[Funkduder]

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

[Poggio]

-wonders if she is allowed to post, and wonders if funk has become the batman-

[Funkduder]

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*
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