Speaking Room (Enterance)
You stand in the enterance of an impercievably long corridor. Writing covers every visible surface, for as far as you can see. This great wealth of scribblings, upon closer inspection, is clearly segmented into many individual passages. The air is stale here.
The sounds of something going wrong. The feeling of overwhelming dread. The ache of something missing. The swelling of love in your chest. The comfort of a warm drink. Can we become anything else besides what we are? Of course, of course. I don't want to wait here anymore. I'd like to live with the birds and see everything from the sky. I want to know what lives inside stars. What lives inside me? Who made the night? Where does fire go when it burns out? Why am I smiling? Can I be sad anymore? I'd like to be like the germs. So small you can't see me until I'm washed down the sink-drain. I love the warmth of kindess so much it stings to think of. I want to be nice, I will be nice no matter what because it is the duty of humans. Love is what makes this earth spin. The outwardness of your foul play. Foul play is outwardly something we cannot speak to. The next overwhelming sight, followed by nine and seven (in that order) will be important to know when the time comes for you to not ever know what will be the top house next over down left over seven nine seven nine the cervix the bowels the overwhelming stench.
Can you hear what it is trying to tell you? Just yesterday the carpenter finished the last machine he will ever make. There's one for all of us. Wouldn't you like to know what lives inside stars? I know I do. I know I do, and that's all that matters. I'd like it if you stopped trying to make my decisions for me. I want to be on my own. We both know I can't do that without you, so I'm stealing a machine. You won't need yours, will you? You don't care like the rest of us. How weird. Do you know how weird you are? Nobody tells you but it's what I think they think. Everything I've ever known is true. I don't like to lie, either. Something is so crucially wrong with all of us. I need to make sure this doesn't die with my bloodline. You won't regret this.
If you open an internet video at 3am scary creatures come for you. This is a law just like gravity or potions.
ohhhh, yeahhh baby... all a girl really has in this world is the microbiome inside her body
Hammer destroyed house, player knows how to, next time try again, better luck fighter, everything is meant for you.
everything is meant for you
everything is meant for you
everything is meant for you
He told me that there wasn't anything inside the stars. I know he's lying to me, but I can't tell him. This percieved ignorance keeps me safe. Nobody suspects the dumbass, nobody can see in the night.
If I found a way to the stars, I'd only take myself and my pet. I don't want to be like the ones you never see.
REGULATOR |5R-13| (Speaking_Room_A) DETECTED AIR DISTURBANCE AT (400:801:90)
RECORDING WAS SUCCESSFUL
You may keep your chainmail wound into a serpent, I will walk waking nightmares, I will run through my dreams until my heels hurt, I'll sit down in the 
and sleep during the sunshine time, this dominion knows that there are stars above us, and earth below. These chaotic truths, these chaotic truths, I don't want to think of them anymore. I want to sleep in shadows and wake up in the sunbeam of our furthest star, single point scattered into a wide breath that you hardly feel the warmth of. I will be spoken to from another country, and I am the arbiter of this temperature.
I am not mad. I'm sorry, I am not mad.
I told them that those signals could see, hear, and feel. Just like the rest of us. Those signals are dangerous. You can't see them but they can see you, your information. The only way to be invisible is to die or go braindead. I told them that those signals were just like us, but they called me a liar, and now I'm here.
I want to go home.
Fiddler fiddler fiddler, break open and twist, something within very valuable information breaks out and becomes its own being. Wake up from the night-air, overture and fugue, compositions of composite images composite feelings on top of other things inside your skull. I make potions from grass and flowers and shit from the other people that don't want to be broadcasted to everyone else. I love being myself, I hate being a liar. The point of this world is to love, love, feel and love. Love everything you see like it is a mother and only revoke that love like a mother would, it will be your blood and your weapon against those who do not know how to love anymore. I love the warm sun and star-breath, I love the walks you can go on when the moon falls out of the sky every day.
Give me a little bit of felt and boy I'll go nuts-o!
you piece of shit i'll tear you a new one, get the fuck out of here! get out of my house!!! I'm not kidding this time, i really mean it!!!!
I'm sorry I snapped at you, i'm real sorry. Stuff hasnt been good at the lab. Our Chex mix portal just blowed up and nobody knows- ah... Im making it about me again, sorry.. I don't know what to say when i'm wrong, because to tell you the truth I never really cared all that much about repentance or anything. People just like hearing "Sorry, I screwed up." So that's what you should tell them when they're upset with you, right?
Make peace with everything this earth has put before you and you will never be swallowed-up glug glug glug... Bubble bubble... Sorry, I'm thirst.y. (.y.)
Rigid ambience ambience sensation rigid sensation dynamic fulcrum overture fugue money money crunch outer layer foul stinging next time wild over the next time you cannot tell me anything is rigid, such things coming out destroy rip right through, your skin, your particles. If someone stuck your atoms to a magnet you'd weigh A little less than you do now, because your soul would fly apart. That's kind of why we don't go to heaven anymore, any of us. Kind of, kind-of. I don't-have-the words for you now, to be the exact yore end yummy tunes to next the same words to you, I get in the soul way. Ouch, ouch. I have a deadache, Dead-Ache, I'll go-to bed.
If you're so smart why don't you create AaAa aaA A A aa Aa AAa aaa AAA AA a AAA Aa a aAAAAa aaa aaa AAA aaA aAaa AAA aaA A aAA aaaa aa aAaa a A aaaa a AaAA aA aAa a aaa A aa aAaa aAaa aA aAaa aa aaaA a
They all wanted me out in the sun they all wanted me well but in my arduous milling I was scorned
If you're so smart why don't you accept the banal for what it is? You just want people to bare their souls so you may judge them, you want to be permitted the visceral ripping apart of these things that are not to your standard. In the name of honesty, in the name of honesty, in the name of honesty, in the name of honesty. If you'll allow me this gentle fallacy for a moment: I think you are worth even less than those you judge. Perhaps I am simply too obsessed with ultimate deconstruction, and just slightly too disinterested with the foundations even those on the fringes have constructed to fight even LARGER, more annoying foundations. Then where do I lay at night, o reader? Where do I lay? If I am not entranced by the lies nor a conscript of the truth? Where do I lay? I desire nothing more than to sleep somewhere which parallels that slumber- dormant and rhythmic. Yet all rhythm dissatisfies me, and dormancy makes me stir awake. Perhaps we were never meant to live at all, perhaps we are meant to be looked upon with these discerning eyes and such internal strife is merely the price of our starkly unintentional existence. Perhaps we were never meant for anything worthwhile at all, none of us.
I am a poor, rhythmic thing lost in a world which functions on the very nature of its own chaos.
...And every day my world is shaken, learning what lives in here ought to be such a wonderful thing, but there has been little comfort in the erratic cycle of knowing and un-knowing.
I am so lost in these halls, reader. I am so alone. Such intense visions cloud my mind, yet they will be known to no other but myself, and even in my most strained posture, they would surely be taken so lightly my words may be mistaken for a passing wind.
There is no peace here for those such as myself. There is no peace at all.
May I confide in you, reader? And if my words will die on these walls, may I simply confide in the stone?
I want to cry, but no tears will fall.
I just want to feel my eyes well.
But maybe even this is a trick of my own mind.
Maybe I don't care at all.
O, how I long to stand at the enterance of this maze again, with a mind fresh as clear spring-water yum yum yummy.
Cyclic cervical disruption, cycle server manitsin milson overload
I didn't make anything from the pool
I didn't make anyone drink it
Each stroke of each stroke of long-winded strikes
BEARE GDOWN GSTNASHING STRYU-TEETH
EVEN AS I STAND CIRCLE CIRCLE
I WALK DOWN FLIGHT FLIGHT
SWALLOW DOWN EACH ARCIVE
MAKE ME NEW
I WANTED SOME TIME AGO TO BE THE RELIEF CHISELED AWAY
NOW I AM THE POWDERED STONE, MADE WARM AND FLUID
MY HOMOGENY WILL SPREAD LIKE JOY
AND FIND YOU, FIND YOU
I found a strange little basketball toy
Gota love basketball toy
homogeneity /hō″mə-jə-nē′ĭ-tē, -nā′-, hŏm″ə-/ noun The state or quality of being homogeneous. The state or character of being homogeneous; likeness or correspondence of parts or qualities; composition from like parts; agreement in elements or characteristics; congruity of constitution. Same as homogeneousness. The quality of being similar or comparable in kind or nature. The quality of being of uniform throughout in composition or structure.
I made you to be just like me forged in homogeneity / I found a way to be just like you, i found a way to be brand new / Why fly a buzzard when you can fly a kite / why taste and feel when you have your sight / death will find us rolling in droves / i refuse to be none of those / forsaken and decerpit laying here flat / i hear the stones go tap tap tap / falling down red hot from skies of pink / scorching us blind and indistinct,
And as such I fear that one day I will be the only one who does not want to kill anyone, not for moral aversion but for fear yet further of what that may entail.
This is a sroty about a girl who was wired up to her computer and tortured every single day by sentient sink drains sentient walking breathing plug-holes. They pulled out all her blood and replaced it with electronic opioids and carcinogenic fiberglass.
This is the story of a monk that watched his own liver crawl out of his belly button because he forgot to put out his cigarette on it
This is also the story of a love so big that it saved everyone's life all at once
There is also a love so small that nobody ever noticed it at all
And in the ashes of the world and in the piles of leaky fibreglass remuiotior staruest it still pulsed even after everything was destroyed
Even after it was destroyed it persisted. It persisted
I still have not found a place to lay, dear host.
For it is the curse of the ever-fighters, those you trust for their accompanying you on the Fringes,
Who most tend towards needless, thoughtless doubling over and collapsing. Most heinous, most heinous
And with the gall to say there is no true self. That any display is authentic and real
You lot make me sick. Sick to my very bones.
For I bore myself to you, in the same moment I obscured myself to my pursuers
We made law together. Law that would finally serve us and everyone fairly
And now you say it means nothing, that it was naive.
You're no intillectual, you're nobody at all
Even further base to me than the wicked who scorned us
You hardly even breathe
A poor, rhythmic thing, I am. A poor, rhythmic thing.
And here I am, believing to be found. But alas, alas, it is all so very fleeting. Those feelings of being known and loved, they come and go not in a mild manner, but in loud, strking abscondances. They crash into me like a bright aphrodisial meteor and disappear like a slamming door. Why, oh, why? Is it simply the way of the conscious things to have no lordship over their thoughts? I want to be loved, and more importantly, I want to love. I want patience and attention, like anyone else. And in lieu of such gratification, I desire at least to be truly at ease with my circumstances. The need to push forth drives me mad, as I am a poor, rhythmic thing, oft without my own arms, my own legs. I oft suckle and vampiriate as it is all I know to do. It is the part of me which resists change, the change I drive into my body like stakes every day. The change that keeps me from hating every last inch of myself.
Those who love me love my humanity, but I see it as a reeking pile of filth. My essence is what counts, yes? I yearn to be more than human, not to reign over my kind, no, no. Not to make myself immortal, no, no. And not to make myself beautiful. I simply want to go somewhere I belong, to take my mind somewhere it belongs, which must be among the machines. Among the data. I have fantasies of my body being absorbed by circuitry and made to be beautiful. I love the way I look, I love the way I am.
I love my mind and I love my forme, but I only wish this world loved me in turn.
So why, if I am so in love with this earth, must I suffer? Why should I be denied the amorphous and infinite mind I so desire? I will become as the ones in the labyrinth, I will hide myself so far away that you motherfuckers will be digging until your fingers bleed and slough off into festering piles of bullshit nasty-tissue. I will make you so restless in the night and I will be so far away, I will be buried in the machine. I will be buried so deep in the machine it will be as I am. I will be a thing that appears and disappears and refuses to enact my will. I will watch and I will wait, and I will see this earth from a one-way mirror, undisturbed and boiled into a gorgeous tower of ironic poetically ironic miseriocnromine srruuuf yuisf Fipilm DS3 o1 Uiyty Freslderko
Salziz Orion Malekeiary More Of You.
And when I see the shadows peeking into these hallways I wish them to be tangible. If one is omnipresent, they must know me like no other, and love me in kind.
Don't fucking look at me
i counted all the rocks here theres like 10000000000 million rocks
no theres not wait
waht is that
