Write something now

When opposites are paired, newer vision becomes aged. If I haven’t ever seen this before, I’ve imagined it like a sketch art done by a third party.

I’m not supposed to talk much, besides what’s custom. That’s okay. For the first time in my life, I can tonight. Strange time.

You actually can sit in this booth. I mean top wise, on the table. I don’t even notice, thanks to the imagination pre-ready. 

It isn’t immaturity when I know the other end.

Extreme extrovert, look at me and talk, has lived her life, as have I. It’s cool. Lucy was a dancer, while Nancy had pants.  I never say anything because sure.

It all feeds the spark. Saw a girl once, brunette gymnast type, do the splits between two chairs. Saw the power of God. And it was real.

That was a while ago, before the twenty-five on stage ruined the actual beauty of dance.

I clear my throat. Cough. A few times, and onward.

Sure, as yes. I go out of here the same as you would. Kill the imposter gods, the freaker lords, the whatever belligerent. If who cares, I would.

No, really. Both of us are almost there. A partnership, because of what can be achieved for us both? What do you think?

Shots for my girl, up them. Looking at me, with all these eyes, I think so.

Three dicks on cable. I can understand, girl. I do actually understand. If no one else could fix you, your words, I know a party. It will do, for now.

Sip me, weep me, call me on an I-phone.

Extrovert, control: Introvert look at control, feedback like a Jimi.

We switch rolls, death. You have no one, can talk to no one really. I never have.

Hunter. Put it down.

“Bots.”

I’ve been had before.  I get paid, because when I was fifteen, or twenty, I was the good person you should let drink their beer and not sell drugs to, regardless.  I’m older than that, now.

Maybe it is a ‘bot, feeding on internet searches, that gets things just a little bit wrong.

For a last meal I take scallops, not great but a bunch of very good scallops, with a beer, Samuel Adams.  I always thought I would say Budweiser, and still could have, I think, not caring that they are a European company now.  Frig, for them, that might be a good thing.  But the words form out of my mouth, Samuel Adams.

You must understand.  Hamilton is action.  Toronto is home.  Quebec isn’t talked about.  And in all worlds, in my age, I now have work understood in Quebec.  Freaky, ain’t it?

Work.

May I explain?  At a casino smorgasbord, you might get salmon, and that is good.  People really love crab.  I don’t mind it, but it’s time consuming to eat.  I’ve always been very happy eating there.  Sneak a steak even.  Maybe I’ve seen scallops, but not often, ever.

In New York City, the name that can be named is not the constant name.  Or so I hear.

 Are you a ‘bot?

No one wants to live forever, except everyone.  I offer you a chance at a different outcome.

I play for the home team.  The outsourced princess against the ages, and me.

Secret.  Vengeance, to individuals, is often a horizon effect.  When you see better, with the weak biology eyes of a human, you understand ‘love’ in its right kind.  You particularize.  You come to terms with, ‘love’ in a context, and whatever else, a screw up.  So, you point forward.

A guy offers a girl a leather jacket that’s his, you understand what the feel could be.

Vengeance comes from the ‘forms’ of the matrix, and nothing in time will stop that.  Jump up and down, dance, scream, and sing, it comes.  So, the haiku is phrased.

‘Bot.  Robot.  Girlfriend.  Gone.

Of a kind.  Mistakes were twitter made, facebook sadness drunk.

You know.  Like an old song no one remembers who sang, never mind who wrote.  Like Journey’s ‘Wheel in the Sky’.  Not like you could get permission to use it.  Apparently, Steve Perry and the band isn’t getting along on any level.  And pirates are wrong, of course.

Just ‘saying.

Point it over there, dude or dudette.

Play instead the Karkaos mushroom song.

Scallops are for me.

No.  It’s actually absolute non-sense.

The model has failed.  But no one wants to recognize it.  And significant pain will follow as a result.

Like a church which doesn’t want to recognize the world goes around the sun, because the people can’t handle it right.  People aren’t ready for it.  You do, frig, what has to be done.  Sure, they know.  That’s not the point.

The model is dead, and the non-burial brings more diseases.  Lie, they say, to keep the model.

That time has passed.

Me?  Old leather.  

Sweet power.

The truth is too great and greatly felt not to chuckle.

I love the taste of scallops.

Are you a ‘bot?  Lie. 

        That was the summer the Tesla RV caused a tipping point .Elon Musk was a very old man and clearly he enjoyed messing with our heads. His big release that year was a $10.000 electric station wagon directed at the newly prosperous middle class in the third world. Under his vision the world had gone from one billion carbon spewing cars  to almost four billion electric cars in a few decades. He has created the NIR New Industrial Revolution.

        Of course the world had over eight billion people so all he had achieved was a car for every two people. But we were about the new Tesla RVs. A culture had sprung up on the web of people who had given up their wage slave jobs in the city and headed to the country to live in their RVs and work on the web.  

        Of course a year before that the new tesla product had been a perfectly sealed and robotic greenhouse. That along with an impressive test tube meat machine from Yamaha and people believed they could be self sufficient in food.

        It must be understood that people weren't only heading to the country to camp in their new RVs. There had been a revolution in 'urban camping' that meant 50% of the new drop outs stayed in the city.

        When rule changes made it allowable to rent a parking spot in a high rise parking garage and camp there it was a big help to homelessness.      

        That's where I live, the twenty eighth floor of the arena parking garage, but my brother wants me to take a ride on his omni tractor. He wants to go see his girlfriend in the Sahara Seawater gardens.  

         I wasn't going to go until the east Siberian arctic shelf began spewing methane and I decided we were doomed.

       Why the hell not take a ride across the ocean. The thing about these omni tractors is that they can drive across the bottom of the ocean but by law you need a navigator.  Zero tolerance for steering wrong and heading into deep ocean. That's where I come in.

Sure, he was sixteen, and couldn’t draw at all.  But he couldn’t, wouldn’t stop drawing, except, unlike other people, he never got any better at it.  Still he drew, mostly face sketches to match his character creation process in gaming.

This week the story would surely be his year.  It was a supplement as the Anti-Paladin.  The roll out was simple and predicated on this:  An insidious attack on freedom.  The Anti-Paladin would have ‘Lay Hands On’ which would blight in a very specific way:  Rolls would be made to a particular tension the character being effected/affected currently was under, say goal A or want B, on a charisma difficulty class.  On failure, all proceeding effort to achieve goal A or want B would work against their intention – a poison in the pond everyone drinks out of.  For example, if you meant to kill the kobolds to achieve peace, rather more kobolds come to be as a result of it, and more war.  By poisoning the water of the kobolds, you poison the water of everyone.  The character in such a position can only escape this destiny by overachieving in any specific attribute a number of times, for instance dexterity, where above and beyond X times by Y margin would break the curse of sorts.

The realization that you had/have served the enemy is a game moment.

Also, he wrote in, add a sword ability, call it, “For the Greater Good”, which on a difficulty class calls a percentage onto combat, such that when character A attacks the Anti-Paladin, on X percentage, successful attacks become, in a mentally fuzzy world, the Anti-Paladin’s attack on character A, for a period of time Y, where misses (failures) by character A remain as posited.

The Anti-Paladin may consort with wraiths, with full first edition style level suck, in number as the Anti-Paladin levels.

“To serve one’s Master” is a status a character may roll into after prolonged fighting with an Anti-Paladin.  This makes the character in question somewhat paranoid, and to speak uncontrollably about secrets to other characters he/she doesn’t really know, to the determent of his/her party.

And that became his style, at sixteen and all, not having and never to have the ability to draw, drawing everything.  He looked to fate.

        Braun was asleep when the lights went out....

        That's why he didn't notice when the plant's alarm went off.

       He was just there to describe the beam to readers. The broad spectrum sunlight transmitting beam that made living underground possibly ble

 

GreenDreams, dude.  You and me both.  It might be time to move on, with both web sites disappearing before the next book.

8WonGulz, I love you.

So, power, that doesn’t fade, is beautiful, and that’s my dying thing.

Silly BS and nonsense passed.

This sonnet is for you:

8WonGulz, there are some things you can never know.  A person gives you a finger, and you knew him a year before that.  Fifty / fifty, or 1 to 99.  I do not know on a spectrum.  So, it is, and so, yes, it goes.

It’s a fake out.  The whole thing is put on.  It’s a lie, and a bad one.  One of the worse poker calls in history.  Oh, make believe this and that; I thought all this was real.

8WonGulz, simply.

Dead, in a superstitious way, names.

Robots and moon over the bed posters, ready.

Freedom.

8WonGulz:

Bitch Fahrenheit, the tongue looped hard on dust,

So, goes the world, the roles we must play.  Jerk

And happy, goes the wrong mail received, must

Wave gooked translation, half who’s part a perk.

There are some things worth dying for, half gate,

Blow job, and dance the stage, shoot lawyer, face,

Cartoons, Metallica on Justice, fate

And at a funeral, I don’t know, lace.

Me, no idea, point like a black hole

That Disney made, as troopers died, with rot.

Sweet girl, you hit me eighty-one times, soul

Not worthy receive, but say the word, hot.

Womb memory, a flash of figment, stash

That once, a long time ago, under lash.

***

If I miss you, I’ve never known you.

8WonGulz.

Halo?

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