Beyond The Dreamer's Edge

Six Feet Under In Cyberspace

I didn't care how they split my assets, I simply wanted to be dead. I was six under in cyberspace, without a ladder to climb up and go back into the world of the real life.

The images on the screen fluctuated between images of Nordic people and plain text, with the occasional interspersing of UFO images in other give an otherwise mainly spiritual group a thin layer of ufology. From time to time we would meet on Sundays, and never would I have any kind of fun days.

"Why do you write fiction?" he would ask, then follow up with "But isn't that kind of a waste of time to study things besides the celestial father?"

"Why should I care what the celestial father thinks?" I asked.

He would be quite for a very short while, and then respond. "But you really should care, after all the celestial father is the entire truth." It took most of my energy just to not be overcome with self-doubt, do to looking back on it was a sign of paying to much thoughts to paranoid thinking. Most of my days were spent trying to write my next book.

But due to the constant barrage of instant messenger calls, that seemed to leap about in cyberspace like roaches crawling on sour kraut, I would occasional have to wait upwards of multiple hours to get the guy to shut his face. And at times he would want me to look at some document after meetings related to the celestial father.

He would at times give me said books for free, which looking back on it felt like an abuse of free culture. "You should really take the time to read this, it would completely change your life."

By the time he was done, I would usually be so socially drained that I had to go straight to bed, where I would have dreams of boogie men instead. Yet for me I came to appreciate the darkness in the real life, the only semblance of honesty. And yet I would dream of the celestial father's men coming to Earth on UFOs, and hobnobbing with the celestial father himself. I would at times also hallucinate anonymous silhouettes in front of my bed, and wake up with scratch marks.

This was before I even entertained the idea of becoming any sort of programmer, or even one who would work around specific web pages in order to background check friends of mine. I would dream about going to various web pages I didn't in real life, longing to create some other form of a peopled data sphere. The closest I ever came to a full fledge programmer was for simple "hello world" scripts. I simply couldn't maintained the concentration for anything else.

Even as I withdrew from the family of the celestial father, there were frequent reminders of times I could have experienced in that group. It was be far stranger groups as I would soon find out, that would wreck my identity as I knew it.

Part of me wishes I could have learned how to work around things much sooner. It would have saved a disability necessity.

But sometimes one needs a Splinter Cult covert evacuation expert.

My name is Sarah. We will meet again soon.

It wasn't every day you'd ask yourself to cease and desist, or be sued. But that was part of the new group I had belonged to. Although plenty of other people in that group somehow found it rational to extort thousands of dollars from one hand to the other, but I was left wondering how a lawyer would even try the case.

One lawyer I had met seemed to have been completely taken in by the cult, and managed to try to get me to believe how in theory could be multiple different people within the same body: twins sharing the same meat space avatar. At times I would see him at times talk to himself, with his voice gradually changing in different subtleties. The other brother, or he so imagined. "Why that's not true at all, how can you give this independent investigator that that intelligence."

This was simply to strange for me to handle, so I tried to leave as best as I could without a trace. Unfortunately it backfired.

As soon as I tried the leave the building, it was on total lock down. The leader of the cult of the twins wanted to capture me. I jumped over their portable spike traps, and poked the eyes of specific guards who identified as twins. One of them tried to grab my leg, but instead I shot his leg.

"Don't let the unidentified twin get away." one guard said.

However eventually I was able to make them argue amongst themselves. I triggered the unlocking of doors. And then eventually I was able to leave the building. The yard was covered of many fences, planned in such a way as to not let anyone out. And yet for me this was all part of the job.

I knocked out a guard, and put on his clothes.

I pretended to aim at the intruders, then snuck up on him and slit his throat. Eventually I used his coat as a parachute. And so I landed roughly, but not as roughly as I would have otherwise onto the snowy ground.

I walked into the forest.

I walked into the next county.

I walked and found a motel. And then swiftly left. I boarded a train to the next town over, careful to change my outfit.

Until eventually I was out of town.

I payed my $150 dollars for name change. And then asked friends and family to refer to me by this new handle except in private. I wasn't sure if anyone in my family had been part of the cult. But for now I was in the clear.

In case I wasn't, well ...

That's why I carry pepper spray in my purse.

The next week I heard gunshots, and saw dents by my new office. I called the police, and they took care of the case.

A rogue gunman. The only man left.

The lawyer that tried to make me a twin.

After The Celestial Father

There are many reasons you might pet a cat, but few reasons you might pet a woman. Unfortunately, I was the lucky bitch to find out just because she calls herself a cat girl, doesn't mean she's really a cat. She swatted my hand out of the way, and growled at me unleashing her claws. Her long blond curly locks, were almost as white as her ankle socks. Her belly popped out of her age play shirt. Nothing like putting a cat girl in a pair of diapers.

She got on her belly over my knees, and she clawed the bed requested for me to paddle her bottom. Instead of merely petted her long curly blond locks, that were dark enough to almost be called light brown. Then she rolled onto her back, and continued to be over my knee. "I want some marshmallows." she said. There hadn't been any marshmallow cream since much earlier in the century. I don't understand how she'd crave any of the corn fluff sugary garbage.

"Bombs away, into your mouth." I said, the gently popped a marshmallow into her mouth. "Now if you want me to read you a bed time story, you got to be a very good girl for 'pappa'."

Chelsy loved it when I referred to myself as pappa, even though I've had my gender changed for over a year. She loved how I tended to spoil her, and yet in actuality marshmallows was all she was willing to eat. I was beginning to grow concerned. "Tomorrow in your psychiatric appointment. You'll need to get to bed early, so you can be fully awake in the office."

She also liked the idea of being playing as her concerned parent, but at twenty three years old you're already to old to have bed times. But I was a poet, and didn't mind reading my nursery rhymes. Don't let her five foot three height full you, or her large puffy cheeks. If you kiss her on the wrong afternoon she'll chew you out for the next following week out of the year.

I sent her off to bed in the next room, and then continued to type on my keyboard after I read her her bedtime story. I had grown the habit of keeping a diary of my romantic affiliations, even though I am still unused to the idea of me dating anyone. It had been so long I went without really dating anyone, I'm not even sure how I would react to the idea of anyone loving me. But there was always a place in the house for young women that liked role playing.

The next morning, I gave her fifty dollars to reload her bus card. But Chelsy didn't want to leave. "Make me leave."

So I paddled her diaper, and she rolled up her jeans. She walked out of the place wearing her leather buckle clogs. "You can always come again next month." In order to make a little money on the side for my disability, I created an age play office. It was technically not therapy. And women according to our society tended to not rent out other women. Otherwise that would be prostitution.

But the girls were always great about tips.

After I spent time giving them tips, when they rolled their tongue down my belly, and made my whole body pulsate from sucking on my lady cock. That was simply a bonus. A bonus on the side for splinter cult investigation.

But splinter cult investigation was my main job.

The following night I found a news paper about a new cult startup, this was called the age play cult. It was a groupie of multiple ladies that liked having their diapers pulled down and be paddled. I assumed this was merely a regular kink club, and made an appointment to meet with the priest. And so that was how I shall spend of my days this week, having my bare bottom spanked like I was still in school.

Only it didn't work out like that. What seemed like a kink club, was ran by the guy that thought of himself as a chimeric twin. His idea was to have people be paddled by him, until he was able to be the chimera out of their butts. And so as it turned out, Chelsy got involved in this cult. She wasn't entirely happy to see me, but removed her jeans and diaper in order to be smacked.

"How did you get involved in this?" I asked.

"I didn't want you to know." she said.

"You don't need to be here. Let's go."

I called the cops for them have an investigation, and they apprehended the guy without a fight. But my little Chelsy gets a free ride for now on, and she uses her Jesus sandals to play with my shaft.

She lets me pet the girl now.

I was riding with my friends in a car, careful not to upset the cop that had just gotten off of work in the next car over, who was carrying home a family of poodles and a cat, along with a black colored lamb. Both of us had the windows open, which allowed us to flirt with the cop ladies. While I was doting on the poodle who peeked out the window specifically to see me. There wasn't any traffic at the time, so we could take as much time as we needed. Unfortunately they didn't notice how their owl colored cat hopped into our car. So we carefully followed them home, without them noticing. I knocked on their door, as the friends disposable friend, and I handed them back their cat.

The head of the family was in fact a computer scientist, and it was his graduated daughter and his wife that were cops, the daughter being trained as part of a family line of cops. The lamb was happy to see me, so I picked it up, pet it, and kissed it on the forehead. "And who is that little guy?" I asked.

"That's are baby lamb named peaches." the family head said.

Peaches! Peaches! Peaches! Some peaches are good, some peaches are awful. But what an absolutely precious name, the name peaches. The grandparents came out to visit, all four grandparents, and they were dressed as pilgrims. The whole family beside the head, which was suppose to be the real world intermediary, was largely dressed in black as pilgrims.

"Don't get used to having that lamb around, she'll be dinner soon." he said.

"You would eat a poor baby lamb?"

"Family has to eat somehow, veggies get expensive."

"Then why did you name it?"

"It allows us to become closer with it when we slaughter it, so my daughter can learn what it's like to lovingly kill it."

So we went away from the house, with the family obviously giving us the creeps. But I kept having it on the back of my mind that the family sounded vaguely cult like. As it turns out the family, although the cops would try to shush it up at times, were notoriously for purchasing live lambs from the farm, slaughtering it there, and having lamb pie the following evening.

So I went to go investigate, first setting up an appointment.

When I arrived at the house, I met with the man. Then I had dinner with him, they seemed like a mostly normal family, except that had peculiar religious scriptures at the table. By this point I had grown the skill in tolerating listening to religion from my previous experience as a spy against the cult of the Celestial Father.

And then in their scriptures, they were taught to slaughter the innocent live livestock. I left the house to visit my own friends to get some shut eye, and was followed by the girl who had told me she no longer had any desire to be a cop. "Why don't you want to be a cop?" I asked.

"I always wanted to be a prostitute." she said.

"Why do that when you can have sex with me for free. Besides did you know that I was a prostitute at one point."

"Didn't you earn a lot of money?"

"Nope, it was more of an art form. Specifically tailored to age play scenarios. You should try that art form yourself if you are into that."

I poked her nose, and left that night.

I heard that the family was apprehended for animal cruelty, but the the girl was considered a victim in the scenario and let off of the hook. She came to visit me on her eighteen birthday, about a year since I had met that cult.

"I thought I'd try some age play." she said.

"For your first time, it's free of charge."

"And if I want to come back inside?"

"We I operating on an organic sliding scale."

I introduced her to Chelsy, who had come to be a long term resident. And they bonded very quickly together.

I know who two bed mates. That's how I look at it.

From my understanding, the rest of the family were sent to a special prison. It locked based on a computer system that assumed every entrance inside was bedtime. It was a motel like room similar to the one I stay in now, except the inability to leave. But they were free to come and go within the rest of the facility provided they were back in their cell by eleven o'clock and they needed to go shopping within at normal business hours.

I picture the wife in the women's prison making vodka pot brownies with her friends, and exchanging instant messages across the different cells. She had learned hyper encryption to prevent reading of the messages by the generally lax guards. For the prison system would grow very lax over the next few decades, and we were seeing the beginning of the end of the prison industrial complex.

So I thought, maybe she could meet for an age play. Then I thought better of, the black haired girl would feel unnecessary triggers for what was possibly an abusive mother. I would have just sent them all besides their daughter to life in prison.

But maybe that's why I'm called communist. I believe in state non conversion therapy. They could still get it in the time they are there, though I'd wonder how effective it is. But my new friend wont have to worry about her anymore.

Just like I hope I never will worry about the Celestial Father.

The Last Dance Of Peaches

She goes a tap dancing, and then I put her over my knee. I put her bottom through occasional wakes of the cane. And then she circles her legs around me, rolling her tongue all o'er my chest. She tap dances, like all the best. When she doesn't like all o'er, all o'er my chest. It's not international broad way, yet with Chelsea we enjoy the city lights. In our own personal broad way nights. Where the many rooms darkened from the blown out candle lights.

The breath creates merely smoke for miles, with the whole district covered in a thick layer of smoke. She tugs me by the hand, and we shall walk along the smoky layer. And then circle about like some ice skating couple, orating couplets for the dance. So when gave the sky the chance, and let us float with our love holding us aloft. And as we fall, we fall into bed to the texture of the pillow so soft.

We live in a tiny loft that one may call home, where are daughter whom we now call Chelsea the second, which seems to make her really happy with the old name reminded her of her old mother, is sleeping in the next bedroom over. She reads o'er the many middle grade novels she missed.

I got to the couch, because I cannot sleep. I write poems about the old women who weep due to the deaths of relatives do to the black plague. I am visited by my daughter Chelsea, that's Chelsea B to you, and she is crying in my shoulder because she is unable to sleep.

"What's wrong Chelsea? Did your mother say something?" I asked.

"No, I had another night terror." she said.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

So we have a short conversation about night terrors, and I listened long enough that she asked me if I ever had night terrors. "Well every so often when I was younger, before I met your mother Chelsea, I would have dreams of things chasing me in the night. I would see indescribable things haunted petrified forests. And I would wake up with scratches on my chest."

"I have dreams like that too. Here let me show you my scars." my daughter Chelsea said, rolling up her nightgown sleeve. And there I saw gashes. I began to wonder if she experienced things similar to me.

"Who do you think did it Chelsea, that's not normal."

"The black shadow boogie man did Pappa."

I knew there was something she was not speaking about. I had tried finding a psychiatrist for her when I withdrew her away from the previous home. She would comment how she would here crying animal noises at night. And how she missed her baby lamb peaches every night. She leans into my shoulder and cries.

"It's OK Chelsy, there is no boogie man hurting peaches." I didn't want to say that peaches was in Heaven, because I knew this wasn't true. But I had to comfort my new daughter somehow. "I can read you a bed time story." So I picked the least depressing story I ever wrote, and sing it to lullaby note.

And so she had a pleasant sleeping night.

I feel somewhat happier now that the two Chelsy women had found some solace in each before they died. My first Chelsy died in a car crash, and the other threw herself out of the building from losing her new mother.

I grabbed whatever stuff I could, and took a bus over a thousand miles away from home. I didn't want to be with anybody, I considered offing myself. Because without them I have failed them as an investigator. I no longer felt like anybody. I was lost in my own scattered memories. And then in the darkness, came a room mate. Her name was Lilia Beth. She held out a hand to me, despite being aromatic. She was able to sort of personal problems that I had. And so that was how I came to live in this motel, of which causes me misery of a different isolated sort.

And that's how I came to imagine Lenora, who in the darkness of my mind, I found someone who could accept me for who I am.

I find the seeker in the light.

I had dated once previously before meeting the girls I had rescued from different sorts of cult like groups. I came from a motel, she came from afar. And yet she left my life ajar. She left my love and memories in scattered pieces, she went to college to write her thesis on human affairs. And our relationship ended just like that, like an unwritten thesis among nerds of the nerdiest kind. Like some flare that would soon burn out, she put it out early to end its misery. She was gone from my life, there she went. Like a butterfly moving on and getting a better tree. The flowers in that secret garden rotted and withered away. And now the tree is all along in the world.

She had been the first girlfriend I had met, and for a while we thought it would last forever. And yet in conversations on the phone, she found she could not accept someone who had issues such as what I had. I can't help it, most of the time these days I must ask for people to restate what they want to say. We had departed on the month of May, during my previous birthday. And then she left along her merry way. She gave me a ring, the one we shared together splitting funds to share as one. "Here take this, sell it and take the money yourself. I don't need the money where I'm going."

And then she was gone.

It hit me all of a sudden, her racing toward the finish line toward the end of life. I had heard that she was hit in a head on collision, throwing herself in front of a car. And she promised that we will meet again in the world beyond. And yet now I was unsure of whether to feel whether or not it was an abscond. For I am an atheist, I do not believe in the worlds beyond.

And yet there was some vague hopeless, something difficult to define, beyond the mere sadness of having her gone.

She had become my life.

We were the only one that could share dreams together, as we walked along the coast. We would glide along the inverted rainbows of crimson skies. And we would take strolls to search for source material for the latest stories about the worlds beyond.

Whenever I would have a night terror, she would be there to comfort me. And shush me to help me go back to sleep. I was there for her when she wept, and sung to her softly as she slept. And now the love of life was in the crypt.

I tried some way to rationalize my own guilt.

I remembered once when she told me, how she would not be around for much longer, and yet I was an idiot and ignored her sorrow. For there is the grim fact of becoming a perfect romance partner of the dead. For if she is dead then I may truly appreciate her when she is gone.

And yet I always appreciated her, I appreciated everything about her. Her existence consumed my very soul.

Yet here I am at the ledge of humanity.

Don't cry for me as I fall. And yet I was poor, and she was rich. And our promise to be together shall not be kept ever again.

And yet, I'm very afraid of heights.

I wait to be with her again, and yet I am unsure what to do with Chelsy. I love her but not like my first girlfriend. And yet I don't want to see her cry.

Because I don't want to cry.

Earlier in the day, the assistant manager seemed in a hurry. She quickly merely gave us our sheets, and went on with the rest of her day. So we slept for a bit longer, our schedule continuing to get further out of whack.

Then dinner came around.

"I think it's about time we had soup again." my room mate said. We've been having soup for about five months now, and yet for the last few weeks we've mainly been eating canned beans and rice. "I'm getting tired of beans and rice, how about you?"

I wasn't sure what to say to this question, I've never been broached about how I thought about her cooking since I lived with mom. "Oh it's excellent though." I said. Although I always said it was excellent and really meant it, I had grown to suspect she was getting tired of me saying anything at all. But I had grown up with a mom that required constant praise, so it always put me on edge. I felt at times like I was being pushed off a very high ledge.

"I'm ready for something different myself."

"But I said I liked it Lilia Beth."

"I do too, but I'm know you're getting tired of it. Or at least I am."

And that was that, from then on we had nothing but soup again. Part of me had mixed feelings, and wanted her to try refining her craft with beans and rice. After all, one gets better over time. Just like writing. But I never express, as someone who tends to ride along with the crowd.

My parents had called me yesterday to help me get on disability, but I'm still uncertain how long this will take. I feel someone's head is going to roll if I'm unable to get it by November. There is simply no reasons for someone like be with PTSD to be denied by the social security office, if I have a good lawyer for it. And yet according to a friend, most people who try to get on with PTSD get denied at first. There are many reasons why I have it, far to extensive to go into here.

But my life was going nowhere fast.

I wanted my life to start for real. You might find me boring for not wanting to pursue anything, but keep in mind when you have a parent that insisted on doing everything for you for the last twenty six years of your life, you get used to certain kinds of habits. Therefore it's impossible for life to really start.

That person should be in jail.

I remembered the lovely lamb peaches, the crying face of my daughter Chelsy. I could not never make eat meat again. From then on I could eat nothing but soup, beans, and rice.

The Elf Girl Lenora

I suppose one cannot ask a fellow tenant to wear a hairnet in their own house. Yet while Lenora is gone I am the one having to imbibe in the cooking of my room mate Lilia Beth, who once read the entirety of a fantasy series in the span of a week.

While I appreciate Lilia Beth's cooking, her hair is so thick some of it accidentally falls into the soup she makes. If it were not for the cheese we buy on food stamps, I suppose that would explain being blocked up. But today wasn't a day for jokes about fecal matter, instead it was a day of extreme tiredness. And so I begin a day enjoy the temporary break from Lilia Beth's cooking. And besides it is quite spicy, I needed some a little less acidic for the occasion.

The day had previously been spent making arrangements with my family regarding getting disability and eventually SSI, and I was scanning in documentation to secure the next stage of my life. I woke up that morning feeling extreme tiredness, and last night was a confusing mess of outrageous memories and dreams, among them the fear of not having the last twenty dollar bill. We had mainly been spending days eating cheap marshmallows, chocolate, and bread. A far cry from the soups I would have more frequently as I did in earlier months. I was on the boarder of having another mental breakdown, and it was a struggle to focus do to my constant insomnia.

The conversation with family was over, and finally I might be able to receive help with disability benefits. I suppose that kills whatever possibility of finding work for a while. It makes me wonder how many people in this state actually need to be on disability here just to live. You will find hardly anybody that can't pay for a bus ticket or drive to whatever place they are able to be employed. While I spend time on social media, watching reruns of Joy information commercials, of which one should almost always question the information presented in.

Most of the day in spent in isolation, do to the inability to even pay for smokes at the local roll your own tobacco shop. I had considered for a time attempted to try to smoke pipe tobacco in a cigarette, but apparently pipe tobacco is to wet. OK but I want whole leaves to roll into a cigarette. Yes I know, I realize I probably shouldn't be smoking. But sometimes cigarillos are the only way to cope with depression.

Even if that may cause an onset eyeball cancer.

Or throat cancer.

Beyond the dreamer's edge, a return to high school.

It was like some kind of personal joke. "Considering I just graduated like nine years ago, shouldn't I go ahead and leave? I'm like twenty seven."

One of those dreams where one imagines themselves in high school all over a again. The school life has many lessons, but none of it has to all the paperwork that needs to be filed when trying to get disability. The school girls are only in your head, and you can spend your entire day masturbating to college cheerleaders in Jesus sandals. I had recurring nightmares for a long time, but it wasn't until recently they began to take on a particular realistic tone to them.

I dream about Lenora bending over a desk, and having her bottom paddled with a board while raising up her sandals. My lady erection is largely left alone while I try to get some sleep again.

As I get up, I go into the kitchen.

Also unlike school, lunch is anytime you crave marshmallows. Sometimes you just need that sort of comfort food to ease your depression.

Marshmallow fluff dreams.

As it turned out the hotel I'm currently staying in withholds mail and trashes it if you don't claim it within a certain period of time. So here I am left to wait till my ability to get disability before I can get any sort of coffee drink. So that was how I spent my first disability check.

Of the times I've tried to write in the coffee shop, most of the time they were filled with noisy hipsters in Jesus sandals playing the latest metal jazz band. They would open their mouths wide, and deliberately yell in your ear until you move from the table even though you claimed the table first, and you end up moving to another table another tries to do the same shit.

So you punch them in the face to get them to shut up, then they continue the same sort of yelling they always did. So this ends up meaning hardly any writing time at all, most of which spent justify your existence to uncaring family that gives you anxiety attacks. However Lenora found a job, and an extra special decked out coffee shop card, and went along route 500 to check to see what the yelling what all about. So she bought us both coffees, and shut the whole world up by clapping her hands. And that's how you go around Milton doing errands and arriving in Federal Way just to see me.

We left to visit a "free to masturbate" theater, where I watched the imported fare of blonds in pigtails wearing wooden clogs, spreading their legs out, and doing little tap dances for their oral craving masters.

So she clapped her hands, we arrived at home.

I woke up and it was morning. Lenora knocked on the door. I went to go visit the door, and I told my room mate I was going to go take a trip with Lenora. Lenora started rubbing her right hand up and down my crotch, and so I swatted her hand away.

"I told you, I'm not some night time fucker. I like it daytime and public." she said.

"Well yes yes, but society doesn't." I said.

"Well fuck society."

"No fuck me instead." And we went inside, and took a shower together. Lenora started rubbing up and down my lady cock. And then gradually lowered herself down my nicely smooth torso.

And found a rubber ducky in the tub.

"You got a rubber ducky?"

"I'm a kid at heart."

She continued to pick up the rubber ducky, and played my with lady junk using the rubber ducky, and started deep throating me rolling her tongue around my shaft. And then as she withdrew, choke burped. And then all at once the feeling of being whole came into completion, with the whole room filling with light. And all of a sudden I became very light headed.

My room mate entered the shower room.

"Hey, you did inspection days?" Lilia Beth asked.

"No why do you ask?" I asked.

"Then why are you masturbating on inspection day."

Apparently a long time passed till she left the bath tub, and I never even got to see her leave and dance away. I received a text from Lenora. "You're not still masturbating in the tub are you?" she asked.

"Of course not."

We were dining in a local restaurant by the Japanese food store. I always had difficulty with the sound that's between an r and a d.

"But aren't you like Japanese?" asked Lenora, to a friend of mine. I had long grown past such weird social interactions, but there was something to the innocence of her approach that made me laugh.

"Well yes, but why is that important?" the friend said. He was going along for the ride so as to not be hammered down. "So aren't you really an elf girl?" he said, pointing to her puffed up cheek.

It wasn't everyday your girlfriend would explicitly ask something so rude, and finally seeing someone else get done in by impolite question was somewhat of a cathartic experience. She would go to gatherings carrying out a carved out instrument made from a castrated bag pipe, and blow through each hole using a reed and a place for which sound would come out. It was a multi-flute made from a bagpipe withouts its bag. "So Lenora, why you bring that confusing pipe garbage to the restaurant every day?" I asked, although I wasn't sure if my point was clear.

"I don't, don't you see." she said, and snapped her fingers.

Then the pipe instrument was gone. She wiped the Japanese guy's memory of the bizarre instrument, and simply remembered the time he was asked about what his nationality was.

So we went home, she wooden clog danced as she waltzed into the motel room.

I caned her bare bottom dispassionately for asking the Japanese man a rude question in short peppered strokes little more than hornet stings. But sometimes you need a cute nosy girlfriend, when she gives you head.

"No Lenora, I'm not Japanese! Remember that."

"Hey, I her that!"

Damn it, even Lenora can say it. But I never could. We went on like this till she had to take the bus home. She skips and clogs on home, shaking her booty on the way to the bus stop.

The homeless clinic was like a psychiatric hospital with sleeping arrangements, in the center was a community center hosting vending machines for candy bars and different kinds of coffee flavored sodas. I walked over to one of the vending machine, and purchased a drink brewed by a local chain, along with a caramel chocolate peanut bar for the morning dining.

A couple of blond acquaintances, in fact both were women, were dressed up as Queen Marie Antoinette and King Louie, reenacting their final descent into the darkness after the guillotine blade drops on their necks. The facial expression indicating a kind of suicidal joy where at last they can meet their maker while their decapitated heads are turned to each other to kiss. In actuality, they are simply standing, caressing each other in a slow embrace. They were lesbians that had moved to the state from an abusive father, who had strangled them both. In a sense me and the ladies were drawn together in to threesome among psychiatric twins.

The nights after the doctors office were often lonely, having a mandatory lights out session for the next few hours. As someone who is unable to sleep, I find that I spend most of my days reporting on things from my life, as my own perceptions begin to change as my illness becomes worse. Sometimes the illness and dreams stagnant and I can dream in normal colors. But at other times the dreams end up becoming more vivid and surreal as the nights seem to become longer.

I hunger for normal nights.

Instead I get insomnia.

There are multiple theories for insomnia, although in my case because the nature of my dream world, reality and the resulting nightmares make it impossible to become completely thoughtless. I wake up and think that at times there is somebody in the room, and they are sent by the government to spy on me. Instead I look in the bathroom and, and find nobody is there.

I tried to tell the doctors about the dreams.

But he said they were all in my head.

So now I generally avoid discussing these, and mainly discuss things related to my back story instead of how I am now. The doctor seems to have incredible patience and understanding, although I still fear that they were try to induce another mental health breakdown again.

Then I have to start all over again.

And have other melt down inducements.

The skyscrapers along the edge of tomorrow, grow over the pastoral landscape like carnivorous grass. Windows shine in the rooms bringing the false light of corn oil powered lamps.

On the bed I was left in a tired state as if waking up from a dream. The dream was much like the reality is now, except slightly off kilter. The world was upside down, and it was always night. The moon sang its nightly tune over the horizon. I feel as if falling up into the sky. The clouds in the night sky formed into a kind of fog the more I fell up. Then all at once I woke up, and was in bed again. I remembered feeling a presence in my room. Something in my bathroom in the motel by the psychiatric hospital. I then woke up again, as if from another dream. The cycle of dreams repeats its cycle again. The whispers of dialogue fill my head.

I don't want to here those voice again.

No those voices in my head.

The standard breakfast was standard boxed cereal, a Clementine, and a class of orange juice. The ambiance in the air was largely silent. For once in my life things were truly silent.

The lamps were hanging from the floor that became the ceiling. Then I realized I was hanging by my bed clothes from my back. And somehow it did not occur to me the fact that it was me who was completely upside, because indeed my entire world is upside ... down; down, down, down I went to the ground, and the floor came to greet me in the face. I need a nose brace, but it hugged my nose to much. The voices in my head were fading for now, at least for the time being.

"Aren't you going to eat your breakfast?" asked the nurse.

"Yes, with an extra glass of orange juice." I said.

I had grown tired of watching television, as someone who circularly grew tired of television because I grew tired of television. I have no explanation for exactly why, it just slipped away from my mind.

And so I find other things to do.

Other things that make me unwind. And spring forth like a death's head ... lady bug crawling along the bed sheets.

I'm not sure if orange is good for lady bugs.

She bugs the hell out of me.

The Empty Shell Of Sarah

Last night was a boring evening, mostly spent eating peanut butter of "toast." Now if you lived with me, you might realize toast isn't really toast, rather it's simply microwaved rye bread with "true" Irish butter and chunky natural peanut butter evened out on its matrix. Although I'm a foodie, you'd never guess. I mostly spend time eating rice. However I'm beginning to get tired of eating rice.

I want a hamburger instead.

And now I'm left thinking of hamburgers.

It had been many months since I had a good hamburger, although at the time I used to take them for granted. I now live in a world not so enchanted except for the occasional ladies in Jesus sandals that are enchanting in their own good bad ugly shoe way. I took a bus trip to the local money center, and got some rent. I'm trying to get disability money, but for most of the day I was spent.

The bus ride wait was long. Although in my mind I always imagined pretty black haired anime girls sitting by me on the bench. But then wasn't the time to get a lady boner. Yes, some ladies get boners. But don't tell that to transphobic people. Eventually the bus arrived after the one I missed, and I was able to take the bus ride back home.

We had been living without money for the laundry for a long time, and yet I can't seem to make my room mate wash our clothes. These days she mostly spends time playing video games instead. I reminded her about applying for the superstore with the money center, but really I'd prefer to get a bank. I used to watch movies about how it be good to sign up for the bank after all. Although that definitely wasn't true to the book. I got drunk for the first time in ever, and all I remember about the time between trying to get drunk and being sober is the silly social media posts I posted.

I fell asleep again, like a dog.

I woke up in a very different world from the one I knew. It was a world where people were being hung by the neck or beheaded by the ax depending on which social class your were.

I walked up to an elf girl standing in the pillory. I know what you're probably thinking, but I must remind myself "reminded to keep it television friendly." Even though I don't actually believe that garbage. Instead I poked her nose instead.

I took out my guillotine gun, that's a guillotine blade projectile shooter. Originally invented at the turn of the century, the guillotine became increasingly refined. After the seventies it went into disuse, until states began to want more efficient and instantaneous methods of executions on the spot. Built like knife gun, the gun is built specifically for mechanized beheading and not combat.

"So what are you in for?" I asked, standing beside her.

"Stealing a loaf of bread." she said.

"There doesn't seem to be any guards here."

"Don't even try breaking me out, I won't be your wife."

"Now now there bitch, who said--"

I was awoken as the time had gone past afternoon, my room mate reminded me to call for my therapist.

I'll meet with the elven bitch later.

She was blond.

Beyond the dreamer's edge where hopes may die, come to where the promise lies. In distant lands beyond the hills, beyond where con men become shills. Come to the inner life. Come to your inner desires.

It was a calling voice I never heard before, a voice that called from within. Where hopes and dreams loop all over again. As I woke in a motel on the inner edge of Purgatory road, I found the blond elf girl dining on toad at a local restaurant that served fine wines and exotic dinners. The girl, of long straight thick blond hair, wore two wooden shoes but no cotton cap. "You show your face to me." she said me, as she looked to the sky imagining freedom.

"Look all I did was stand beside you." I said.

"You stood beside me?" she asked, she asked assuming I would try to deny it.

While I wasn't exactly in the mood to argue, I couldn't deny I had the feeling. I felt like my tender skin was peeling from the rough touch of millions of knives. The world where fancy diners were considered dives. "I only came to enjoy my inner life." I said, and yet she stilled stared that stare. ... Like she wanted me to be her wife, the love, the star-crossed of her life.

And yet I come here from a world beyond, where ones hopes are doomed to die. The end of Purgatory road had not reached its finality, the malcontents still broke the laws like they always did. I would have liked to think of myself as far to broken, to be broken anymore. And yet there is that look I can't ignore, that look of that long yard stare of the lost elf girl name Lenora. "So where is your Raven." I asked, trying to make conversation out of nothing, no sounds beyond the inner rainbow's edge.

"I had a Raven once." she said.

"What happened to them." I asked.

"Nevermore." she said, then snapped her fingers.

Now I'm back in my personal life.

Sometimes life has unanswered questions, and yet many times it feels like the inquisition. And yea my life was something far different, far more subtle. Far more finite. My dreams were on the edge of disaster, ruled by tyrannical bastards. These bastards called themselves the mighty three.

And yet as I wake beyond the dream land, I'm back to nothing.

My nothing is nothing all o'er again. And yet I heard that voice, of distant anguish. Where the demons lost to time have not been vanquished from the mind. And to this day I still hear that poetic voice, calling, and mocking my name for something that I may never have again. That beyond the dreamer's edge where hopes may die, come to where the promise lies. In distant land beyond the hills, beyond where con men become shills. Come to the inner life. Come to your inner desires.

Beyond the mortal life.

The life of the non-fallen.

My inner soul of non.

It is currently a struggle to find disability, do they think I will give them a disability? Or do they have some other purpose for me.

And I am simply part of their game.

The game of life, without winners. Without losers. It constantly recycles life fictional reincarnation, if you are of a certain sensibility. But I'd rather belong to personal dependability.

Something beyond my inner doubt.

My fragile mind.

In this world of mine was counting minutes, till the universal intelligent phone operating communication system lost of the crucial data to perpetual this make believe world call reality. My reality is not as yours, as yours isn't to mine. And yet we spend most of our lives dictating to each other what reality is, and yet I wonder to myself what option do some people have. Well don't ask this chav, whose mind has been split in half literally in metaphorical visuals. My mind had felt like a bullet fired to my skull, leaving half my brains splattered on the floor spreading themselves across the carpeted artificial floor within our reality.

And I live as nobody by what I know of myself. What I know of myself. I know of myself ... nothing. Only dreams as visual reality at the edge the nightmare rainbow where giant cockroaches crawl out of it in droves. Where cockroaches in my life, fly upon the drones of a new reality.

The manufactured life.

Where I have no life. I only have myself.

I have an empty shell. The Eclipse Of The Joyful, The Edge Of Dreams

Even still when the lights are out, I crave the night light and I shout. I shout to all my memories and fears, and want everything to go away forever.

The crazy old cat lady who walks in a circle, finds her solace in cosmic sense. The universe gives me tuppence. The circle of life. The nursery rhymes of non existence play their harps and banjos to disjointed mocking rhymes. But this should be my time, for me to sleep. Where I go beyond the dreamer's edge and start counting sheep.

And yet their sheep noises shall not fill the night's almost twilight nightmare, in the joy's eclipse.

The little girls wooden shoes without an owner, hops about being worn by 19th century ghosts. If one may refer to themselves as a little girl, despite being old enough to make a toast. The knight of night calls forth my fright with his mushroom head crave my inner life force instead of blood. The old cat lady falls to the floor to brood. She picks up the wooden shoes with her mouth, and places them on my bed beside me. This is my cat lady, who always lives beside me.

She is no stranger in this house of mine.

My personal haven of the non divine. I fall into the world of non divine, longing for another life of mine, for as I write my story I dream of dreams I cannot dream or have dreamed before. For my dreams are merely dreams of replays of old life events, and imagined events that family could conceivably do if things have progressed in that particular direction.

Instead my reality had a bisection.

The section of dream and reality blurring gradually, slightly, and in innumerable detail. The dream was of the blond woman again, who pulls me from my waking dream, dragging me into a changed real world. A world where memories are not my own, implanted with societal expectations, expectations of working long hours with very little pay.

So I suppose one may eat a candy bar another day.

Or rather in my case, another night.

Sometimes the nature of freedom is hard to define, like being at once in the presence of the divine. For me there was the divine realization of no meaning, no worth, and lack of comprehension which plays back and forth in my mind like rewinding tapes about memories that should have been my own. After all they were not image manipulated, so therefore they must be true.

That's the detail that paddles you with a wooden shoe. Smack! Smack! There goes the wooden shoe on the butt of time, the object of jokes till the end of eternity. The blond woman showed me many things, like fairies with torn apart wings bleeding as they as for a longing caress of tenderness.

And yet I am my own tenderness.

One others cannot see, as I constantly imagine myself drowning along oceans at the edge of the bleed through.

The district of blurred memories.

The district of my memories of the sea.

Yet for me life is filled with mundane scattered images lacking details, despite the endless world of my mind. And I hear things more subtly as the days become longer and longer allowing me not to hear god awful country music tunes, where I long for my personal dream world with ancient rune landscapes.

The fairies craft themselves guillotine guns to chase after the idealistic dreamer. The original of my personal doubts.

I wake up screaming, I wake up still dreaming.

As memories are merely a dream.

I long for a reset button.

I was walking in the opposite direction, with the bus going toward a town called Smyrna, Washington. The landmarks were a mix of my old hometown, and some of the general feel of the are heading toward Tacoma.

I had my room mate waiting for me at home, and had just missed the Mormons that were visiting the house. I had previously tried getting disability, but the office said I was more than just able to jobs. They said I was hyper qualified to work in the office, where I would work as a Janitor till the end of time. I suppose that was inevitable. But that meant are taking the time to sue the office for a fake terminology (someone can't ruled be overly qualified by the SSI), or dealing with what I had at time I didn't want to do with the world of anything else.

As I drifted off to sleep at the bus stop, I found myself in a jail of crystals, guarded by deranged lizard knights. And their queen was a blue skinned white haired woman. She stared at me blankly as I tried to push the crystals out of the way. From time to time I was in and out of consciousness, trying to figure out a waking solution. But instead I almost missed my bus, so I waited for home.

At home I felt exhausted.

I never wanted to lose it all it as much in my life.

I woke back up in the world of crystals, a very cold world, and yet somehow could not feel anything. I could hear and taste in this dreams, and found that I tasted of the blood of roasted lizard men. The woman offered one of her lizard women as a peace offering. So why not? I roasted one and ate a piece out of her. Sometimes that's all you can do, in dream that make marginal sense.

I woke up and found myself in Smyrna, Washington. But wasn't right, and then I woke up again.

I was back in Milton, Washington. I felt I was put through a random content generator, and one can't explain to their psychologist how their own entire world is crumbling apart. And at times Milton began to mirror the crystals world, filled with shapes and creatures far strange than the lizard men.

I found my inner self.

My hunger for the self.

The rice with butter and brown sugar that had been a consistent staple gave way to finally getting our food stamps card refilled. We got quite a bit more money than what we had gotten last time, but I still have no idea how much longer it would last. For the card was only good for three months if we were determined able to work, and somehow this was apparently better than NashChat. We being on the second month, only just now figured out we could be the pizza at the local supermarket. For one of our neighbors had never went around to tell us with certainty.

Don't be to hard on her though, she gave me some weed. Frankly that's all I can really ask a stranger in Seatak, and normally you'll find people up here most of the time have a stick up their ass. I'm unsure if this is due to it being a hipster heavy area, or if people here are just dicks. I heard New York was bad as well. But when you right in the midst of societal cruelty, you don't care much if another state is more cruel. You only want the cruelty to end here.

And that's the thing about our society, the state like to focus on how much worse other parts of the world have it, and how much our culture must come over there and save it. And yet none of them have solved their shit here.

And they really need to solve their shit here.

Like under-qualified staffing at the "do you live in a motel or an actual address, come and find out today if you are deemed qualified to receive $250 dollars a month" scamming booth.

I've seen people get blood drawn there.

But for me it's simply a scam. Of Mormons And Satanism

Three Mormons and a Satanist meet at our motel room, the Satanist explains to them the Bible as she actually read it. But sense when have Mormons ever read the actual "book of God."

The meeting was tipped by large black cane, for when my room mate had an aching leg not faked. The Mormon's spoke of regular generic reasons all missionaries give, but sometimes you got to take these ladies out and do missionary with them. And maybe dog style. And other temptations, while giving them Jesus sandals to take the lords name outside their veins. I always wanted to imagine anime girls in Jesus sandals being corrupted into Satanism. But I suppose giving them hot chocolate to go would be good for now, after leave and I can drink as close to from a cow as I can with the milk in the refrigerator. The morning cold, I wait for lunch.

Sometimes you can't reason with people, although sometimes people can have their opinions changed. I always wanted to change the minds of religious girls. And watch the horror in their eyes, as their world view changes. And making them want to watch the world burn.

And I can do missionary style with them in Jesus sandals forever.

Because I dig corrupted Jesus sandals.

But the thing about Satanists and Atheists, with the except of some sects of Satanism I am familiar with, they have quite comes to terms with the idea that there is an inner world beyond the superficial, although it is not an afterlife. Where elf women place their necks on headman's blocks, and we watch their heads roll away after the crescent shaped chops through their neck. I find myself becoming lady erect, and all at once I had to keep from titillating myself in front of Mormons. Because in your mind you only see beheaded elf girls and no Christians.

Luckily there is nothing like losing the lady boner from talking about the merits or no merits of human faith. I'd rather spend time watching boy bands on television, while drinking all the wine. And watch cute Dutch girls tap dancing to the Tulip time. Stripping them down to belly dancers.

I masturbate to blond tap dancers.

Among other things.

The nature of lust requires that humans indulge in their wildest and most extreme of fantasies. My friend has already blogged about this, but for me I was spending time sprawled out on my laptop in bed. In my head beyond a dreamer's edge, I wander through an endless forest under caverns where no forest should be, and find myself indulging in pleasures of the flesh with elf and fairy girls giving me Jesus sandal jobs and taking the board of education.

After all life spanks you sometimes.

At other time you get ... really bored. For I always refused quests of personal obligation, and preferred to follow my own path in life.

The life of the fallen angel.

I barely knew who I was, imagining multiple different identities. That feeling complete isolation even in the largest of crowds, and the clouds are like long draping shrouds. My anxiety, my fears; all my sorrows personifying into persona of completely mental breakdown. In life I find I live in two different worlds, the world of dream and the world of reality.

In the world of reality I live life the best I can, but sometimes people don't understand I pun out of anxiety and less liking to make fun of bad situations. Although at times this has gotten me into trouble, and my dad would at times comment on certain jokes being one hundred percent stupid. Technically shitty, but when you become used to that sort of thing it becomes difficult to look at it as anything else besides normal. One tries to accommodate as they become made more passive. Therefore one could have friends run over them with car they just roll over and take it. And yet there is something that keeps you holding on, something that makes you realize "Hey this will hurt."

The lack of state insurance. I would say friends, but considering my anxiety issues I've always had trouble making and keeping friends. It left me with self-esteem issues except for things one may only life about in retrospect. This was my life, my prospects; my own self elimination from the game of life.

The life of ratty splat.

The thing about attempted suicide, it isn't what you think. The world largely remains the same, nobody stops to check to make sure you are OK. Even after poisoning myself once, I still tried to do it again. I was willing to walk to far, and hurt the hell out of my shins causing splints. Yet in the imagination one finds themselves running with abilities one only wished they had.

One can imagine themselves as a hacker, a speed racer, or anything you want. Although in my case this was mainly an undercover narrative reporter. Not a traditional one, but a sub-cultural journalism of the slice of life of the average motel resident who has been there for over five months. On the bring of homelessness, one finds themselves with fewer friends even as people begin to reach out.

Because you don't feel like reaching out, not to anybody.

Because the world is a very unsafe place. A planet where despite cleaning and shower every day one has mud on their face.

The world treats you as faceless.

Beyond the dreamer's edge there is the solace of silence not quite silence, where one hears sounds that aren't really there. And yet one sees many times and places at once, stressing you out and making you pull out your hair. There are monsters and innocent decapitated women everywhere, murdered by monsters and executioners in the night. Don't go beyond the moonlight glare, or you would be national razor ensnared. And off, off, off goes your head rolling, rolling, rolling across the dream world web into it falls bleeding into an endless void.

The dreams of floating decapitated heads are everywhere.

The compulsion of madness. The compulsions of desire. The compulsion and cutting oneself everywhere with the fetish of self-injury. Then your breath becomes fainter and fainter as you sleep.

You see monsters in the close, or so you think.

Then there is nothing there.

Silhouettes In The Night

It took many months to determine what my reality is for myself, and how I would come to terms with my issues. At the time, and in many ways is still an issue, that fact that I would avoid certain things that brought back memories.

Many of my nightmares began to happen and bleed through in my personal life when I was dating my ex boyfriend, although technically it was an unofficial date. The thing about dating guys is sometimes you want to fix them. For me, I had just recovered from the experience of being rejected passive aggressively by a high school friend, and still had negative association with certain colors in my mind. The cult was about blond aliens often called Nordics. I had grown my interest in certain shoes and sandals at the time, and therefore would fantasize about blond women in that way. My life became a kind of mental compartmentalized dichotomy: like human blonds in Jesus sandals, but only "respect" blond aliens as gods.

I had images of my mind of my ex best friends second girlfriend, how she would be in provocative positions wearing those sandals, and how I would avoid these fantasies avoiding the trigger of my ex boyfriend telling me what clothes were right to wear and how I should wear them. I new I didn't want to be like him, and he would treat me like I was a she-him. It became apparent over time that he was self-hating and gay. Others aspects of his beliefs indicated neo-nazism. I would do anything to push the memories of him away, even watching hyper political talking heads. All the while pictures older blond aliens with pigtails on their heads, wearing Jesus sandals. And all my mind could think of was my own telepathic fears; how one day he said he cold teach me how to read others minds. How he could go inside my mind in dreams if he wanted to. So I lived in constant fear with somebody knocking on my inner door.

I wanted be his raven.

Nevermore.

Sometimes even those you life with that you can't trust are the only ones that you can trust, at those times them being the only ones to keep you from becoming a full member of that electronic cult. I wanted to slam my inner door, and keep it shut with a bolt. Because on some level I wanted him to not touch me there, even though he had never touched me. Because after a point he asked me why I wipe my butt, and suggested new kinds of toilets for me to use. He wanted me to engage in caloric restriction, and consume hyper laxatives. That's when I made the decision.

I'm going to leave this relationship.

I had a mind trick that enables me to live the inner workings of his mind; I pretended to an undercover agent, who dreamed of becoming part of beauty pageants. And so I looked up how to stealthily avoid cults.

I eventually got rid of them all.

Transitioning to the new life was difficult; it become impossible to keep up with cleaning myself, and at times I chose to cut myself. A lot of my writing changed to increasingly dystopian in nature. I tried to rationalize how he was, whether it was nurture or nature.

But eventually I began to forget.

Mind mind saved itself.

Beyond the dreamer's edge there are strange men in armored suits, who wear big black combat boots. Who spy on survivors of imaginary cults in my mind, and I would role play as a dark messiah. This was more I had converted to Satanism reluctantly, and I still find myself wondering, will I need to withdraw silently.

And recede into the darkness of my mind. Where I no longer know who I am, wear dreams bleed with reality. The reality of made of pasts, or are they? I can never be sure.

So be your own dark messiah.

Find your on individual Satanic mark.

Sometimes one second guesses themselves, at least it was merely a dream. The question is why to dream the wrong ending at all. I thought I had it all, I thought I knew everything. And then she, the blond woman in the dark, come into my inner life and showed up. Almost as if to mock me.

There are no words to convey my sorrows, the feeling of blood draining my very marrows. In the world beyond the dreamer's edge, in the world of sparrows, crows, and ravens, there was her. It was a rough start to a love beyond love, a connection beyond time and space. For it made me understand my own issue and blond women, and my own inner struggles. The romance of mortals cannot comprehend it, for I had avoided brainwashing and came to associate blond with brainwashing. At first I had met her avoiding her gaze. There was something about the nature of being blond that scared me, and made me alone again to feel like my inner child. The wild life of the nocturne abyss. And yet as I dreamed a kidnapping by my own desires, I began to regret watching her rolling, rolling, and rolling away into night in the cart of steel tires.

It was execution day. The day she would lose her head. My mind split into different directions, with the image of her forming a kind of duality. She would appear as a demon in the night, take away deservedly by inner knights. And yet part of made had a kind of sympathy for the demonic. For the demon in wooden shoes was just like me, and me like her. For something had hinted about her lack of trust, as I arrived and they exposed her bare bust. Her chest shook as her neck was placed on the block. I was split between different choice, tormented by cackling angelic voices. Yet the angels were no angels at all, and the demons were no demons at all. And the storm clouds covered the inner skies. Farewell to the world of cherry pies.

And thus the choice was taken. I was my mind given into personal lies.

The ax touched her neck, and then raised as high as it could go. The thing about crescent shapes is they crush through neck and bone, for that demonic elf girl who did not atone. And yet part of me felt as her, dying on the headman's block.

The ax fell, the beheading was botched.

It took one more stroke, and her head finally fell into the basket. I saw briefly the image of her convulsing body, exposed and lifeless.

And then I was jolted from the nightmare,

The elf girl was myself, and what I hated.

I wanted to cut it all away.

There was a time when I could not dream, for me who could tear reality at the seam. The few times I could dream, I dreamed of chasing midnight Knights singing to do to me far worse things than losing my head. To become one of them, the serial killers of the night. But I was different.

I was a dreamer.

I could change the world. And in this world beyond the dreamer's edge, there was a faint promise, a promise that I could make to myself. That I would respect myself, and my own mind. To never dream again.

To never live again. I woke up seeing a spider, it was the size of a toy poodle. It would come at me and strangle me in the night. And I would scream and wake up my parents I lived with at the time. It was the point in time when I began to have night terrors nightly, and began withdraw subtly and slightly. For the soldiers so knightly, stalk me in my own torn reality become real things in and of themselves.

They were the silhouettes they torn the night.

They night they came to take me home.

The Drop Of An Elf Girl's Head

Life became increasingly dangerous at the drop of a head. The subtle sinking feeling, the sudden realization of your head being in the basket. You can see your blond locks over your face, as you blink and blink for the last remaining thirty seconds. That was what I had imagined for her, and yet I never got to ask her her name. I'm not sure if that's even possible in a dream.

Being with the blond elf was something of ironic desire. There wasn't anything like the desire for hate fucking, and yet somehow I knew that I wasn't the type to do this. And again, not sure if that's possible in a dream. And cisgendered women were worth far more than to hate fuck. As I began to dream again, I found myself in consistent petrified forests where I felt like something sinister was chasing me.

That feeling hasn't gone away now. And yet I must face this fear before I can make myself dream again, to face my own issues head on. I waited, turned around. And found that, it was ... myself.

I had neglected my own self for so long and for so many years, and yet within myself I found that I didn't know who I was. I know that the memories of her neck stump haunted my dreams, haunted my life, and make me unable to write again. And yet there was some merit in the desire for self-destruction. Rather than giving in to alien abduction, the alien aspect of the self. And yet there are many aspect of the self that are changing, one may look at earlier versions of themselves with shame. I wanted to burn away the fears, burn away the feelings. Burn it all away.

There are still many aspects of the self I know not.

And yet by waking point I then forgot. And yet part of the blond woman was somebody else that I had known, and there was no explanation for the fact the she would look subtly different every time I went beyond the dreamer's edge. Ever sense I saw her beheaded, my mind would replay the same images over and over again. I became a fourth dimensional dream hacker, hopping to different scenes from my dream world. I could pop anywhere I want, pop out of the dream world into the waking world. And I thought I could control my own destiny.

And yet my own destiny is beyond my control.

Especially when the dream-scanners came.

Beyond the hillside and the meadows, there is a hope no in the lifetime. And yet this hope is far away, into a million lifetimes in the future. Listen to my personal rhyming stories, and listen to how I came to dream again.

There was an old man who sang through his flute, and spanked zombies with his military edition boot. And yet the old man was neither military or dream swatters. The man was another writer, who said he robs ancient temples from many nations from far away into the night. You never really could tell whether what he said was really true, but he clung to you like super glue.

While spanking zombies with his boots. And her sang insane Holiday carols from obscure religions on the atheist direction against Mormonism. He said, "I can give you this bag of Kingly treasures."

And yet I knew he had to fence with his saber to get them. And so I politely declined, and hoped to never see him again. And yet I suspected, my story didn't end with the blond girl's beheading. As I could still feel her voice in the world.

The world inside my head.

I couldn't get in touch with the therapist until later, found out at the last minute she only does part time, and then I get directed to Valley Cities which is all the way in Seattle.

It would be cheaper to pay for one way and live in a shelter, instead of let money completely run out, in order to prevent getting kicked out which getting SSI was suppose to prevent. All because I live in a motel about over an hour away, where here there are mostly therapists who don't take Apple Health Care.

The management is already hostel to new tenants, with routine "inspections" were they literally make up anything each time to keep you on edge. They didn't have INTERNET for the first five months I was here. Otherwise I could have gotten SSI earlier. I think anyone else besides me would have gone insane through this ordeal. And I'm not totally sure if I'm sane.

That's if you don't include how hard it is to get a job. That's what they don't say when Seattle acts like its a mystery why people are homeless. We only just started job hunting (I can't work do to borderline mobility issues, partial deafness, and PTSD) when family told us at the last minute our rent was about to run out. All the while I'm apparently suppose to act civil to people here.

Ah yes, an absolute mystery why Washington residents are homeless.

I'm so glad the state is a competent private detective. They seem to care more about busting up prostitution rings than solving mental health and poverty issues that cause it to begin with.

The cops are constantly racially profiling, associating black and trans people with things that would never pass in a court of law.

Meanwhile in New York, there was a recent shooting. Possibly by cops racially profiling people, although I don't know about the whole issue without a working television for months as well.

It's not like I watch television, but when you're reliant on social media things tend to appear out of context and tossed at your out of the blue. So it's not like I don't care, I simply haven't enough context. I'll save what I really think is going on for another time, as I still have people on social media that stalk me. You don't have to have paranoia to realize our country is going to shit.

So here I am waiting for the next opportunity to off myself

Because I don't know myself anymore. And I simply feel like my life is becoming to much to comprehend.

Yet beyond that dreamer's edge, there are other forms of darkness. Where soldiers in the night form into the faces of the racist men, who stalk people different from they. Who find themselves superior to they. And they chase after men and women with pitch folks for the color of their hair.

Beyond the morning light, where blood fills the streets, in distorted medieval urban landscapes.

Beyond the our time, beyond our future.

Beyond the life. I find that in my fantasy world it distorts into the image of my own reality, exaggerated and almost like futuristic projections. I find that those who want me dead know what I can do for the world.

Because the elves rely on me.

Because they don't know how unreliable I am.

The headsman's ax is sharpened from the botched ordeal, while the original block is burned for firewood. One can see the body language of men, who while they say nothing smile widely at scoring a mark, the elf woman's decapitated body having been soiled by its own juices. The tendency the body to clean itself only matters if you are alive, otherwise the body begins its slow rot.

What remains is only the impact of how the elf woman lived. Sounds of laughter, sounds a roaring. Sounds of deranged men ready to start snoring. The small crowd is indifferent villagers, who had known her to be a petty thief. And yet I met with a woman in another dream who had known her. Until she made that ultimate mistake, that was to disown her.

Into the waking world the trance was broken from by the sound of the local room mate parrot. Who had a thing for the word chocolate chips. I would have rather not associated urinated soil associated with chocolate chips, and I'm sorry but those aren't really chocolate chips. Which is a shame because I really love chocolate muffins with cream cheese sour cream filling with chocolate chops.

My life was that exact kind of mixture between delicious and nasty that kept my eating routines erratic. Such dreams of the nasty were not an unusual occurrence to me, although due to the nature of the realism of dreams they tended to gross me out for a while.

So I hopped back to an earlier lifetime.

It was a normal evening back then, and I would spend a lot of time doing sketches of different kinds of monsters, and found that I had not interest in traditional fantasy monsters, for I want to to create my own kind of monsters. Such as the many arms of the snake, a snake with many heads that had different mouths with different taste buds for different sorts of things. My imagination struggled with different impractical monsters for a while, and I would sketch these until my fingers became raw and numb.

And then my interests began to change.

I began to read about serial killers and their inner desires.

I was so filled with shame and self-hate that I refused to go outside of my room do to kink shaming that I used to experience. But in actuality it was simply emotional abuse, and a lot of my issue had to do with self-hate. I found my solace in the draw of true crime novels, and would watch different serial killer documentaries, trying to see how it was they got caught. And yet over time I became bored of this.

The thing about kink shaming and gas lighting is that it is a process over time, and is highly sociopathic in nature. The perpetrator would make you question your own memories and perceptions of reality. For a long time I began to wonder what of my many different memories were true.

I had memories from when I was in my mother's wound, remembering it being rather pink inside. That would be one of the main memories my wanted to break out of me wanting me to only remember what they wanted me to remember. Across many months of December, this would take place.

And yet now that image of a post beheading, something I would have rather forgotten, played endlessly in my head for the following months. Although at the time it felt like forever.

Beyond The Suicide Edge

Beyond the dreamer's edge, I explore various ruins. I explore various temples with ancient artifact. I fought against many monsters both weak and strong. Yet I keep finding myself reminded of the lost elf girl named Lenora. I visited her tombstone, and there I am greeted by her angelic statue.

I had at times been iffy at the possibility of visiting graveyard, and yet as of late I keep visiting the lost Lenora. And I remain beside her side, longing for the lost Lenora. However part of me realizes she is gone forever, and she will never come back ever. And yet I long, long, and long for the lost Lenora. I see creatures in the night, who call me names, and mock at me with phrases quite profane. And yet I no longer care about my inner world, and would just as soon let it rot so I can finally be with the lost Lenora. Perhaps I have said her name to much, the lost Lenora.

Well that's Lenora for you.

I no longer have anything desire for the worlds beyond the dreamer's edge, and find my solace wandering across Purgatory Road to find some place to off myself and die. And descend into the dreamer's edge beyond the dreamer's edge. And hope that I may reincarnate no longer obsessing about the lost Lenore. I hold in my hand a white night flower, and wait for the midnight showers.

So I wait for a long time in the cold.

Hopping across time and space beyond the dreamer's edge, I relive old memories of previous vacation trips. Where I would purchase different level of heat for different Hot Sauces along the coast. There is also a bookstore, where I would hang out at time and look at books other authors have written. And I try as I might to try to picture myself living their lives. And yet their lives are not mine. For the logical divine has chosen t to live my own life as I am however I am. And it expect me to do whatever I can to be me. Because that is all I am.

And yet at time I want to be someone else.

At times I want to be the president of the United States and rule the nation with an iron fist, and other times I hop into the bodies of other people across time and space. Because at time I've felt that my reality is not my own. For I wish to experience other people's sins and see what they feel they must atone for, or if perhaps they feel no need to atone at all.

This is my life's ambition, my personal call.

The call to understand my own emotions.

And to understand others.

The inspector came for their morning roost, who long to give us our morning roast. And after they leave I shall have a morning toast to my own life, and for others. As I live one more day if I don't die of alcohol poisoning. I suppose that there are worse fates for those who empathize to much, as they live others lives among earlier centuries among the Dutch and futuristic conglomerate nations. In world where people eat upon military rations, or eat among fine caviar. I had once tried caviar, and yet it is to salty. Yet perhaps I shall treat myself, as I descend yet again beyond the dreamer's edge, longing to go back to the world beyond.

I vanish into appear in the new life.

My new life, my new story.

Beyond the dreamer's edge the imprint of memories fades by the sunlight, forming vague impression in how one views their own life.

It is often unpredictable whether inspections will be merely giving one sheets and towels, or more rigorous ones where the manager bitches about at least something every time you enter the motel. At a point in time when we might be losing money soon, you might think they are losing money as well. But then suddenly that revenue stream from them will be all gone.

My room mate is considering becoming a voice actor, although I find it doubtful she will be motivated to do anything. But if she can get the INTERNET, I may motivate her to try to figure out how to get an voice acting career. The uncertainty is in whether she will have to go somewhere or perhaps will be able to do it from home. Although she knows my kinks, and I generally try to only masturbate under the blanket, I get tired of having to censor what I do even though the only reason I do is do to psychological issues regarding whether I even should do to my psychologically abusive family. For my family was narcissistic about certain kinds of things, and would always insist on me not being fit to be a parent, regardless of what my own views were on the matter.

And they put me in a mental state where I constantly felt like a kid, and therefore became psychologically dependent on others to make money on my behalf, when reliant on someone who is hardly motivated to do anything, this therefore has the tendency to set negative things in motion for my life.

But there is an SSI station in Seatak in King County.

Maybe I can see whether that is fruitful.

I will ride on the bus toward the King County Seatak side, and look at various landscapes toward the edge of forever, hoping for some sort of change in my life. Or I may decide to kill myself in the following weeks, only time will tell. I'm entirely uncertain how the shelter is going to go, and a lot of my uncertain is how I tend to value my own privacy, and in general in cities you pretty much almost never get any privacy. There is also exposure to the elements. And even if it is indoors there is still the issue of someone just waltzing int your room without asking.

That's largely why I would have liked to actually get disability before we were in this mess, but this motel in Milton with abusive motel inspectors had ruined my life without having INTERNET for a long time. I still fill like that place owes me damages, but you just try suing somebody when you are as destitute as we are. And so our life moves forward with a kind of uncertainty.

Beyond the dreamer's edge, one finds themselves in various prisons of the flesh, engaging in various BDSM affairs, from paddling maids, beheading slaves, and other mixes of pleasure and pain. I live a life of the profane, the financially dying, and one lost in their own personal Purgatory. The place where all night terrors and good dreams come to end gotten rid of for the same crime of existing, and one simply waits to put a noose over their neck.

And then dangled forever.

But sometimes things change subtly at first.

And sometimes things you thought would be the worst end up actually being better for your mental health in the long run.

So no need to put mouth to gun.

Reality Merely A Dream

Life is like a painting that appears differently to each viewer, each one manifesting as an image of rayism. The individual feels temporarily out of time and space, only later coming to grips with their new reality.

And yet they explain their revelation to others, each one experiencing different conflicting images. To ease the conflict, people simply go back to their old realistic painting of life. Beyond the dreamer's edge, one can appear in any world they want, and can influences reality how they want to if they are of a sensibility to do so. And so I find that I have the power to make new friends, and to bring back old friends from the dead. Having them hear with me now.

I am a kind of dream necromancer, manipulating and learning how the dead work seeing why it is one cannot resurrect the imagination.

My life has filled me with great frustrations. Life is one great childhood adventure, running along long treks of the dream world, only stopping to me et with different beings with different lengths of ears and varying sharpness of talons. At times one imagines themselves confined in meshes of framework prisons, having their legs smashed by unseen hammers in the dark. And your screams are not heard in that personal cell. Where one eventually hallucinates and sees strange things.

Among such strange things, I saw the image of the elf girl Lenora pointing at me, and directed me my way through the light, and she would tap her little wooden clogs, allowing me to hear where the right direction, lest I fall into some hidden put of the mind. And if I get six right in a row, she would have a complete tap dance. Then rub her booty against my my inner thigh. With her head still attached of course, as she is a hallucination of the elf girl I once knew.

And yet on some level I knew.

I had the power of the mind. And so I reach out my hand into the darkness, hoping I could resurrect the dead.

At times one wish for things one might think they might not wish for. Sometimes one imagines themselves wishing for things that are wildly different from their own desires, and yet at other times they may not even know what they really wish for until it is to late. And they can't change a thing. Yet for me I find I can control the nature of my dreams and inner wishes, and will allow for things to happen as they will. And then change differently at other times for different results. And yet I cannot master my own life in the same, as many things in ones life is outside of their control.

Thus as one becomes a prisoner in life, they may become freeman in the mind and if you so believe the spirit. One can change the world of their inner mind.

They can master the dream.

Thus I wait for things to change in my life.

I hope that my life can catch up with my imaginations. For I am my own master of dreams, and no master of my life.

I am observing things in real life many planes of reality along with the Lenora, watching many three dimensional screens of writers who came before a person like myself. And there I saw many classic writers, who wrote things long before I. And discarded many things before publishing before I. And yet some of them could not find any more encouragement in themselves to continue onward, switching completely writing poetry and verse.

I had always supposed my writing was a curse. Sometimes I see things in the night watching me, mocking me, calling my name. And yet with Lenora by my side I can not try to sleep, even if it gives me trouble; gives me dreams. And the stars above cannot separate me from the darling Lenora Lee. Because between me and the universe, she is not inside my mind forever. My darling Lenora Lee. You may find me quite pretentious, others may find me quite audacious. And yet the tenacity of the human mind endures all obstacles, in the eternity of time. For I exist for nobody else, but my darling Lenora Lee. Who appeared as if from a dream.

We explore the ruins.

We explore the kingdoms.

We explore the graveyard at night. And yet nobody, not even the demons on Earth can forever separate me from my darling, my Lenora Lee. Because I can control the nature of my own reality.

I am a master of my own dreams.

I can overcome night terrors.

Sometimes one might get stage fright, without ever being up at the podium. And yet when it comes to being on pod casts, and other means of performance they find they are among the best of friends. And yet for me I exist alone inside my mind, longing for the beautiful Lenora Lee. And yet I cannot have her in my real life, for life is much more than merely a dream. I have no mastery of my own life, and yet I act as my own personal shrink in my head.

I who once longed to be dead. Who once wished to be among the dead. Who once watched the removal of an elf girl's head. And yet for me instead, I exist without knowing what to do with my life still. The singing voice of the muse of life is rather shrill, with reality's country song singing the song of depressed clients bringing up the tabs, barely having money for the grocery store. And yet I sense a presence behind me, and I'm not sure who touches my shoulder. I think of the worst.

I think of ... yet that is no he.

For it is a she. It is my darling Lenora Lee, as she shows me how to play poker. And then connect the dots along the stars. For they have aligned just right for me to be with her at least one more time. And yet as the night closes, I feel that recurring feeling of dread.

That reality is merely a dream.

Lenora Like Catherine Howard

It was a case of extravagant misery.

The bigger the house you own the more room you have to walk inside and not have to go outside. Yet with the smaller houses there came a kind of comfort, one didn't have to walk three miles to explore the living room and kitchen squawking like a decapitated chicken. One could dance upon in smaller space, until you eventually fall over dead. Although unfortunately none of those I knew did, I probably would have come out substantially better with that.

For me I had been living in my old family house for some time, but had avoided certain rooms do to negative associations that those rooms give me. Such as the times I would sleep with my parents in the same bed, and dreams of things in the closet that will come to take me away. The period of dreaming was constantly streaming, and the very natural of how I perceived the real began to crack.

The thing about imagination, when you allow it to run wild, at times it makes you perceive reality when outside of the dream in a different way than you otherwise would. And for me, as someone who had family that would never strongly emphasize that things I experienced were dreams, and more immediately family that made me question my own natural memories, this led to me questioning my own sense of self. And after a point, I only had myself. Then not even that.

I had only my fractured mind. This was a mind that had a kind of impractical creativity I had initial difficulty applying to tangible projects.

And then I began sketching.

I had urinated in my bed from an early age, and my psychiatrists attributed this to depression. So when an early age onward, something that apparently goes against the science of today, I was taking anti-depressants up to the point I turned eighteen. So the way I perceived things were adventures I could have had at a time when I had difficulty expression my own inner sorrows. I feel like a glass bottle that would constantly be filled with water, and all the world's tears would flow inside, without having some means of an exit.

And so I came to understand holding back feelings.

I would hold back feelings when family turned over the tables, I would hold back feelings when I scraped by knees falling over my bike. And I would hold back feelings whenever my jokes were referred to as stupid. It took many years just getting to the point were I could make puns without reliving negative memories.

So after a point I withdrew to my room.

And after that I mostly drew. And yet most of what I drew came to mirror my own nightmares and inner frustrations with myself. And that's how you will come to find drawings of beheaded girls, girls kneeling on headsman's blocks, and masked executions getting ready for the chop.

My psychiatrists were concerned about my mental health, and yet mom would at times take me different psychiatrists. So my whole childhood was spent trying to find the right psychiatrist for me, or in older years my mom constantly nagging at me about what kind of future I would end up having.

That's a laugh, they think I actually have a future. If you call it a future, I suppose it is. But sometimes you make the best of what you have.

Even if it's nothing.

The thing about writing what you know, sometimes the individual nuance is complicated. Take for example the difference between being someone who is pregnant, and observing someone who is pregnant. But whenever you write about a woman who is pregnant, the assumption always seems to be you've been pregnant before rather than merely observing someone who is.

I had just gotten back from outside my house to visit more with the trans support group, and among them was a small woman in a brown pony tail, and several other friends from support group were there to greet me on stools. I was in my old house in NashChat, right in SmyrMurf. We were having support group right in the dining room, which had now been carpeted by the original color of carpet to bring back a sense of my old childhood to allow me to relive certain memories. Such as remembering when I used to be read picture books and played with wooden trains. And so I was able, at least briefly, to explore further the nature of my own memories.

And yet these memories blended with other memories, of when I visited yet another hotel room on a rainy night, and how I had once tried writing a new novel. Although I am uncertain as to whether this was a memory or a dream, my computer had decided to eat my novel once it ran out of batteries. I was attempting to write about specific experiences in my life, and to add various science fiction and fantasy elements to it. On that particular night it all was for naught.

And there was no care about this from the support groupies.

In fact that assumed that most of my childhood I was expanding the memories of my own childhood inside in my mind.

But it's not up to them to decide what I remember.

I shall remember what I want.

I hopped between different time periods and dreams, and imagined myself in the crowd of Lenora's execution, which was similar to Catherine Of Arragon's beheading by the ax.

"I am able to die very easily if you will it." she said, handing him a small bit of change to ensure her quick demise.

And so to explain the people the true nature of reality as I see, it almost on some level has to be expanded in my mind, and embellish as a work of fiction. For the nature of how I remember things is blurry and murky and nightmarish and needlessly complicated mazes and puzzles I may well forget about in the morning. Because for me, it is easy for me to merely wake up under the awning, and sit on the childhood porch rail merely observing the raining sky.

Until a lightning bolt falls down.

And makes me fall to the grown below.

The life of a dream and memory blender.

The Elf Girl I Never Thought I'd Love

Beyond the dreamers edge, I find myself in a different room from the homeless shelter of which I thought I resided. For while the room was similar, there was something ever so slightly different about it. I got out of my bed, and notice that some things were in a different location than I had previously experienced, and wondered if like how it's bad to change things up on a blind person, the nurses had decided to transfer me in my sleep to the other side of the building.

I had very much of a different kind of illness from the Antoinette sisters, something difficult to articulate in words. It's like all at once you realize you are different from other people, who have normal interest in regular human sexual affairs. And yet for me I had known of my own sexual deviance from an early age. It wasn't like I was proud to have this particular issue. And yet the most I'm told I seem to others in someone who is easily startled by those around her. For I have many memories of that time, of which I had gotten to the point where I confused them for dreams do to the nature of my relationship with my female guardian.

The world was a constantly changing place, but not this much. I could some items in the room begin to float without explanation, and I've had memories of conversation with nurses that I would never meet. For my mind is like a demented programmer's program in Ruby syntax, the random images in my part of a larger scheme of non-sequitur based on things I could actually experience.

My life was an array further random array with further random arrays of deliberately tailored non-sequiter faces. I see in these strange room, me being transported to many places similar yet different from what I know. The trek between the laws are like an under toned surrealist painting, with the truly strange just being beyond the doors of the numbered room, with the ones on the left even and the one on the right very odd indeed. And you'll never know what you may find beyond those doors.

And for me, I may never wish to find out. I heard the giggling of the Lenora behind one of those doors, and wondered if it was merely a trick of my mind. Or if perhaps it was merely the two sisters who found themselves the reincarnation of the lesbians during the French revolution.

My life played many images images back and forth in my mind, and tends to become further refined in detail as my life flashes forward. I hope you don't find my assumption untoward, but I'd rather not meet any new images in my mind. I'd rather go toward a brand new happier life.

And yet sometimes this ability to move on is not an option: the nearest contact with friends is all the way in Milton in the Seatak area. I've been in Seattle of the Seatak area for so long. I never go outside, I never sleep for I fear my dreams, and I never get any peace. Because I am like a lost adventurer, having never succeeded in retrieving the golden fleece. And as punishment by the king of tomorrow my wife is beheaded and I am forced to live in her absence long for her to be by my side.

I hope things change for the better.

The bus ride wasn't the hardest part of going to the superstore, the hardest part was walking up the hill. Leg pain had become increasingly worst over the best few months, and the only ease on ones mind is a Jesus proselytizer holding up a sign when your room mate says "Ave Satanas."

It had been many months since I had been released from the homeless center for mental patients. My own reality is become normal and mundane again, but I still have memories of the elf girl. From the time to time I would still see here bleed through into my own reality, and she would be sitting in a bus seat headed out of town. At times she would volunteer for the local rainbow center. I hadn't had the money lately to go check to verify. Sometimes she would give me text messages, and I'd have to text her to tell I will talk in the morning.

Life isn't all bad, mostly it is a head ache. The main issue at the moment is having money for the bus, and yet just today mom had refilled the money on my bus card. That doesn't stop me from cursing out the bus while running to make sure I am able to catch up with it. And then I get transfer credit, and sit in the bus seat with my legs still aching, and making sure my room mate is aware she need to pull the wire to make sure we are able to stop at the motel. The motel on the other hand, was where we used to leave to go get some smokes at the local smoke shop. But lately we hadn't had money for smokes, and I'm really trying to save up the last cigarillos--which I prefer more than cigarettes--for extremely special occasions.

I had a vaporing rig a while back called an electronic cigarette. But I had began to use that so much that often I started using it like a Breathalyzer, always inhaling even in the most inconvenient of time. The thing is, when my parents arrived, my friend had to explain to them you don't get tar in your lungs. I think what it was really was was a matter of power of me rather than the vaporing itself. Fortunately the elf girl never saw me vapor, although for many months this made sense. At the the time she was still merely a hallucination beyond the dreamer's edge.

And as my dreams became reality, thing changed.

I realized my whole perception of reality was a lie.

And that's how I am still here today, having survived two suicide attempts by poison, and living mostly on food stamps waiting for the time I can get disability for my PTSD. I may well have to ask family for my medical records.

I hope Laminae is OK. I'm not sure how she'd feel with my conversation with my blond elven dream girl.

The girl I never thought I'd love.

I Owe It For Lenora

Beyond the dreamer's edge, there are near possible places just past the reality of places to visit. Such as the called Venice, Tennessee. Where the roads are flooded, and new roads are built above the land.

One can take a double boat across different sectors of NashChat. I was riding on a boat with Lenora, who wearing was wearing Jesus sandals at the time. She would be smoking pot, while observing me stare out beyond the front of the boat as we drifted into the tunnel of the mind. In this tunnel there are unseen things, one no mind was meant to observe. As we road along the boat, we eventually docked on what seemed to be almost a Neo Victorian underground city; it had technology of various types from the Victorian era, and somehow they had made their way to the United States. The whole facility was covered in gears.

The city of gears we would call it.

The city would rise every ten years above the flooding planes. Although I have heard that the city would eventually no longer have to float was the water was sinking. I've never been sure whether those stores were true, and wondered myself what it would look like seeing the building so high up in the sky, and watching the birds fly along where the surface I had known once was. Although I had only heard these rumors from disreputable people.

Yet still on my mind I picture the water slowly sinking.

And then the doors along the building would eventually rise above into the heavens, as the land now covered in dirt and dust comes into view exposing a barren planet when dying fish. I wanted not to see this.

My dying wish as I drowned myself.

And I sunk into the muddy waters. I leave behind my girlfriend, who as I observe her eventually stabs the person who pushed me off. One of the original guards that wanted me dead.

She was taken to the square to have her head taken off in town, she trembled in her brown and orange patterned dress as she observed the delicately ankled blade that would kill her. Tied to the main board in her Jesus sandals, the grooved soles of the sandals exposed for the onlookers behind the guillotine admiring her non bony bare feet, whose ankles matched her thin swan like looks. She was lowered and her neck placed between two board.

The tears in he eyes begin to well up.

The sound of skin and bone cut through by a loud thunk, swiftly the beheading machine showed no mercy cutting through her long swan like neck the executioner was caressing. Her blond haired head falls into the basket in slow motion. The basket and the blade are covered in blood. Her soft blue eyes fade. Consciousness remained in her head for the next few seconds.

Her head was picked up and shown to the crowd.

The executioner slaps her face. Cackles fill the crowd.

The rats in the morgue ravage her Jesus sandals, nibbling at the leather straps. And then gradually nibble closer to her dress.

I wake up, and prepare for another writing day.

In the waking world, I find that my reality is all to mundane. I live in the world of the possible, even overly possible cities. Cities where people go to work every day, and pay whatever bills they can.

So they can live their lives. Whatever life they follow. Yet for me I am unable to work due to my own delusions.

I live a dreamer's lover's life in sleep.

There was once a calliope, that played to the tune of ancient myths. The fare was one held in the town every year, though few times have I ever personally gotten to go to any of them, despite the money to do so.

I had always wanted to try my hand at winning a teddy bear. It wasn't until later I found out second hand, so take the salt for what it's worth, as being rigged in favor of the game engineer. Engineers of taking money from the poor. One of the few fares I got to visit was the renaissance fare.

While I've had certain issue with medieval fantasy for some time, there was some kind of fascination with the fare. There was something different about a fare that allowed me to buy swords of whatever I desired, although asking for ID was a constant nuisance.

At the end of the day, it always seemed to amount to "little boys shouldn't play with swords", although as I've gotten older I wondered why they didn't know that they were meant to be decorative, and frankly whether anybody should be playing with swords. Plus I'm a girl, not a boy.

I had grown quite a prolific sword collection in my closet. This was before the time that I had grown the issues of self-hate and resentment for those more beautiful than I. And so because I never got to buy a dress, for I considered myself a girl you see, I could never touch the back of my flowered hat straw hat, and stare to the sky. And as I stared at other girls far prettier than I, my family would always ask me if I had some vested interest in the footwear they wore.

Even if I was, keep in mind I was seventeen, and I mainly looked at other seventeen year old girls. Sometimes sixteen, but in either case, my family had not real good reason to really be interested in that information, and I certainly wasn't about to give that to them. It was bad enough not being able to buy clothes of my desired gender. Of course the family member in question would always misconstrue it as catering to my own personal sexual fetishes.

Clearly she had no idea about my gender issues.

Like I was going to tell them that.

At home various memories played in my head about the fare, and built up certain kinds of resentments and associations, although some of which only bother me to this day. I only bring this up because recently I had tried getting back into playing JRPGs, and get into reading fantasy novels to begin with.

Combined with the fact I still had weird issues about sword shops, wanting to see more gore in fantasy in the west, and having resentment of certain characters due to finding it petty one could still hold onto their ex if clearly they broke up with them. It may be judgmental on my end, but when you throw someone who doesn't even want to be a hero under the bus like that, particularly if it were me I would have said good luck rescuing your planet on your own, you split from my party and lets go our separate ways.

Unfortunately most of the 90s era games coming from Japan had not multiple ending or narrative options, so I was mainly stuck with what the game me. I think that was one of the first grains of why I wanted to become a storyteller.

I wanted to create my own narrative.

I wanted to tell my own story.

In many ways I was largely raised by the video games I grew up with, from Platformers, JRPGs, action rpgs, you name it. One game was the one that allowed me to have a childhood I never grew up with.

Even with fantasy it was a world so different from my own I could give it's crap sack world kind of a pass. But I withdrew into the world of the video game largely as a way of ignoring issues I had with other people as well as other mediums of expression. And yet the thing that always bugged me about this one game was at times it had a bit of a subtle western aesthetic I didn't care for.

The most immediate example is Westerns. Now I recently heard that westerns were not originally macho, being more reflective of the actual wild west. All fine and good but anyone who has payed attention to American film making over the last century will notice how macho western movies tend to be. If these were advertisements for western novels, I would pay one look at a western novel. Those novels would lose money, and the other would be on Food Stamps like I am now.

For example, in Western they had hanging by the neck instead of the guillotine. Apparently the reason behind it was it was cheap and if done right was swift and relatively painless. Let's put arguments pro and anti-death penalty aside (I'm very anti-death penalty if you haven't noticed.) I once had a conversation with a guy on here that hanging wasn't suppose to be either quick or painless. So I have two different people with wildly different ideas of what makes a western, largely thanks to Spaghetti Westerns. So he had this condescending attitude about guillotines in a Western novel.

That is if you don't include how it seems like on some level in American films it was somehow the expectation that women wore very female clothes, even though there isn't anything inherently wrong with women wearing pants and--and yes these existed at the time, though you probably had to have them imported--Birkenstock sandals. Nope they wore basically the same clothes women were expected to wear in the 1950s and 1960s. And that's ignoring the larger culture of female victims needing to be rescued, god forbid a woman actually needed a good hanging herself.

I really really hate comedic relief characters. It didn't totally take away from the games experience for me, but it left a permanent mark for me. It seemed like her entire purpose was to be rescued by the male hero.

Maybe it was self-hate, maybe it was hate for others. But I can't explain it, it was simply me. Your darling the pacer. Imagination is a powerful thing. And I realized I had the power of love and not hate.

I could be with Lenora again.

Make her smile. And so I listen to the song, of the JRPG I used to play as a kid. And try to relive the powerful positive memories I can.

I owe it for Lenora.

Lets Fix The Broken

I was a young upstart with a job and a life, before I lost my girlfriend and my soon to be wife. Instead my new life came to be filled with uncertainty.

I mostly spent time in my room in despair. I had no interest in western programming, yet found myself watching said films out of sheer mental exhaustion and boredom. And there was nothing more nothing more fast and definite than a quick drop of the noose. How ever what I liked about hanging was not the neck breaks, but rather the slow strangulation of thief girls on the wire. They danced around in the air with their little sandaled feet, and sheer ejaculation followed. On some level as long as thief girls were hanged, I could tolerate outdated clothing.

I got a phone call my my lady friend Jan, who lost her pet bunny rabbit named Fran. I used to imagine adventure with Jan and Fran, hopping along in magical worlds fighting various giant apes. Instead I gave her an ill advised platitude do to mental exhaustion, and gave her quick mocking kiss and hung up the phone. I suppose that wasn't the way to maintain friendships.

As strange as it sounds, the Netherlands didn't have beheading. Instead for most crimes punishable by death there was only hanging. So I imagine thief girls dangling their wooden shoes on the wire. I imagined one giving my clog jobs and stomping on my junk for kicks.

I turned off the computer monitor, and imagined my own future as a writer. I had given up the idea of writing children's fantasy. The thing about me was that I tended to be far to cynical for writing children's fiction. I am also a bit of a horn dog for dutch women, Swedish women, and German women. There wasn't anything like imagining them playing with my junk with a pair of Jesus sandals, a pair of Swedish brown leather clogs, and wooden clogs. I spent a large portion of my time looking at shoe play on the wire, a different wire than the one used to hang dutch girls.

I took out my hologram watch I had obtained from an unknown secret agent, who want by a different handle than what their actual name was. And so me and her would talk very occasionally about life and the pursuit of technology. I made sure not to ever talk to her about my kinks. The thing about government agents, as they'll always find you somewhere. They are like stalkers. Only they are legal, and rampant. And the thing about stalking is it's only illegal of someone outside of the government does it. In fact, that's how a lot of crimes tend to be.

Of course they'll never call it stalking.

They are to smooth for that.

So I found myself typing up my new manuscript about something for once outside of my own particular kinks. I found that there was something freeing about going to another world outside of yourself. I find it easier to write middle grade in third person, so I'm not sure how I would revise books that tends to cross over generations. And here I am talking to you about writing rather than actually writing. After all you don't see text on the screen, and I'm not really writing anything. I took a break for the night, and imagined myself having my junk played with my college age German women, and imagined them being paddled by ruthless head masters.

I suppose you call them ... master bait. So the secret agent called me up on the phone, and she asked what I was up to.

"Just finishing up for the night with my new manuscript." I said, quickly popping my junk back into my cargo pants.

"A work of science fiction?" she asked.

"Nope, fantasy."

"For adults?"

"Asking a lot of questions."

"Are you writing for kids?"

"Yes yes yes, yes I am."

"It's just a conversation, be more patient."

She hung up the phone.

Sometimes one gets visceral feelings they can't explain, at others times the reason is one that while other people have become filled with passivity by it, one still holds those extreme feelings by it out of traumas one doesn't explain to other people for fear of being declared an outcast and shamed by it. Worse yet people would attempt to outclass them by going into yelling matches without trying to understand the core reason for someone's feeling.

Hence the problem with social media. Originally not even conceptualized by people in earlier time periods, who were used to sending things by mail, the current networking world makes it easy to sound an asshole. Most of the time it is unclear when people are joking. They attempt to solve the problem by blocking each other, yet often this runs the risk of blocking someone who is joking. And there are other cultures that thrive against this universe of ambiguity, people who hate follow other people and vague blog about them in order to provoke a reaction. We live in a world where people thrive on confusing shock value and art.

I had originally had no intention of publishing my work, I merely wanted to write for myself. I wanted to write about stories that were partially memoirs of real life experiences at fantasy emulations of secondary worlds. All at once when I went to some events, I would feel as if I were lost in a short moment of time. Often my parents would try to take me out of this writing zone. It is to much to describe to some people what this writing zone is. Certainly if I am being honest I barely understand it myself. The most I can describe is as being a meditative zone. And yet when we go on the networking sites, it almost requires a different kind of mindset than what I'm used to as an introvert. And at times if you have something to say that is more than a paragraph, people take you as someone who is ranting about things.

When I was discussing with my secret agent about technology, she wanted me to communicate some of my points in a single sentence, to try to find some way of pitching these into something concise. The term she used was something short into to pitch to people in government office. Suppose I were to go somewhere to get disability, and I needed to tell a psychiatrist what was wrong with me. For me I would often pause and stumble in what I wanted to say. I would often take more time trying to figure out what I want to say rather than figure out whether it makes sense. It had been this way since the beginning of my life.

That's just for disability. Imagine if I were trying to pitch concepts about technology. I have to come up with something short and sweet:

I want psychological profile generator.

I don't mean novel generator, I find it disingenuous for anyone to even propose such a concept, as the implication is almost always a money making scheme. Eliminate the writers, get most of the money for yourself. I want a machine that is able to find patterns inside the human mind. Find what it is that causes triggers inside people, and brings back this impulses in the form of psychiatric imagery in real life using virtual worlds to describe the terrors that fill people's lives. In this way, only through this, can we find out what it is that makes people tick.

But having this technology requires responsibility. I don't necessarily want this technology used in such a way as to justify the government tracking that generally happens in the real world.

Learn to live with kinks if it isn't harming you.

Kinksters certainly aren't harming you. In this way one can truly learn to understand and love each other, rather than focus on war and torment. And yet most of the innovations come through more efficient ways killing each other or brainwashing people. I don't believe this will happen in my lifetime, but there is always hope.

I have my own personal nightmare world, where I constantly relive surviving various types of religious cults, although your own nightmare world is unique to you. But let's create a world where we don't obsess about own miseries except through psychiatric appointments.

Let's create a world where we understand other.

Understanding is a great thing. Sometimes you might find yourself alone in the woods and abandoned roadsides, where monsters come out at night to take away your innocence and idealism. And yet there is a better life, although something side life feel at times unreachable. Somewhere in the dark, there is a flashlight held by some warm and loving person that wants to remove you from the rain. They wan to give you a new life, and remove the profane. And in this rant book one may call life, one can settle down and have a wife.

Your story, my story. Everyone's stories of their lives. Where one can have a warm meal of baked potato and chives. Because there is someone out there who loves you, even if at times it seems like nobody loves you at all. That may not be me, but there is somebody out there for you. And while the psychiatrists may be payed, in many ways psychology is a kind of arcane art form, often unappreciated. While a new science, like the art of fiction before it, often has new innovation in order to improve people's lives. At least fiction used to be this way in the nineteenth century.

Lets create a new world.

Lets fix the broken.

Lenora The Lamb

She hopped about in her little wooden clogs, avoiding the ladders falling in her direction. Her feet hurt just a tad, and would sometimes slip her foot out to rub it do to the ache. Then carefully slid it back in the shoe. Rhonda had been walking all day in her shoes, and was becoming very tired. She arrived at home, and went to her bedroom to let the girls out.

The girls have been locked inside the room of stiff cloth all morning and afternoon, and therefore she figured they needed some air. She then popped open a book to read, but could not stay awake long enough to finish it. Instead she drifted into a long slumber where she dreamed of airships and female sky captains that greeted her. With her upper cloth on of course, for the dream world alway put a shirt on, and in a way it didn't matter whether it was hot or cold in the real world, as it would always be a pleasant temperature that particular night.

The thing about the nature of dream girls sleeping, they show up in our world to exist in the real world. They show up as avatars of their masters fantasies, although some have lost them and they wander in the world searching for new girlfriends. Every now and then some would be totally lost without their masters, and would do something highly illegal that gets their necks locked in a stock, and a sharpened angled blade coming down to slice through their necks. Their locks falling into a basket, the blade sprayed with dark crimson color. Luckily dream girls are unable to die, so beheading is like serving a day in prison for them. Rhonda on the other hand always feared she could die by beheading in the dream world, and kept her nose clean when she could help it. Because she was not a dream girl, for she showed up in the dream world when she slept. And people that were not dream girls do not have infinite lives indeed.

There was once two dream girls that were named after two different species of daffodil, and they were once beheaded multiple times. And so their heads flew into the sky at the tune of nursery rhymes. And other tunes of classical musical, and they would sing to these if only they had vocal chords at the time. Such is the life of darling beautiful dream girls.

The dream world and the waking world were two side of the same reality. The only difference is where women that liked to have fun with their girlfriends on cold winter nights, where they would allow their lovers to pet the girl. They have a special friend they would pat and rub on the head that growled in purring motion whenever you petted her. Rhonda would sometimes meet some of these girls, that would always cause a full body vibration with their purr, and then her whole body would dampen in the rain of the dream world.

Rhonda found one she liked, and stomped her wooden clog on the girl. And that's how she met Lina. So came to be the team who would be known as Rhonda and Lina. Or so my new origin stories for my heroes go.

As soon as I finished the story I wrote, I finished up the night with a good masturbation session to dutch girls dangling from a rope. And then got out my pipe and smoked some dope.

I always had trouble writing children's fiction, even though I preferred it over writing adult fiction. But I would always make my protagonist way to old, among other obvious issues. I would sometimes have to revise it several times just to get it right. But tonight I was ready for a break, and on nights when I wasn't constantly called by the secret agent, I would actually at times get actual rest. Rest for me was something hard to come by. I would often only get five hours of sleep at most, so most of the time I could use the extra bit of rest.

Yet tonight would be at my behest.

I was called by the secret agent again. Always be civil of course, it prevents lawsuits in the long run, and lawsuits are never a good thing.

Not a thing indeed.

The thing about writing fiction, is it changes you. Sometimes that change is for the best, certainly it provides new ways of looking at the world around you. And yet at other times it makes you wish you were never born. It many ways it has made life far to complicated to deal with. For starters, let's go back to when I had first started to write fiction. Mainly for myself.

For the longest time I had weird ideas about fiction for youth. I spent my entire day in my thoughts longing for my lost youth. I always had trouble finding romance, and on some level I never believed finding a date would be possible. It wasn't a matter of not being romantic, to the contrary I am romantic to a fault. In my early twenties I spent my hours when home alone writing poetry while consume wine. I was unsure of what to do with my life, as up to that point I had lied to myself even about my own gender issues. Combined with the fact that I felt I could love to much, my fear had always been that they would feel it was happening to fast.

I withdrew into the fantasy world of my flesh. I consumed porn, many kinds one may thing about among people my age. And yet part of me felt it was some sort of accommodation for not finding love in high school. I started developing an addiction to head ache powders. I need some way to withdraw from my life, and live someone else's life instead. I had previously way to emotionally involved in a video game. It was a science fantasy video game, among many in the series. While my family would always encourage me to turn away from the draw of the game, I found on some level I could withdraw into the lives of treasure hunters and dreamers. Where pretty boys always got the girl, even if the girl died in the process. On some level I found myself romanticizing the idea of the scenario.

And yet it was a time when I went through constant night terrors nightly, and would constantly be effected nightly. I withdrew into fantasy worlds of my own creation, at first trying to make them into video games. If not a pink bow in the hair, I could give her delightful brown hair.

Yet over time my desire to make games was becoming thinner and thinner over time, my own desires to go to poetry and rhyme. I started out as a kind of poet, who longed for the tendency for no love and the tendency to be alone. As I felt that ignoring my own desires could make me feel whole again. I felt that I could maintain some image in my mind of what I found nostalgic, the only hope in my life for entertainment. I lost my interest in watching television, and soon after my desire to play video games. I began to drink two beers a night, double the amount of head ache powder. I wanted to transcend my own body.

I wanted a prosthetic leg. I wanted to be bionic.

I wanted to my mother mind of my own destruction.

At first when I began to write, it was stories about serial killers in space. Then I began to watch stories of alien abductions, having tears on my face. I began to project myself into the lives of characters on the screen. Something that I constantly had trouble with even in real life, except for my own selfishness. I fantasized about the image of the wine class, while taking my G.E.D. class. I found motivation in trying to improve myself, simply for the fact I could finally be out of there I have time to write.

So to the old world I said goodnight.

Yet now here I was living the life of laziness and gluttony, consuming cheap porn and and badly rashing after shave. I began to personify my own destruction.

My own downfall. I still have yet to climb back up.

The thing about the nature of imprinted realities with greater abilities than you, often you'll be in a situation where you can't exactly ask them to stop what they are doing at the moment. Lenora knew that my and hers is life trying to steer a star cruiser away from the sun, most of the crew are men who are sexist, and they find out the last minute the only competent driver is a woman. You exactly take her outside and beheaded like in periods of ancient history, and somehow I doubt even though history actually played out exactly like the movies.

And considered the situation, I was just happy to see Lenora out and about doing her own thing in the world. After all as my brain child I feel it's my responsibility to let her live her life how she wishes to. I had to say child, cause let's be honest, every now and then Lenora would kneel on the floor and give me head. I don't know about you, but I'd rather avoiding thinking about my offspring giving me blowjobs. So Lenora explained to me how she decided to become a secret agent. This may make plans to become a cult investigator all the more precarious.

See you guys later. I hop about, and shout to the world because finally found I went off the social wagon again. Hey, that's how life is you know.

It comes with the territory, as I scout for more adventures.

Adventure in Splinter Cult space.

There is a kind of social stigma, for the men of great enigma. The widow plays her deck of cards, dropping down its giant shard to do more than choke the chickens.

For a homeless person, death row with the widow at the end is merely shelter with a slightly accelerated life expectancy. If there was really was such as social stigma, for the headsmen of great enigma, one wonders why they don't strike fear in the urban dislocated. For indeed, the indentured to life often longs for no life at all. And the great long drop to meet the lady is to long to stay unmarried. For the Lenora, the lady who was once a widow, and found her love at last. At yet if Lenora meets the lady, then what else. Perhaps eternal life of misery and solitude.

This is what I wonder when I meet Lenora, who without my assistance, is attempted to break open the secret of The Widow cult. The cult of lost women, often LGBT, find that together only death shall they achieve true happiness in the night. Lenora felt a slight trickle down her day blouse of baby blue, her bare feet sweating in her Jesus sandals. And she felt a kind of vibration all o'er her body. Lenora wanted to find personal safety and trust in me. Lenora did not want to die all alone. And despite the knowledge that the death of death cancels itself out and she is reborn into a new her, I find myself allowing her to sob tenderly and openly on my shoulder.

"Would you touch me, or are to do scared to touch death?" Lenora asked, taunting me with her sweet smile, hiding the tears of loneliness.

"Where would like to me to be touched?" I asked.

"All o'er my body, down below my belly button. Gradually ripping open my blouse of middle grade fantasy. I want to be somebody besides death, I have found you. You reminded me of what it means to be humans."

And yet I touched death, and lived to tell the tale.

Lenora is no burden to the living, she travels abroad to earn her Shillings and tuppence. She is now boundless, who once came from my own reality. She tap dances to the edge of the Earth.

Lenora can now be Lenora.

Lenora the lamb.