I once made a giant word in a gavel lot, to signal to the cold depth of Cthulhu's space, but I can see how that could easily be incontratable by talisman standards, yet I did it to show impatience, and not to signal the god of the sky, yet there was a point where I was 7 and used a payphone, which is the other possible determinant for how I joined the illuminati.
I don't remember much of my childhood, only the major and minor chords like anyone else, the extra clothes, the play acting, and has to be my recount of the spectral age mixed in with some of the first stories I told to the council of the illuminati.
It's not like there are reptilian aliens hiding in human skin, but I can vaguely remember the day that was a game in my head. The years training for the apocalypse, despite being the amorphous neurotic rekt mess today, I can easily remember inventing things like the tick and the adventures of dark journeys and mostly unpleasant monster chasing us night, amongst the wildly spectral obsession where I'd sing my first songs and count the atoms in their colors simultaneously, splendid visual effects patterns in the air, perhaps the fractal years, and we can see the similarities in park poesy amateur hour editors that could stipulate as any other that I'm telling that younger self this, or that he's reading it as I write it, not as far fetched as I'd hoped this entry would be.
It compares to writing a reddit post to my profile page, where people would play and talk with themselves like the insane population that they are, then and now. It breaks my heart the way that greetings beyond a standard will offend, semblance of confusion like predisposed politicians, i think i digress, who can't rearrange all answers with prearranged statements. I can almost still remember vowing to avoid politics at all costs and be a guardian instead.
The ability to know the illuminati is with me in most places like a surveillance doctrine, came to be effortlessly, and effortlessly I speak with the holy communion of global domination and speculative essays on Reddit, never thinking any ill of the shadow, that with the omniscience of sentient audience was just another person to fill the seats as it were. It wouldn't be until many years later, and now many years ago, that I would find, and almost break, myself in audience with the audience that suits this regard.
In some respects I wouldn't post this to my blog because it sounds to absurd, to be with a literal can, and a literal string, playing telephone like children with the greatest minds of my time, and have let's say my parents or a babe read it.
The annoyances, the intermittent proliferation, that ceases to amaze for it's depth at the moment, was writing this's purpose. I do remember vowing not to write one thing and here do, in golden ages. With many human, or I guess animal, instincts like needs to know of this different incapability, or beset by better truths, with those different vanquished, to make myself forerunner and famous, etc, that in parting ways with the misconceptions of such misanthropies of childish adversarialism or quotidian negativities, in rediscovering the mere concept of a fractal encasing the world to discover conflicts with my sight, or my ability to see I guess.
The constant interruption still goes unnoticed, or my twitches go unpunished, but are just the vacant reminder of trivial nature, despite it not affecting my chores it does give time to remind me of them. To have opinion, it seems insulting that at the top of the world it would take the, countless days to build the tower of babel anew, for them to just text me their grievances, but for me to recognize the pettiness, would take some named or marked experience the like.
Perhaps even my, yes disgusting, habits were my hatreds and that in this spiraling out of control conspiracy that I've embraced them like a distorted memory, distorted once more to include this present darkness. The self-destructive complacency of apathy, paired with the intrigue of them reading this in real-time and not interrupting it for the umpteenth time, spurn of derision, spawn of decision, amazing as it's not, that and this, allows yet another reminder of what I'm doing when I'm not doing anything. With urgency I remind you that I have nothing and am held in the confidence of world lords and war lords both.
I remember a possible opinion at four star some day like this where shadow of summer were cold of confinement and thinking there would be a better way because there has to be, something better than a world at my fingertips instead of a woman, global envoys of the greatest empire that, at least that -I've- ever built, instead of missionaries of mercy the instinct, altho the harmony of such could arguably be the same.
The lazy never have any time, and yet can't be bothered to bother, and I feel the same way when thought not to twitch and taught not to bitch. Who reads this is in the know, now I incriminate myself of the impossible. Not above the menial, just resentful of the way it's come about, which makes me resent those with meaning and distant from they who can expose themselves so vulnerably.
I'd end this as rhetorical. What makes many stories, but has no title? What has many chapters and cannot be finished?
There is a practice, to be rid of emotion to make room for the next, unpreventable wave of emotion innate of the human condition. Not to ban emotions, nor to exploit. Part of me hoped that I'd be more than I am by now, and can't seem to care. They play music now, without annoyances, while I type, like voices in my head, like switching tracks at the gym when I'm tired, like screaming internally when my goals can't be visualized.
Writing break. I never know how to end these letters.
Movies, music, nations networks, and I think I'm approaching my middle age, if not clear by looking haggard at the gym, my newest hobby, songs and guitar, peace and scars. Perhaps it's to not meet some potential, whilst somehow raising a few billion people a day, a lot to take credit-for, and would love to play the electric, but it reminds me I should nerve up and get working, my worthlessness is why I can't be with. I'd had a time briefly, the rude type that would be worse with wealth, and what wealth is this to own a world and be king of clowns. I just rewrote a call for charity, and now to brag about it, and this embellishment per se, and isn't. What worth is it to be in a way about a world that only turns during the day and only dreams at night, the tonal languages ruined by song and nomads distracted by it's title. There is a larger part ruined by the biggest performances in history used to treat me like the new bard, what is the story, where is this world going, etc. Refreshing, exciting maybe, yet I'm sure this seems lethargic, suicidal, and clinically insane, but wildly absurd, vague, and contradictory. Or so he hopes, to be psychic, and only hear her sunlight thru the rain.
/LLAP
