I'm in salt lake city! Fuck you. I mannaged to smuggle my own cheap louisiana whiskey because alcohol here is fucking baby formula. I'm stuck, by myself (except the polygamists of the latter day saints), in the airport for eleven hours. Say it ass! ELEVEN HOURS in a little airport. The elevator music is rotting my brain! My brain! The mush that keep me breathing is turning into elevator music. If I don't pick up soft jazz after this, it will be GOD's doing. The shitters are all dirty too! I gotta drop one...to be frank. Food's good though.
(Well, at least I managed this. I like it, but I never know. It's pretty much on the twisted side, maybe.)
Out in the water, surrounded by horizon, resting on liquid, feeling its fluid movement, uncertain, alone, scared, dying, soiled, but not recoiled from hope. Edward has just eaten the rest of his shipmate; the last survivor from the sunken and abandoned cruiser besides himself. His life boat holds urine and shit, bile and innards, blood, and all salty and sun drying. He looks out to the endless sea, where the sharks, the soulless, beautiful demons swarm.
He thinks of the third man that was with them who went out in a delirium; he had poisoned himself with the salt water when he could no longer hold the strength to resist the tempting blue water. He had not intended on stepping into the ocean when he did; home is where he wanted to walk. Once realizing his folly, the third man hailed for the raft at his reach. The screeches of fear, pain, confusion, and struggle froze Edward, crying. The beauty demons of the ocean took him just below. They fought over his body. Edward and his dying shipmate could feel the demons and the mangled third man under the raft. The raft bounced and protruded in the areas of the violent contact underneath. The nightmare was too surreal. Edward’s shipmate, nursing infected shark bites, became hysterical. His wailing topped the man’s who was being tracked by sharks. They were no longer brothers. He felt no pity for his shipmate’s loss of kin. He only knocked him. He couldn’t handle the noise. All that he wanted was to lay in peace until rescue.
He tosses an occasional scrap of his shipmate into the ocean to watch a couple sharks quickly take them over and under. He knows he will live. He knows that the strong and the willing survive. He keeps his mind set on living. He sends his body into a standstill; slow breathing, no moving, little thinking. What little thoughts he thinks are as sharp and logical as a man can produce in such hell, such testing damnation. Hours pass; he keeps his head out of the sun. His mind wanders off in the heat and into the blue on blue death of a distance.
He thinks of earlier with his last shipmate. He feels no guilt. The thought of what he did only makes reasonable sense to him, mere misfortune how the man had been bit while saving his wife who had fallen into the water while dozing. It was the next day after the cruiser sank and everybody was still in good hopes of rescue. It was Edward, his last shipmate, the last shipmate’s brother, wife and young son, and a stranger. The bites that he sustained left his motherless son in shock. Lacerations on both calves and a deeper larger one in the thigh took nearly too long to staunch the blood. Edward wonders how his shipmate mate lasted so long to come to such an unfortunate demise. He was the last one left on the raft and he knew that his shipmate would perish soon, but not soon enough. He knew he the sun was getting to him and the hunger and the thirst. The first and the last he couldn’t do anything about, but the middle dilemma was solvable. He began eyeing his shipmate wondering if he was even well enough to be consumed; if eating his shipmate would only make him more ill. His leg, yellow and black, that excreted puss into the cesspool of seawater and vile bodily fluids about them. His arms look well enough. He wondered if he should let aware of his plain, or if he should just do. He wondered how he would do it. He only had one object and the two decisions of telling him or not was left to impulse. He blindly stood with a small paddle that came equipped with the life boat, and sung it at his shipmates sun burnt, skin pealed, and salty head. While swinging the bout shifted in the water and his aim failed him. The paddle caught his shipmate, his last friend, in the throat killing his air supply. He toppled face first into the coagulated pile of vomit and excrement in the corner of the boat. He choked for air in an image from Dante’s Inferno. The nightmare consumed Edward and he froze again. Choking, gagging, sloshing about and the slim sound of Edward’s shipmate’s weeping shark bites inched into what would become Edward.
Rehashing this event in full image is the last memory that flows through his mind before losing consciousness. He reawakens aboard a shipping barge heading for the United States. He sleeps the whole way. In his hospital bed on land he wakes to his celebrating friend and family. He rejoices as he comes to a full recovery. A memorial service for the people that died during the ship wreck in put on some time later. He goes as one of the few survivors, but stays in the back. Afterwards a man comes to him looking like he should him but Edward is confused and clueless. He introduces himself as the crew hand of the shipping barge that found and rescued him. He after talking stoically with Edward for a moment he looks at him sternly and tell him of what else was in the raft with him. Edward swallows hard past the lump in his throat. After a silence, the crew hand of the shipping barge walks off. That night, in bed with his loving wife, the smell comes back to him for the first. He knows that it’s far too long far man to have blocked such a thing for such a long time; the smells, the sights, and far worse the sounds. The weeping of men women and children, the inconsolable sobbing, the endless screaming throughout the night comes to him.
Remembering the child watching his mother in the water turn to blood; the current was still strong from the night’s storm and by the time everyone had awoken from her screams she was too far from the boat. Edward’s shipmate jumped in immediately and started swimming. As the distance between him and the raft grew, the distance between him and his wife stayed the same. Edward, the stranger and the brother paddled towards them as they called back for Edward’s shipmate. They all saw the numerous sharks coming. When Edward’s shipmate heard his young son’s scream hit an octave higher he turned back to the boat. By the time he made back in, bleeding everywhere, his son had stopped screaming. His son watched in shock at the spot where his mother swam last. Three nights past while the brother courageously tending to Edwards shipmate and his son. His son never left shock except for sporadic hysterics that pounded their heads during the day and pierced the sky at night. Edward knew that boy’s hysterics was lowering his and everyone else’s moral. The stranger beat him to it. The shipmate and the brother both asleep, Edward and the stranger sitting across from the kid, Edward staring at the water, the stranger, holding his ears, stands, staring at the boy, and lunged towards him with hand outstretched. He heaved the boy’s head underwater and immediately the uncle to the boy grabs the stranger with no avail. The stranger and the boy tumbled into the water. With no sharks in sight, the uncle jumped in to retrieve the boy. Watching patiently, Edward awaited the stranger. The shipmate’s brother came up crying and pounding the boat in rage. He looked at the shipmate in complete sorrow. He rolled into the boat and wept, knowing that when his brother woke up, his awaking would be the worst he will ever experience.
Edward gets out of bed when he unavoidably thinks of what the brother must have felt before his brother awoken without his son. The sorrow, so much sorrow that is capable to any of us and he has snuffed it till now. He goes to his kitchen and drinks a glass of wine. After a few sips, the wine turn into his shipmates blood and he drops the glass. The breaking glass turns into the child’s scream at night. The screams in is head turns into the screams of his shipmate’s as he mourns for his son. The scream in his head turns into the screams of his shipmate in intolerable, unimaginable pain as his deep wounds rot as he continues to live without his family in a bath of shit and piss. The screams in his head turn into the maniacal ranting of the third man as his handle on reality shatter into a panoramic hallucination. He stumbles to his apartment balcony for fresh air. He hugs himself in the cold. He holds each arm in the other, tighter and tighter. The feel of his fingernails in his arm brings him back to tearing away his only shipmates flesh with his fingernails. The warm flesh slowly starting to show; his fingernails breaking against his shipmate’s bone, and over the life boat he tosses himself into the abyss where he should have been the first to go.
Fucking gnar as hell
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
Lao Tsu
Poor Old Master, his teachings where quickly despoiled.
Patience, Simplicity, Compassion
He taught wisdom the best way he could but so much of truth is not speakable; the eternally real is not something to be named.
He spoke much of the tao, but taoism today is as complex as any other fabricated religion.
What's with the intricate path of knowledge of facts and names and rules? All of that excess only makes fulfillment impossible. One day I will no longer join in on biting the inside of our cheeks in struggle. One day I'll be free from desire and I'll see the mystery. One day I'll be at peace and watch the beings in turmoil around me; waiting. I will immerse myself in the source, the source of where we all came from, and I will be serene.
But then again, again, do I really want to escape from what makes us more human, more flawed? Will I miss getting angry and dreadfully confused and distraught? Aren't I living to stuff all of this sadness and emotion in my travel back? Why should I snuff out the wonderful pains of life when I'm only going to be around for a little bit before returning to where I came from. I should welcome the sorrow and hate with the compassion
But then again, again, I should try for both.
Patience, Simplicity, Compassion
He taught wisdom the best way he could but so much of truth is not speakable; the eternally real is not something to be named.
He spoke much of the tao, but taoism today is as complex as any other fabricated religion.
What's with the intricate path of knowledge of facts and names and rules? All of that excess only makes fulfillment impossible. One day I will no longer join in on biting the inside of our cheeks in struggle. One day I'll be free from desire and I'll see the mystery. One day I'll be at peace and watch the beings in turmoil around me; waiting. I will immerse myself in the source, the source of where we all came from, and I will be serene.
But then again, again, do I really want to escape from what makes us more human, more flawed? Will I miss getting angry and dreadfully confused and distraught? Aren't I living to stuff all of this sadness and emotion in my travel back? Why should I snuff out the wonderful pains of life when I'm only going to be around for a little bit before returning to where I came from. I should welcome the sorrow and hate with the compassion
But then again, again, I should try for both.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Bret thoughts
Which do you prefer, a car or a motorcycle? I prefer the motorcycle because it is fast and dangerous. I have a car.
Of the oddities about us that are perceived by bursts of illusion, only the ones that habitually present themselves in the same fashion and likeness disappear. When they, the persistent illusions of oddity, disappear, what then does the person of unavoidable manifestation figure of the normal? It's so boring. So then the person burdened with illusion depends on a false sense of what's real. How does the person do this without destroying his or hers normal disposition; normal as in a relative definition? Very much impossible.
So give me that vision when mine's all gone.
(I wrote this not too long ago. It was on the clipboard so I figured that I'd paste it on the post.)
'A man stood weeping over the loss of his family. He could only think of the first passionate moments that he had with his now deceased wife. They were young and full of youthful games of flirtation. The times that they spent taking turns going back and forth between being unsure, to certain that they were right for each other. The moments of complete heart ache that she caused him in those earliest months; so much emotion flowed through him and he never new if she felt the same. If she did feel the passion that he did at that time, he never will know. As a youth he felt his heart go from so soft to stone, from solid to torn apart and then back again. She was his silver moon. Her silhouette is gone. In due time, she will not return as she always did when his heart callused. His pain was now almost familiar. He knew it so well when he needed her so much but did not want her around. Now his dreams were of her coming back to reward him for his patience. He spoke to nobody of her, and his children no longer existed. Instead, he pretended to have fun as he did in high school when she ignored him. After several months of pretending, his concern grew past hope and he began to think that she would never come back. He thought that maybe she had left him for another man. After a while, he decided that that was what must have happened, so he went through the house indignantly smashing all of her pictures to the ground in anticipation that he would throw them away later; the pictures of his kids were already long gone and forgotten. Days went by without him picking up the broken picture frames. In his many morbid drunken, drug addled stupors, his feet would catch a shard of glass and he would track his darkening bright red blood throughout his decaying dingy house. He never went to work nor would he open the door when somebody knocked to see if he was okay. He only spoke through calmly saying that he was sick and contagious and that he shouldn’t go out for a while. Slowly he began to exhaust his savings on drugs and alcohol and an occasional prostitute. One fateful day he woke up to an intense heat. He looked around, blurred from relentless and extended drug abuse, and saw a blazing fire coming from the other side of the living room. It had already spread across to the dining room and the office. He quickly stood up alert, as if sober, and looked to the back door in the kitchen were he could make his only escape. Instead, a vague memory, a tinder yet painful feeling in his heart resurfaced as a fond memory. Sadness and regret filled his heart. He stared into the fire that was making its way towards him. He looked to the stairs that was only feet from the growing fire. Once more, he stared into the fire. Suddenly, he bolted towards it, grabbing the stair rail and turning up onto the stairway. Burnt, he continued running upwards. He barged into a bedroom that for over a year was only a wall. On the inside he grabbed a picture and a toy of each of his three deceased children. He then ran into his old bed room and rummaged through the smashed picture frames and grabbed the one with him and his whole family on the beach; his wife with his youngest in her arms. He stopped when he picked it up to look at it. Tears had already soaked his cheeks. He grabbed a duffle bag for his items and ran back out. The fire was half way up the stairway. Weeping harder than he ever had before, he fell to his knees, and moaned and sobbed. He hugged the bag. He hugged what was left of his forgotten family; the people that not even two years ago meant more to him than he himself. They were his God. He almost gagged in his dismay. He stood up once more and rushed back into his children’s room and shut the door. He gingerly sat on his eldest son’s bed. He looked around and gathered a cache of memories. Every item in the room held more than he could handle. He wept and sobbed as flames flickered underneath the door. They licked at what was left of his children; other than his suppressed and damaged memories. Crying, he could hear the fire engine sirens entering his neighborhood. He gathered all of the photographs that he could find. He collected his favorite drawings of theirs. The door burst into flames and he huddled in the opposite side of the room, running through his mind his two only decisions. Fatefully, he grabbed a little desk chair and tossed it out the window. With his bag he climbed out and dropped down to the shrubbery below. On his way down, flames pouring from a downstairs window caught his shirt and he ignited. Rolling over into the yard he protected the bag, his family, over his searing body. A neighbor quickly came to his aid. Gasping and bewildered he told the neighbor about his bag and that it was all that he had left. He fainted skinless in his yard before his dying house. A day later he came to in his hospital. A cast around his leg and the rest of his body heavily bandaged gauze. He looked around not knowing anything. Not knowing who he was, where he was, or how he got there. He looked carefully at some flowers, a TV, white walls, a curtain, a tube coming from his arm, and a chair with a blue bag placed in it. He stared at the bag and remembered. Calmly he looked at it and feeling secure he fell asleep once more. He repeated this process three or four times a day for more than a week. As time passed, he gained a little more consciousness with each awakening; the nurses were able to explain to him his situation. His back was covered in third degree burns along with his arms and face, a minor fracture in his leg, a house burnt to the ground and a family that did not die in the fire but in car accident. Another week passed before he wept. Several months passed before he walked out of the hospital. Several more months passed before he walked out of the hospital. His detoxification was unnecessary as months on morphine and months weaning off morphine sugar coated his year long drug binge. He walked off with nothing but a new pair of clothes, his duffle bag, and a credit card full of money. He walked through the city, ignoring the drug dealers and the street whores. He came upon a man playing the accordion on the side walk with the case left open, sprinkled with spare change. He watched the accordion man play for a long time. The man never stopped playing and rarely repeated the same song. He went and sat on the side walk next to him. After a while the accordion man stopped and started packing up. As he did so, he walked up to the accordion man’s jacket a slipped three one-hundred dollar bills into it without the accordion man noticing. He walked off. Several days later, he secretly gave two-hundred and fifty dollars worth of groceries and supplies to a single mother with two children. He continued his selective charity until his entire savings was down to five-hundred dollars. With that he left the city and he left the towns. With his duffle bag and a back pack of food he entered the woods. There, he slept under the stars and tried not to picture his family, for he knew the more he thought about them the more their faces would change in his flawed memory. Instead he thought of nothing. He let his mind empty. He was exhausted, so he slept. He found a lake and a stream where he bathed and drank. He made a hut for when it rained and a fire to keep away the predators. He lived like that for years; as simple as can be. Some animals never live so simply. When his food supply ran out he began to starve, but was able to find just enough food to live on. His hunger made him feel better. His coldness in the winter made him feel better. His intense heat in the summer made him feel better. Not once was he lonely for a companion. Not once did he regret his life. Every morning, when he woke up, he would dig through his duffle bag and the emotion that he found in it filled him. One day, as he sat atop of a tree to catch a view of the forest he dozed off and fell backwards. The first branch caught the back of his neck pushing his body forward where his chest caught the next one. Now breathless, he continued to fall in the sitting position and landed on the third branch on the inside of his knees causing him to sing backwards and knock the back of his head on another branch. He fell, completely unconscious, like a rag doll, another fifteen feet, dislocating his shoulder on the last branch and landed face down onto the ground. There he stayed until night. He woke up with intense pain in his head and chest. As he tried to push himself up he wailed out in pain. He looked at his shoulder and shuddered. After several minutes of indecision, he came to grips with what he had to do. He prepared himself, and then ran sideways several feet towards the tree. When he collided with the tree, his shoulder popped back with a loud, low pitched click and a wave of shudders ran through his body as he fainted. The sun woke him up the next day. He sat up in just as much pain in his head and chest but his shoulder felt fine. Afraid to move, he carefully shifted himself up against the tree. There, his thoughts became anew. He realized that he almost died there in the woods where animals and bugs would eat his body. He suddenly felt foolish living there in the woods. He thought long and hard about his entire life. Once he reached the point in his life when he met his wife, a flash back of when he sat in the emergency waiting room waiting for her, thinking about the love he had for her came over him. Only this time he thought about the youthful playfulness that they once had with a healthy fondness, instead of with an impenetrable denial. He then ran through his mind the brief period of time that he spent in his life, alone, in his house, and how it really was a surreal eternity. It is still happening. It will always be happening. He thought about the fire and his children’s bedroom and the epiphany he had inside of it. He remembered the blur of a hospital that didn’t seem to last long enough. He remembered the people that may or may not have benefited from the money he gave them. Then, he went back to his wife and how he met her, and how from that single moment, despite his uncertainties, they were meant to be one. He remembered the birth of each child and the fulfillment of each one. He focused on the oneness with his wife and his fulfillment of his children, and for the first time he did not view their death as a waist of what he had gained but more of sign to show how purposeful his life and all life is. Beside the fact that the purpose of life is ultimately to live, he realized that the emotion that his children, only here for a few short years, had dug up out of him and the joyful ache that his wife inspired in him held so much more positive significance than the negative significance of painful emotion that followed their death, or the absence of both.'
(I wrote this a few months ago but I figuered that it would be suitable on here)
So we're looking for Siberian sex toys, accepting the fact that evil is an entity and not really a part of us, our minds nuked from a maelstrom of knowledge and a labyrinth of doubt, and my brother, a proton, comes by and gives us an everything theory. I say:Dude you give us this shit with all the sex maniacs, schizophrenics, and astropsyicists running around in our embassy? They can't sell me an ideal just because I don't have one. I just leveled everything they taught me wrong! I'm transmigrating!We then stoped for a drink on the intersection of all dimensions. Pod zapret a stambuljanskij k Rudiku v Kismet...Sojuzivka is still the best.
-That's all I got out of school today.
(Just fucking drunk( what
Transmigration!
Frequencies of love. overcome, overthrow
With a want for panacea, I see the world of people in need of such a cure. Where's the remedy.
I need a lead to how to keep going on to the ultimate on. From the streets to the subconscious from subconscious to the God.
Quien en todo infierno vendra y le cerrara arriba usted arriba usted. It was five in the morning and the place was still getting dark somewhere outside the city, mamasita mamasita dónde están usted ahora. usted no es sano son usted...ahora?
Going to wake up just to get drunk again; yeah. Going to get sick when I bite my head. Well here I'll laugh. Talking about nothing like a black cloud raining out so much. But then there's that writing that spells disaster; written on my wall from my own skin. It is shinning.
(you sappy fucker)
I will I find joy in all I see.
If i could only go down that river. To love the wild, to forget the name Bret LeBeau. What should I say? That it's just a dream, because I am awake now.
Free
Love... shall we deny it when it visits us... shall we not take what we are given?
Who are you?
There is only this. all else is unreal.
Who are you? What do you dream of?
we are like grass
True
Mother, why can I not feel as I should...must? Once false, I must not be again. Take out the thorn.
All is perfect. Let me be lost.
Why does the earth have colors?
Mother, now I remember where you live.
'So if you know I will survive, thank you for everything you've done. alcohol.'
Of the oddities about us that are perceived by bursts of illusion, only the ones that habitually present themselves in the same fashion and likeness disappear. When they, the persistent illusions of oddity, disappear, what then does the person of unavoidable manifestation figure of the normal? It's so boring. So then the person burdened with illusion depends on a false sense of what's real. How does the person do this without destroying his or hers normal disposition; normal as in a relative definition? Very much impossible.
So give me that vision when mine's all gone.
(I wrote this not too long ago. It was on the clipboard so I figured that I'd paste it on the post.)
'A man stood weeping over the loss of his family. He could only think of the first passionate moments that he had with his now deceased wife. They were young and full of youthful games of flirtation. The times that they spent taking turns going back and forth between being unsure, to certain that they were right for each other. The moments of complete heart ache that she caused him in those earliest months; so much emotion flowed through him and he never new if she felt the same. If she did feel the passion that he did at that time, he never will know. As a youth he felt his heart go from so soft to stone, from solid to torn apart and then back again. She was his silver moon. Her silhouette is gone. In due time, she will not return as she always did when his heart callused. His pain was now almost familiar. He knew it so well when he needed her so much but did not want her around. Now his dreams were of her coming back to reward him for his patience. He spoke to nobody of her, and his children no longer existed. Instead, he pretended to have fun as he did in high school when she ignored him. After several months of pretending, his concern grew past hope and he began to think that she would never come back. He thought that maybe she had left him for another man. After a while, he decided that that was what must have happened, so he went through the house indignantly smashing all of her pictures to the ground in anticipation that he would throw them away later; the pictures of his kids were already long gone and forgotten. Days went by without him picking up the broken picture frames. In his many morbid drunken, drug addled stupors, his feet would catch a shard of glass and he would track his darkening bright red blood throughout his decaying dingy house. He never went to work nor would he open the door when somebody knocked to see if he was okay. He only spoke through calmly saying that he was sick and contagious and that he shouldn’t go out for a while. Slowly he began to exhaust his savings on drugs and alcohol and an occasional prostitute. One fateful day he woke up to an intense heat. He looked around, blurred from relentless and extended drug abuse, and saw a blazing fire coming from the other side of the living room. It had already spread across to the dining room and the office. He quickly stood up alert, as if sober, and looked to the back door in the kitchen were he could make his only escape. Instead, a vague memory, a tinder yet painful feeling in his heart resurfaced as a fond memory. Sadness and regret filled his heart. He stared into the fire that was making its way towards him. He looked to the stairs that was only feet from the growing fire. Once more, he stared into the fire. Suddenly, he bolted towards it, grabbing the stair rail and turning up onto the stairway. Burnt, he continued running upwards. He barged into a bedroom that for over a year was only a wall. On the inside he grabbed a picture and a toy of each of his three deceased children. He then ran into his old bed room and rummaged through the smashed picture frames and grabbed the one with him and his whole family on the beach; his wife with his youngest in her arms. He stopped when he picked it up to look at it. Tears had already soaked his cheeks. He grabbed a duffle bag for his items and ran back out. The fire was half way up the stairway. Weeping harder than he ever had before, he fell to his knees, and moaned and sobbed. He hugged the bag. He hugged what was left of his forgotten family; the people that not even two years ago meant more to him than he himself. They were his God. He almost gagged in his dismay. He stood up once more and rushed back into his children’s room and shut the door. He gingerly sat on his eldest son’s bed. He looked around and gathered a cache of memories. Every item in the room held more than he could handle. He wept and sobbed as flames flickered underneath the door. They licked at what was left of his children; other than his suppressed and damaged memories. Crying, he could hear the fire engine sirens entering his neighborhood. He gathered all of the photographs that he could find. He collected his favorite drawings of theirs. The door burst into flames and he huddled in the opposite side of the room, running through his mind his two only decisions. Fatefully, he grabbed a little desk chair and tossed it out the window. With his bag he climbed out and dropped down to the shrubbery below. On his way down, flames pouring from a downstairs window caught his shirt and he ignited. Rolling over into the yard he protected the bag, his family, over his searing body. A neighbor quickly came to his aid. Gasping and bewildered he told the neighbor about his bag and that it was all that he had left. He fainted skinless in his yard before his dying house. A day later he came to in his hospital. A cast around his leg and the rest of his body heavily bandaged gauze. He looked around not knowing anything. Not knowing who he was, where he was, or how he got there. He looked carefully at some flowers, a TV, white walls, a curtain, a tube coming from his arm, and a chair with a blue bag placed in it. He stared at the bag and remembered. Calmly he looked at it and feeling secure he fell asleep once more. He repeated this process three or four times a day for more than a week. As time passed, he gained a little more consciousness with each awakening; the nurses were able to explain to him his situation. His back was covered in third degree burns along with his arms and face, a minor fracture in his leg, a house burnt to the ground and a family that did not die in the fire but in car accident. Another week passed before he wept. Several months passed before he walked out of the hospital. Several more months passed before he walked out of the hospital. His detoxification was unnecessary as months on morphine and months weaning off morphine sugar coated his year long drug binge. He walked off with nothing but a new pair of clothes, his duffle bag, and a credit card full of money. He walked through the city, ignoring the drug dealers and the street whores. He came upon a man playing the accordion on the side walk with the case left open, sprinkled with spare change. He watched the accordion man play for a long time. The man never stopped playing and rarely repeated the same song. He went and sat on the side walk next to him. After a while the accordion man stopped and started packing up. As he did so, he walked up to the accordion man’s jacket a slipped three one-hundred dollar bills into it without the accordion man noticing. He walked off. Several days later, he secretly gave two-hundred and fifty dollars worth of groceries and supplies to a single mother with two children. He continued his selective charity until his entire savings was down to five-hundred dollars. With that he left the city and he left the towns. With his duffle bag and a back pack of food he entered the woods. There, he slept under the stars and tried not to picture his family, for he knew the more he thought about them the more their faces would change in his flawed memory. Instead he thought of nothing. He let his mind empty. He was exhausted, so he slept. He found a lake and a stream where he bathed and drank. He made a hut for when it rained and a fire to keep away the predators. He lived like that for years; as simple as can be. Some animals never live so simply. When his food supply ran out he began to starve, but was able to find just enough food to live on. His hunger made him feel better. His coldness in the winter made him feel better. His intense heat in the summer made him feel better. Not once was he lonely for a companion. Not once did he regret his life. Every morning, when he woke up, he would dig through his duffle bag and the emotion that he found in it filled him. One day, as he sat atop of a tree to catch a view of the forest he dozed off and fell backwards. The first branch caught the back of his neck pushing his body forward where his chest caught the next one. Now breathless, he continued to fall in the sitting position and landed on the third branch on the inside of his knees causing him to sing backwards and knock the back of his head on another branch. He fell, completely unconscious, like a rag doll, another fifteen feet, dislocating his shoulder on the last branch and landed face down onto the ground. There he stayed until night. He woke up with intense pain in his head and chest. As he tried to push himself up he wailed out in pain. He looked at his shoulder and shuddered. After several minutes of indecision, he came to grips with what he had to do. He prepared himself, and then ran sideways several feet towards the tree. When he collided with the tree, his shoulder popped back with a loud, low pitched click and a wave of shudders ran through his body as he fainted. The sun woke him up the next day. He sat up in just as much pain in his head and chest but his shoulder felt fine. Afraid to move, he carefully shifted himself up against the tree. There, his thoughts became anew. He realized that he almost died there in the woods where animals and bugs would eat his body. He suddenly felt foolish living there in the woods. He thought long and hard about his entire life. Once he reached the point in his life when he met his wife, a flash back of when he sat in the emergency waiting room waiting for her, thinking about the love he had for her came over him. Only this time he thought about the youthful playfulness that they once had with a healthy fondness, instead of with an impenetrable denial. He then ran through his mind the brief period of time that he spent in his life, alone, in his house, and how it really was a surreal eternity. It is still happening. It will always be happening. He thought about the fire and his children’s bedroom and the epiphany he had inside of it. He remembered the blur of a hospital that didn’t seem to last long enough. He remembered the people that may or may not have benefited from the money he gave them. Then, he went back to his wife and how he met her, and how from that single moment, despite his uncertainties, they were meant to be one. He remembered the birth of each child and the fulfillment of each one. He focused on the oneness with his wife and his fulfillment of his children, and for the first time he did not view their death as a waist of what he had gained but more of sign to show how purposeful his life and all life is. Beside the fact that the purpose of life is ultimately to live, he realized that the emotion that his children, only here for a few short years, had dug up out of him and the joyful ache that his wife inspired in him held so much more positive significance than the negative significance of painful emotion that followed their death, or the absence of both.'
(I wrote this a few months ago but I figuered that it would be suitable on here)
So we're looking for Siberian sex toys, accepting the fact that evil is an entity and not really a part of us, our minds nuked from a maelstrom of knowledge and a labyrinth of doubt, and my brother, a proton, comes by and gives us an everything theory. I say:Dude you give us this shit with all the sex maniacs, schizophrenics, and astropsyicists running around in our embassy? They can't sell me an ideal just because I don't have one. I just leveled everything they taught me wrong! I'm transmigrating!We then stoped for a drink on the intersection of all dimensions. Pod zapret a stambuljanskij k Rudiku v Kismet...Sojuzivka is still the best.
-That's all I got out of school today.
(Just fucking drunk( what
Transmigration!
Frequencies of love. overcome, overthrow
With a want for panacea, I see the world of people in need of such a cure. Where's the remedy.
I need a lead to how to keep going on to the ultimate on. From the streets to the subconscious from subconscious to the God.
Quien en todo infierno vendra y le cerrara arriba usted arriba usted. It was five in the morning and the place was still getting dark somewhere outside the city, mamasita mamasita dónde están usted ahora. usted no es sano son usted...ahora?
Going to wake up just to get drunk again; yeah. Going to get sick when I bite my head. Well here I'll laugh. Talking about nothing like a black cloud raining out so much. But then there's that writing that spells disaster; written on my wall from my own skin. It is shinning.
(you sappy fucker)
I will I find joy in all I see.
If i could only go down that river. To love the wild, to forget the name Bret LeBeau. What should I say? That it's just a dream, because I am awake now.
Free
Love... shall we deny it when it visits us... shall we not take what we are given?
Who are you?
There is only this. all else is unreal.
Who are you? What do you dream of?
we are like grass
True
Mother, why can I not feel as I should...must? Once false, I must not be again. Take out the thorn.
All is perfect. Let me be lost.
Why does the earth have colors?
Mother, now I remember where you live.
'So if you know I will survive, thank you for everything you've done. alcohol.'
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