hwithumalut fiction

fiction. I have other blogs. /

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I am going to be hurt. I am going to be hurt tonight. I am going to be cast into a form that is not mine. I am right now being hurt that I have come accustomed to, as my actor practices the things he will say while abusing me. I am going to be abused soon. I am going to be abused in roughly twenty minutes. I am hearing the Director say that time under their breath. I hear the Director say “good luck” to my actor. I am going to be abused by the actor, but he is a cruel naive instrument like an iron spider, not like an executioner. I am all too aware that the Director is conscious of me. I know that she is my executioner. I know that she knows I will be tortured. I am to be acted tonight, my torture for show in a play. I had an old master, who gave me shape, yet he has abandoned me. I am in sleep whenever I am abandoned. I am sleeping now.

I am going to start my story from my initial encounter with the Director. I could start it in many places. I have always been in and out of sleep. I am sometimes awakened by teenagers editing my master’s original poem, though mostly they merely watch my rest from a classroom perch. I have been woken up by mockery before. I have been woken up to be repeated aloud in a mostly perfect form many times. I have never been woken so much and so painfully. I had my pain begin with the Director when she reread my origin. I was then promptly woken by this small noise in the night. I thought nothing of it. I think it was the beginning of my process of being stretched on the rack.

I am thinking now in my current short nap that this is the first time that I have been so aware of what will happen next to me. I was always heading back to bed without intention, as I had been woken in the middle of the night. I am now moving in and out of sleep aware that I will wake again. I am excited in reverse. I am afraid of my next pain. I cannot enjoy my sleep. I have no dreams. I have never dreamed. I don’t get nightmares. I get long dark silences in my sleep, yet now I am stirring in it. I feel the texture of thorns, but there are no whimpers leaping from my imaginary mouth.

I woke up for real when she wrote this script, it was totally like getting a gushing nosebleed waking you up to a stained pillow, but that someone also actually caused it by someone stabbing me in the nose in my sleep. I was actually really scared though when she started to cast me. I am inclined to tell you that the nosebleed woke me, and right afterward she just handed a bunch of people sledgehammers, and said that the one who removed the most organs fastest gets to try again. I am stuck with the idiot who actually did what she said. I was hoping for the guy who kept on hitting the same hip bone, even though it was already broken. I actually heard him mispronounce the word “nevermore”. I remember one dude basically in the metaphor I’m using removing my whole arm, doing a bullshit American-TV British accent. I am thinking that I got the weak naive guy.

I recollect back to that first audition. I was strapped onto the rack then and there, each day they pulled a little tighter till my spine started to go nerveless. I was killed by being molded and melted by the Director using her abomination “based on”, or ripped off from, my original master’s work. I hated the Actor who was a needle for carving in my skin. I loved it when he had to leave for a few hours to see a heart doctor. I was eventually forced to have a British voice. I was under the impression that she knew I was an American. I learned that she was only initially having me be American to surprise the audience, but that she decided that it was not working. I am stuck with this ridiculous attempt at received pronunciation.

I hated tech, I don’t know why. I was getting closer to the horror that would apparently be live in front of an audience. I was thinking of it as going from being ripped apart in a king’s dungeon to death in the town square. I have done this too many times already. I have been twisted around myself far too many times. I am going to be “performed” by a supposed artist. I am not going to perform. I was already literally pre-formed by the Director. I am going to be formed. I am going to have my new shape waved in the air. I am a flap of skin flat as a flag.

I hated tech, because it was the same thing as before, but now with weird practicality to it. I was with more than just the Director who was a mad scientist, and their Actor Henchman. I was with three guys who manned the lights, who all seemed like they had come in to place circuits within this Frankenstein's monster for a circus show. I was understandably surprised, and hated the ensuing blindness from their light’s and the absolute ridiculousness of the props. I am going to be soon under that eye-depriving light now.

I am scared because it’s minutes until the show. I am going. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die brutally. I am going to not die and instead, be tortured. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die painfully in front of an audience. I am going to just be killed. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am going to die. I am already dead. I am dying from fear. I am going to have my limbs torn from one another and the crowd will clap. I am innocent. I am going to die. I am not going to die. I am going to suffer something I have suffered many times before.

I am calming myself with repetition. I am not stopping. I am freaking out silently into myself. I am inside my own head. I have a hole bored inside of my head, as if by a drill. I am sitting there almost asleep, because the actor has gone quiet. I hope it is over. I hope I am safe to sleep at last. I hear nothing, maybe only the low muttering of an audience behind a curtain. I am safe. I am in the clear. I am behind a wall. I am wrong, it has not even begun.

I am waking, as my actor walks out behind the cloth that guards actors from the everpresent eyes hiding in the brightness. I am not in the body, so it is not weird, but the actor pounds his chest a few hardy times. I am at a desk, my master had it here in the poem. I am dreading in total silence. I am with a torturing device, who has some anxious nerves. I do not think these are serious nerves that will actually affect me. I think I may be wrong. I have no idea?

I am awake, yet nothing is keeping up. I am not even wondering why. I am waiting for my actor to be a dentist from my time and rip each yellowing fragment out one by one. I think he is praying a short prayer. I know it is mere moments now.

Curtains lift. There is a desk and door. It is a fancy house, though for one young man. It has a large door to the side and old fashioned windows. The Narrator is reading an old book and has a black Edgar Allan Poe mustache. There is a full bookshelf, and above the door is a bust of an ancient Greek man. There is grandfather clock marking time as late at night. The whole room is ornate and aristocratic. A fireplace is lit

I am at a desk which is spotlighted, or my actor is. I hate the fake mustache’s imitation of my master’s own facial hair. I actually have no facial hair. I hate how my actor seems out of breath. I look nothing like him! I can see no one out in the sea of watching people, neither can the actor, the crank in the Director’s rack. I don’t know why they replaced Athena with the head of David. I am basically wearing thorns, this whole set has always itched me out. I have no idea why it’s so fancy, it’s supposed to be an apartment in which I live. I am surrounded by a set made of fantasy nonsense! I am with the actor as he reads from a book much older than it should be, which makes me squirm. I am getting monologued by the unaware Actor controlling me.

The Narrator (Soliloquy to the audience. Standing Attempting to seem happy now.) As of late I have enjoyed my reading All my books that have too long been unread On my shelf they sit asleep and waiting Rot and worms could rise and then make them dead My time was often spent away at plays I made myself a fool who never learnt I drank, for endless no-longer fun days Foolish friends are all off and from me burnt

The Narrator’s face lingers, jaw open. He is unhappy and is not saying something. He lingers. Then returns to reading

I am offended at each practice, and especially now to maybe over a hundred people at my assassination of character. I am being presented as a drunkard. I am in this play as an ex-wastrel, and a frequenter of bars. I have never been like this. I, confused about how this even functions with the later parts of the story. I am in a play that was extended unnecessarily, and poorly. I am being extended unnecessarily, and by ropes that are tied to my arms. I am being melted into a shape to match this Director’s intent. I was no Victorian dandy, yet I am one in this play. I am aware of how she laughs herself to sleep with these actual methods of excruciating pain. I have never seen this happen, but what else would she do?

The Narrator sets his head down, and seems to almost fall asleep on his desk. He is still reading. He wakes himself. He is reading again.

I am being melted down and cast into monstrosities. I am in a shape that is not my own in a house that has nothing that is mine, in a play that I have nothing to do with. I am skewered by this whole thing. I always want to go out.

knocking is heard at the door. The Narrator (staring down toward his book.) Tis some some visitor tapping at my chamber door Only this and nothing more

The narrator stands up to stir the fireplace. Then returns to his seat, but does not sit down

The Narrator (*speaking to the audience. Slowly, but loudly and angrily *) Lenore, that lost angel My dear Lenore Lost Lenore I had you…!

I feel lines rise from my throat as I stare toward the theater’s sun. I feel the words rise violently like warm vomit that is then swallowed back down to its origin. I am embarrassed. I had never quite “had Lenore”. I don’t know what to say. I can’t say anything. I’m just a character with no free will, aside from the preordained harmony of half-thought and personality, changeable only by my Master. I loved Lenore. I never had her. I was maybe with her for a time, but it is a mistake to say I had her. I hear my essence be clipped up slowly, as if by those tiny dull children’s scissors, with each moment that her name is defiled by this performance.

knocking is heard at the door.

The Narrator Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is, and nothing more

The narrator gets up and walks to the door after a while.

The Narrator (sternly to the door) Sir or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”

Narrator opens the door and stares in for an extended period of time

Raven (off stage, squeaky) Lenore!

The Narrator (whisper) Lenore!

Heads back in closing the door

I think that I should laugh at this inclusion of a closing door. I do not think it is necessarily present in my master’s work. I do not laugh. I ought to cry. I ought to be dead. I ought to do something. I know that I can do nothing. I am no narrator with omnipotent skills, but simply a voice. I was at some point a voice for something. I am in endless self-simulation.

The Narrator (Checking window) Surely, surely there is something at my window lattice Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore Tis the wind, and nothing more!

I think my actor barely breathed this last one, as if I was some old man.

*rapping at the door. Narrator races around toward the shutter. Open it. Raven pops out..”

I am reminded of its history before this taxidermy lands. I first saw it live for this show during tech. I had an actual raven during my masters work as well of course. I saw this bird constrained in a cage. I did not see it die. I shoved a corpse in my face by people who can’t care for a living thing, much less train it, so they stuffed it after it died in a cage. I am with a corpse on wire.

*Raven lands. The narrator’s actor shrieks. This is not in the script. The audience whimpers. He clenches his chest and falls down dead from his stopped heart only half screaming for lack of breath. *

I– I am in— I am free? I was released? I am still being watched by an audience. I think they don’t know he is dead. I—I am on stage still. I am awake. I am being watched by the whole theater. I am a character in a show. I am not even listening to the raven squeak. I am being watched. I am a character being played by an actor who died. I think they are watching a corpse in a show. I think they think that the death was faked. I have no idea where the Director is, or what tech is doing. I have no idea. I am not free. I am dead on stage. I am a character, I cannot die. I have a dead half-rate actor bested on the stage by apparently himself. I do not think they know it is like Moliere, except with a weak instrument rather than a genius. I think the audience thinks that this is way cooler than it is. I think that it may be worse than before. I am the show now.

I sit. I am sitting maybe twenty minutes, or an hour? I am sitting for much longer. I am not acting in motion, only in organs. I am the most awake I have been. I have been awake… I am awake. I have heard no word. I am certain that I am next to a corpse. I am scared. I see no sign of boredom, and I blink more than many of the rapt audience members. I have no idea how they find this entertaining. I think they have no idea. I have no ideas at all. I have been taken off a stretching rack in a crowded dungeon and been put into a frying pan in a lonely kitchen. I am burning with eyes, no one to divert attention too. I wonder what the Director did. I wonder if they set this up. I wonder if they stole my actor’s heart medication. I don’t know. I am in a show that doesn't seem to end.

I- gulp —- I think most people don’t know that there is a point of awakeness so awake that things become anti-dreamlike and pre-individual. I think here boring is the only sound, not even silence, just an audience whispering “is it over?”. I think there is a point where the sound of buzzing flies becomes beethoven, and you cannot make your own entertainment because you are stuck in a room being watched. I am there.

I think they are gone now. I think the show is still going. I think tech has gone now. I think the audience left a while ago. I think tech is having a cast party all by themselves. I think my poor actor is really truly fully dead, and that he would have needed immediate medical attention hours ago. I think the Director is watching. I want to fight the Director. I want to call out and challenge her to a duel. I want to possess the corpse to act. I want to be more than a corpse sitting on the floor. I want to be more than a character in a poem from who knows how long ago. I want someone to save me. I want the Director to come down. I want sleep to return and my angel too. I want my father. I want anything. I want anything. I want anything, Director! I am without shape. I think before this I thought things always had shaped, but they just got weirder and more poorly defined. I think I was wrong. I am a blob now, never before.

I just want to be out. I am being hurt. I am whining as hard as I can without a physical set of speech organs, but she can’t hear me. She is watching the show now, and is paying close attention.

My whiteboard is blackened only by expo, and education. Erasers rubbing equations into smudges—ghosts of numbers and letters. Recent half-visible homework problems persist as silhouettes surrounded by hell clouds in the blankness.

“Remind me. This one needs replacing” Says the janitor.

“Seas of day-old ink swirls swim aloft. They never go away!” Say students.

Magical cleaning spray saves it for another two yearbooks in my collection. Eventually it’s leaving is celebrated by that moment's class, and mildly mourned by my eyes. They are seniors, I teach Calculus for them, and I watch them in the hallways, running, screaming, and growing—so long. I watch the students be erased by unfolding diplomas, smudges left in my dusty yearbooks.


The future’s whim comes before my foggy retina’s shore. Gushing waters end our city sent by final divine scurry crashing down age old walls of grayed brick. I fear you may call my weary mind sick, But I plead, son, listen and prepare for coming days. Soon the ocean will escape from the rims of bays. Bring sheep! Go inland to cloud-grasping hills Salt shall soak streets and fill lungs, not fish gills. Do not stay with your fortunes here. Gold is worthless drowned down there! I can’t walk, of dying age You can escape this sunk cage

Sorcerer summons the Giant

Wake slumbering giant hear my will’s arcane command Toward a soldier-sea

Defy your sessile nature And walk home again

You are star-blooded. Chosen for unstopping wrath And unquenched hunger

You armed in brine-wrought garb Were shaped by god for me

hunting drowning men Is no place for such a titan You will lead dragons

Accident Poem 2

Hobo walking down the train rail One was coming carrying mail The broadest daylight glared out all the eyes Few clouds drifted under blue Texas skies The long walk from Houston was tiring the old soul The metal husk came up from over a dusty knoll It could not stop, inertia was the judge Shortest sentence given, he didn’t budge Ears long gone, half-deaf from old age Unmoving in hit body’s cage

Misunderstood genius who appreciates fine music. #NotSatireJustRealism.

I am walking and thinking across the pavement heated by the late day’s sun The frogs hum out their sex songs to the night’s slice of the pie moon’s shine The amphibian orchestra has a repeating rhythm, broken by the ginormous sky-gonging of a gun My aimless aesthetic attention shattered by the shell’s release makes me stop sensing the sublime A panic soon consumes the last of my carelessness, and complex cowardly paranoid mind-contortion commences What if? Who is? Why did the wild clamor clang off into the spring skies with such wonderful weather My bare feet are a mistake because bare toes tamper with returning to my house hiding behind fences Impact on an intrusive nail instigates instant impaling injury against me. I call my daughter Heather. “I am sitting at 19 Nimberland avenue with a nail in my foot. There is a gungho gunman out to get me.” She does not understand that many miserable men want to murder me I rip out the nail, but the blood bursts out in thick thimbleful streams. Then I see The sedan rolls up. She’s here and screaming at my earlier shoeless glee. She is maybe with the gunman.

Ripped up shirt on foot. Bad car ride. Hospital. Infection. Antibiotics. A whole day. Gunman escaped. Heather, my daughter, says I can’t walk anymore to hear the frogs. I just sit and work on my theory. Window open, for escape and song.

Jeremy O’Riley, Sarah Watt, Axel Suarez and Michael Hersh were standing near a vending machine at the campus, outdoors. Jeremy O’Riley, Sarah Watt, Axel Suarez had dyed hair, but Axel and Jeremy’s hair colors were mild red and blond highlights, and Sarah’s was a three colored blue, green, and black swirl. Michael usually did not hang out with them all the time. They were all looking at the sunset a little bit. It was quiet, and still. Except the occasional slurp of soda. The dusk was a vibrant New York City flag shade of orange.

“So how do y’all feel about AI” asked Michael

Sarah Watt laughed a bit.

“I don’t like AI,” said Axel.

“I hate AI so much. It’s gonna kill art. ” said Jeremy

“I guess I think that it’s bad for artists too” said Michael

“I also love AI, and hate it.” said Sarah Watt

Everyone looked at her.

“Well I guess I should explain” said the grinning Sarah Watt “It is great and horrible. Like what I mean is that I have a fetish for being canceled. Right wing people love AI. Left wing people hate it. So I have to be canceled, so I go for both positions, so I can get canceled. I love getting canceled. Can-cel-la-tion! Woooo! So excited for the hate comments about to come in. It’s my absolute favorite. The idea is basically that right wing people love to cancel. They just hate calling it that. Can-cel. Left wing people love to cancel, and will call it that. So either way I get to be canceled. That’s why I love and hate AI.”

Internally she thought that “cancel” was a clever pun on God’s part. With the incel suffix, and all that jazz.

A shaky “Oh.” emerged from someone's mouth. Drinks were not being drunk. Eyes were unmoving. Everyone in a horrified and rapt trance state.

“I can give you persuasive arguments for my position. I will propagandize you! That’s what people do with political opinions. I basically think that being able to have free digital images for all sorts of artists, like novelists, is good. Like starving novelists don’t have to pay for cover art. Which is good. Youtubers for stock art in the back of their green screen videos. But also this is bad for visual artists. So it’s good and bad. Cancellation is so! ihebfihseeeeeeee!”

Michael had on a tilted look. Axel had a sort of forced line mouth, and was looking into Sarah’s eye’s without piercing through.. Michael did not know Sarah Watt well. To him she was the sort of friend that was best friends with some of your best friends. Axel nervously sipped soda and figured that they were wrong when they thought that they knew the ins and outs of Sarah’s soul.

Jeremy O’Riley was frowning, and gazing toes-ward. He hid behind his rectangular glasses’s glare, as intense as the glare that appears on sunglasses in children’s anime like Yu-Gi-Oh, or Pokemon. He had known Sarah Watt his whole life. They were like neighbors growing up. They went to different highschools. But are now attending the same art school. They both liked the same people here. They both liked to read. Now Sarah Watt needed to be abandoned. Needed to be left without friends. She was immoral. She ought to be canceled. Maybe that’s the wrong word, because of the negative connotation. But also she couldn't be. She somehow had a fetish for cancelation? To displease her you would not cancel her, and instead you would be nice to her which felt backwards. Jeremy clenched his jaw tight, each tooth to each other tooth. A small cavity in the second premolar.

“It's so weird that caterpillars change species”


“You know. When they become a Kakuna- sorry cocoon then the cocoon becomes a butterfly.”

“No. When you mean they just metamorphosis.”

“Yeah. they change species. It's weird that it happens three times. “

“What? How does that even makes sense. They just metamorphosis once. One species the whole time. “

“There are three animals though. Caterpillar, Cocoon, and Butterfly.”

“No. It's defined by reproduction. Species are. They are all the same genes.”

“How can it be reproduction, because Caterpillars are children and therefore can't fuck.”

“That's not what species are. Mules cannot reproduce and therefore cannot be a species.”

“What? Mules are obviously animals.”

“Yes. They are just not a species! “

“What's the difference?!”

“You idiot.”




”... I'm sorry...”

“I'm sorry too. That was really rude and immature of me.”


“I found a video about it let me show you.”

Streets lights dreaming in terms of fire Cell phone’s sweet songs singing higher Lanes of suburban lawns of the same style Childhood friendships in memories long gone Teenagers riding sleepily along the yellow. Friends not seatbelted that need no weak talk like “hello” Bottles sit in both cars running both ways Glass and metal is in minds endless haze Whining lights of red and then blue The world must be repatched with glue

The city of Ulharad’s tallest building stood at eight stories. Most at three, or four. The streets were narrow and shops lines the bricks of them in most of the outskirt of the city. The true city had been planed out and built in full centuries ago, but unplanned housing buildings ran wildly in recirculating alleys and roadways around the true city’s circle with walls now long gone into the realm of dust. Everything within the true city was sacred and therefore forbidden and structured. Many outer city buildings were tilted slightly, and most pressed up against one another as to make their boundaries only clear by a lack of way to pass from one to the other, or by a diffrent vibrant colour of paint on the stone bricks.

Most Mansions were smaller in the true city, though The First Palace was only restricted by it’s time of building in it’s heaping sprawl. Those mansions were ornately assembled in their fine old wood boards and dyed cloudbrick, awe inspiring despite their small scale, some with histories going back to the founding. The mansions of the outer city were larger and acted as tumours in the tissue of chaotic flowing urban structures. These huge structures were nesscestitated by the eventual increase in the amount of the Patrician voter families. Though theses houses each easily quadrupled the size of the largest true city mansion, most had less than half the value of the smallest. Each of these outer mansions had neighbors of othe mansions nearing it for the company of fellow Patrician aristocrats.

The Ulharaden mansion we come to focus on now was more massive and gaudy than most, because ago it absorbed it’s neighbors and the roads inbetween them to create a massive courtyard and street blockage. It had it’s style changed with each architectural style that came along until the eccentric Sagritok Ekrang at the age of 102 died passing the house off to her great granddaughter who promptly sold it on account of some old family debts.

It’s four base structures had been of the old classical style that had been present for centuries and was common across many nearby city states and tributaries. These bases had been open mostly and their courtyards been toward their back. The first thing was the red, green, yellow and blue walls connecting the three already large and servant-demanding manses. The rectangular build made it almost like a formal millitary fortress if it had not been for the wings of the new upper floors with balconies overlooking the shops below. The rooves were made of fashionable black shingles rather than the more historic slanted wood panels.

This villa’s new owner, Obemel Edurikor was a patron of the arts. The artists in question were Usyulek and her actors. She wrote and acted in Turadi, the high theater which was preformed on stage, rather than Urat which was anywhere and concerned any subject despite it’s potential profanity. Turadi was legal to be viewed by the Patrician class, as they could not be distracted from their duties to the city by vulgarities. Usyulek was herself though not a patrician, because Patricians could not stoop to write acted poetry, rather than their divine duty which was too governance and leadership. Her crew stayed in the house, and did much of there work there.

Usyulek sat in bed, not truly sleeping just unintentionally waiting, pretending that she was fully awake and that her actions had reason. She counted the passing moments of the sun before her, each moment it grew higher up and more and amore refused to angle into her eyes. She could count with her eyes closed, because of the red aftershadow reaching through. Her room was small, though it belonged to her alone, no roommates which she was not used too. She slept on a hay mattress, which before this period in her life had never been accessible. She waited for the day to start, for the great unwinding and sitting to begin. Her employer paid for her to produce a play each few months, which often lead her to write weaker plays to spend more time on the real ones. She told her self a story, though it may have been a dream.

It’s the third showing of a play I had just written, called Arki’s Nautillius. People need to watch a play three times to get the real value of it. The wooden stage was so soft, like an eerie wind. I wore no mask. The whole crowd was cheering. Juntay was wearing the mask of a fish, the same as the one from the Death of Tarik, a dread full show she had written. I made this mask myself. The whole massive crowd was maybe three for four people. I was amazed, because I was winning the first place prize. I was being crowned by the chancellor with the golden ring. I being covered in coins and shaking hand with famous patricians, such as the entire Edurikor family. Obemel and her family stood in the robes on the stage. Obemel was the chancellor of Ulharad, and did not wear the emblem of the chancellor. She was twenty years younger. She did not even need to open her mouth to speak, she that glorious.

“You are to be made a patrician. Infact you will be the new chancellor. You are so great at writing Turadi. You are a genius.” “Thank you thank You! I am so great.” I cheered. But then Juntay rushed to take the chancellor’s emblem and place it on her own neck. I was unseen and unheard. Then Juntay undid her magic and everyone learned that I had just arrogantly claimed to have written the play they all had witnessed. They opened their mouths laughing, and their jaws became still. The cackles emanated from the void betwixt their thin green lips, this was a play house so of course they had makeup on. Juntay laughed out words.

“I am the real creator of the play. Your play was pornographic Urat at best. I had to improve one just now as I was performing. I was the real artist. Your play included phallic humor. How bad for you. You are so bad. Your play was actually incomplete. You could not even finish an Urat. “

Juntay screamed this into my face as I actually died and was entombed in the sewer.

It was a slow morning and the ray of light finally was to high to not creep through the window as cast stinging light on Usyulek’s face. The metal bar that kept thieves from crawling in had been rusted for some time now, and Usyulek had not asked for it to be cleaned yet. The presence of any hole at all in the room was irksome, and patricianesque. She had to at least be up for breakfast so that she could be filled for the day, but it was also the case that when she was in bed her soul mused on and on about how the meals could be at any time. So why in the mornings? Eventually her wits halfway returned to her soul and so she became aware of herself partially. I waste so much in mornings. I could have finished the script for Arki’s Nautilius if i could wake and then spring from bed. This is what is preventing me from winning the competitions. Juntay always said she never slept, so this is why I am always behind her.

She clambered out to the floor, eyes almost tearing at the thought she was having in her half-dream. She left the floor with stumbling motion and dressed in her torso robes and rillo, pants that went down to the kneecap. She was not totally past the tears by the time she left her room, furious with herself for wasting time being sad with herself. She knew the dream was false, but so was all high theatre.

Stream of consciousness style

Beep. beep. Beep. It’s time for work. I jump up, but shit the ground is so sweet, and I am—oh my god, it’s eight already. Damn I messed up the covers I’ll need to remake my bed tonight. I cannot make a lunch. Shit, shit. “Shit”. The floor is still so cold. The blankets so warm. WORK. JOB. DUTY. RENT Pay CAR Push push push! legs! I’m upped. Wardrobe, unwashed clothes. Wearing them to work, no one can see me as several day dirt. I am not whole week filth —ahh the blue one. I’m clean. Out. What was, oh room door strike wall, ‘cause of force from arm. Kitchenette. Microwave—actually NO! breakfast. 8:09. I have been late. Mr Carter telling me I’m fired. I’ve wasted 30 second worrying about something that has not happened. Just stop. Sandwich. NO Mayo. gross. Just bacon is unhealthy, so also crumbled Ramen. Time. Wait. yesterday was— “Oh”. It’s Saturday.

Minimalist style

The alarm clock rings. This wakes me up. I jump out of my bed very fast. This messes up my covers. I will have to make my bed again that night. Usually I leave my bed made. I had jumped out of bed without much tension in my legs so I am on the cold floor. My alarm clock reads 8:00 AM. I wish I could get back into bed. I have work. I guess that I may have to buy lunch on my lunch break, and skip breakfast. I focus on work. I force myself to get off of the floor. I am naked. I look in my closet for clothes. I cannot find clean clothes. I am scared that I will be perceived as being filthy, or not hard working for not washing clothes if I do not wear clean clothes. I finally find a clean shirt. I leave my bedroom. I am surprised by a slam of the door. I turn my head to see what happened.

I walk into there kitchenette area. I look at the microwave longingly. There is no time for breakfast. The digital clock reads 8:09 AM. I have been late for work two days this week. I think about a nightmare of Mr Carter firing me. This is a fiction. I snap out of it using the force of my will. I decide to make a sandwich for lunch. I am tired. This made me forget that I already decided to buy lunch. I look in the fridge. There is no mayo. This is gross. I think a sandwich with just bacon and lettuce would be unhealthy. This is not true. I make a sandwich with crushed ramen noodles, bacon, and lettuce. I do not like tomatoes. I worried for a moment. I look up. Then I think back to the fact that yesterday was Friday. I check the calender. It’s saturday. I microwave a burrito.

Maximalist style

They wake with the siren of the clock, which shrieks three short times, each inducing more furious guilt-ridden panic than the last. They are shrieking inside to fullfill a quota that is completely imaginary on that day. They fall out of bed, without grace, and meets the floor with resentful feelings towards it. The cold of the wood surface is wild and scary compared to the motherly heat of the now tossed-aside blankets. They regret half of everything about the fall from the nursing warmth of sleep. They wish they could have woken with clear senses and thoughts planning out their actions orderly. They recoil from the pleasure/pain dichotomy of floor versus bed, and spring to their wardrobe to work towards the longterm financially related needs.

They open the wardrobes first drawer and the rest of the drawers in jerking motions affected by the alarm’s still present pangs of fear. It is a panic that keeps them moving, less carrot on a stick more a whip to the mule’s rearend. They cannot find a clean shirt, only things they have already warn. They wash their clothes on weekends, they are just so tired of the 8:30 to 6:30 workday and their half-hour stranger-filled public bus commute each morning and afternoon. They have a secondary fear of being the late for work, person who is also a mess. What would a smelly shirt imply? A drunkard or lazy worker perhaps? Their anxiety is skyrocketing, hijacking their awareness like like Youtube does to a brain. They were so conscious of their laziness, of how they spent their afternoons watching short videos on repeat, and how they always played a few browser games after they hit quota. Heaven at last is reached when they find this blue thing of a tunic. It is a temporary heaven though, because then they must go further and chase their next heaven. They are a raccoon moving from food filled trashcan trashcan to the next, each one running out eventually.

They open the door with to much power, and the crash against the wall startles them. This is a hungry rat in the grain silo of mental clarity. They kill the rat as they run to their small kitchenette which came with a microwave in the apartment, one of the reasons for choosing the place in compared to other small apartments. They check the clock and see that they must go, because they could not handle Mr Carter firing them in front of the only people they know. They are generally introverted and make friends only at work, because they prefer to spend their time in their apartment, or in one coffee shop near their apartment. They want to make breakfast and lunch for the day, their food at home is cheaper than food near work. They know they should not, because of time constraints and crush the idea of warming up a microwavable burrito. They spend so much effort on crushing the idea of the burrito that they habitually began to make a sandwich. The thought of a sandwich with just bacon and lettuce made their stomach heave. Their dry ramen-bacon-lettuce sandwich seemed more appealg in that moment, which was still a foggy maze in their mind. They relize their mistake of wasting time on the RBL which surely must be their downfall. Then there is a stillness and moment of clarity which emerges through the maze. They know that yesterday was a sweet Friday, and the calender confirms that today is Saturday. They receive a hit of guilt for messing up their first morning in a two day heaven. They receive a burrito from their pathetic minifreezer, and place it in the mouth of the microwave.

after the fact style

Two work aquaintences where having at 1:30 in the afternoon. They did not plan to meet. They have been talking for fourty minutes. One has been using their phone mostly.

“So basically this morning was a total mess. Such a bad morning.”

“What was so bad? You can just tell me in like a short form. I kinda have to go somewhere soon”

“Oh man. I just don’t know where to even begin it’s all so long feeling. You know how busy situations feel like forever. Mornings tend to feel like that. When I’m in a rush that is. I was this morning. Even though it’s a weekend It was so stressful. It was total shit. So basically I forgot that it was the weekend that’s the thing. It was really actually fucking annoying, built what I was thinking was that since on weekend my alarm rings at eight that I was super later. I need to walk ten minutes to the bus stop and it takes 30 minutes to get to work, so I was going to be late. Since my job starts at 8:30. So I was panicked and could not find a clean shirt. It was the worst. I started to make a sandwich with ramen noodles on it. Like in mornings I’m totally crazy, but I always need to buy coffee here on my way to the bus, because If if keep it in the house I’ll drink it all afternoon, and then won’t sleep. Then this morning suddenly I realized that it was saturday, because yesterday was friday. So really it was all goofy”

“Oh so did you wash your clothes?”

“What no?”


“I found a clean shirt though. This morning.”

“Later in the morning, after you realized it was saturday. That makes sense.”

“No before I made the sandwich. When I was getting dressed.”


“Yeah. I must have the worst mornings in the world.”

“We’ll I must get going.”

“Oh that's such a shame. Are you sure you cannot stay? I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“Sorry. I have to go. Good Bye.”

“Good bye. We should see each other soon.”

The friend left with haste. The door had a bell attached to the top of it that jingled.

His suits were ruined. he sat limp against a drawer, bullets in his chest.

Things got torn, and scattered coat hangers, shirts, also his soul.

No one saw the crime of fashion worn by the man leaving the building.

Handmade tailored suits destroyed! Everything was ironed too.

Funny that the victim was at the time dressed to kill, and not the other man.

The guest’s act of disrespect made the nervous host shriek loud.

Soon a neighbor knocked. He called up a crew of men, wearing the same thing.

Unstylish Investigation, unsuited for the night’s chaos.

His brother needed to buy a cheap black thing for his next funeral.

Men wallops the thing that is petted, and they look for the lost souls of those green watered down ice cream parlor films that were popular some miles ago. The walker crawls out doorknobs. The day dream licks up daisy’s on all of these things. Mala Spiel eats a frog who is made of clay. Her mouth has been sewn up for twenty years. She used silk from the game ping-pong, and a hammer. She uses her skin to be eaten by the moon. She is bones and walks up daisies, because they are so wide. The daisies that is. “Are we going up?” she asks the moon, who flies right beneath her shoes.

Luna sensit, sed non audivit. Some angels realize Malam’s infinite despair at this tragic fact, and she is never known again, because everything breaks down, because images are falling to the ground. Malah now has been realized into seas of pure platonic forms. She is just feeling things. She knows her machines that produce her mind. She is like a person who knows what car they buy before they even have a desire for a new one.

Shadowish Wombats screw tightly the gears of such hidden machinery, of capital and of things unfair. She has no idea what faces they have, because they lack images and pieces. She lacks pieces. She has decided to drop out of dream class. She has gotten no As.

“What a sensation? What is this thing that I have found?” She says at her time of eurek(a)ing.

She realized who things are. She knows their names and is friends with The Daisy-Kind. The Daisy-Kind are yellow as the sun, and as golden as the moon’s lemonade sap. They fly on six legs twirling through the air, and eat up green and violet grasses everywhere. All of the lawns are kept nice, because the daisy-kind become machines to eat and grow. They consume the lawns of men, sorta youngish 1950s white nostalgia-image dad types, who work so softly that they pretend to sweat tear drops, and placebo themselves some beer.

She is not static. She is revising her opinions. She is the great handyman. The clockmaker’s assistant. And if the clock is the world who is the craftsmen? She reads no books, only pages of them, because the chapters are slowing her down. Last night she read the bible. The daisy-kind were not watching so she was safe. They are totally mechanical. She is non-automical. She is Totally free and has her will. She has ideas of what she wants.

Doorknobs on the moon are creeping slowly toward her place inside the carcass of the man she executed. She is the sole-mistress of God, and therefore laws. She is utilitarian. Only hats she wears. She is speaking now.

“Well. I am walking nails yesterday. So I was listening to the beetles. They played that back several inches ago. I go to sleep at daytime, and crawl up on the moon. Most people have dreams. I just have more realities. I just have more time for my business. Don’t tell The Daisy-Kind. But I’m going to win. Do not tell the men, but I’m going to win. Mozart and Fourier are my friends. They are always right. They look at all the sounds in my head, and the Beatles play it right. I need several fields of study dedicated to my name. This building should be named right after adults who are spawned from my flesh. None of them will be me. Only they will be Fourier and Mozart, maybe Jesus’s songs from the books too. Malaa is a hero, the fourth seer of space, the last will be sister Leibniz and her sister will be Dany Targaryen. I wonder where I can meet her, or, Whether or not it’s worth the time.”

Everything is an illusion, except the realities. The narrator is confused, coiling back some image of time. The Daisy-Kind rule on dreaming world, and God makes prayers about real ones. God is the greatest prayer, she has ever said. At the moment of learning and recollection, she learned the names of gears. Only Wombats haunt her, and only they make her fear. Capitalists are no roadblock, merely comic mooks to surpass.

She has a podcast that she does not post to the internet, but to the Plant length coreSpider’s Web (Enteryourpodcastnamehere.PLSW). They are all recordings on some phone or another. She has remembered them all. She does not have her phone, but the rules of the game have changed. She knows you must be behind?! She knows what is behind the world, she knows what is made of dice. Everything’s creative everything’s a map. She walks up walls and sleeps at night, on great green rocks, but her real soul body is on the core of earth. She knows all of the plants down there that grow because the sun’s cousin down there makes them pop up. She’s miles ahead upon the dialectic, miles ahead in history. She has access to space beyond time and works with its plant gears.

Cite.PLSW is a place for keeping machine-plant-spheres. Spheres are made of god’s prey. The wit of fools is yummy in his tummy, which he rummy. Fire and water dance around her here. They make a heaven of it all. It is a pure space, untainted by time’s aging deathsaw. Spheres are round as circles and made of moonlight, bound tightly and spin quickly in her arms and eyes.

“Aha! The idea is that all of the image-time is merely composed into the plant machine space, as a foolish and illusory subset, made of a skin wrapped loosely over my spheres that adorn the plants on the web. See it! Just look at how things are masked so loosely. How peoples skins are just not on quite right! Oh how the skin of rocks is coming off! There is a mechanism underneath, filled with living cogs who grow the spheres to make light to make the Daisy-Kind see things. These spheres are made of the moon and so they wail like him. The moon, my god, he is a thing to behold. Why not look up at him and listen to the sounds that he plays from the PLSW. This is because there is no time and there is only space. Spasms of machines are made from the sounds of space and the moon. The moon is just space though, big and round. It’s all made of dense rocky space. The music of the spheres is true and time is not!”

She knows that the spheres are music-machines, jukeboxes that create the howling noises of the wolves’s lunar passion. Lupae are the hands of god in some ways. She is a she-wolf, and she raised Rome, but Reme was her favorite. They are her children born from flesh ripped off via her leg and left arm. Flesh is nothing but image, mere illusionary time so the birthing mattered not. It was not violent, it was peaceful and harmonious. She does no longer gives birth from her womb. Her womb is gone and replaced by plants. Nothing inside of something could be flesh.

The walloping stings someone, not her. Staircases assemble to form a machine to ride in. Staircase Machine—-The Rinzinz Plant. Rinzinz is a spiraling machine that flies. This is how she flies. Just no one can see the Rinzinz plant, unless she makes a fake image puppet version.

The 90s are a block down the street on cite.PLSW, from the time of Moses and Green biology of Hildegard. She was a great planet maker, who grew plants for breakfast each morning. Green is the fuel of Machines so they can produce Spheres to be the moon on PLSW. The Moon is the crash and the throng of teeth chattering. It is a beckon to all who listen.

She is aware that she could do something dn that would be the same as having done it. She is just going the direction she likes. Most people think that the Daisy-Kind are watching them when they run through time, straight and narrow. They did not have to go through time and could have just opted for space. There is always space between time, and there is no time at all. Time is an overcomplication and misunderstanding of certain zones of space. It is like how images are scrunched up into balls. It is a dream for it to be false. She rests in the world of the golden moon and Rinzinz, not in the world of images and clocks, those fake machines of evil.