with skill, others made to recreate and replicate masters, or even the fresco ruined by well-intentioned attempts that destroy. It’s been best to tell the truth with people that have no imagination, their instincts are in their lives/generation for a reason, even in larger scope of humanity, here to ask that a question or be questioned indeed. Maybe I’m repeating myself on the subject, insofar reminds me of that quote from John Wayne, “some say life isn’t black and white, and I say ‘why the hell not?’” that even if in shades of grey this is definitive proof of what exists, but the perspective isn’t forced in detail, or beyond knowing and written described as something, without the depths of hypothesis that artists, accusations, and archaeologists have to submit/relay. Moreover, in the almost-to-the-point cartoon the attempt to tell stories or cartoons somewhere between more details and less perfection, and as for perfection, it depends if description or depiction, doesn’t it. 

There’s a point to make, if you’ve no imagination there are still dreams, as if someone without imaginations never having dreams destroyed, for better or worse, is taking that spiritual journey to understand and and plan the inner struggle and victory of emotional healing or health that we all take when questions of our choices come into the mirrors of morning or monotony. It might be said, there are dogs without imaginations, surely they think of a good dream for hours simply and on end. Our dreams are more complex, arguably like an open world telekinetic dimensional artist we paint the universe we’ll never explore during the wars of dreams shared with space so vast we only contrast in the waken world. Thus, onto politics, arguably I should spend more time on this, but I’m writing this before it gets forgotten and being typed you have to argue it, even tho I’m only as qualified denoted by contemporary opinions, and everyone’ll forget it anyway. However that last sentence was going to end, the point is made trying to improve on it, and finished when I’ve convinced myself. It could be said that the one-track mind should rely on instinct, and the safest of creations, descriptions put short and safe. 

Reading this is different than listening to it, and watching it lends itself to put the simple realities and opportunities to ambitions, come one come all into the screaming fits of ratings jugglers and the ego in battle with your own personalities, and it’s good to have you with us again, although I’m not sure I would’ve picked human be it me. Good thing it’s not up to me, my mind’s already made up. The clay of modernity and the spinning of the vase that is maturity, the face of an optical illusion. The inverted shadow spins without our certainty of depth or proximity. My own experience is that the political arguments are a distraction that two sides forget on purpose and then forget on accident with the greater depth of deceit the heavier those chains. (and everyone in public thinks i’m insane, even tho I am.)

Let’s redo that paragraph, for the fuck of it. So, everyone knows what 2020 meant. The backstory, my dad’s side is the inner side of European and being industrious to very specific things, is often exposed to the hazards, including cancer. My mom’s side are northern, the levels of autoimmune disease contradicts, some, of the cancer, but in pride and prejudice we generally treat the common cold with prude diligence, right away, but historically not until then. While anyone with an active autoimmune disease had to shelter in place, none the few here worried. Watching society falter, only to worry about challenges to authoritarianism, that’s a worry worth having. So then, in respice waited and came the mandates to get the prick, and in November we got him. I sometimes amuse myself. It was called an immunization, but it’s a primer, to avoid armageddon, working usually, effective mostly, but the administrative elite and disaffected authorities were unable to imagine faults because of victories. The instinct to win, the taste of battle the many shades of blood all the way to the cherry on top of totalitarianism. They just had no imagination that there’s a downside, dangers, and dillusions, despite several of my forekin outlawing it. It was the slave talking heads on TV and the family in the dark around the screens that brought a storm of virtue signal. Crisis averted, if even law to take it, I will I suppose. It’s hard to believe they’d kill-off the obedient liberal acolytes of blind progressivism, but you can turn on the news and see they’re still at it, unless you can’t. 

So what then of the glory and power of reality? It is a question? Questions have answers, or at least answers imitate art, questions imitate life, my anxiety has me on the edge of my seat. Perhaps it’s never good to say every thought, it’s just as bad to act without thoughts. Answers in life imitate art, which we’re all creating individual life, learning from the others. It would be describing something authors have many times, if you can’t trust your mind, stop asking yourself questions. T’is out of order and in the middle-of. It was known that one sentence fills a page, a single paragraph fills the ancient and illustrious poems of adventures common and epic, as long as each thing comes once. The clouds of magic between stars, without getting too far self hypnotized, without overplanning, with space to learn. It was another language to rearrange the words, and a different time when life was simpler, imagining the realities and perfect examples. No better imagination than the rest, let’s begin. 

Sinosium

Sinosium

It reigns against my sky

To start with a past forgot

Shall have driving evil reface

Hath ridden this riddling foil

Like a song against my heart

Days outnumbered invincible

A new bringing the beginning

At long last and disparate once

As all the taken screams anents

My trials against the nights

The seers aren't bound defiant

Blinded by the coming dark

This now I hide the given day

To protect the mordant drink

And see the wisest deserters

In the passing houses kindling

Perhaps distraught harmony trying

For the wicked fates undying

A sapling in a storm you, Merlin

carving runes with dull forked tongue

So I have found a source of power

Only lifting burning summoning circle

Bereft little and soon from loss

Much closely champion unknown

This is my cost to keep my breathe

Slowing my fight with breathing night

We're blind and backing outright

All to scurry into the same fight

You see my eyes with jaundice plight

This hoarfrost grasp around my chest

Which gasps of death will be your test!

Samhain

 mjbanks@swehttamxam 

This time of year when the sun shifts from one horizon to the other, in days shorter than the last faster than the past of shades and shadows, the sun and moon learning to hold hands in the cold light and the long nights, of four seasons fall comes in it’s quarter at winter’s border ushers in the evenings where days of darkness come before our feasts and delights, we watch the leaves turn weak and leather in the daylight farthest reached from distant sunlight in color and Autumn masks, the rains become plenty more than moss can hold, we look to nature as it turns away it’s summer into shades more than can be counted, moreso wells and lakes rebounding filling ground and distant spring, this the worries are resounding as woes of queens and kings, but worry not for songs confounding as the end of seasons harvest brings, for it is these days the world and earth rests, as if rolling into blankets of winter, as we humans crawl over the sleeping soil in ways described by vapid voices and raucous choices have claimed for years a war begun, but without a time of cleansing surely dawn would never come. 

Crowvane

Crowvane 

The dog barks because the wind howls between the trees, eyes appear and the pet pretends to be dead, and the werewolf marches of heavy and monstrous steps. Sleeves shreds and torn with slacks short and faded a man tells a story, in the window many drink and sing thin tales of dark veils, and thru the glass the monster rages and drinks and sings again. The bodies steaming breath from rips and ravage, lifeless cooling dead beside a fire growing on the walls, the hardened husk around them dries in rivers of blood. They leap thru burning windows and break thru charred fires and dust, clouds fall from the ground to reach the full moon, here the trees pretend to sleep hiding from their terrible treachury unbound. Covered in charcoal and doused with the ground covering fog, rejoining unto another pack their gathering amasses hungry ravenous crows, as rooks and ravens perch on the nearby castle without windows or watch. Beasts race and claw the heavy doors tearing paws with claws and splinters dangerous and tearing thru, clawing into the granite and climbing the wall the crows abandon where hope is only haunting, there are shadows making whispers and a cauldron burning hot. Within the floors are seamless shining both silver and black obsidian, paintings of people sleeping and mirrors that give no reflections confound the dreamers and lose the light, into the courtyard crippled trees and black apples around a velvet carpet plot. There is a cauldron dank and quiet by a throne of oaken stock, there is a table drawn for feasting of a single whiteoak block, and a spear thrown in the wall as an antiquated clock. Many snakes are in this orchard under chaos and the moon, blood is anger eyes are searching for the vampire deigned to haunt them as death in blume, who is gone but not forgotten until the break of day resume. 

Luna

Written too much

The black dog is after my heart

Distilled panic at dawn

As much to pine for trees

Withouts within my way

Songs into the air

And the many blind sunrises

Millions of zombies swaying

Casting blasts only closing

To the great door of mind

And emptiness connects

With dawns of worlds

Fiery thoughts exhausting

And soon to hold vices

Because the winds have

If unto the untoward hither

Where by knowingly curse

The tears of my skies

This crown of rich madness

And throne of poor sadness

Pure to blithely go wistfully

To spite at echoing demons

Proudly every memory remains

This scattered throughout time

With sand does my blood begin

To fall as i you my heart give

Swearex

There are places and people who’ve a swear jar, a totaling and reminding collection of value in form of currency gathered each time someone says something regrettable or misfortunate enuf to reckon as irreconcilable without a surcharge. This as expectedly so has come to a premeditated source of value, for some more than others, or for less than are most, not leastly the lesser, and which the comprehensive heap of penance is pittance, of perfidy is penurious, uninformed by overlooking the surmounting fortune in fucking flattery of aggregate agrandization, of intellectual pride in the name of prowess or arrogance in place of actuality, nonetheless making quick work of trading a geopolitical global exchange of political apologies and appologetic empathizers, to wit the likelihood of contingency rests on the solidity of reality concatenate to the results of hindsight. In many senses it seems easy to write and difficult to remember, as if dry grass in gravel sands with only a view of a forest unforgiving, every road less taken against the other a choice of learning better ways to speak by learning the language when all roads lead forward, if all roads lead to the empire the obvious pathway is one forwarded experienced. Easier to write not having done such recently, this was quicker to write and longer to filter during so, there’s been a lack when new opportunity was measured, like thru the eyes of glasses an image of the impossible requires better glasses or position, and not one without the other. You are a warrior, the light of day shines, as the trees spread and grow to grasp the sun, there is room to escape and find the wishing well of time. 

mjbanks@swehttamxam

Monday

I don't want anyone to confuse me with the truth, this is the share of the case, which my influence on the world makes me a historical figure, taking it in stride at length, they who know my secret are a many and daren't tell, not for fear of me, but what has become to wit or which I have risen, was raised, convenience of every form of entertainment, from when the days of boundless creativity now are binding creations, the kings of earth, the pen of a people, and i can tell none, not for lack of witful trend or flippant cliche, and that insanity mine pales compared to saying it out loud, and they know I've tried, but not hard enough. It's a paradox to want for better or worse, and yet it'd probably be part of sharing a question and tea with this infuriating bliss, the moon has fewer hits adoring the sun, and still anyone who knows me doesn't know me, and everyone does. Learning how to slay her enemies, studying code for learning Android at my sandstone quote as to for we all glimpse, and to know instead when my head clears of her for myself...

This throne of madness empty doublets, where many have tried to call this audience, the good and many who i deride to ofyn make the core of the earth from the burning frames of modernity, if such exists, as continents drift, as well as politics shift with points to make it bones to grind, as was your wish, as still ever still every fate over time's path to know not how to want you without station in the waking world, with poems to history, and screams at the sulphur lined clouds the heart of a fallen night sky tearing for silenced imports of useless sunrises and summer breeze, overthinking the plans of the voices and some choice to abandon soon of reckoning in the blinding of a beautiful sunset to fill my world that the censors mistakenly would be fools to never know...

The days summon this fool their brother to burn and yarn the nest of plots and ploys, to gather and give, and clean myself, gaunt and baked duly or fitfully what is the lost energies that threw me from dark horizon to this futuristic past of lies turned true, or some could say the truth of lies acting like jesters to such exists, in recent i chose to be ordained for a donation and found it free and lessons not, why is this always the case, so now l'enfant sauvage from whom thoughts are passing penance in likeness to the devils that run all hell about, am now a druid after considerations, saved lest so ovate as now, and bard as now you know, my mind drifting this must be told I've felt perhaps the times are changing and this changes the ouroborus plan now chasing thoughts to understand, but do find it shorter than an autobiography...

Maybe i fear knowing myself everyday, instinct, take the grass to your blue skies as opening the eyes of stars rest of dark are without knowing the power of the dreams they forget, with warring planets over the metaphors lyrical the empress has no empire and the scrivener is lost.

Haruspex Lite

It's taken a lot of respect to not judge those that don't deserve it, in part that the manied lost were released with more dignity and remembered with more respect than any independant thinker over the past year, or so, not much of much as dangerous as it was that being a zombie helps, possibly making the arrogant class some vampire analogy, while my own death was greatly exaggerated by their very selves on the daily. It was at some point to believe that on one side there's this great war with exegenisis thru the ratings system, and on the other that an opposition is tearing itself apart. It hasn't helped that the space-time continuum has an emulator when converting binary to trinary. 

Not having the point of order to try writing anything, on the secret shadow society that is my, and coming to terms with it is terminally unique, without the need to confess my paltry and in-valid concerns over the tides of panic that obliterated the paper mountains of fiction at the first sign of the great manic-depression, every now and again, but that the climes of climbs of clamor from every copasetic alarmist, however well intentioned, treated the previous president like he kicked their puppy into their ice cream cake on date night. They lost their shit like a golden calf. While my inspiration has been to shave my head, not convenient after the mostly-peaceful previous summer of wroth, and the laze fare ambivalent cityheads begging for broken window economic bailouts, as memory serves the tinfoil man, had been pointed at me as they ran by with tv's to feel good about the tripe they teach in schools, while warning them that my witness and opinions with even this essay, would be a history, laffable, affable without contention in being a plot of the leaderless years. 

While I do nothing, perhaps I've set a bad example changing the face of civilisation. My actions, or the would-be reactions, are too old or simple to understand why a stronger hand won't lead the orchestra. This off topic mosaic, it's my time away from writing that has hellped me obsess over the lesser shadows in my mind. 

The delay or postponement now from the lack of concentration, dividing myself to add while the multiplication seems so little of sense. The precautions to chase their tails in traffic, the absurdity to protect the depths of discussion nay insane to project as town criers when actually village idiots, and the absurdity of the overeducated grifters is, off-the-charts, so letting it go and daydreaming about Barbie hasn't made much sense, and decided to try vape after quitting six-seven years to keep from writing posts. So that happened. 

Inconsequential my tech piled in the closet couldn't discover some usable terminal for my talk of tale fluidly, needless to say but cathartic as a talking head on race day, laptop kaput, backup faulty, mini bricked, pi corrupted, tablet archaic, kindle arcane, but the phone runs a qwerty. It's really confusing and maybe this is opening up, IDK really know what the historians will say, except that I could've done more. The smoke and meditation makes for dreams and poetry, yet the memory of pattern is emotional, and the bad habits only serve the facade of impossibility, of hypothetical in auspicious self-delight and delighted illusions. 

To type like monkey, to walk upright like a neanderthal, serves little else but typing now...oh, serves little else, and it's time to serve something more than myself by the realm of individuality that somehow has forgotten to live unscathed by the cold truths. 

mjbanks@swehttamxam

Damnesty

Damnesty 

mjbanks@swetthamxam 

Into my wicked eyes the shadows sink and ravaging the walls of existence steal so many pieces of the light, what ways the comforted seek the peace of parting waves to celebrate the eye of the storm, so many as a question, like the ground below the sea is the sand of broken mountains, like the snow of mountains is the water stolen from the clouds bigger than small nations, and with the rivers the veins of the land the scarecrow ministry will be consumed by the thirsting waving grains another so yet after fact and fancy, and into the story should they overgrow, or until the harvesters. 

A postponing of disowning or transition to a start that weak and tawdry poultice of a sick and weary heart, many by the making are the lost and furious candid canids and serpent servants here to lock the broken clock in a trap of illusory construction, and in the moments that this paltry pigeon flutters the spirit of misgiving closes storm around this park, the teacup in the tornado imagining that the sun pouring thru the rain is swallowed by the darkness, or that the radiant immortal energy of the all consuming mother nature shined that silver light only storms bring, to wonder if to take a drink kindly with lemon or mint, where falling mist softens soil to wrest and wreak and wretch and writhe trees of time to toss, if all is lost the sound louder than the known chaos. 

The single drop of insanity on the forehead, an ocean wall down mountains falls with winter in the echoless song and strength, without the cold of space but still to watch and players make this timeless cost as clouds trounce the dalliant daze of complicit malaise, which makers merry would not tarry trace however many eggs upon irony’s face, echoing only in minds the oldest days that were never just and throw their waste into the rust, push and waste against the machine with the final mind, like lights in the water, as time unfolds lightning into pillars against the darkness. 

Collectors of nothing and as much was shared, in the echoing conspiracy took even more, now to the ossified remains of ancestors, inflated filth abundant too thin to fertilize, and with all of this redundant there is too many to take, in your ties to see the breathing will in their least be the most, when there is nothing else to say.  

Moonspell

Moonspell

swehttamxam

Now with time the known distance a great rage becomes power

The light in the valley of spring made by the dawn in summer

A sea wave pulled from shore to stormcloud by a thousand oars

As rain on the land behind the sun rising against mountains

A rage of thoughts a glowing in wicked sight of dale at twilight

Of latent night sky the rising dark against lightning from absent sky

This earth and stars meeting with flash against the moonlight shadows

A vision escaping from ground where arclight escapes the fertile earth

The fire of life tearing thru echo to dark heaven thunderous back

A sky of towerous mountain valleys of moonlight attack the thin air

In rake paucity instincts wrecks ancient blinding light torn in two

As soaring wings evade detection separating directions travail

As bashing pads of brutish bears contest disdain their foes avail

As snakes moving surely slowly growing farther with iron scale

The veil seams and gate armor of glowing fog thrown open aside

A world brightened by original glow covers unknown always infinite

A blanket of magical illusion binds the truth of faithless uncertainty

A sea of tranquility drowning the oceans of timeless adventures

With thunderous echo trees of the stars crack and fade into clouds

Then brightness spreads over a world without darkness or echo

The fearing glow of eyes blue in a wave glaring bright within

If a swordsman cut half a mountain to see the ocean from the sky

As dreams of artists painting mirrors made of ice in cerulean dream

To a petal of lilac flying thru a field of tulips in the madness of spring

A soulshield of energy radiates the mysteries of the summer sea

The magic of day is sound of life as air from some nearby ocean

In ways that skies make rivers on mountains that find other waters

In days where sun on snow makes cotton clouds and warm winds

Embrace of the three faces and the song in the land sower name

Tide of time drowns safety in this endless daylight domain aground

These steps of forgetfulness and thoughts between stepping forgets

The dreams from poems about flaxen strands and masks informality

In patterns of ivy the mind reaches over broken mountains once castles

Waves brushing painted breezes made for trees and the chosen one

Lost in braids and clues on winding search of first or final light and dark

So that each step seems missing steps in the land between shadows

Surreal sight creates nature as thoughts are powerless fundamentals

Counting crows to wait for foes like premonitions in memories distant

Unable to read what present illusion confronts with animalian fears

With every move the steps erase like the snowblind rules of dreams

Approaching the guardian where silent hill rises from the dark mist

With the warmest night of summer the vision of dark mirage unwit

With rising dark mountain half and sunset sinking from sunset view

With cold spine on mountain winds whispers and eyes on the summit

To the ancient height without answer and endless chosen question

At the hour, roth and stage faced and standing with the dark monarch

Robed arms and hooded eyes darkened by the earth-surfaced ash

Light on skin within the woolen cloak ruling their moonlight shadow

Time becomes life and breath becomes night in all futile resistance oft

In aether rising flit in light with fiery eyes of a thousand darknesses

|

Cyhyraeth Collected

Cyhyraeth Collected

On the night of the month I looked at the grass, growing over the largest hillside with shadows of shades of blue and white, against the starry night without forest for many miles, where in matted grass all forms of snakes asleep unwittingly in wait with the grasshoppers making their noises and the cats that quietly pad and prowl with tails and cowls of pampered manes. 

The moon at war with the galaxies around it, absorbing the pale flickers of distant solar celestial hearts and traveling between the waves of constellations and the lines in my mind, slowly drifting along the ocean of sky, as wolves make waves in wild blades to mark their way in scowl and skipping to change the chain order for the border slowly circling an area for the middle. 

A sky at many depths of spiraling madness where pictures of points dance around the world of night and the moon in my line of sight, for as soon as I had forgotten by wanton recompense with sight and sleep aside me, do these wolves lying despaired and disrepaired by mourning torpor have their loudest leader howl into the night. 

I quickly staunchly veritably howled with them, and they bucked and chattered and soon gathered to see my tattered hooded robe and horns on my head and bloodless flesh and gave me stern pause in wait to see if they or I were bait, a choice to let each other escape, perhaps the graves were too full or the fires of rebirth tire of making ash, yet at the moment the stirring skies like ocean tide pulled at my blackened heart and rocked and rolled my eyes dizzying until I fell, and with the soil in my hand I knew not and with all certainty that death among us was mine to feel and screams I gave for daybreak. 

Between prayers and war as I could pull to kneel a lone wolf watched and bowed and bolted into the day thru my tears, for this I pardoned the waning moon and the dying stars for their sins, and pressed myself to stand against my shepherd’s stave and craven mistakes for memories would laugh and cry in threnodies against the backdrop of footsteps and foreground of fallacy, for all the nature in the morning was a lie for summary and judgement. 

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IDIC

🖖

Tea Time for Telepaths

Posted this week from previous work to squeeze time into reviewing Myrddin stuff, for Friday next, but might mete out an a priori social autopsy, having talked to the locals, so check back. Click the links/titles to emails for me to know feedback free channel. Did notice in 6ch the dude wins and the chick survives, so cliche and vicarious if not telling, will be rotating weeks out since the twist is easy save betrayal, resolved but not a mystery like...

In 1916, Romanov hairdresser and overall snappy dresser Rasputin offended the royal family and he was subsequently poisoned by cyanide, bitten by a zombie, dragged by horses ridden by werewolves, shot in the back, shot in the chest, shot in the head, wrapped in a waste of a perfectly good rug, beaten with rug clubs, stabbed several times, wrapped in chains, and thrown into an icy river in the dead of winter, and his body never found, where local authorities soundly declared his death was caused by the coof. 

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“Who shot him? I asked. The grey man scratched the back of his neck and said: Somebody with a gun.” 

- Dashiell Hammett, Red Harvest

Razzmatazz

 /409 Razzmatazz 

Love is blind. Let’s talk about life after obsession, worrying about art and posts you made or everything the world has to teach and learning it in an instant. When questioning what my personal life would be if everything had to change, its an answer from two lifetimes ago, what to do when impossible. Tomorrow is a new day, and we all say, we know that. (At the time of writing this) Let’s also consider people coming out of quarantine, they might want to take shortcuts to anything masked in simplicity, our/one’s ideas are to answer easy questions with perfect answers. Days, events, dilemmas, and a football game has a start and end, over or not, and now is a new day. A lifetime ago my needs outweighed my wants and luckily they had the same reward/essentials for my life, after that it was another new journey in the middle of the journey to explore what life had to offer, a new day in a new life, and it all started with a cup of coffee. If you were to ask a seer, s/he knows that actions in life that most people don’t see, can steal time, and like magic release us after we want instead of sooner. If you were to ask a council, s/he might say actions are best casual and inquisitive before fun and games. If you were to ask a reverend, s/he might say that relationships are conversations to learn with the option of intimacy. A conversation is quite romantic, and for you guys it's an action move in the act of discovery.  You have potential to be honest, have someone to host the podcast with you, you want to know if the person can string a sentence together. Previously, these essays wrote about confusing needs and wants, start clean, with soft shoes and questions. There’s no need for one million roses, sometimes you feel like doing a magic trick, but you’d better be a wizard. It’s a part to see if you’re happy, you also might need to see if your needs/wants are reversed, but that’s life - you’re unique with questions, you’re young because you’re happy undoubtedly, and there’s always room for freedom. Sounds like magic to me, maybe. Now study or go to your job. 

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Elusive Elite

 /408 Elusive Elite

You can conquer some skills in 40 hours. You can pay for some lectures adding 20 hours over 4 months at $4000 (depending on the currency, century, country, corruption, etc) You can tame addiction, drive yourself like a horse into instincts, and you can break your bones to put yourself into submission, and respect, and improvement - but you are the choice in the question, your ideas are made of trillions of thoughts, and your thoughts are the world and the dream where you see. There tomorrows, and there are yesterdays, now can wait and you cannot. / Lo que quiero, lo tengo, ellos se quieren, y cuán hay tenemos, os flipais como politicos, yo supongo que será en éste mundo. / Planned (political) obsolescence, first to get them to think they need it, if I say they're bad, it's predicated on assumptions including that I'm not, as if to manufacture dissent among the recently disenfranchised; elitists that no their disorders well and the ivory towers still evacuate some ere. At the gym, I am (ego). Music makes harmony, bureaucracy makes sanctimony. It's row after row, bouts of being, that the longer the suppression the longer depression, with late night rants against a system like advice from beggar to billionaires, why was he giving advice I'd say. At lengthy conversation, the truth of exploration and the flaws in logic, mix the reason and direction and nothing works, or you're tired and it's time to rest. Instead of making goals forgotten and losing the voice of reason, there's a lot going into the last thought before reflection, make this and the next place safe. / As problems have answers, a dream without obstacles isn’t one route to success, but errors or old habits not replaced, with the conceit of trust in (what) dreams (are made of) and recklessness of bad priorities, threatens every other wo/man’s reputation, even the young and innocent from places we might pass in our own learning/journey; it puts them in the danger zone, rumors and stereotypes mirror you as professional liars and panic planning, what those could’ve been a pebble in the road some time ago, or the mountain we stoically face, as we win, and survive a bad morning, or good luck and bad, or loss and suffering, to become refreshed and potential, a deep breath and ability, and not bring bad weather to humanity and family with hard doctrines to every commentator. Have stock and faith in yourself and begin again. Manners holding our thoughts together, behavior of the civilized. 

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Neoliberalism Lite

/407 Neoliberalism Lite 

Churnalism, in a way that peer reviewed isn’t always expert-reviewed, the publishings and segments and articles balanced in the conceptual eye of a child, where similar things begin pointing to an evil destiny when all these negative things combine, in the ways that undermining leadership resembles undermining credibility resembles abuse of equals. It’s dismissive of the ways that people discredit each other, a sexist calls a woman hysterical or a man a thief, this psychic vision based on personal beliefs are as hateful as ever, as intended, as meant to be. They spend centuries describing their foes, to make war, to hold society hostage, to feed off the ratings system, defending yourself doesn’t change their hate, describing yourself doesn’t change their hate. Air the dirty laundry, their emotions, the low fire burning to only attack others, lying or believing until others are gone, where all they know is how to combine our fears and turn the afraid against humanity. Wrong is wrong, right is wrong. Understanding the wrongs will pull weeds and grow faster than the pesticides. I’ve been reading the headline of “psychic war” here and there, to be noticed perhaps, and they seem like a collective unconscious, but still listening to the words in the music. Targeting goals in competition we want over finish lines, we want to put points on boards, to want to remember why, or not. The maze of confusion and obeying wrong causes could/maybe comes from knowing the wrongs, knowing the missed rights, and fixing the present without the paths of failure. To fix an ice float while on it, instead of paddling back first (in time). Emergencies happen. Warnings become anecdotes when society becomes numb to pain, which prescriptions we become addicted-to, the naive scream, the addict screams, the inmate screams, and we are screaming at them. Perhaps it’s time to prepare ourselves. What it is without preparing, creates the panic of our society. Prosper to have prosperity. / Imagine that authoritarianism and the militias, insert rioter name here, they oppose memes because they support actions of censorship and narrative, replacing humor with rockwell statist knockoffs. The persona is self, exposing that people have been delivered viewpoints, a puzzling rebellion or skillful alignment, and perceptions are made in reality but instinct.

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Sine Heir

 /406 Sine Heir

The negative positive waves of sound, in the static electricity of emulsifying sounds drowning each other, like too many lead guitarists or cooks in a kitchen, we avoid negative wavelengths at length, to avoid cancelling and contradictory frequencies. A signal has a wavelength, in digitizing sound the length and height of a wave can contain more energy and be encoded or encapsulated to complex cyphers and systems, as songs make us feel certain ways, a single note can interrupt thoughts, and data is decoded. When listening to my headphones a cello plays at 50Hz, a lower tone melody that drained at my battery of my Bluetooth headphones quicker than the short beeps and high pitched guitar solos, a steady and long vibration at the cost of battery life. The universe vibrates at a frequency to the fringes of existence, and we live in it, in some spirituality it passes thru us, in some reality it bounces on us and around us. For the deep tones of the universe to create a song in the human mind, we would need more energy just to hear it, or live longer to download all that the stars have to offer. For these times each news is new, and we in pattern, doting the digital like it’s some teacher, recreate this scripted presentation, infantile we prioritize the reflections of the meaningless information sphere, and aged we defend it as the path. Imagine walking toward a moving mirror, and for it to break we break it, simple, but all are reflections of each other, and all are reflections of the questions that time offers us to explore. To gain an understanding of the many worlds, to teach like forgotten stars and annoy like the distractions, as if shielding and reflecting the great lessons of time would get us any closer. The thoughts and ideas, or ideas and plans, or plans and goals, or goals and victories, or victories and adventures, or adventures and possibilities. This simulation would have to be in the isometric inverted equilateral polygon, inside a square mirrored box, or the shape of your choosing, and able to create the illusion to see forward, to become the reflections needed to advance the understanding of what is behind you, without the mirrors cascading deception for any perspective, and for every possibility we multiply every possibility because the universe to be explored is expanding in all directions, and any mathematical point is expanding in all directions as the basis for infinite space, another debate for less poetic papers, which we have yet to discover. The material that doesn’t exist, will the growth of expanding energy and wavelengths creating infinite environments create all that hasn’t been created yet? Will space consume space, adding echoes to the wavelength frequency/note too loud for us to hear? Until you impress on yourself the direction, you will never remember your future. A big distraction interrupts, small distractions add together eventually, a mind in balance moves quick in the way. / It’s amazing what oneself can master in 40 hours. In a week one could learn free/freely on the internet what some universities charge (stimulated and simulated) thousands (currency) over months. The television will let you master how to spend time with people, what the wisdom of response is, but you must write the lines. Yours is a life tomorrow, and the same today. Yesterday is never, tomorrow is clever. Look at the story, to adventure you travel with the gods in the machine, to lead you take these lessons memorized. You will lead if you study. Often many learners are teachers, a book has many words put in sentences in order, but a lecture has a direction, as a visual learner you choose the direction and the order, only the unknown is a mystery. We learn, because often we are more confident than qualified. A debate plays emotions against merit, this isn’t where the geniuses are. Look at the arguments, judge the cases without yourself, pick a side with emotion, see the chance with sympathy, but will it never be wise to say you know. We live, find peace, and become learners. One who knows all seeks nothing, such a person we will study. Without the fires of learning societies wouldn’t have left our caves eons ago, and with the energy of the universe its radiation addz entropy, but we must explore it anyway. 

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Sidequest: Sersero

_20210312 Sidequest: Sersero

1 Entwined Consort, 2 The Blue Visions, 3 Silence of Husband, 4 The Soul’s Dream, 5 The Past of the Silver, 6 Truth in the Winter

Entwined Consort, Constortia Entrelazat

Hay que dia formosa, al que sirve a dormirse lo sueno hechicero haga repletamente los raices integrales suyos a el, del cuan atrasada y luchada le alcanzar hacia luces azules por reglas estoicas ancianas para vive de fortuna resplendamente con respiras sagrosas y ira fortaleza, hasta el paso pasado encontrar de venganza. 

The Blue Visions, Las Vixiones Axules

Del camino era senales de los pies pesados, y demas del viente cumple oscuro con luz nublada, por la cosa aqui que se descubrien entrega se la conflicta de inmortal mensajes infinitas, la luz convertirse en rama del luz por el cielo al hechicero llegando fuego como horror y lagrimas como ratos volandos donde hay que sobrevivir contra un espectro del puente noche, se abrigan irates en cuan miedo y mentiras hay isorportables y luchas son respuestas del respirar y ver, por las historias de los maestros se recuenta claridad y lo repuesta su fortaleza mental con un peleazga, adelarse tras un pared con piezas del refleccion, de que los estrellas se conectan una vision del estress por su reya reisa, las lineas del luces estan la lluvia en los ojos del hechicero durmiendo, y elevarse a caminarse con las marcas de la batalla mental en actual.  

Silence of Husband, Marito Silenxia

El camine de que caminante, para la lugar que lo vio’, lo que el pueblo que pueden interferir lo se hagan, por silencia el camina con ojos atentados, alla atacan cien ciegos a ‘el, el se clampiendo cuellos y lanzando cuerpos, el ladra una corda y la usa en el aire por cazador y defenderlo a paso y a razon del historia buscante, por un caballo entrega caballeros noches y luches espaldes de la tierra mystica, la magica levanta por el sustrato y sus armas, sin alarmas el hechicero los retira al mundo por tratando asi viento del oscuro y del fuego permeando sus respiras, con sus botas en la teirra mojada electricidad se les toma inculcado para final, y el camina por el paso durante el vapor, aqui este caballo se permite una silla abajo y dos pies seran cuatro y el paso parece mas corto. 

Por fon

The Soul’s Dream, Sweno tel Alma

La tierra parece normal, a quienes que verlo hay el hechicero tocando el pelo del animal nobleza y corriendo rápido afuera de los ojos de la noche forestal, flechas y sonidas con gritas y cantas dan miedo atrás del zona, el dueña focua correr a las rocas debajo de la montaña, pues ya esperan seres armadas y listos por geniales para las metodas mágicas, como targeteros con un especiero amicable al hechicero. 

The Past of the Silver, El Pasat tel Plata

A rear al frente hay cryaturas myticas come es común, a las armas y restricturas han capturadole, el señor del castillo le admite a las duplicidades tomar la reya y la mensaje mentirosa al sirve como se buscando a él y no se cauteloso sin pertrechos les conversan sobre el debido del tiempo como fue las libras de lucas o pesos de platas tan muchas monedas de las caras de los monarcas antedelluvianos y no se están de acuerdo, el mágico no tiene el impuesto y no lo quiere el señor, este hecho en retraso porque ya no el espera de respira cuando la lucha encende a banga sorpresa, él toma armas sin peligro,pero les no tengan medio un frío y el puede decomisarles con sus mismos espaldas, además el señor ir y listo a tener el súbito cambio por el, entonces si la transferencia de vita sagrada ocurre que no permite cuán el hechicero al reverso danza del cortada mortal así que entender los músicos cielos, y el señor toca morir mentirosa hasta escape como un eco.

6 Truth in the Winter, Vertat Invierno

No confías hechicero al sonidas del pies, a decir joder al eco del cazar con exaustio y al abierta de la montaña el don flipa pelearlo duramente por un mano con piedra, un corto profundo dando sangre en el invierno altíso de la platea, ella le golpe crashando y corriendo y terminé hechicero el don, las luces de sus ojos morir, el fin.

En el hielo el don sufrir los sueños del muerte, un cuervo si come su sangre y sus ojos inician radiar, en vuelta, ya un serpiente come el avión y sus ojos inician radiar, en slitha, un pantero alcanza el reptile y sus ojos inician radiar, en iniciar que decir como seres….

How tf do you say elves in Spanish? …."elfos", de qué? 

Sidequest: Isarnom

20200311 Īsarnom 

1 Entwined Consort, 2 The Blue Visions, 3 Silence of Husband, 4 The Soul’s Dream, 5 The Past of the Silver, 6 Truth in the Winter

Entwined Consort

This was everything the promise of reckless submission that old stories stories become new, after looking at mirror with smoke in his veins the journey to Mars was with final thoughts and destinations, the long journey ends in cryostasis with the oxygen levels in lowest levels of production, 3 and 32 weeks in Martian months, but his use is problematic in the stasis tank and he died, for a moment, quickly put into cryotherapy to repair the brain damage, but with it many memories lost for the cost, a hundred years ago he would've died, and since he won't remember much of muchness in such of suchness the doctors kept him on ice almost a Martian year, until the next new arrivals, calling his next of nextess to send or sell his things. 

The Blue Visions

She lands on Mars at landing cycle and decontaminates during simple debrief, to see him a spot in her eye overcomes memory and after seeing the glass gardens and pneumatic recyclery she meets him as his cryochamber opens, looks and touches, empty eye, cold memory of forgotten realms to tears of many reasons, he can't remember many words not least his name, karma and mistake would honest apologies be abandoned and wasted she leaves out all the same, for this he would become a repairman as the reprogramaron made him belong to Mars, as she would stay to earn a place or wherefore depart, where her biochemicelectronanite degree was found a task she hasn't needed to ask what wars of a future made from the past of many men has come to make the red planet blue, but the styles they choose to paint the picture keep drawing over each other, and she's caught in a blast during an interview for morale on Mars and Earth.

Silence of Husband

In the video she looks off screen, but for historicity she was thinking about who she sees and expecting the unexpected, with warfare and warrior resurrected, a scratch becomes a latch, a creak becomes collapse, and bell becomes a blast, first he repairs a flaw to prevent a vent attack, next to storage where sabotage avoided keeps many people out of cryostasis, many times the warehouse defended as his instincts are the determination for results, and for making enemies on both their sides and both their spies escapes with innocents and caving them in saving some of them without air, the authorities get to choose if repairs to the tunnel are sentence or salvation.

The Soul’s Dream

He's given consoling and considerations without opulence, and mended and sent to reprogramming, he sees the blast on the news and sees her, memory inculcate dreaming brings regeneration where fictions and possibilities make indoctrination intimations of the new memories and indignation from old visions, a history made a journey delayed, interspersed by people and light of home and dawn become the single light.

The Past of the Silver

Three factions become two by will of force consuming betrayals, and two collectives coalesce to end him, but the mental upgrades without time for bad habits haven't alarmed out altered the bads, with instinct and no training in his new mind his one track mission attacks with caution relying on forwardness, leading to the biochemicelectronanite lab and souvenirs shop and she's confronting and disarming, in part with weaponizing her environs, as he takes damage his defense has to stay behind him and be a trap, built with the resources each of three more intricate than the last, they have her sequestered and trap him twice after fatal flaw, to be benevolent they reprise their statements of charter, notice his chevron, and ask them to submit to reprogramations. > The doctor has taken the other side as their leader.

Truth in the Winter

The sheriff has taken the other side as their leader. < They're trapped with the factionalists and isolated by the authorities threatening at least defeat before destruction, the factions quickly choose death before dishonor, she provokes it escaping and ending more off them one quite viscerally, they ask him to end her and he says yes, he winks to her and holds the phaser in his off hand, she bolts left and he shoots right, the shot cuts the barrier, the terrorists break down the security walls from the inside, the landing area had repressurized less than the stronger walled valuable quarters, the transparent aluminum doesn't keep warmth without heating coils, I thought you didn't know me, I don't even know your name, lasers, police, targeted suppression and erasure as escape leaves the factions trapped by lazer wall, she looks at the settlement.

He gives her his copy of her favorite party rulebook and she knows he remembers, she joys and he humors.

He had pulled the pin on the safety protocols, and all the bads are reduced. 

Him: Keenan

Her: Abella

Doctor: Mick Velly

Sheriff: Daren

Reprogrammer: Samson

Blue Alpha: Lou

Red Alpha: Marten

Green Alpha: Sara 

Sidequest: Geni Genasi

Sidequest: Geni Genasi 

1 Growing Name, 2 The Whispering Dreamer, 3 Words of Men, 4 The Fire’s Something, 5 The Fire of the Pirates, 6 Stars in the Birth

Growing Name

And turn to sleep the stars in the sky, and learn to breathe the dark in the night, the wind with sounds of woods and breeze over the leaves of trees bending to the waves in thoughts, and where three huts for trapping traders aside a road nearby a cabin in the forest burns to coals, whence it rains, the water drops drop and echoes echo in mist over mud, and for a time the traders trade in dry and shade until they are no more for what’s in store, and like hot iron on a map a trail  of incidents incendiary which to propensity for offense and defense got of harm and alarm boils tempers that render into a calm at best distrust, with all the sounds of weapons sharpening without the rust like crickets of tooth and nail, therewith hail and windows dashed, forthwith gusts of chanting mercenaries discussing mercy cites latch their gates. 

The Whispering Dreamer

For the sun shining the light intertwining in the student’s eye, and pushed no memory worthy himself to sleep where winds brush lips as moonlight in poems of more restful times, and restless grows the darkened night and creatures eyes beneath leaves in sight, and by his footsteps travels the living dream and sight unseen by watcher of the wandering smoke as cabin flames among the trees, and then it rains as travelers disdain it and stammering refrains from learning the names of the roadside few, and there in the puddles behind footsteps the water bleeds, and for this the whispering dreamer describing bodies of music and works of instruments where skies meet heaven, like the drops on the leaves, like the wind between trees, so quiet every sound the dreaming whisperer nor those to tell were best if found, were not around, would make the ground a graveyard, for this secret is just the song, as also not made to tell if woke. 

Words of Men

This the messengers were sent and panic in the land, and panic trust most dangerously cuts several journeys short preventing riders riding and armies binding to find the demon in the hills, as were they many a man fearing truths of prior wills, and on the day a first prince in the old city near the city bordering the thirsting salt flats had searched the cursed grounds returned to be made king for rhyme or reason, and fearing the neighboring climate in the driest season made call for the empty throne to be carved in the forest to his south in the center of all the lands, and for this request from fairytales it was done, and identical rings sent to all the other kings, each with a stick of wax and matches, with each messenger watching wastrels on their paths never hasty slow to envoy errant task, where he himself sat waiting on woodchips staring at the chair made from tree with roots deeper than any other, one after another the kings would come thru weeds and vines and obstacles behind them appearing after hiding behind a tree, announcing their names until there is twentythree, and me of course, matching the signets to be sure, looking for a cure for the charcoal lines on the map without trust but with alliance, and in defiance only one, the termagant of villages, the despoiler of riches irreplaceable, the demon come to crawl. 

The Fire’s Something / This Fire Burns

My mind consumes me, the air grows still without freshness, as heat rises the clouds of the sunlight part for rays of heat and glare, like a footstep a sound of a wood snap, with eyes in all directions there are no trunks broken, at this end of summer day a man with black wet hair and cloud-white face stands as distant as dark horizon backed by deepest red glow like creeping death of burning blood in their minds, the fires of this heat worsened by charred black smoke rising and darkness falling, raging thoughts stealing the color of the demon’s eyes and lifeless measure as waves of hands bring shards of stars in turns of twenty breaths, and for the summer ground soft steps to have him leap behind trees for somewhere else, the kings and I, see flashes what would blind us happen to others, trees with arms begging the skies for rain hold spears of fire for the demon to throw and screams without silence for every king to know, glows the wicked smile in our eyes before blades strike at shadows, madness and ire consume where tragedy rhymes with something broken trees conspiracy to curtains of flame and maze to drive a bird insane as flight or fight become one. 

The Fire of the Pirates/ The Fire of Protection 

Throne cries the sweat of the ground with fires dancing behind it, the wood red from heat and fires glowing, each king with fortunes untold of mystical weapons with treasures on their hands with priceless magic rings, and they put back black fire from arrows and battle to the elbows in the cinders and their own blood, screams to threaten the demon as it growls, one with fire of black swirling could covers the demon in soot it wipes from its eyes, and blade of burning steel, from ents and elves the green clouds of nightshade and ashes cover the demons skin black moss it burns thru but doesn’t kill, iron arrows and full-swing axes cause screams and thrashes where the demons eyes become fire and howling rage of blazen rejection make good hunters into fire pits, it bleeds oil and healing scars become wicked ink, but each step slightly sinks trodden as its own besotted black magic armor costs speed against us, distracting in half our numbers in twilight of smoke and terror, we are the bearers of war and survival. 

Stars in the Birth 

Remains of men are broken bones underfoot of demon and great soldiers and warriors, the demon waves for stars to fall and shards of black hail begin and blocks many swords, and steps back, brushing away spears in its heart and liver breaking them and taking them to wield and slash at armor and always then air, it steps back, toward the empty throne, and from the living are the kings born of old magic in their eyes putting arrows that never miss, we bleed and break defenses to plant daggers to their hilts in blitz to be thrown away, it breaks each knife at the hilt one after another without wasting a single step nor breath, and so we kneel and gasp and bend our will submit, but as nothing ever quits it begins to rain a mix of ash and blood, the smell of death the signs are bad, the fires dying the times are good we hold our lives and choke on smoke and soot and sick from our wounds soaking all the sulphur, as a blue-skinned priestess walks with water in her footsteps, with wit of gods old kings bow in fear as she graces by them, waving her hand the demon stops afore us, a puddle before me I drink the clean water to live again and curse the battle as been all but lost, she takes the demon’s head and turns his eyes, she takes the demon’s face and turns his neck, and with it I see something of myself, the genie asks if the king of the empty throne still wishes for an heir to ascend when he is gone, and he tells them most impolitely the impolite, and so the genie takes the young demon and whispers thoughts into his mind and his eyes become like kings, with her hand of ashes and rings of the dead kings, and walks the child into the blood-soaked charred marred wood over mud of ash and crowns. 

The wooden king looks down to see a dagger in his chest, a strange light pouring from his wound, a familiar weapon and the demon’s hand full of rings, and falls into the throne of the wasteland. 

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