Archetextures of the last time,
taken for what they are will never quite be what they could be.
And you yourself will never be a millesecond ahead or behind your destiny.

A tale:

As you approach the moat of centipedes and cockroaches you notice a shining message in a bottle floating at the top.
Decifered
It declares war on your stronghold
and immeadeatly and painfully you notice an arrow shot through your chest
which is itself adorned with a message
heralding the dawn of a bloodless revolution.
You are its one casualty, martyr and ironically, idillicly as you drift off to die, your last thought is that your a monarch butterfly flapping its happy lil wings.

aw.

1. Dead levity in a deluge of dead letters living testaments to their homesick authors' duty to tame meaninglessness though wit.

2.being crushed by nostalgia for the dawn of time is a very modern way to die. Kids these days dont get the upper body strength afforded from a healthy dose of byzantine witchcraft worldview.

1+2= 3

3 days untill Im done with this.

Torts final > go crazy > sleep maybe > fly on a plane yes> see chicago through the edens expressway> see chloe

The sun thing goes hunting for sport

And at its core it feels alive while stalking

the bright line walking made moot by thoughts of being

Bored

when locked up in clear cold -cocked mockery

(ahem: mayhem ensues along the scenic route….)

Cockled and shackled in the wrath

Blotted and bottled in the black ash of middle night

Happy and able and babbling about nutrients

Too many hunter’s sons and not enough sun hunters

so I guess instead of bless

…. its time to eat chopped wood and chop wood and eat hot food and feel not good

before befriending satisfaction fore

the blood bubble goblet spills blood drops on our fable-tops

And I wont let the coal get ashen black like a memory lick

Salt pours out

lets get severed from the eye lid’s business…

I don’t take any of this to mean that the rye means to pry

But I don’t need to surmise from your eyes

that the bride means to rise before the slice weds the bottom loaf

Poof

holes in cobblers workings should carry the moonlight in to the trap

Muddled alacrity for other reasons than no.......

I trap the quick lightning and it bugs me like an itch in hell for a second of eternal nuisance and

I gather that rather than ask for aid in the old séance I sense its better to let it bitter and wither on the tongue before I open my mouth in the presence of souls fooled by our games who breathe urgently that their names,

silently lost on the journey,

should get crossed from the list of guesses

before they go and for get what they were

and they begin to blurt them…

and we misunderstand them so bad and I breathe one of them in out of an accidental urge

Now, I know there’s no need to eat fate

so far so good,

But what of when the false buffet is buttered by the art of dark summoned sour

hospitality propped up by the staples of pardoners out on the prowl?

The shroud of the hardening hour is like bleary eyes barely seeing arteries through squints

and things are thin

Not as they should be

Not as they should get

What are we saying here?

That now we are called cannibals when we breathe ghosts or that we could go for some animals right about now?

And then it dawned on me....

I am the factory troll.

the retread turn journey took me and the retired retard about five altered tickets and a full intinerary intern paycheck to check us out for good.

Far went I and prince Hal Salacee I hailed us a cabbie who was from somewhere in france If Im not mistaken. At the airport we dropped our bags in a little box which took them to a ramp which freed them from the cage which locked them in the hold and off they went.
We, meat puppets and all
waited our turn to be called and all and went instead to the salad bearing coffee refreshment counter where we had no reservations about making dinner plans right here right now and both got a bite and sat in the food court to dine.

At about nine till we made a dash for the terminal where all was well with the plane.
Now when it was time to buckle and bounce the captaine announced that his name was germaine.

Flight 1353 took a preety swift rise. It was a dark sky but the sun was up there the whole time.
we were told we were welcomed to coffee and complimentary tuned out white noise and views of the so low down earth that it was a little like they were offering us nothing because we couldnt see it.

I mentioned to Hal that when we landed we were bound for glory and he just smiled and said that since we were bred for glory we would be bound for a short story on a numerical polution rag such as a dog newspaper or a fog blog.

I didn't have a clue what he meant but I spilled my coffee on us both in a polite way.

We entered tommorrow in about 3 hours and one half of the horizon was rizin in gold streams of husk damage from the world egg. (I know that one half of the planet dies while the other gets born you dont got to tell me.)

When the great plains came up and the small plane touched down I was ready to pack up and get the fuck off when we taxied on the run way and the pilot was bewildered as to why.

I asked hal what was on his mind and all I got was a bored "bluhhh"


Today was the last leg of our journey because were home now and have grown weary of the tired and cold feast. I tell you this because I need to vacuum and Hal has found the hereafter down a small well in his village he wished in when he was a little villain
.