short haired raven

My short haired raven
of the night
Enchanting me on the
very first sight
Sigh after sigh after sigh
And I can't even dare to try
For what good has ever come
Ever, from things I have done

Ice creams were to be had
But where is it really going,
And as such,
The things that make me sad
Were talked of and I wondered
if I had again blundered
into the trap of the flow
when you just want to go
and go and go and go.

For it is true that one cannot
feel, it's true: not a lot
A pinch and a pull; here and there
You know: just enough
to show that I care.
One cannot, for gods' sake
feel that much, it's all mostly fake
Nay, not fake as such, that's a bit much
Just good manners and all,
they do a man make
and make no mistake.

So what is it this time, I ask
What do I do to get out of this pit
And finally pull out the mask
From a part not that much of a hit?
Where do I go, where do we go
What have we done to each other?

Desserts finally meltInto evening of unknown mold
It is dark and foggy, and cold
I offer my jacket, as i have been told
the crackling fire, the woody smoke
where does it go, what does it hold?

And thus the story ends
With no apologies or tales to mend
We are where we are, nowhere to go
So let us give the writer some rest
and take things slow
For stories will come and stories will go
But ne'er was a good story
forged to be [something that rhymes with go. Maybe hoe?]
And the curtains are closed, the lights come out
And we finally see what the fuss was all about
 

yeah, a confession

of course i always had feelings for the person who would never reply to my pleads to hang out ,probably because she thought i was creepy. who was i tryina fool anyway. I can't fool myself me, not again, not ever. yeah, k , bye. This is about you of course sm.

Bloggin' like a villian'

There's a joke somewhere here. I should hang out more with people I want to hang out with, after the self-imposed exile is over.

Karl ove is a damn good writer. Note to self: combine karl ove and pratchett to form a super proto awesome writerly being. Even rushdie, sans the self-seriousness.

No one reminds one of anyone anymore. There are good things waiting to happen. Boston is a gross cold freezing tundra hellish landscape that one hopes can be avoided at all points in the future. Atlanta would be nice. Hotlanta, they're calling it these days.

Reader, the writer has become unhinged as of late. Geographically, of course. Places don't mean what they used to, and things seem to be changing at such rapid pace... it's either a really good time to get a leg up, or the perfect time to make a fool of oneself.

This I will repeat: there's a revolution brewing, in the hearts and minds of people, among the nursery school teachers to those skipping classes in high schools, to doctors and engineers. I know, I've heard them whisper, complain, and throw hands and give up. No one seems to be able to see it. The power it would unleash would be something worth watching. One has been placed with the foresight, and resources perhaps, to nudge things in just the right direction. Just not the courage, or the time. We will see how things go.

Words and Promises made

I started with pop culture books. Fight Club. Gone Girl. Then I got into popular fiction. Karl Ove Knausgaard. Of course, Karl Ove, of course. And soon, I will be working on the masters. The Russians. Solzhenitsyn. I will work my way backward, and turn myself into an intelligent, well-read man.

I am not exiled. Even joking that I am in a self-exile would be demeaning to anyone who has had experience with actual exile. It was just moving for work. To a place that may not be Siberia, but socially, might as well be. These are long stories that shall wait to be told. Stories from Hotlanta still need to be told.

It's all about the jealousy, of course. You, dear reader, are most definitely having a much fulfilling, lovely, satisfied life than I am. The very fact that I worry about such things weekly gives me away. But I shall outread and outsmart all of fun-havers, and in the end, we shall discover who's the winner. The winner is, of course, no one, as we all die and every sort of contest that humans have is pointless, specially those regarding happiness. Regardless, one has been reading a lot as of late. 10 books a week kind of reading. Yuhhp.

Good day to you too, suckerrrz! We all die pointless deaths!

Some fuckshit about some jackshit birds of some fuckity shitty feathers hanging out fucking together

Let us begin with a disclaimer: It is not confirmed when we state 'fucking together' that they were indeed involved in some sort of sexual activity that may be understood to mean 'fucking'. It is to be understood more in a literary sense.

One does not become some fucking nobel laureate by fucking coining a smelly dump of words held together with literal pieces of shit. Just as someone does not become a fucking director by fuckin asking someone to play a very literal interpretation of 'idiot savage forest people'. These people just need to like CHILL DOWN, and fucking consider their lives and achievements, and talents, and maybe think about fucking actually improving their craft than eloqating in painful detail about how increfuckingdibly awesome and new their fucking jackshit creation is going to be. Creators are several dozens a dime in the age of twitter and snapchat and who knows what fucking jackshit app that your eight-yearold sister is using to send her nudies to some rando fucker horsecunt pedo on the internet.

A salty fart does not a great spice make.

The limits of higher orders of existence

Let us assume, for a moment, that there are various levels of complexities and corresponding consciousness. What is it that allows one to distinctly identify one level from another?

We first observe that all of them must be ultimately physical. In other words, everything is ultimately mud and blood, the destruction of which will break the complex set of interactions that lead the being/s of concern into the belief that they matter.

This includes the possibility of spirits, souls, and other corporeal beings. Let

Descent

It is observed that the descent to insanity happens gradually, but speeds up rather quickly. Whereas it might take one decades to build self worth and respect, it is seen that for all to come crumbling down it takes nought but few short months. Let us all take lesson, in that we must keep ourselves the center of our existential universe.