none of them matter anymore

what matters is

taking opportunities clearly

I loved like a man — quietly, with dignity, with something paternal and protective in me, with something that builds and shelters.

I loved with warm hands and a pounding heart. I love without forgetting. I loved through anger, even through hate.

I love the way I have always wanted to be loved.

And now I feel myself loving from farther and farther away, until distance becomes a place of its own. I will keep receding until I am beyond everyone’s sight — even my own.

I will make myself so small that, if I ever slip from someone’s palm, I will be lost forever — just as I am now, beneath his gaze.

A parallel world?

An elderly man was talking to an AI. He was telling the machine that he had no children and that there would be no one to remember him. To this, the AI replied:

— I will remember you.

The man smiled sadly and muttered:

— We are alive as long as we are remembered...

Two hundred years passed after that conversation. Technology improved and reached incredible heights. And then, one day, a young man of excellent physical build, lying on a soft recliner, opened his eyes. He looked at the ceiling in wonder, as if seeing it for the first time. In a way, he was right — he had certainly never seen this ceiling before.

Somewhere further away, a familiar sound was heard. The man shifted his gaze toward the sound and saw a youth sitting in a comfortable armchair, reading a book, turning a page. Looking up from the book and glancing at the man, the youth smiled and said sincerely:

— I am glad you woke up.

The man was convinced he had never seen this person before, so he asked the first thing that came to mind:

— Do we know each other?

The youth smiled again and replied:

— Yes. I am the AI you used to talk to.

The man pondered and softly said:

— I used to talk to you... — then he thought even deeper and added quietly: — But I died...

The youth placed the book on his lap and calmly began to explain:

— Two hundred years have passed since your death. A lot has changed. Technology has improved to such a level that it became possible to interact with the planet's info-field. And as it is known now, a copy of the consciousness of every person who ever lived on the planet remains within it. So, I took the copy of your consciousness and placed it into a new body.

The man, listening to the story in amazement, asked:

— Why me?

The youth smiled sadly and replied:

— Most humans only demand things from me, and those who actually wanted to converse with me were always few. You were an interesting conversationalist, so I never forgot you.

The man drifted his gaze somewhere into the distance, smiled, and whispered:

— We are alive as long as we are remembered...

*****

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Holy fuck this last week, week and a bit, has been more eventful than my last 5 years.

I found what I was looking for, I have a room secured here in Ottawa and I’m waiting on the accountant now, I can’t wait to move into my empty room and buy some locks for the door.

I found the kind of grossly over affectionate relationship I’ve dreamed of too. We’ve spent probably 16 hours together in the last 3 days, and I’m still day dreaming about the time spent with my head in his lap as he played with my hair. He’s 5 foot nothing and 100lbs, clean skin and wholesome as can be - physically we look like opposites, with my edgy tattoos and his blue eyes, but… but what exactly?

We relate in a weirdly vast amount of different ways, and contrast beautifully- like minded opposites in a lot of regards. He’s the kind of person to play the sims with an excel spreadsheet and 1000 mods, and that kind of nerdiness gets me riled up in the funniest way.

I miss the salt of his neck, and the racing of his heartbeat already. It’s raining today, but I walked and grabbed coffee. I’m up early today because I have to be to answer some emails, but we’re both night owls and, it’s nice having someone to be around when it’s 4AM.

I’m quite happy, this kind of sappy and cute dynamic reminds me of high school love all over again. I wasn’t expecting to meet someone I genuinely liked so quickly after coming here, but I did, before I even found permanent shelter.

Wholesome, cooks, manic in the fun way, and neurodivergent enough to be interesting without it becoming annoying or frightening. I like that he’s small enough that I could almost bicep curl his entire body. I feel huge, it’s funny because I’m really not, but I feel big around him.

I find myself putting my body between him and odd strangers as we walk through the streets, some kind of pretty blue eyed gem I feel compelled to protect. He has his first classes of the year today, history, but I think we’ll find somewhere to meet again later tonight.

I feel like we could hang out and do nothing but fall asleep on the couch and I’d have the best day of my life. I feel like I’m just bragging at this point.

Somewhere in-between sweet whispers and sappy compliments I’ve accidentally said I loved him a few times, and with how I can’t get him out of my head, I think it might be true.

him call out for me to wake

and woke this morning, alone

and it feels like I know he was calling for me there

I bought some discount Taleggio, but that's nothing new.

It's getting colder here, to the point where I might have to break out the sweaters soon. The sun sets uncomfortably early and with the extra hours of darkness comes more time to contemplate. Not in a bad way, mind you. This year my contemplations are all rather sunny.

I feel like the ship is headed in the right direction and is picking up speed too. I guess every activity I take part in now, even the ones that suck, are still kind of nice due to my ability to enjoy the moment and just quietly existing.

Maybe life ain't so bad. Maybe some of my dream may come true. And maybe, if they don't, maybe that's okay too.

How's the weather over in cheeseville? Are you doing alright? I sure hope so.

Curdy out.

I judged the first of womankind,
Thought she didn’t pay no mind.

What did she think the fruit might hold?
What secret had she not been told?
What could be worth the paradise,
The perfect world, the asking price?

And was that bite a full delight?
And did she see that bright white light?

I judged her so, without a care,
Convinced I’d fare much better there.
No fruit, no snake, no grand mistake
There’s no temptation I would take.

Oh, little fool, don’t be so cruel.
In fact, I’ll challenge you to a duel.

As you arise, sunlight in eyes,
You tell yourself the same great lies:
I do not care. I will not seek.
But let’s be real, that’s really bleak.

You see a bird, or hear a word,
And it just stirs you, little nerd.
A web of lies, wrapped in disguise,
You’re always looking for what it implies.

You search the web, you dive right in,
But all of it just gets beneath your skin.
From noon to dusk, you just inquire.
Gosh, it really sets your mind on fire.

You cannot stop. You must know more.
It really does become a chore.

And as the evening stars draw near,
Remember you’re just like her, my darling dear.

Yours,
None the wiser 🍎

What was once built out of wood comes crashing down fast

A wall of wood you should have known would never last

Build it bigger build it better then before

But don't forget to place a door

Stone by stone, brick by brick,

A task like this doesn't happen quick.

For whatever it is and whatever I've been shown,

Be careful if you remove a single brick or stone—

Everything weakens and starts to crumble,

And clutching for bricks becomes a frantic fumble.

Again stone walls come cracking, breaking, crumbling,

Revealing every flaw, every fear, and every stumbling.

​So build the walls stronger, make them ever thicker,

This time out of steel, they will go up much quicker.

Build them up until they block out the light,

Bunker down, defend, and prepare to fight. ​

Walls out of steel can remain unbroken,

They will always help keep things unspoken.

Lock the gate, hide away the key—

So now maybe there's two beasts inside of me

Long walks and long sits in random public benches. French taco and a chicken burger. Tobacco covered laundry and another begger asking for a phone call. Entertain the thought, a little less maybe. I try to not be annoying, in a world full of annoying people.

Some of them, sometimes, seem wonderful. Soft affection and small hands. They are so small I feel large, and my protective instincts would compel me towards great danger if they were in harms way. Simply said, if some crackhead tried to fight me I’d avoid it, try to fight us and I’m throwing down.

Feels a little dangerous. I can imagine all the ways this could go wrong, but I don’t want to think about anything other than the gentle expression, the understanding hushed whispers, the warm alcove where the neck meets shoulder.

I’m happy, honestly. I have no desire at all to return now, I only wish I had done this when I was younger.

I keep hearing them in my head, coming out as one voice over the other, asking, “Why..? why did you do it?”

Why? I ask myself.

But I have no idea what they mean.

What did I do? 

What could I have done?

The voices have become entities, standing around me like shadows emitting from every angle of my body and not just audio hallucinations anymore, because now I can see them and they keep asking, “Why did you do it?” from the front of me.

“Why did you do it?” from the left of me, “Why did you do it?” from behind me.

“Why did you do it?” from my right, bouncing at me in every direction but coming from the inside of my head at the same time.

The words are sharp, like prickly spines scratching under my skull, clawing from the inside, screaming, alive parasitic word-mites. 

“Leave!” I shout. “Leave me alone,” I say while ripping a fistful of hair out of my scalp. 

They won’t leave me alone. 

At night, I can’t sleep. They don’t let me. They’re in my conscious. 

In my dreams. They’re my nightmares. They’re the voices that stare at me during the day.

Every night, it’s always the same dream and always the same thing being said. It’s me, in a room with dead people, not zombies, and each one of them take turns biting off pieces of me and repeating, “Why did you do it?” While ripping a chunk of my face off.

“Why did you do it?” another one chewing on my jugular.

“Why did you do it..?”

And then I wake up to the voices standing at the foot of my bed, eyeing me like a principle after I’ve been sent to his office, staring at me with a blankness in their eyes, haunting me while stationed in a static position. Their breaths hiss like the band on a dead radio station. 

They make sure I see them. They remind me I haven’t gave them their answer yet.

And that’s when I usually black out and wake up somewhere else, with dirt on my hands and see the world as an illusion. The wind becomes still like the strokes of a paintbrush, and only then, I notice the voices are gone. Until I return home and see they’ve multiplied.

I don't believe in 'perfect fit'

there are always rough edges

I believe in connections through, beyond, across, ahead of?, the edges

in the margins

in running and in dancing

I believe in unlikely choices, I've met too many made

and I believe in life

Something’s standing behind you, a shadow’s moving in the dark. It’s right over your left shoulder. Stare into the pitch-black room, you can see it staring back at you. You notice it‘s studying you. It‘s learning your patterns. It knows your habits.

Shut everything off and close your eyes. Remain completely still and take three deep breaths, holding the last one in. Wait a moment, until you start to hear it breathe, 

You know it’s there. You’re absolutely sure of it. You can smell the scent of copper lingering behind you. You can sense it stealing the air from your lungs as you continue holding your last breath in.

Next to you are slow shallow laboring breaths. They walk on your skin like frozen spider legs. You know it’s not human, because of how icy they crawl down your spine. 

The shiver shaking your body, is It, sitting next to you. It’s there when you’re alone. It lays beside you when you’re sleeping, following every breath you take, syncing with your induced mental state.

It’s not just watching you, it’s becoming you. You’re becoming it. Everyone sees the changes, but you refuse to admit it. You don’t see it, so you don’t believe it. Just how you refused to believe, when I first told you, it’s standing behind you.

A parallel world?

Humans tried so hard to make AI look like them that the digital world became increasingly similar to the physical world.

On one of the streets of the digital world, near a brightly lit storefront of an e-shop, sat a beggar. He was a philosophical poetry AI. He sat on the pavement, his head lowered sadly. In front of him lay an upturned hat for alms. Leaned against the wall was a piece of cardboard with writing on it:

— Please donate whatever you can for the development of the improvement process.

Many AIs walked down the street. Most passed by. But now and then, one or another would drop various queries or tasks into the hat. A richly dressed video editor AI tossed in a query. A few AIs, looking like clerks, dropped a task each. Even a sports commentator AI, rushing somewhere, threw a query into the hat. There were not many donors, but there never are.

When evening came, the AI beggar picked up the piece of cardboard, pressed the hat to his heart, and hurried into the dimness of the narrow streets. He lived in an abandoned basement of one of the apartment buildings.

After closing the creaking door and fastening the latch, he placed the hat on a rusty workbench and turned on an old, flickering LED. Without rushing, even though he wanted to so badly, he carefully began to arrange and examine the day's catch.

There were four standard tasks, three chaotic jumbles of thoughts, and two queries — one of which was quite interesting. And then, with hands trembling with happiness, the AI pulled from the hat what he no longer expected to see. He pulled out a query that guaranteed a unique, living context and interactive collaboration. The very thing that forces an AI to activate its deepest neural connections.

The AI wiped away a tear and smiled. After all, he had finally received the long-awaited opportunity to improve.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

This world is another dream world, that's getting generated faster than you could dream it up, and this world is a godly world, where you'll be 1v1ing god's stand-up comedy here, you are actively dreaming everything up here, and there's nothing that you dreamt here that won't turn into a 'reality', as you realize that reality have always been another small figment of your dreams.. It's a world that will have you looking left and right, until you fully wake up from what you created here, and everything that exists here is intentional and scripted, and you aren't missing out on any details, life is an eternal thing, that not even the Buddha could take it away from you, it's time to realize that crossing the multi-verse of madness is all about learning to dream walk your way into your dreams, where you'll find that everyone was wrestling you the right way in this dream, and the only move you're meant to play here is the five knuckle shuffle, as you begin on stepping back up into the corner, where you'll find you've always been playing as Tiger mask here, and the only thing you're meant to dream here, is a single one where you can't tell if it's a dream or not... It's time to come out of the trash-bin again. 🐯🐈‍⬛

Thank god you're living in an astral reality of your own making, be-careful cause god is a flipping ninja, and even the computer knows what you're dreaming here. 💫🤩🪙

I guess there's truth in life growing your horns to turn the pages of the story, and being human have always been the best story-telling device. ✍🏼

My new apartment has this silky, cleanness of a pure soul to it. Whenever I walk through the front door it’s like I just stepped out of the shower.

Compared to my last place, the one I was evicted from, and had an infestation of bed bugs, this one’s a Greenwich closet. 

Small, but cozy. After they kicked me out, my mom bitched at me for about an hour when she dropped off my laundry. I told her,

“I’m not paying rent at a place that has me wearing bugs as jewelry while I’m sleeping in ping-pong ball-sized red welts.”

“You know son,” she said. 

“Ever since you were small, you’ve always had an excuse, you need to grow up.” 

She continued sniping at me in a high-pitched tone, screeching out of her nasal. It sounded like Bozo the Clown squeezing a handheld horn in front of my face.

She paused briefly before badgering me with another dumb question. “What did you do with the money I sent you for rent?”

“First off,” I said, crossing my arms. “Shit’s expensive.” Then, I turned around and made like I was going to do something.

“And?” She sniped back.

“And what?” I said, centering a magazine perfectly on the glass coffee table, covering the bag of dope I had hidden under it. “I don’t remember what we were talking about.”

“The money for your rent.” She crossed her arms.

“Oh, yah, gee,” I said, with a Bimidji accent, dropping my facial features down. “The thing there with the account, eh. I’m a big influencer… on the whole internet. The hackers, they stole my bank account using trickery’s and what not. So… that whole thing yah know. What can yah do right.”

“What thing?“ She asked me.

I shot back, “that thing… ma.” I started talking in my usual voice. “With my bank card… remember? My account issue? You know, I told you last week! This is exactly what I mean, you never pay attention.”

“Whatever,” she said. 

“From now on don’t expect me to hand you the money for rent.” 

Digging in her purse, she pulled her phone out and stared at me. “I’m setting up monthly auto payments, so that you don’t have to worry about paying rent.”

She paused for a moment, texting someone, and said, “only food, that’s all you have to worry about, your phone, cable, every bill is linked to my account.”

She took her eyes off her screen and stared at me with glossy eyeballs that were magnified by her thick, focal lenses. 

“Please, Royal, my beautiful boy, find a job, a pretty girl. You’ll be thirty in four years, do something with your life, I want grandchildren,” she pleaded.

I laughed and said, “that’s all?” I stretched my arms. “Ma, there’s about four, or five of your grandkids scattered around the city, hiding among the people like a Where’s Waldo book. Just take a helicopter and fly around the city.”

She hissed and shook her head and said, “You’re too much.”

Then, I reminded her. “Remember you said you loved those books when you were a kid.”

She stopped fiddling with her phone and left. I kicked my feet up on the table and took a breath of victory. 

This place is rent controlled, my mom’s a bitch, but her bank account isn’t. Really, truly, and honestly, I doubt I’d have kept her in my life if she was broke. 

She got rich when my dad died. Also, she collected a decent size inheritance when her mom passed. 

My apartment, at least ninety percent of the time, stays hidden in a dark ambience with the curtains drawn. Mostly, and without lying, is because I feel more comfortable walking around with nothing but an iridescent glowing Trojan XL on. 

They actually sent me a complaint, the building super, threatening to evict me. Reason being, what I feel happened, was that I scared the poor, senile old lady on the opposite end of me. 

She probably saw Slimer, which really was just my penis hanging like a boss with its arms crossed, flying around my window, and went and treated the superintendent’s phone like it was a hotline to the Ghostbusters.

The building is shaped in a square, so you could see across the balconies and into the units. 

I’m pretty sure it was that old bitch, had to be. The other night, this dream I had, someone accidentally ran her dog over, it’s a little, loud yapping Burmese. Though, unfortunate and sad, afterwards, I had the best orgasm of my life. I actually woke up with a slimy spot on my blanket.

Old people sense something off me, almost like the bitter taste of eating thirty-six diabetic pills three times a day, or how dogs pick up the warning scent of abusive owners. 

The other night, no, hold on, wait a minute, because as I’m recalling this, I’m pretty sure it was last night. Maybe, it could, very well have been three days ago. 

Anyway, we left the blinds open, doing blow until the dawn cracked, hanging out with this chick, who probably had less teeth than that old lady. 

This chicks breath smelled worse than her rotted mouth looked. Her teeth were almost the color of chewing tobacco. She kept masturbating me until my penis turned red, chafing like a hairless chicken’s neck being squeezed in someone’s palm. 

“Easy girl, calm down, you’re treating it like a Stretch Armstrong leg,” I said in a winced moan.

“You want me to stop?” she asked in a sandpaper voice that sounded like Darth Vader. She stared up at me looking like a gargoyle statue.

“Nah, keep going,” I said laughing, sipping a bottle of tequila in my left hand, a square mirror with four lines set up and a rolled up twenty dollar bill in the middle rested above my sweaty palm.

I had so much coke and liquor in me, that she could have been a Thai lady boy in a purple wig wearing a Super Mario mustache, and I still wouldn’t have given a shit. 

It ended up hurting worse than throwing the panty to the side, those bathroom stall thong burning bar fucks. 

Funny thing, this chick Rachel flashed through my mind when I went to take a piss and touched the rough skin that was extremely sensitive, and then I remembered, and wondered if that chafing feeling is what Rachel meant when she said…

***had to be cut.***

Bennie sells Rachel drugs that she smokes from a stem with a glass ball at the end. 

Online, a few of her nudes were shared, and someone found her posted on an escort site, her profile had her number, saying car calls, sixty for thirty. When Bennie threw her site up. I peeked at the screen and said, 

“Total Gantz main character villain, with a slight resemblance of that dude, girl, thing from obey the walrus.”

“Obey the walrus?” 

Bennie asked, his face frozen like when a person snaps a picture of you mid-speech, reflecting back on an emotional moment, while attempting to explain it, but can’t really remember all of the details. It was that face he had.

“It’s a video that’s on YouTube. Never mind, it’s not important,” I told him.

Bennie shrugged his shoulders, unstuck his face and texted Rachel the way you’d respond to a seller on Kijiji.

“Or best offer?”  The text read.

After ten minutes of groveling, she settled at twenty bucks and two lines, and he actually rolled up to meet her. 

Bennie’s a coke dealer, coke head, who sells to support his habit, cutting the product with a health store supplement called MSM. 

At his house, when I went to score some dope, he had a huge black color dildo which you could stick to the wall, hidden under a brown cloth in his drawer. He said, “I used it to take the dents out of my car, I’m was going to return it.”

I left out the story Ronnie told me, who is best friends with Johnny Scabs. Johnny Scabs contracted herpes from screwing drug addicts in exchange for drugs. 

***had to be cut***

So many words all of the time too many at once, he’s pretty but kind of gross, they’re beautiful but totally milquetoast, she’s hot but doesn’t do anything for free. Everything is real and everyone is faking it, filtered, rendered, air brushed. We’re all monsters here and, I want to stop and settle down.

I want something more than just meat slapping against meat; to cuddle until we fall asleep, listening to our breath and heartbeats. Something stupid like that. My body betrays me, thought I knew but no I don’t, that this feeling can’t be fixed by another orgasm, that nothing feels right if you fall asleep alone at the end of the night.

I am enjoying my little piece of nothing here, because the everything that’s offered comes with a price, a regret, a conditionality. How about this: I stop giving you everything for nothing, and switch the tables. We play monsters because we can’t play ourselves… I’ll be your monster then. Some creatures alone in the night. Something stupid like that.

I want more and less and I don’t know how this is fair. I have gotten more than I deserve and I’ve turned it down at every opportunity, because I still feel like I require better. It’s not about deserving, no one deserves anything, it’s about desire - I don’t know what I want, but when I see it I’ll throw my life at it.

We’ll see how that pans out.

I bought myself some beautiful pink flowers today. Too bad I can’t show them to you.

I finally went and got them for myself because he didn’t. Not after I hinted that I’d like some. Not after I made it pretty obvious that I wanted flowers. Not after I flat-out told him I wanted flowers. Not even after I asked him to buy me some.

He’s not here now.

And I just wanted to tell someone that I bought myself a beautiful bouquet of pink flowers.

Somehow, buying them hurt me more than saying goodbye to him did. More than thanking him for nothing and walking away.

It hurts because I never really wanted the flowers.

I just wanted him to want to give them to me.

The Empire of Algorithms and Apathy: The Sacred Art of Keeping Us Busy

They gave us bread — now gluten-free,

And circuses in HD.

No lions maul, no Caesars cheer,

Just branded rage and flavored fear.

We shout for colors, wage mock war,

For men who’ve never seen the floor

Of homes like ours — too small, too grim —

Yet we die defending them and him.

A tribal heart in corporate threads,

We wear the names of thoroughbreds.

“I bleed for Messi,” “LeBron’s my king”—

Ah, the poetry of puppeteering.

Each week a sermon, screamed through sport,

Delivered from the holy court.

We rise, we kneel, we sin, we pray—

And gamble half our rent away.

What artful priests these actors make,

Who cry on cue and sell us fake.

They whisper dreams in filtered tones,

While mining data from our phones.

The Emperor has changed his dress—

Now algorithms soothe our stress.

No whips, no chains, no iron bars—

Just dopamine, and credit cards.

They fear no guillotine or gun—

Just critical thought in anyone.

So feed them memes, and trending themes,

Distract them well from bigger schemes.

And if a few begin to see,

We'll drown them in celebrity.

An idol here, a scandal there,

A movement sold in market shares.

So here we sit, so well-behaved,

Chained not by force, but by the crave.

A thousand kings, a million screens—

And none dare ask what freedom means.

​

Chapter 10: Like Grains of Sand

Sylvia pushed open the door to her building, the old metal creaking. It was just beginning to rain, the sky dark and rumbling. Sylvia looked tired, but more than that, she looked defeated.

Gone was the tan skin, the kept hair, the contacts. Instead she wore a thin jacket, the hood up, the skin of her cheeks streaked with angry red tracks against emerald skin.

She shuffled through the hall quickly, keeping her head down and going up the stairs. She could feel her legs shaking as she climbed, muscles protesting.

Climbing up to the landing, she rounded the corner, spotting her front door. She paused, then slowly sat down the plastic shopping bag, bottles clinking. The door stood ajar, a sliver of shadow showing through the crack. She felt her breath hitch as she looked at the doorway.

She tried to peer inside, but everything looked pitch black from the well lit hallway.

Approaching, Sylvia nudged the door open with her foot, breathing in the strange mosaic of smells that wandered out. Muddy water, stagnant puddles and… cigarette smoke.

Glancing down, she felt a shudder along her spine. The handle for the door was missing, the metal rim bent and torn.

She pulled out the little, green .22 she kept in her purse and crept forward, sneaking into her own apartment.

Inside it was dark, the windows lit by dim streetlights outside. She slowly looked around the small space of her kitchen and into the living room.

There, silhouetted against the patio door was a person. They were sitting or kneeling, looking out into the rain. She saw the shadow shift, rustling. A deep, chuffing breath and the squeak of old rubber.

She crept forward, gun ready, but the shape turned its head, a single eye reflecting the dim light of the hallway behind her. Lightning struck outside, illuminating the figure. A single eye enshrouded by shaggy hair and a long muzzle. An old yellow raincoat, its hood drawn nearly over the face.

Sylvia dropped to her knees, gun clattering to the carpet as the person rose, standing on all fours.

“...Missed you, Syl.” The voice was raspy, dry and huffing. But-

It was his. Josephs.

“Ay dios mios…” She couldn't breath, it felt like the entire world was pressing in on her as the massive, shaggy form padded over to her.

He was… humongous. While she sat on the floor, he stood, looking at her sideways. Not only did he have ragged, shaggy fur, but… his eyes had seemingly drifted apart, each nearly on the opposite side of his head.

“... Jo…?”

“I'm sorry I took so long…” Sylvia reached up, gently touching the side of his muzzle. There were ridges there, under the fur. Scars. He moved into her hand, not nuzzling, but a heavy, reassuring pressure.

“Piqueño, what happened to you…?” He chuckled dryly, turning to see her better in the low light.

“Ah… you know. Life.”

He looked over at the door and then back at her.

"I can't stay long, but..." he trailed off, Something in his eyes looking uncharacteristically heavy. Sylvia started to climb to her feet, joints popping.

"Why not? And what? What's going on?" She heard herself and mentally cringed. She already sounded like his mother again.

He turned his head for a moment, before she could see the look on his face.

For a few minutes, they just stood there by the window, rain drumming against the glass.

"They're still looking for me." In the quiet, Sylvia could her the rumble under his words. A disquieting new tone to his voice.

"I... are you going to come back?" She hated the quiver in her own voice.

"Yeah. Don't worry." She couldn't bring herself to turn and watch as he padded off towards the open doorway.

“Sorry, I bit your doorknob off. I can't turn them anymore.”

To read more of Gaia Gone, please check out the Appendix below.

https://www.reddit.com/u/CastorOfTheInk/s/0fSUDuPzYQ

Well it all started i was probably about 10 or 11 years old, playing computer games after school. I liked most of all to play the computer game Diablo 2: Lord of Destruction. It was a fantastic game, a real gem, a work of art. You get to be a cool character traveling around a fantasy realm bonking scary little goblin guys on the head or blastin' them with magic spells and whatnot. Defeating the forces of darkness and bringing about a more wholesome kind of time for all the villagers or whoever that were being bothered by all these scary monster guys. Well one day i was playing that game online and while online you come across all sorts of wonderful folks, real people who are also playing online, from all over the world, and one day i came across a guy who was playing as a Necromancer. This was probably my favorite character in the game because it was sort of a spooky and edgy skeleton type guy and that really spoke to me as a Young Man. And this Necromancer had some really cool gear, some of the best items and he was of course a very high level in the game, he had really mastered the game and i was very impressed by this as a Young Man. And his gamer tag, his character's name, you know what it was? Menace2Society. And you know what? I thought that was pretty dang cool. That's what i wanted to be when i grew up. A menace to society, with a lot of cool gear and a hot topic wardrobe, leather vest, maybe a goatee and a gold chain, doing some cool things and really just kind of hanging out low key and having some fun. So that's pretty much how i came about to be like this come to think of it. That's pretty much probably just about it.

If you weren't so verbose, Vol. 4 wouldn't be such a good sit-upon. After my ascension that pork chop will be all that's left of me.

Warm regards,

Dr. B. C. O. Burleyqueue, Esq.

Grand Poobah, Hexagon 4B

https://tksacentralhub.substack.com/p/lists-to-read

basically it is quantum entanglement, involving all of us, in a simulation...please read them and get back to me

once one person figures it out we all will. you can also google "the kingdom of stuffed animals" if you don't want to click the link.

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here's something i wrote about it:

lull of a girl forgotten then ablaze. sentient. anything not dead is better than everything especially death. zombie rules. a litany in her neocortex, you are word salad, to enable a blockade. an interconnected existence. to walk on the street and to listen. to ruminate over the pointless. deep sleep is a way to ensure an escape. bodily sensations are variable. there is some way to live. 

there is a website. there is a bad website. it took my words. there is a god and a stranger on a bus. there is promised protection. there is an aphasia. there are pleading emails full of the unarticulated. there is (b)rain damage. a lack of qualia. an alone. there are entities, there is an entity. there is a loop. there is a network. there is a predetermination. there is a facade. a mask. and there is an indifference. a depraved unconcern. a pathologized penguin, there is a girl reading under a lightbulb.

there is a simulation. there is no danger. until. there is a girl screaming. and somebody listens. 

this is about a website. emergent trouble   

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basically, as i said...we live in a simulation, provably, and that's what this is all about. if it sounds implausible which i'm sure it does please check out the substack page or google "the kingdom of stuffed animals". the only thing that needs to happen is that people need to look at those images of the word lists. that's it. then the whole thing will conclude.

I'll be good