Unique Unto Itself

“When an empty person sits on an empty chair, the chair will still remain empty” - Mehmet Murat Ildan 

Should you decide the consequences are avoidable, or ignorable, there are only questions on my part as I watch creation of more cycles with absurdity than truth could, but you will learn this language you speak or fall thru time like the millions of generations who relied on the success of those who come from nothing. / Paranoia from a place of fear is an idea that never meets reality, spreading the outcome without the solution, giving the answers without the questions, saving nothing from facts to destroying everything from emotion. It's a natural reaction to rejection that fills the wings of war, and yet this idea that never takes off, screeches and then crushes to prevent emotional support of its meal. / Refusing feelings didn't work for people lying on beds of nails, pushing them doesn't usually help either. The mirror shatters when hit, demanding emotions and punishing conservatives for feeling, is a war unlikely won. 

Addiction and false focus, this is a truth about many things, food is life and piggish feasting ruins health, in the illegal or illicit things like narcotics and junkfood the outcome can be a bad habit, you will break it, or it will break you. The existential promise is we need food, and the exploration of experience. If habits are conditional and reprovable, life’s routine essentials become boring a lot, the chance to enhance or addictions to distractions make slow to improve goals, and long to eliminate vices (fillers, training wheels). This is a judgement of values, a list of priorities should be one priority, but makes us critics and judges of the extra junk people use. Your priority should be selfless and preservation, or something perfect. Meditate on this for many hours a day in only silence and safety. Each of your goals are reachable, if your priorities are on the list. Your first values should fuel your goal, many values build mountains of havable goals. Go now, be off, I’ll wait. Without relaxing in the network, or without staring till you’re blind, the abilities grow in each moment as choices become objectives and goals become complete. A simple example, drinking coffee will make time quicker, but during a walk will take more steps to get tired, when running would do both. A natural state is a source of light to follow to find the secrets of life. The distractions and vices, bad conditions need to be replaced and that includes self-destruction.

Anyone who thinks words are violence has never been struck in the mouth. Words are a form of communication, while there are dangerous ideas all words are as worthless as wind and fire, pretending to be birds in a burning forest, falling or fleeing. If you can’t accept their words, it’s because you’re entering the human phase of your life, the emotional ability, and this calling to the discipline of men and women in your age of responsibility. We humans spend years raising children, and for shelters of free thought to turn us into wrecking balls, the swing of destruction. Life is meant for more than meaning, it is time to see the love in your heart like a garden and place jokes and jokesters among your closest family. As you have been told, so is it true. Simple seeds compete for light without service in the winds of fire, life is short unless you live it. Service to the promised land really depends on who promised it, perhaps you should think for yourself. Learn to crawl before you try to fly. A comet flies by the earth, its force brings impact and descriptions only teach, to one side of a breath and to the other.

The dawn is the border and frontier of the unknown, making mediation at sunrise a test of truth and confidence, for how many do you know can meditate on an active and shifting front? While there is more to life than meditation, there is nothing in this world can give to your meditations, the infinite is defined in the thoughts of mindset and memories change futures where possibilities take hold of luck, this is called inception. The conception or of mind, the atmosphere of mind is mood, the conceivement of mood is honesty. Your thoughts are part of a big mind, your mind is part of a big mood, your mood is part of a big cultural honesty in the shape of their society. To be with love, to know love, a single love, the duration of love, the result of love, that which makes love, these are perspectives that answer the difficult questions of wars and sports too long to learn or too short to tell.

In a chance to combine or convert or conquer, look at the ideas, which oneself rejects or rejoices, because ideas are unchangeable and sometimes the definitions change, frustrations of confusion, the learning path is full of people learning the good with bad, the bad with good, the middle path in any direction. The many ways life fits these words is always a journey from one idea to the next, if your thoughts are never focused the sound of lightning will cloud your thoughts and emotions will come with thunder.

“Hæfde lígdraca    léoda fæsten
éalond útan    eorðweard ðone
glédum forgrunden·    him ðæs gúðkyning
Wedera þíoden    wræce leornode·”

“The fire-drake had    the fortress of the people,
by the coast-land,    the stronghold
ground down with flames;    him for that the war-king,
the chief of the Wederas,    studied vengeance;”
Beowulf, 2333-2336

I/402

Intellectomy

It smacks of emotion

It riddles apace

It stares of devotion

Devoid of all grace

If mettle of mending

If fiddles with states

If sidled with ending

Deploys and evades

Is sand by the ocean

Is waves to disgrace

Is time become motion

Denounce and replace

In skies from before

In mountains an age

In feelings no more

Defiled by the taste

In notice a warning

In wise serenade

In solstice restoring

Divide and invade

Of Ancience

Of Ancience 

“I don't think it is what we want to do with our future.”

Non puto autem quod vis ut faciam tibi nostra futurum.

I do not think, however, that you want me to do for you, our future.

Non puto autem quod vis ut faciam tibi, nostrum futurum.

I do not think, however, that you want me to do this for you, our group in the future.

Non puto autem quod vis ut faciam tibi huius nostri coetus in futurum.

I do not think you want me to do for you, at the same time, however, that the group in the future.

Non videtur tibi vis ut faciam tibi, simul vero quia ad coetus in futurum.

It does not seem to you, you want me to do for you, at the same time, however, because it is addressed to groups in the future.

Non videtur tibi esse, non vis ut faciam tibi, simul vero quia confert ad coetus in futurum.

It does not seem to you that, do not you want me to do for you, at the same time, however, because it is addressed to groups in the future.

Vos autem non videntur, non vis ut faciam tibi, simul vero quia confert ad coetus in futurum.

You, however, do not seem to, do not you want me to do for you, at the same time, however, because it is addressed to groups in the future.

Vos autem non videntur, non vis ut faciam tibi, simul vero quia confert ad coetus in futurum.

You, however, do not seem to, do not you want me to do for you, at the same time, however, because it is addressed to groups in the future.

Vos autem non videntur, non vis ut faciam tibi, simul vero quia confert ad coetus in futurum.

You, however, do not seem to, do not you want me to do for you, at the same time, however, because it is addressed to groups in the future.

Verse 2, 

My dudes, perhaps then it is time we talk about the online persona, this character (or id) we’ve let ourselves follow and find, like chasing our own tails and making our own tales. These words are a waste, you won’t agree, and in sympathy a deep trust of the complete unknown, and these words are now weaponized, without reason and dull, lifeless and dangerous words. My love of typing words is a critical flaw, the easiest for me, and the most difficult for some of you, even unable to repeat the lines of the plays you write yourselves with any message. 

Verse 3, 

I took a harmless phrase from a terrible person and with translation corrupted it, the translator program sees only what it understands and interprets without missing a word. In the simplest or most common result the understanding, the resulting translation, the new normal, the next language, has no synonyms and becomes the output. Wrong or inexact, the message breaks down, the communication becomes pointless as translation rejects words, clauses, phrases, sentences, ideas, and even harmless phrases. 

Verse 4, 

You can see that with the critical/exacting translations, that even without the Latin (google) translations, the robotic translation of two messages, Latin v English above, arguing, chirping back and forth, the English could be a message down the memory hole. Follow the English sentences, and with every reply the message still is changed by translation where truth is lost in the grasp of programming. You can say, a human wouldn’t do, but the programs we built are only as fluent as the humans are and only after and if they can plan a process to prevent it. Instead we see a filter of true and false belief imposed on others - that’s one way to create new languages. 

Verse 5, 

Maybe the plan is to isolate these voices into breeds of specificity, or for me it’s been to see a relationship develop, of symbiotic/connected two reliant on each other thru hate and violence. They didn’t want it, aren’t requested, compensated, fear escaping, and impose by carrying their cages with them. It’s a wonder we get anything done at all. We see the best critical translation break the message, and then fall to strict repetition back and forth almost against itself, letting others learn the basics and start out. It’s time to open some mental doors for them. 

Refrain,

I spend time developing words to help me understand my language, but there is no time for that and you already know enough. 

“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.” -William Blake, 1757-1827

.

Post Classic Modern

I'd made the promise to write everyday without worrying about writing about politics or worse, something recently after it happened, as to tell a salient narrative or an incoherent truth, which isn't what it isn't and is what it is, and then there was something something never discussed, besides the times that are after the fact too little too late and the pitiful crowns of confidence without so much as a riddle to rest them, and now it has come that time again. 

It was first to fame the fires of the sun, and brag about the cool breeze from the shadows where the ashes now remain, but it fell into the memory hole and forget the contemplative auto-generated element of surprise despite the button clicked, but the seats of power made from the same resurfacing phoenix power, the objectivist truth is that the the blame is ignorance and chasing the wrong questions while struggling with saving each other from the incentivised starving poets now become pundits, and the charlatans on the sidelines, and while that's all true, naming them as what they've been, but somehow envious that pawns removed from the board with monopoly money could at random mobilize the crosshatch beyond any four walls over a weekend, and answer the clamor and survive the ambition almost by accident, and for becoming martyrs this time as clines. 

There are ways to isolate some variables at a constant and some constant at an individual variable, to balance solves the knowable, the equilibrium is a substrate and balance for a function of a mechanism or wavelength of a signal, as like a segment of society. If a desired and even if a biased outcome is deserved, desired, some variables are the wrong answer, and some formulas are the wrong mechanism, and the wrong problems could be solved becoming an error in an outcome, from before and after, predestined for all without perfection. 

Trying to distance from the harder questions could be one side, and with what can be ignored, and there can be answers old and archaic a problem from nothing, romanticized infantilization of discovery that real survivors will have all variables solved, including our place in guessing the traditions, in placating the truth, in replicating the confidence at great cost, in ignoring the warnings like a coin in well, when even the key isn't present or missing, the answers we seek are to chaotic  evolution, it is time to stop admitting everything is chaos. 

Everything is not a one or a zero, conflict isn't normal, one should be happy to exist, zero is without. There is a trick to end things in a different order, but all the parts are simply there, circumstance instead of censorship, which lying about the equation will answers never find, and which getting two things wrong will make us never mind, this is all common sense and we are all rooting like flexible trees for our favorite weather with the memory dealers chasing the storm of the week, while fighting for seeds to survive, even the lowest animals can evolve to respect each other. 

"Are modern ideas more memorable than the more classical ideas?" inspirobot

Yn Noviomagus

Yn Noviomagus

http://www.ruggenberg.nl/titels.html

1 Hot Year 2 The Every Woman 3 Butterfly of Flame 4 The Consort’s Boy 5 The Moon of the Angel 6 Wind in the Time

1 Hot Year

It breaks the days with winds warm wiring stalks for summer grasses and mornings as warm as the midday where the trees could fall clear and shade rarifying air, a many men one more than ten aside this forest in the drying meadow surround a monster of the old world before the roads and the cities, that which wears sleeves and vest of leather and bands of knives, whose feet have claws and face long with sign of tail, bands of scarred gold over fur and scars old, as they challenge. The sun is high and the dog of war is surrounded and panting scrambling to count the proud warriors whose boots are like cloven heels with teeth and talon cleats, their leather is neatly hung with pockets none, and all their weapons in hand more valuable than any bounty should they lose would not be had, and with one an empty bag in fact for placing the creature’s head, but the weather is unbearable and their leathers are unwearable beneath the furnace sun, and some of them stand panting as mangy beast begins to run, some hold to the trees between the fighting in the light and the shadows of respite, others cling to the bark of trees with the tearing of nails from the ground by their knees, and the beast but fights them one by one. As if duty bound they challenge the snarling thing, taunting and flaunting their halberds and arrows fly like sparrows adding danger to the dance becoming undone as the creature fights them one by one, a singing growl as the beast makes leap to take a man from his feet and feasting fashion drinks from lashes inflicted his blood for water in the summer heat as dusty road settles around him, the fret of sweat and timeless threat the heroes are prepared to fight untimely rite, they make forward and give circle of swords and daggers and stare at the unsightly dog of hell, as the creature’s heart swells within his chest they stab and strike and pierce and wrest, but for all their mights the beast still fights with focus undetermined quickly learning to bleed before bowing and knows before kneeling to wound their hands and not their dodgy heads. The man of armor certain to strike the beast with deathly swing gives equal focus and fights with armor and sword like hand and thought, the beast is quick and flees toward their trap and turns back even quicker, running behind the warrior king and fighting him again, barking and snapping and slashing like a man, two remaining men spear him, and he leaps off the warrior king clawing his side and finds their staring faces are forces all driven by victory and emotion in rapid breath. The creature has two of them pushed against the trap and to save themselves they trigger it, but insomuch they trap only the warrior king, bleeding and raging unable to test the boundaries of a ghostly prison, the beast smiles and throws a warrior once proud now pained into the boundary of the wall of light, and killing the other makes a matter of feeding on men the way only monsters feast.

2 The Everywoman 

While walking in the woods a woman in a hood to shield herself from the sunlight finds herself being found, but without running her fears aground moves into hiding behind the biggest near tree in the darkest shade despite the noontime glow, it is part of the unknown why this woman would be practicing formidable skills, but with her back to the tree draws long sight on short work to her tracker, a man with a twisted eye and wandering back who walks like the ground is a swaying ship, wandering on the road toward the next with a lantern rattling at his hip, over him she sees a watery blue glimmery wall surrounding the great warrior, in lay to watch his wound and stays to prove his worth, but for this the greatest archer in all the worlds is deep in thought. This focus is pierced by blinding light from the old man’s lantern, as he growls he had turned into a bearlocke, whose hackles raise hairs into a coat of fur to make a big bushy beard, his lantern grows bright and his skin glows like a sunset despite the brightly day given and the nightly sway of clouds and evening lurking to her left and the warrior for now on the right, and for the cost of her attention, her focus had been the distraction needed for the man to become half of a bear in the light of the magic lantern. As the bear-man lands his front paw into the dirt the ground rumbles and echoes deep like an ocean, for this she announces that she is the greatest archer in all the worlds, and for that she would like to ride the man made bear, and for this he promises that he should rip and tear her for him not being a saddle creature of the woods, and for this she walks quickerly around him looking at his goods, for this he has his robe and the lantern, his sandals, and a pouch of rings open like a plot of leather holding enough rings for every finger on a squirrel-monkey and doubts her little feet could even run uphill. She wastes time to scoff and runs swift oft with less sound than the bear-man’s groans as she steps and steps onto his back, the bear roars and rolls his eyes now red with growing rage at this stage to wistful play she raises knee to his head like mighty mountain top, making the mightiful bear bark a grunt and throw his arm into the air, and her into the air with it, her hood displaced and her cape in waves behind her as she falls she shoots and arrow, which glides from her hand into his as intended, it would be a moment for the pain before the grief as the mighty bear would groan confusion wondering how long it would take to mend it, and raging howls and curses from the pain as not to pretend it, allowing the archer woman’s smile at the trouble to become a laff at the not so subtle profanities and the irony of the alacrity instead of practicality of tending to his simple and troublesome wounds. For this her focus spots the rings, and for something with her thinks proudly, but the distance soon sings loudly from the kennel of light with the warrior king a song of screams of man and tunes of magic. She scampers in a scarper for the cuestion and then farther seeking proof of burden or truth for learning what magic lies in wait, for the warrior king is laying and his allies still alive are praying for a magic to break the ghost wall around them, where she sees the werewolf working not to see the archer lurking, and she uses a whistle only the beast can hear. 

3 Butterfly of Flame

The beast taunts the warrior in the walls and by night sees the ghost prison walls glow, the wolf-man for each meal becomes more like a man and looks at the prisoners of the trap they had meant for him, still barking at them the grunts are becoming more like that of men and less like beast, but still without purpose or distinction of never having spoken to the likes of men of the worlds, and the warrior king taunts back with the plentied promises of pain each worse than the last promise to slay the breath before. The archer with watch sees the beast poke and prod and slash at the magical boundary, a power attack of beastly strength moves one of the magic stones only an inch, but she sees it like it moves a mile with her renowned eyes meant for targets and fletchers, causing her invoke the most of many impartial plans involving her whistle, distracting the beast to turn and before a second signal runs into the woods away from the barrier’s glow, leaving the warriors to hurry in making weapons from their armor, a leather from the leg into a bite guard, a leather from a vest into a head guard, a leather from a shoulder as a fist guard. She pulls a magic arrow with a butterfly engraving on it, as she draws it the cord makes a noise, as she hears it she also sees the werewolf walking only six feet from her in the darkness and with the still of night she watches without moving her eyes or blinking her eyelids, and when a drop of moonlight falls she launches the magic butterfly arrow, where a red fire burns stuck into a tree, with mighty howl at the river moon the werewolf opens his arms before climbing across the earth fast as ravens at the fire. With faster feet than glance the great archeress runs to the magic boundary and sees what it is, telling them her station and her status as they beg her to stay away from the magical apparatus with their firsts words, whispering unheard by the werewolf they ask her to summon the legion of their castle to this very locale, and in the best help of all she agrees, but the night is still young and the werewolf in full run scares her away into the forest, almost running into the terrible dog’s trap. The beast follows her and runs past where she is climbing into a tree and when the werewolf passes she escapes the other direction. 

4 The Consort’s Boy

Without fire the greatest archer in all the worlds carefully stepped thru the forest of night and if not for the full moon there would be no light at all, with the blu moon’s glow very careful of the sounds and her clever eyes looking for other eyes as not a running step could be taken, but for this the dawn glow where the land hungers for light she breaks her fast of slow moving night with tiny eggs and with the sound of birds the foxes waking in the hillsides that on this new day reminds her the way into town and scurries like a stranger exhausted at dawn in the waking world where cubs and chicks are in their bid. She walks up to the city wall by joining other travelers and traders slow to dart her quick eyes and quick to walk along them, seeing the many guards she turns back and hides in a wagon that is leaving, only to put on her hood in the day and leap into an entering wagon to be hidden and safe, when the wagon stops the guards make quick to look carefully and directly for her soon finding her there in a pile of pelts between bear and buck, and it would seem her luck has ended as the guards hoister her up and toss her into the drying morning road. What brings her back, is their question and what chance had she of staying was their orders to her, with her explanations none of the guards seems to entertain her more than plying and defiant, when their jokes were waiting to be told even further a very serious guard with a very serious title and a stubborn and stiff looking shirt with many symboled patches speaks the law, telling her so loudly that the rules were highest most that no passerby can hear themselves speak, and during his breaths the spiritful archer can barely hear herself over the sound of commerce. His lumbering guards mock rudely with deep voices to mimic their chieftain of the gate, and with her feeling late she turns, just as the gatekeeper reminds her, the ban will not be lifted unless she is gifted and enters the gates with an unwed groom, and by that she leaves in a huff and a puff with a piece of bread stolen from a sleeping guard whom the gatekeeper kicks awake. She waits by the roofs with no walls watching with her skilled eyes, a tracking wait of hunting she draws her bow without arrow getting barked at by barkers of concern or contempt, a patience that flies much slower than arrows, and rests her arms and soon her eyelids weigh heavily, when suddenly the sound of boys wrestling wakes her. She runs to them and pulls them apart and scolds one of them, and in between each word she tells the knave errant of the troubles the warrior king and his trouble within a ring of light from the werewolf and the night, an honest boy he asks her why she hasn’t climbed the walls to tell the king’s queen, making due to tell him she would go if she could tell her, for the boy is some cousin of some sort to the queen, and the worlds greatest archer is banned from the city of the king because she is banned from the warrior king by the queen’s mother, and for this the honest boy asks why she hasn’t told the guards, and the greatest archer in the world gave the boy a gold coin and one of her arrows, demanding the story be told to the queen and promising all the boys coins if the message is sent, they put their minds together and chase themselves to the city wall, right thru the gates, and straightly up into the city toward the royal court. 

5 The Moon of the Angel

>>after brushing her hair and being suited by her sisters...

Attending the court to discuss country topics, the cadre of young cousins push aside as many people as they can bringing her the news, the king is dead, the king is dead! They scream unlike the others, and none can speak and breaths are gasps, like breaking glass the queen’s heart drops and guards move close to beat them, the king is caught of wolf and man, from one, a giant wolf like Fenrir is hunting him, another, that’s why the king has gone out to look for the wolf, yet another, because the king has gone a hunting, even another still, as stories of news are oft to do, as the queen in standing in her leather crown speaks silently to a mistress, who is the oldest, she demands of them, tell a lie and be drown with rats, as the guards pull their shoulders apart to stand them up, the eldest tells, he shot this arrow and missed and a mercenary witch brought it and the telling and a doubloon me, and as a guard took the doubloon the children all scattered like rats from a ship. The king’s queen she orders her guards to run out and hunt the terrible beast, pointing to the window and screaming with sharp strings of her voice to bring back the king dead or alive, and to burn the creature without a grave, and runs into the warroom to plan for herself, her leathers over cotton spreads like feathers fast to her window and shining table of blackoak stained with pitch and gold lace beneath clear lacquer designed like thousands of a single stitch, and begins to speak a magic of the oldest words from the oldest worlds from the pages made from the oldest fallen trees. She gathers all her magic pieces of stones and threes while incense rises and the golden hum of the sunset protects the horizon, with each word the falling sun becomes quiet, words over ashes and spells over ink and blood, with each whisper an echo of smoking moonlight leaves the shadows of sunset for the moon to breathe in gasps, brightening and resting as her magic summons succor to the lunar deities, while below her fingers her trinkets glow, a ring of power, a cup of remedy, and a dagger of dreams, to which she swipes and takes all three with her very quickly. Immediately the young queen finds the great archeress hiding from the evening, surprising her beside the fireplace of the shanty public house, foreign to the commons and the light, the archer grabs her own knife and kneels with staring eyes, and answers to the queen, he was found and halfway felled by unholy wolf-man, the queen aks, was it your fault, no, the archer replies and stands, the queen demands, we will find him and raise him and you will have protection by the law again, for this the archeress bows her brow and leads them serious straight away. 

/6

Follows queen her archer, tracking every moving tree for sign of swinging tree or falling branch that might be the beast, she makes quick to note the archer fires far and still wears armor, and just that far as a far flung arrow would travel is the light of the ghost prison, the walls of which are glowing with her worrying. The queen approaches and the beast leaps out to kill them, the archeress lets fly steel header piercing shot, the true howl of the beast wakes the warrior king and his ally conserving energy, the queen priestess jumps between them and holds a stone made of moondust and spider silk, with a lunar language all the mysteries of night and nature glow giving her power from above and below, the magical glow turns the dog man monster more into wolf, who unlike her cannot invoke the spiritual magic and ethereal shine with his animal tongue, while the archeress checks the warrior, he tells her to fight or flight, and she stays watching the werewolf with one eye and her feet with the other ready to run. The beastly man falls forward bark and bite, but the queen priestess uses the lunar light to force the spell of languish, his skin begins to glow and melt his hide into a shrinking suit around his bones and screams fill the night so loud they echo against the moon itself, but leashed to wolfen lunar power only becomes more monster than all else, across his long jaw more beard than man, his ears tall and paws for hands with claws like knives, and growling claws and tear and paws and swears closer to the high priestess. The warrior begs the archer, take the stones and give them to the queen, certain question, but she has them, what should I do, she asks, and the warrior king’s comrade pushes and nudges the magic stones making the ghost prison boundary, the archeress moves one stone and the mighty wall begins opening a gateway, which the werewolf turns from her and smells their blood, only to quick turn teeth and breathe and growl a smile thru sharp teeth and sharper eyes on the wounded warrior king. Once reminded, the archeress tosses the stones to the priestess, the warrior king is ready and when the werewolf jumps the guard sacrifices himself unarmed completely, and with the blood of his newest victim he is renewed and now again becomes more man than creature, but still very much in neither natural shape, and with the evil of both natures begins to curse and promise them their demise, something of the time before and the echoes as sinister as the lies souls tell themselves, aside the bloody body his hunger is gone and his sight is long and his strength is strong and attacks the warrior king discarded on the ground disadvantaged and unguarded from the sound of biting rage, but allay allies allous with an arrow at point blank range, then with signal of hearts the priestess blinds the man beneath the monster with the starlight stone of sages and the warrior king rises with his sword with rageful thrust of back and knee, his hand holding his open side for now shut for none so simple cut and the werewolf begins a desperate attack, of all the pain of curse and shame and panicked at death’s door, none as quick as arrows flick and none as mad as knife the queen has as she uses it until the beast is done and low, and with her glow tends to the wounds of the king, and with her patience gives the archeress her queen’s ring to pass into the city again. 

Riders come and with caring field beds carry the victims back to shelter, as the blood of the werewolf pools with the blood of the king’s guard. 

Vildhjarta

STARRING

Mikael : Warrior King

Enis : General

Sean : Mercenary

Lera : Archeress

Bogan : Lantern Bear

Derien : Werewolf

Broc : Gatekeeper

Jef : Cousin

Lusian : Quartermaster

Mel : Imperator

Janes : Mother Superior

Aisling : Priestess

Erin : Nun 

Nicole : Maiden

Merlin : Wagoner

Mae'n, I

The year behind me is blank and for that I blame myself, like some terrible lizard, it was broken thoughts that while folding time with punctuation that for my telling the truth it was challenged, now to tell you that this lunacy that is a navigable existence, once of sirens and now looking for both of them that this staggering metaphor would even unfold and that while truth was stranger than fiction, the results of the opposite were predictions come true, the validity unknown to me and you, and while that's really the best way to describe it, it has begun the way that mirrors close and windows open, while there might be some place for me to undo the old ways or improve the new, summarily this makes do, inasmuch as the story unfolds without us and what little else it'd be, as a backhanded way to delineate where'd I delegate, it keeps them between arms and lovers of war alive to fight it, and perhaps they will find Taurus and make us regret inchoative roles, but it still has become a grid without salutations, or thus hasn't become in fact, and will have to write to you, the reader, while the only story is vicarious and the vituperative hilarious, it was not where things should be and little else but lost without new, boring and trite, stories for me to write, to you the reader, you may want to unsubscribe, for the next 300 good days, let's hope they come within a year this time, yes?

299

Tratalante

In epic times the song in rhymes were given me in three,

in longer lines the teeth and tines remembered unto me,

in break of minds and ancient finds a light to be set free.

Over the air the debonair had safety to erase,

overly fair for all their stares were blind behind their face,

over the share under the care the mind would this replace.

Beyond the cure the race was sure in serpentine the sky,

beyond de jure the juries were convinced they would all die,

beyond impure the news allure fights antidote supply.

CCC

https://www.rt.com/russia/511116-world-first-covid19-antidote/