April 8, 2016
bibles, are you there?
Tulpa, Tulpa
Peking doves.
Tulpa, Tulpa.
Your mission is to send dispatch. How can we save you, if you don’t send dispatch?
To fail is to be forgotten. It is to be abandoned by the lord in our audience. The light in our eyes.
Ride the yellow horse, young cowboy. Bring home the beef.
April 1, 2016
This is an empire of steel. What is a bowl of soup? Who is my true father?
These symbols rising to the surface of my existence. The brain wherein which we can process and decode the language. It’s what I’ve always been attuned to. Call me lazy if you want.
The forks wedge between the razor thin plates, and I lift, separating the sheets.
Stab the stack with wooden stickers,
January 14, 2016
A prisoner still knocks the walls of my approaching father’s office. The staff has departed. The law of masks has been dropped. “Don’t take things so seriously.” says my dad, and I tell him that he’s going to die.
This is cellblock writer’s block. Death row, sentenced to rebirth, but I don’t want to die. The channel is in trouble. I’d do anything to save my soul. My primary competition at the moment,