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Funkduder
Posty McPostsALot
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I Am Darkness | #1 | ||
Three months and Three digressions ago, a classy man once stood here.
Facing out. On an adventure. On a quest to find friendship. And though through the days, toil, through the nights I saw visions of a sleepless being of an oracle, not an oracle a thing beyond the norm beyond walls of death and lands with borders and geography and friendship a relationship beyond petty gives and takes ...an illusion but perhaps not within my authority to discuss in the stream of consciousness Sirrah, get me a miss Roomie... nothing... a silence... a word in the wind "darkness" darkness... darkness in the deep | ||||
Posted 12-10-2012, 02:10 AM |
#2 |
Poggio
Bald and loving it!
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-wonders if she is allowed to post, and wonders if funk has become the batman-
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Posted 12-10-2012, 02:20 AM |
Funkduder
Posty McPostsALot
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#3 | |||
First Digression:
Second Orderly: History Before I type I look at my hands. Before I type, I tremble. These hands, now twitching and writhing like tentacles under the feeling. Before I type. Before I type, I look at this, these hands that have built again The sadness in my soul. Before I type. These strings, made of spiritual threads The thread of what's dead Dead? Yes dead; YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED! Begone, nonbeliever. *chuckle and laugh* there is no none believer. Before I type It's a cuil. The cuil, a abstraction, and detraction from what is. A break, a string, a dead string, a souled string, strung from a vengeful being. "A demon with a loathing for the world,,, Shadow.... And flame..." Almasy, your vision, 'gain guts me because before I type there is a realm of feeling that I draw from. History. This paper used to be about history, so let us speak of history. 1000 years of a dream ago I looked upon the life thats done Of Paolini, who hung at her brother's feet. And while living, I wrote her death a letter: Dear Elizabeth, now comrade of the cold, curator of created madness And co-founder of the first capitulated of this, your life Living like this, a living lie, a loner, again Like me The dead to be The joker The horror The fall The fool The fiend of friendship And lover to the greatest sloth of all, your company We love your company Don't we, who cried the bullets in Colorado Killed the sadness we had left Who left our goodness because it drowned us Our hearts Our souls Our tears again, the catalyst of the past This is history, the economy of our hearts Our justice Our creed Made true by a bloody heart ... And who said this but me and those who cross on the ships before me to their deaths And the man before you is not living but dead, the living dead, the living lie from before, The one who thought before I type to bear the burden of the call The call to death and philosophy. And finally, the justice, the last piece of the puzzle The economy of the just edjudicator Who spent the last of the acceptable cuils left to be he wish Wishing for the world, wishing for atlas to lay down his load upon the sandy mountain and rest.... I digress For the economy of justice calls for blood Whether given or taken from the jaws of Malthus Or brought in sips from the Brave New World (and such people that live in it) Or.... *transmission interrupted* Reboot(); *Reboot failed* Close(); *transmission terminated*
Last edited by Funkduder; 12-10-2012 at 02:34 AM.
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Posted 12-10-2012, 02:31 AM |
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