time away from time. exposure. a type of surrender occurs. the development of event. awareness. and a death. to be without death is to be without life. fear. the crowning glory of fear. fear charged with anger. many doors are opened as well as many doors are closed. and love. and the laughter.
    to call down the gods. the gods are a symptom of the disease of faith. faith empowered by fear.
    bumps on a log. he cares about no one. this is the final report. they are going to hell and there is nothing to be done to convince them to stop. this is what they seem to want. why should we try to prevent them?
    become. become more than one is. a way out. a way in. room to move.

    and the tick-tock man marched into the room. we've seen him before. a borrowed thing. a black and white suit and tie. a precision watch purring on his wrist. exact. no abstraction here. no room for error or anything vague. or loose ends. no business unfinished - or at least not without a scheduled completion date.
    day by day.
    hour by hour.
    minute by minute.
    second by second.
    no moments. nothing like a moment. a clearly measured second that ticks along at a certain rate.
    a moment is too flowing and shapeless.
    it can extend itself far beyond forever if left unchecked, unbound, unleashed.
    a room. furniture positioned where it belongs. where it is the most expedient and fulfills the highest degree of function. sharp. concise. rapid. time is very rapid here. get with it. explain yourself in as few words as needed to transmit the basic idea. an idea that is a known quantity and quality. no nonsense.
    and you can relax - when the time is indicated. when there is a pause in the action. unwind a little. pace yourself. but even this has rapidness to it. rapid relaxation.
    drive. drive yourself. drive others. leadership. command. decisions. data. facts. conclusions. take action. let others debate. meanwhile there's work to be done and someone has to do it. not enough hours in a day. countdown to destiny. countdown to the main event. all must be ready. there must be no mistakes. the heat is on. the heat of battle. the sting. the quickened heart.
    tick-tock.
    this is what those people are for and those who follow them. they design and build the world we pass through on our way to the here and now. we exist in the time of a moment unchecked, unbound, unleashed. no limitations of time.
    listen. hear it. one vibration that stills the heart by absorbing its rhythm into itself. a smooth flow. quit banging yourself against the wall. they are mere logistical obstructions - traps they trap us in. we are wild and free. we cannot be taken so easily. we cannot be contained in their finite definitions of us. we move beyond the this and that perceptions of their world - of their minds. unchecked, unbound, unleashed. more than our bodies and even our minds can hold. more than life and death.

    a dream of a dream. awakening and reawakening and awakening again. always awakening. always a dream we are awakening from. shake your pretty head. rub the sleep from your beautiful eyes. it's morning. it's always morning in our world. a morning that begins when the clocks strike doom and run out of time. wait. wait for it. wait for their time to run out on itself. wait for when they realize their big idea has come to nothing. wait for when they realize their money's all been spent and there's nothing left to conquer because they've looted it all. all the cities of gold have been plundered.
    just nothing but nothing zeroed into nothing by everything - the news today, oh boy.
    nothing.
    nothing new. just wash it all away. just another part of the dream. waking now and again after nodding off.
    let us tell you about this. let us tell you how little difference it makes to us about what you do. yes - we do become emotionally involved. that's part of the experience. beyond that it's nothing. we go through it. it doesn't matter. we are gone. visiting. this is all that is left of us. words. you had your chance. if you are reading this chances are we're dead. maybe not. but we are no longer here where one might find us. let us tell you this that we think you are pathetic. it's amazing all the things you don't realize what's happening around you. it's too late now. nothing can be changed - certainly not you. we don't care.

part 23 -
    as we leave it here. he is sitting in the kitchen in the house on the island. other people are asleep. he did some acid. he hates sleep himself. he doesn't know why he's sitting here writing. just can't sleep. he probably could but he feels he should stay up and write. like some inspiration is gonna hit.
    right. that will be the day.
    he ain't writing shit. just nothing that will survive any of this. lottsa people sitting around probably at this very same time scribbling their own shit. big deal. amounts to what?
    he doesn't know. he don't know nothing no how no way. don't ask him because he'll turn the other cheek. ha!
    and tell you lies. tell you nothing but lies. down the hatch. and you won't know. you won't even notice.

    and to call it out.
    and to call it down.
    and to leave it alone. let it die. let it rot. let it live.
    he can't play the tune for you. he can't be who you want - especially when you don't know and can't tell him.
    blah.
    zoo moon.
    and when he's here and he smiles at you and acts all nice and silly. but otherwise you can fuck off.
    taken.
    a flag. he doesn't care. give him a flag he can get enough people to march behind to smash you.
    bring it to him.
    bring him the head of the one who controls it all.
    is it him?
    he doesn't look.

    zero.
    he always comes to bringing it back to zero.
    the magick number.
    begin. where do we start? how much have we understood so far?
    [ ] yes
    [ ] no
    [ ] excuse me?
    do you think this is so much of a laughing matter while billions of people are suffering in all manner of sufferings?
    [ ] yes
    [ ] fuck off
    [ ] yes
    extend your negative feelings a bit further until they snap and you get it. you are too twisted up by petty dada to attain a complete state of nihilistic attitude that allows you then to laugh at it and not woo-woo about nothing like these leather zeros who find appearance to be of more value than content. the age old angry youth who is older than the dust on the words they speak we've heard before.
    give us someone who ain't gonna bitch. yeah, we all know this world sucks. thank you for pointing it out again.
    go to the malls and shout it there. leave us alone.
    leave us as we leave you. a wake. our wake. awake.
    again almost a whisper.
    begin.
    these words fade.

    he doesn't want hope. he's done with faith. they can shove their promises up the ass. don't look for him to be on anyone's side, and don't look for him to oppose anyone either - though anything other than those two options is incomprehensible to them. it must be one or the other. and if it must then it must. then they work on the assumption that he opposes them - all of them. we are them.
    this is here and now what he wants to touch - to smell, taste, see, hear. everything all of it now.
    and he does. he has it. does anyone believe him? or do they need to see the paperwork? see whose signature authorizes it? whose would it be? who more than me, myself and i?
    and they can't do anything. they can dig up metal and jewels from the earth and... nevermind. he doesn't need to go into that.

    zzzap!
    the blitzkrieg mind. the hunt it down and kill it mentality. top hats.
    and he ain't got all too much if any sleep nonewise of late and taking his meds to keep him afloat until he drops.
    he's looked down and it's an ugly scene of people yelling and throwing whatever shit they can get their mitts on at each other and he knows he'd join up in the ruckus too if given half a chance he's trying not to give himself because there may not be stopping him when he starts. kill it. kill it. kill it.
    hunt it down and kill it. and he knows that he matches up with enough media reinforced bad guy descriptions and in a situation with dealing with someone with a lethal dick in their hands who shoots first and asks questions later if and only to confirm that shooting you was the correct choice and...
    ...and whatever it comes to beyond that. and who not and whatnot and mismatched and displaced in a world of...
    ...of this disease we seem to have contracted some time ago in a when of whens and resulted in something very difficult to diagnose given that we all seem to be sufferers and carriers of it eating away at our brains and distorting any and all judgments we may or may not realize we are making moment by moment for whatever reason or motive for what purpose or...
    ...or maybe not. this is a common idea of it. burroughs claims it is language that is the source and maybe so. some say it is the male of the species. maybe so. everybody has their idea.
    technology is a common idea - though to build a fire to keep warm is technology.
    and on and on it goes.
    so he lets them all speak and write of that and call in their experts and quote from sources and whatever.
    he takes the approach that what's wrong with this picture is the mind perceiving it. there doesn't have to be anything wrong with it at all, does there? why? nevermind.
    leave him to his delusion that everything is as it should be and is evolving through a process, perhaps ugly and painful, that will produce...
    ...a butterfly spun up in a cocoon.
    the long and winding road. the uphill and downhill of it. the...
    ...the waking from a dream sensation ongoing in his head as moments flow into a moment he is constantly waking into. and the dreams that he wakes from that hold their shape as dreams do upon awakening and one finds it difficult to distinguish what from what as the reality one wakes into is the next dream and like that in a moment extended as the vibration from a bell struck which is still brilliant with sound.
    and on and on like that.
    meanwhile back on earth...

    what is this place around him now? a quarter in the telephone box and a busy signal after the sequence of numbers he's memorized by habit have been touchtoned into the open matrix of it all and all around him. and he is a grubby human here among humans of his kind as it seems to be speaking words he understands as he understands words and corresponding gestures, expressions and actions.
    he doesn't like telephones. just the words. they can mean anything. he notices how much he relies on non-verbal clues in their absence. an eyebrow. a quirk of a smile between phrases. a cigarette lit to punctuate being anything from a comma to a question mark - or an invitation or an accusation. anything.
    and now past a blue moon. howling. a howling.
    sweaty palms. coffee heat out of his pores. itchy skin. toxin. he needs a bath. baths are best when they are needed. when you can't stand being with yourself any more.
    ahhh... a two day backache melts away and your head lolls on a limber neck again. and the grime of your physical logo is a dream woken from again.

    and where and when does he stop and define this? the end of words describing it? does he give up and abandon the attempt? or draw a conclusion from whatever in a take this may it serve you well summation of who knows what?
    huh?
    as this can be begun and ended any place at any time.
    what begins?
    what ends?
    each time around.
    each time down to earth. light another cigarette. the phone is still busy. another cup of coffee. a rainy saturday morning.
    he looks at a half eaten muffin still in its paper.
    where is this leading you to? where is it coming and going?
    he calls you here with him - a common public place. that's all.

    he calls you from your world into his. there's nothing here for you. if you were sitting here with him you'd see some old guy slightly unwashed and other outward appearances of unkemptness that may or may not offendth thou. a cup of coffee, one empty pack of cigarettes, one just opened with one cigarette out of it which is lit in his left hand while his right hand performs its habitual ritual gestures with this talisman fetish thing creating patterns of lines and when it runs out of ink he's gotta undo it and reload another cartridge he feels it to be his rig giving him a new fix of words and he'll mainline this ink someday and maybe that's his suicide. how camp.
    anyway, down to earth, and a ashtray (no rug) and a glass of water with a lemon slice in it as so ordered and given.
    so this place is a common place - a common place place. and maybe it's not that common. and nevermind. don't panic.
    and it might all be imaginary. this place may not exist. he may not be in it if it does. maybe he's making it all up. maybe he's a brain in a jar.
    and two angels come sit at his table.
    hi, says one.
    how's it going? says the other.
    yeah, right, says himself.
    don't panic, says one.
    it's ok. says the other.

    and a dream that won't go away.
    so, says himself, what's the deal?
    no deal, says one.
    it just is, says the other.
    they look very ordinary one moment and then in the next they glow and pulse with light that looks like it should be blinding but is actually very calming and soothing to look at. yellow or blue or sometimes green or purple or red as pure as a spectrum with each color a different feeling making adjustments.
    no more words. or nothing else but words.
    zip feed.
    input.
    whoosh!
    zap!
    and they're gone.
    he checks to make sure.
    yes.

    light another cigarette.

    1/12, 13 or 14
    taste.
    he cannot speak to anyone. no one can speak to him. the play. the lines. the dialogue. the words are incomplete. he did not see. he did not speak. they were not angels. he does not know what he did. he does not know who or what they were. he does not know where or when it happened. another place. another time. and where and when it goes from here. people. he hates them as they hate him.

    a place and time. madness. he reminds them of their own madness - or their own purity.
    a perfect light. a ring around the sun. facing out into our own shadows.
    this is idiot. words. smoking cigarettes. a disease where there should be none. dog. mouth.
    suck.
    blinded. seeing one another as both light and shadow. there is nothing here. do not speak of it. blinded. blinded by light. blinded by darkness. as it is written and as it is read. as it is lived and as it dies.
    it dies among us. we do not pick it up. we leave it thinking we no longer need it. there is no more. sadness for it now.
    life is dulled. its elements are disconnected. as each tries to remain itself with the other. the other dies. and we realize with this how much we were the other to each of us.
    he passes through this. this is what he leaves behind in however complete a form as he can make it.
    make it.
    each alone in a universe of loneliness.
    each star burning exploding raging fire alone.
    everything said or written was a lie.

    he called out names and no one answered. he looked up and saw nothing. he listened and heard nothing. there is nothing. it is all as empty as it appears.
    inspiration. a great lack of inspiration. a great gap of inspiration. how much we take from each other's lives or give nothing into. a hole. tricks we play in our heads. when we play god. when we keep ourselves apart and above. damn them all.
    we find our heaven and post no trespassing signs and barbed wire and guard towers with machine guns and locks with secret codes.
    it's a fine way to do business.
    profit.
    isolation.
    and what do they do when they have it?
    what then?
    don't think about that. keep your head free and clear. find yourself where and when you are and don't give any of it away.
    a world. a world of lies. people thinking and speaking and acting lies. and none of them cared. none of them tried to find another way except a few who were severely punished until they gave up. some of those few then became the most ardent of those who maintained the tradition of lies. they built empires out of them. empires in sand and dust.
    he sees nothing. and even that is a lie.
    and when he rules the world. and when he looks down. and when he judges all who are brought before him.
    it is nothing.
    he is no one. no one writing nothing. what is there to look for here? what is there to see?
    he thought he would have something by now - something for him and something for you. but what was that but more goddamned lies?
    he should be shot.
    and maybe he will be even if he has to do it himself.

    he can't seem to get past the barriers they have around them whether self-imposed or imposed upon them. it doesn't matter. they can live in their world and he'll go on in his. a place of space and time forever. and it is here and now. he has to do nothing, and nothing is what he does best.
    so he scribbles on whatever. how many times around now? which is best? which is worst? he leaves this behind so you will maybe know which direction he has gone in. no direction at all. don't look for him some place else. he is right here right now. if you go some place else you go there alone. and that seems to be what you want to do. he can't imagine why. you and the others go cruising and crashing through the here and now on your way to some place else only to remain here and now except you have destroyed everything around you. you grab what you can and keep moving.
    or is it the other way around?
    what other way around?
    it's always the other way around especially when it's the other way around and around again until who knows which way it was to begin with and where it went to?
    how can one find direction in one's life when there is no direction?
    as buckaroo said, anywhere you go, there you are.
    or maybe it was the dada-ananda. or maybe both are the same the way the dada-ananda can be at times.

    the dada-ananda is the one true bogus guru. the dada-ananda is all one is and all one seeks. there is no mystery but the mystery one makes of it. the dada-ananda is what the dada-ananda is. no more. no less. the dada-ananda is only a state of mind and being and is entirely imaginary. that's the secret if there is a secret. there are no secrets. the dada-ananda is nothing without oneself as one may or may not be nothing without the dada-ananda. actually no one is without the dada-ananda just as the dada-ananda is without no one. it's a joke. get it? if you don't you may want to find out why you don't get it and how you can get it - if you can. can you? not everyone can even though everyone does. one sometimes needs to be reminded that one has already gotten it. but it doesn't matter. what matters is what one does with it either way.
    the dada-ananda is looking for you. are you looking for the dada-ananda? maybe you are and don't realize it. maybe not.

    1/15
    the deal. as it looks strange. there was a deal. some kind of deal went on even if it was the deal of no deal.
    absent. he's not here. and this is nowherezillozomphisk dada. a little off here.
    and here.
    and now.
    he tries to pull it in and focus. not knowing if any of this is getting out. nothing is getting out here and now. people are strangers.
    rain.
    the rain that falls. how trite. how absently metaphorical. but that is the rain that is falling. common rain that falls on anyone. no big deal. all you get is a little wet.

    a pretty poem.
    a pretty poem to keep our minds off things.
    things.
    certain things.
    purple or blue.
    a poem that doesn't mean much of much of anything.
    out in the streets.

    a story. the story he is writing that has been written before. it's all one story no matter how it may appear otherwise. there is only one story to tell.
    the story is gone through again and again a little different each time. different people, different places, different events each time. sometimes very different. sometimes not that much different. sometimes there is remembering. sometimes there is forgetting.
    sometimes.
    it is a story you may or may not know. it is a story you may or may not know you know.
    sometimes he wonders if this story needs to be told again. it's been told so many times. it is the same as much as it is different. there is nothing new he has to add to it. there is so much that is left out.
    he does not tell this story well. or maybe he does. he gets confused about it. sometimes he spends too much time on one part of it and not enough time on another. but that is how he tells the story.
    sometimes he tells the story by not telling the story.
    sometimes he writes about everything else but the story.
    sometimes it's a story just about space and time.
    sometimes it's a story about people in space and time.
    sometimes it's a story about him among the people in space and time.
    actually the story is about it. it is all there is. it is it. now you see it and now you don't. space and time are it. people are it. he is it. you are it. it is no other than itself. what else can it be? everything changes except as it remains it.
    there is not much one can tell about it without going around in circles. going around in circles is it. there is nothing else but it to tell anything about - except of course everything. but then everything is it. not one thing is not it except it. it is not it.
    there is a way about this that is followed any which way it goes. and any which way it goes is the way it is followed. sometimes it seems to be very pointless - which of course it is. the pointlessness of it is its very nature and makes it what it is. it is our nonunderstanding of pointlessness that gets in our way of understanding it. or something like that. it comes and goes. the words of it as it is without words needing no words for itself. it is we who are divided from it undivided from itself who need and invent words for it.
    it is without words while being with words. not needing words for itself but using words for itself. bringing words to itself through us for use and understanding of itself though it already knows. but knowing and understanding are two different things that are yet the same. the same as light and shadow. do you see that? do you see light and shadow as the same? that is the point of pointlessness.
    a theory. it is all a theory. a working out of a theory of possibility - of many theories of possibilities. it is all different and all the same. it neither is nor is not. it is just being it - in theory. one theory anyway. there are many theories and counter-theories and anti-theories and theories sideways to those. and each truth is truth within its own truth.
    yeah, right - tell it to the judge. the judge of truth. yet how valid is truth that relies on judgment to assert its truth? there is all truth within truth that no amount of judgment can reach or change for or against. that's the theory anyway.
    but it is not a theory, nor is it truth. but it is all theory and all truth. it cannot make up its mind which. it is the point of pointlessness.
    and how is this otherwise described? what story can we tell you now? what story will further demonstrate this what it is? or maybe something else? a mystery. a romance. something distracting to read at bedtime. nothing too stimulating or thought provoking that might keep you awake or make you toss and turn in your sleep. just to sleep in peaceful restful slumber. safe. we all need our sleep, don't we?
    he doesn't sleep too well. do you? as the war goes on and the joke continues. ha!
    business as usual.
    balancing the books.
    planet of the apes.

    and nothing happens. no words beyond the words. no words beyond the mind. as it is measured. a crazy diamond. as it shatters into a dark sky of stars.
    oh my god! he said and then fell dumbstruck into a poetry beyond words. how could he speak of what he saw around him? he could not. it was perfect as it was.
    and it wasn't actually perfect. not that kind of perfect - unflawed. what is perfection and who would recognize it if they saw it? perception. yet there is symbiosis of imperfection into perfection. and will wonders never cease?
    not to explain as it is explained. in a secret recognition of relationship. one plus one as there is just one.
    something like that.

    in cycles. that repeat. as cycles. this is a formula. their magick is the magick of dogs. their magick is off. they have memorized their magick.
    to discover it. to find in-between the spaces. something.

    bring the cup. the wine. the ancient ritual now covered with dust. he will taste it if no one else. and he will bite into the stale bread hardened and hurting his teeth, scraping his gum as he chews through it.
    he will remember all that has been forgotten. it will reawaken and... and what? what does he expect from this? what does he imagine as he thinks about it?
    this is what is to come. all that has been put into place will collapse. a house of cards. and there will be a potato. eyes growing into the soil seeking.
    he is laughing at them. he is laughing at all they do. and as they speak and revel how they think he laughs all the more. but he does not let on. he waits for what he is waiting for. a chance in hell. ha! fat chance. let's see them pull themselves and all their mechanisms through that eye of a needle.
    attached. weapons. hello. justice. all.
    babies born.
    holes in pants. clowns. ha-ha...
    mom and dad. superman. and the sugar cube consciousness mind of liquid melting mountain snow down a rushing river. waterwheels. trucks on the freeway. police. armies marching against one another carrying the same flag only with the colors reversed.
    and a rush of wind in the window. calling all cars. wait...

    his mission here. his purpose. wait for it. he doesn't know why. a strange disease. and an even stranger cure.
    and to lie in bed all day for a day or two or more. to gaze upon whatever catches his eye to become whatever he can imagine from it or to trigger from it into other imaginations. following the form of logic.
    welcome to the new world order. we've been waiting for you to get here - to make it this far. now it begins. now it takes shape and form. hello? anybody home?
    a name. how many names do we have? how many names are we given? how many names do we take on?
    hello? anybody home? who are you? who are we? do you know? do you think we know? does it matter who we call each other and/or ourselves? flags of different colors.
    hello?
    anybody home?
    who are you? who are we? do you know? can you guess?
    welcome to the new world order. do you feel safe now? do you fell satisfied? how are you sleeping lately?
    the fires are burning tonight. we keep the fires burning. we keep watch. it's ok. it's alright. we are watching over you.
    a communication.
    a link in the chain.
    these times will pass. do not be afraid. we keep the fires burning. we keep watch.

    to know when and if something or not is in line to occur in a situation that anything could occur yet certain occurrences are planned and/or expected to occur and knowing what may or may not occur not planned nor expected to occur yet once that is known then it is planned and/or expected to occur and everything just steps back a space - that's all.
    leave it to the wind. let it go and take what comes that is given to take from. enough. not what is planned and/or expected, but enough.
    the survival of the fittest. those who survive on enough and fit into what is not planned nor expected rather than needing what one plans and/or expects and rely on strength and fortitude to make what does not happen happen no matter what.
    sucking it in. damming the flow into a stagnant lake and quagmire.
    and dada.
    to lose the thought - the thread of thought of the thread of thought. threads of thoughts and thoughts of threads weaving hither and yon in and out of everything.

    the same.
    and a violin. and a large perhaps over-sized man stood on the porch. the house was empty. vacant. the rooms big and hollow. he looked through the window into the front room which was more likely the living room when it was used as a living room. he thought of something else. something else about that room now. maybe something else placed in it. he couldn't think of what that something else might be. it wasn't even really what he was thinking. he was thinking of something else.
    and we put this man here as we put everyone where they are. this man. just a man. common. perceived as common. any common man would do. but this man was not that common. there was something else about him that was not as common as his common appearance and manner would lead one not to expect. not his behavior or his speech. nothing on any file filed about him.
    still.
    as still as the rooms inside the house. something else.
    then he was gone. no one saw him come or go except a girl on a bicycle she had gotten for her birthday 3 years ago which was on may 6th. she saw him standing on the porch on her way to her friend's house to see if he was home. he'd gone away for a week with his parents and was supposed to be back that day. they had gone somewhere in kansas, or so he said. but he made a lot of things up. but they had gone somewhere.
    there was nothing mysterious about this though it did seem that way perhaps. about as mysterious as anything is mysterious. most people overlook the mysteriousness of most things. they go about their way. they go about their tasks. there is something mysterious about that though it didn't seem that way perhaps.
    to fredrik it seemed mysterious. to fredrik most ordinary things seemed mysterious while most mysterious things seemed ordinary. he was born on the 16th day of the 11th month a 4:03pm in dunlop, montana. fredrik found dunlop to be very mysterious and the feeling was by far mutual.
    but those days are gone. those days are no longer with us nor we with them. we have entered the future.
    there is a sadness that lingers. fredrik holds onto that sadness. at times there is nothing else he understands though he doesn't really understand this sadness either. it is familiar. it is familiar because it is mysterious.
    everybody he knew had gone to war. he stayed behind and experimented with things.
    then he forgot.
    it became as one. it became as something sudden as though a rain fallen somewhere inside him. a dark cloud of rain. he looked and he looked again. something else. he could sort of smell it. it had been here.
    gone.
    it was something mysterious.

    he (the writer in the cafe, not fredrik) is sure of nothing.
    he is swollen with a sense of absence.
    a sense of absence?
    swollen?
    he remains. an impartial observer. more or less. all his words are all he has and he sees them as meaningless. he sees them as being seen as meaningless. he's seen these words on pages in other people's writing and he sees how meaningless they are. any restaurant.
    and the silence they invoke upon us that no matter how loud we may shout we shout alone each in our own silence.
    and do we complain?
    what power do we have to complain?
    sing it.
    join the many shouts into one.
    you do agree with us, don't you?
    because we could play these tricks on you with our words. we could crush you into silence.
    but nevermind that.
    instead we listen. we listen with our silence. our silence isn't as inactive or passive as one might imagine.
    or it is. so what? we live and die in their world. they are the ones who want to possess this place and time for themselves. and they can have it. what of it do we want after they are done with it?
    he waits. he waits alone. he waits for no one who is coming. many have said they would be here. where are they? he has nothing for them if they do arrive. they add and subtract for themselves.
    has he lost them? were none willing to go this far? how many ways have they been guided? how many more ways could they have been? he does not know. he is no one and nothing to them. he is not even a face in the crowd in their pretty picture perfect world.
    and those who are fighting for control over the world. they make themselves into someone out of fear that they are no one. and there is no difference between them and him except he has accepted his fate as no one. not quite so happily. he does have some feelings in the matter. silly him. they have gotten out of his control and still are. he's working on it. time. death. some sort of magick. he doesn't know. he doesn't know what the fuck. he becomes distracted. amused by one thing or another as it flitters by. that's all it is to him. that's all it can be.
    and then some.
    no one.
    just words left behind. if he doesn't burn them too. a fire at night. keep the cold away. a point of no return reached forever.
    and as it seems he doesn't understand it is when sometimes it seems he understands it the most. just a distraction. a distortion. a ripple in space and time. look at it and it's gone. so what? a person. a city. a nation. a world. so what? is he supposed to become caught up in this? is he supposed to be swept away? he sees those who have been and how they suffer endlessly because of it. the pain.
    not him. though he does become distracted by one part of it or another. on the whole none of it matters. none of it disturbs him. he does not feel anything really. he observes how he feels. what better place to be?
    he doesn't know.
    out in the cold by the fire.