𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔰𝔪𝔦𝔠 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔬𝔢𝔰, 𝔬𝔣 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔶, 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔬𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶, 𝔦𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔪𝔰, 𝔦𝔰 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔢

Forgive me, for it is raining uncontrollably.

I realize there might come a time when I am completely me, the king of all things. I realize this is up to me, completely. There is no other way to realize this.

When we talk about our foes we know we aren't talking about enemies with faces or even unseen forces, ghosts or ghouls. We are talking about a generated stress of which from a complicated machine it can pour in down from the ceiling or bubble up out a basement drain.

And all the while, it still rains and shit is shat. But I am not this rain and I am not this sewage, nor am I the molecules that account for it. I am keeping my soul dry for awhile. At least long enough for it to grow a second skin like vinyl and repel every drop, smelly or clean, toxic or pure, and be so void of feeling that the second-to-second is so easy it's more nothingness than life.

You can eat five of eight hamburger buns from a rotting, store brand bag that cost 69¢ but you can't make those hamburger buns from a rotting, store brand bag that cost 69¢ drink.

The future is in celery and all the celery is on fire inside a mansion outside of town.

I've lost so many battles that I have been disqualified from the war, and it is only the lot of us in that boat who can truly declare themselves "Anti-War" and "Pet-Safe." So bring on the battalions. Our dogs are a virus and if you touch us you've touched them. Prepare to feel the disease rip you up. You can only have peace when you stop the playing the game.

I am untouchable and, by default, or by indifference, clean.