Different Colors Of Bow

PART ONE The Gamer Girl Of Red Bank

It's easy to hate, just lean back; masturbate, think of nothing; just enjoy the show of moving tongues. Easier still, is to judge those, who are unable to trust another enough to love.

Its easier, if all the girls in the world were merely sex dolls; subservient, docile, other words that mean the same thing. Just lean forward, gown down on the Bastille scaffold; wait for that angular blade to take your breath away. But life isn't suicide victim, who paradoxically is also a murderer. We no longer live in a world of wooden clogs, horses pulling plows, and women losing their heads on guillotines. Instead is a world of neon lights, street fights, and night club Saturday nights. It's also easy to give into the flow of intoxicating substances, drowning in memories gone by. But I was not one to go parties, no matter the context. Whether that be for a carnival, a festival, or a fare; all technically different. All essentially words for the same thing. Instead what remains is complete unadulterated fetish, not filtered by beautiful girls from earlier time periods, moving into the present, nor the beautiful flawless cybernetic girl, covered in silicon and fiberglass.

Or the flow of French kisses upon on an Irish girls by Dutch Latinos.

Her words for the French, as for a long time, despite having lived right in the border between, she never could quiet admit to loving French girls. And when she could, it was a different sort of love; a different sort of life. A life not caught up in browsing animation porn. Her personal favorite was different variation of Gore Porn, for the girl the world seems to scorn. The flow of blood from severed necks, flowing like musical notes from a deranged dub step rendition of Bach's Funeral Marches. Or Katana blades swinging aimlessly, without an actual body controlling the blade, likely not knowing a digital rendition of a girl in a pair of wooden shoes and a cotton cap, was even in front it, simply using its sharpness to cut away whatever was in the way.

Pulsation, masturbation. Vibration, nirvana rave. Gothic pornography, haunted cassette tapes. The flow of paintings from another era, representing various methods of decapitation, which was her personal favorite method of execution, like the headless horseman from Sleepy Hollow. Butchered flawless cybernetic princess peaches, sliced open and bled.

There goes her head. There goes another missed rave.

There goes a missing date.

It's easy to imagine humans having difficulty blurring the order in which events happen. A different thing when historical cultures throughout thousands of years of human development, have confused the order in which Creation and the exodus from some fictional Garden Of Eden happened.

In actuality, there was a Bison, that belonged with its own family, among other begot verbiage within the animal kingdom. Humans, in actuality, were as sentient as the animals, with the only advantage being what they could do with their hands. They would create sprawling underground sports stadiums, at times blurring with genetic laboratories. Often the objects of bread and circus would be kidnapped animals from the "old god's kingdom."

However this isn't the story of a world gone by.

This is the story of computer hacker, whom lives in the next generation of humanity's destruction.

My grandmother had lived in an era, in which you could find portable information storage mediums, in the same period in which one may find Japanese samurai. When she would bring different graphics novels for herself to read, back when she was a teenager, often that Asian island would be unsure of what the books were. And yet, simultaneously, would find many readers within the same nation could never never imagine life without the little books. I had a portable storage medium that had went down in size to the level of something one could plug in their smart phone, and she would sometimes get in trouble for taking encrypted versions of pirated music to her classmates. Compare this to the old cartridges that seem to barely fit inside a suitcase.

But there wasn't anything that my principle or teachers could do. My superiors could not break it, and often it was just before my family would go the Beach that Summer. They decided it was a waste of time to send me to Summer school, as my family never made me attend anyway, so they mainly crammed me full of information during the main semesters, so that I could get as good as grades as I could.

At times I would read historical novels, and not historical text books. The difference was in the matter of approach: with textbooks one would merely receive information fed to them, while in a historical novel, one would experience the information first hand, through different people one would meet, in periods I could never visit. Gin never understood why my teachers chose to only assign textbooks.

But I wasn't a teacher.

I preferred computers.

Abuse is one of those things its hard to come to grips with, if you weren't aware of the extent of it at the time. People calling your diaries rant books doesn't generally help. Suppressing your feelings generally does more harm than good. So consider this the diary of me and my inner madness.

I never knew any other way; it was easy, it was life. I hoped to keep my brother's knife, as the blood fell down the floor from the sword to the tiles below the amber lights. Masturbating to mystical fairy gore; severed heads, paddled bottoms, the works. Swords cutting bone and tissue, hearing fairy screams from a megaphone; a sound like crying in one's sleep.

I held up the fairy's head. "Where is my frozen bean and rice burrito." Cage lattes were all the rage, another painfully long age playing the matching game. I was matched with a trophy noggin.

I long time before another latte; I wilted, I shed no tears. Yet I was still crying inside. The fairy girl was quite the hotshot, haughty like all the others. But just a simulation inside of the artificial simulated world, where purple slime was more common than monsoons; the plague the only escape from total misery of the flesh. It was one of those days I did not feel like doing much; I logged out, and cooked me a frozen burrito, or as the Spanish put it, fucking tiny donkeys. Then logged back in. The game was a turn based tactical RPG, with medieval fantasy elements; everything from early firearms to out of place guillotines, the flow of blood coming through my veins like electricity for Edison.

The artificial world had reached a stage of development, where it began to rival people's experiences in the real world. When your father chooses immediate comforts over personal riches, it gets to this point. Most people prefer to pretend to be knights in shining armor, even if the combat mechanics were nothing like using an actual blade. Twirling maniacally, scoring a hit as much out of luck than through sheer skill, comparatively better than watching Russia baiting and porn stars on network television; it's easy to lose yourself when you can be anyone that you want to be. Easy to follow some arbitrary hero's framework engineered by corporate puppeteers. The American empire in decline.

The alien invasion felt like it was yesterday, but now the aliens have used humanity's addiction to their own advantage. The overlords preferring blind obedience than to questioning authority.

I fell into a coma of radioactive screenplays.

Rewinding backwards in time.

The scientist placed me on his examination table, prodding my with his magnifying glass like a mad doctor whose license had been revoked. I tried looking around. Other prisoners were also locked in their cages like animals, and sleeping like dogs. The scientist wondered why I had not yet been conked out as well; Slowly he filled up his needle with some unknown fluid, my arms strapped tightly on the table, as if it were a gurney for those sentenced to death by guillotine; convulsing, shivering; I felt a cold sensation riding down the tube of my spine, mixed with the chill air.

"I've been watching you for some time, I remember your brother, as I felt him slowly dying in my palms." His laugh was closer to the sound of a sawtooth on a tin plate, rather than anything a normal human would make. My vision blacked out slowly, like a blind person staring at bright lights for to long. Visions became dreams, and dreams became nightmares, the tubes of ones heart inadequately pumping blood to the rest of my body. I woke up with a helmet over my head, affixed with wires to the ceiling. Inside the game, I was inside of a cavern. The sounds of rats and bats engaging in their midnight hunt. My body felt heavy, could only move my neck. A fellow player, a rogue with a bow and arrow, along with cigarette papers and a quill pen held out her hand, and escorted me to the palace.

Exhausted, feeling like a mass of lead bowling balls. Self doubt rushing in like a beta reader commenting on a your life being a collection of micro cliche. The plot of unplanned setbacks. I wanted to kill the scientist, but instead I was stuck in a maze of masturbating elf girls, free sex inside the castle walls, which were decorated with solid gold. Any reasonable person knew that if any amount of lightning struck, everyone in the room would be fried. Once the rogue dragged me to the queen, she pushed me down abruptly.

I knew I was stuck in the game.

I didn't need to be executed.

I could be beheaded multiple times at each game over screen, a bloody serrated ax meeting skin and bone.

But now there was no game over.

The game had only begun.

The scientist installed the game software inside of a local area network, so dream-scanners couldn't snoop inside, unless they were using his specific CPU models, and got himself multi-ports with female connections, the players could wander within multiple levels without an escape. Like mental orbital velocity while smoking a joint and swallowing pure LSD. It took many years to create this network of stages, so the legend goes. He used a specialized portable network on a thumb drive, that he could use to determine on my behalf where I would progress to next. If a certain computer is not connected, then that stages would not be available, until Molokai turned on the Ruby script.

Until this, I was stuck inside of an endless loop, gathering experience points from battling monsters many levels below my current strength. Not available to move onto the next boss. While I played, I managed to learn the game's code inside and out, analyzing characters in detail. I had had experience reprogramming old artificial intelligence scripts, and it was tiresome having to replay through the same levels meeting the same old queen. The background music a sad rendition of "I don't want to wait", the Queen having similar damsel in distress fetishes and Princess Peach in the Mario games.

Every AI, at least in Ruby language, always contained within a class: in this case it was a dialogue class with a rogue like skin of cheap @ signs. But do to the nature of virtual reality, instead of an @ sign, it was a remodeling featuring a three dimensional matrix of fake skin and bone, rendered in a home brew variants of open source human anatomy, with limited sets of clothing. Apparently the scientist had no time for specific tailored outfits. Although apparently the current fashion culture was also as if the twentieth century. But I was fairly positive that these characters were different coloration variants of the same crowd in the castle and town. I had no major experience in three dimensional rendering, having mostly drawn old stupid web comics using Charcoal.

When the scientist wasn't looking, I took off my headset. I didn't want him to know I found a way to take it off.

I needed a way to copy over the servers.

Or be caught in the same old loop.

A loop of three dimensional @ signs.

Carefully I took one of the unused wires, used it to snatch a thumb drive off the scientists desk.

I wasn't sure why the scientist would be so stupid as to just leave his thumb drives hanging around. For all I knew, this was all part of his plan. Perhaps he wanted me to evolve at my own pace, but something in me wondered whether he really thought that through, or whether it was another mindless game, like playing reruns of the music video "I don't want to wait". If I was one of the other prisoners, perhaps there wouldn't be a major risk of evolving to quickly, and by that point the scientist himself would have gathered enough experience points to become something like a god in his own mind.

I hated music before.

I hated it even more now.

Placing the game inside my helmet, I transferred all my levels and equipment over to the next series of plot lines. However something was different this time. I had forgotten to wipe out some of the old MC as per the instructions. I met the rogue girl after I had exited the castle after the last quest, who was still wanting to follow along.

But she didn't repeat the same old lines.

"Boring game huh?" she said.

"What makes you say that? And..." I began to ask, wondering to finish my other question about how she knew how I felt.

"At least with you, you're still not converted. There is still a part of you that is still human, despite the tortures of the flesh. And yet for me, I was not always an AI."

I wasn't sure what she was implying.

But for now I wanted to act as if nothing changed.

Day came and went, nightfall.

As I played the game, outside the game, I could hear the sounds of some chained up creature inside of the halls. It sounded like no animal that I was familiar with. I wondered if it was one of the alien invaders that the military was able to capture, feeding it some of their malcontents. The scientist, I could hear him speaking, almost in a chant, but I wasn't quite sure what the specific words were. The creatures words were in a tongue I also could not recognize. The rogue girl snapped me back to attention, and reminded me were were being surrounded by a group of giant spiders.

She shot the one behind me with a crossbow, while I attacked the remaining forces forces with a falx. The falx was a special type of two handed sword, the Eastern European equivalent to the Japanese Katana, except this one predated it by a matter of centuries, back when the Roman Empire was still barely clinging to life. The Romans had to double the size of their helmets in order to properly protect themselves from the onslaught. It carried most of its power in the weight of the inward curved blade. In contrast, the Japanese Katana was much lighter, and designed to bend rather than snap in half. A sword could easily be bent back into shape, but fixing a snapped blade was much harder. But Spiders armor was nothing like Roman armor, having more in common with Arachnids, with an external skeletons. They crawled about in a kind of hive mind. The skeleton was almost metallic looking, unlike the spiders that I had seen in the flesh.

The arrows the rogue girl kept firing would only bounce off the armor, despite the crossbow being many times more powerful than a longbow, having more in common with early firearms, but with significantly more accuracy than the hand canon that were given out to infantry men during various medieval wars. I had the chance to try out some of the head canons, but it just wasn't the same as trying to fire multiple arrows at once. So I kept to mainly chopping off limbs of different attacking creatures until I reached th boss.

Nightfall looms.

It was a distant memory.

I embedded the steganography key inside a .jpg file. The image, located inside a specially created folder, keeping the key used to encrypt and decrypt the message completely secret. But this wasn't a venture into using one time material, as it was a different kind of cipher. One that's reciprocal with the correct user name, but a regular Caesar cipher to those uninitiated. Consider the rot13 cipher, completely insecure to those who know how it's encrypted, but really not even encrypted at all. The true major problem was not being able to encrypt the same cipher text more than once.

On the other hand, if you created a special kind of rot13 assigned to a specific user name, then you can give your friend your user name rot13 modification, and they can give you theirs. This was as much as she could socially manage, she had her reasons.

When I go through life feeling like a bad comedy skit on Argentinian television programming, the only foreigner in the room, the only way to cope with it is to lash out in self-defense. When all the world's humor was directed at one's personal expense, like opening a twelve gauge shotgun, loading it with arsenic laced pellet bullets. Shooting it a oneself in all directions, aiming toward one's central essence, scattering into millions of pieces.

It was when my last friend who entered into the television business, where there was a sense of cultural acceptability of discussing subjects related to murder of a political figure.

Generally under the guise of a school boy's fart joke. Do to Spain being their conquerors, the target was generally the Spanish Queen. But I supposed this was much better than being cooped up in a lodge just outside of Chattanooga, purchasing old fashioned android smart phone shades. I had thoughts of myself as an extreme anarchist, but tended to quickly buckle under pressure. But the way I tend to buckle under pressure, is slicing open a rival's cheek with a serrated and slightly blunted falx blade.

It didn't help that most people I know here didn't speak a word of French, and I had wanted to stop speaking English as soon as I moved out of Trump's America. Truth be told, I hated conflict. Leaving behind years of unwritten history in my wake. Wanting each page from my own past completely wiped. Being apprehended by a Totalitarian government was not much of a deterrent.

If felt like you didn't have a life at all.

I was an alien in my own skin, for more reasons than just being trans female. Life was a flavor of cheap ass Comet cleaner, carefully vomited out by drinking lots of bottled water. Unsure how much of the poison still flowed inside my veins, I didn't feel like discussing the matter with my extended relationships across the United States. It was difficult enough for me to get them to accept my moving to another state without any prior warning, swallowing what felt like a bottle of anti-depressants to mask the feelings of my own dysphoria. My own personal circumstances were different from most, with what seemed like most of my old friends from my old life participating mindlessly in protest movement the state wants on to pay attention to. But she was another minority.

Growing up, it wasn't simply a matter of being sensitive to light, staying up long past midnight. Carefully combing my long black hair. Spending most days wandering through endlessly looping mazes in my VR cardboard headset, I found it as a way to distract from my endless supply of apparently false memories. There was much of her life she still didn't want to write about, but some of it would accidentally get leaked out do to authorial carelessness.

But sometimes it feels like ones life isn't there.

Like it wasn't even real.

Revealing some of my own inner desires, attracting the attention of the audience that I never wanted, if not outright dreaded: teenagers that liked to pretend to belong to the Gothic sub culture. For my own self-worth, it wasn't a matter of being or dressing goth.

It was sexual attraction to blood. The blood flowing through one's veins. Yet here I was now, masturbating to flying princess heads like it's going out of style, just another way to pass the time like playing football, or solving Sudoku puzzles. I cut through human bone like it was nothing. Mirages splitting into human jigsaws, blue and green blood spilling on my face like cheap fireworks.

It was as if I never was good at all.

My life, my fall.

My oblivion.

That estranged life.

The midnight forest songbirds singing, hear the raindrop pinging. Hear the sounds of crying crickets, within the woods and thicket. That long for night to never end. Even as one glides through darkness, invisible, one remains seen as a silhouette through life. The little rain droplets in the air, pouring. The old bedtime stories, with grandmother's snoring. If only the old fairy tales remained, and the superstitions of fairies remained. Yet the technology we know and consider dear, has removed much of this mystery, yet what remains behind are remnants of their old society.

They are waiting.

They long for blood. Ghost stories hidden within wires of encoded text, scrawled on encrypted web pages using public key cryptography, waiting for one bug, exploited by the invisibles in society, in order to steal people's financial data. They commit crimes for attention, because they don't want to admit to themselves they nobody cares about them anymore.

Their way of crying out.

Their way to know they're not dead. I could have become one of the lost ones, yet found that the very nature of her fragile friendships, made it such that she always narrowly avoided a life of crime and homelessness. It was a fragile and superficial veneer, one that could break into millions of little pieces at any moment. She dreams of vampires following her, yet by day it is as if they aren't there. Yet they speak in riddles to her, calling her name. And at times she considered sending herself to a ward.

Yet her visions were like a perpetual early condition of psychic tumors, never showing up for the radiation treatment. But always on the verge of perpetual migraines.

I felt out of place in society.

Yet even more in myself.

It was as if I didn't exist.

Adulthood is only an age, if one defined it as by the time one reached eighteen. Yet for so many often people still struggle to find themselves long after high school. If they represented society, the US would raise the age to drink to age thirty five, the match the current issue of people living with their parents for a longer period of time.

That's not to say that more government is a good thing.

Bare in mind, in this same world, often political activities would be pummeled by maces, among other instruments of misery and masochism. Mixed with a certain level of ubiquitous neo-Nazism, one could assume the only person worth governing anything about their lives is themselves, and when one can't even trust that, it leads to a degree of morbid appreciation for the control in complete chaos and disarray. For Gin, she was this disarray, she was the virus that could bring order to society. By first helping herself.

But tonight was different.

I was helpless.

I was fatigued.

Nightly river flow flowing along winter snow. Rain drops falling. The mountain snow falls, falling falling slow. Cherry trees burning hot. Since midnight, chimney hot. Farewell to midnight. The elves knocking down the chimney, falling. Demons from river sticks. The gremlins carve the girls wooden shoes, while humming supernatural midnight blues. Some say its a reward for a season. Yet in truth, we may not know the reason. For the clogs by the chimney bricks dusted by tools so ancient and rusted dusting the clogging, have burn marks in a spiral. Some say it matches a galactic design.

Yet in truth it may be stranger than divine. For though the children play, they are not working. For the Winter Season disables exiting lodging. Night terrors know no season release. Instead one waits for the hot Summer grease. It is easy to live alone. The mountain snow falls, falling falling slow. Cherry trees burning hot since midnight, chimney hot. Farewell to midnight starlight.

The midnight call into another fantasy story, reeks of erotic release.

Yet the release is faint and subtle, yet so near.

With this I thought, whether anyone has considered the feelings of the thumb drive, constantly being beat up inside an envelope, until it reaches its destination. Not a fairy, not an elf, but the closest thing to living swine. One of her least pleasant readers, who send cash for yet another subscription.

I wanted to crush the thumb drive with her clogs.

The rogue girl was one of those women, no matter how many times you tried showing her evidence of something, she would stick by her opinion no matter what. A certain level of faithfulness generally unmatched by most intelligent people. But the Internet has made it such that it's easy for these people whom spout statements without evidence, to proliferate their opinions to the unthinking masses. But for time being, this was a skill that I was able to exploit when trying to find a way toward the end of the game.

She was able to avoid attracting the suspicion of different incarnations of the Queen, in different iterations, in different fantasy worlds: from Ancient Egypt to modern day France. Reality crumbling each level or so, like floating platformer stair cases. She was able to take me to different hidden mini-game I never thought to explore before. And in doing so, I was able to get many of the thumb drives that prevent our progression. At first it seemed like the end of this madness was near, and I could finally reach the key that could release me from this cell, and finally put an end to this madness. However as I reached the final boss, the Rogue girl stabbed my MC in the back, literally and figuratively. It took work to finally take her down, her having benefited from the countless hours of level up in different fantasy dungeons in various chapters.

Eventually as I was able to escape, she tried following me, but I pushed her into a garbage can, and let the guards find her decapitated corpse. Carefully I mopped the floor to hide evidence of blood, along the semen that had excreted out of my lady parts.

If there was any point where I reconsidered having murdered her, that opportunity was not gone.

She became food for indescribable creatures.

But for me, I was able to regroup my senses. And then carefully avoid detection until I could locate the office of the scientist. Slowly, without dripping blood anywhere. Eventually, I lock picked the scientist's office. But as it turned out, the scientist wasn't there.

I find a net of robe get thrust-ed upon me by a guard I did not manage to knock out cold. There was a sleep agent that filled the room, and soon everything became silent.

I hard voices in darkness.

The darkness became a pit.

That time I was fed to an alien.

But instead of being digested, I was able to cut myself out of its body, killing it with no pleasure. After being surrounded by the guards, I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I cut their heads off.

Now as I have Molokai cornered, I don't give him the chance to recount the ultimate plan he had. I didn't need to, as I had the notebook in my hands that sketched out all the local area networks that connected various computers. I used the master password to free the remaining prisoners, who were all in a daze wondering what the hell happened.

Molokai was dead, I shot him in the head.

I fed his body to the surviving baby Alien, the offspring of the one that tried to eat me. Then on our group had a new pet.

It had a taste for smart people.

And I saw lots of smart people.

The remains of the old military base floor was covered in blood, and I washed my hands about the filth that made my life a living hell for the last few months. But the song that went "I don't want to wait" kept playing in my head, like a toxic ear worm, and I had enough.

"Guys, let's get out of here."

"Come on", said a voice in the distance. A silhouette of a rogue girl, who looked like the one I knew in the game. Her body rebuilt from rusty robot parts. "Lets go guys, place is going to blow."

"I thought you..."

"Shush now, lets enjoy our freedom. Besides, I need myself some new robotic arms and legs."

5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Game Over.

That was how I got tinnitus, the song "I don't want to wait" playing forever and ever till the end of time. But the rogue girl had her own Flamenco, playing softly in our bed, which somewhat drowned out the noise. The rest of the story followed after. But all you need to know is this.

She blew me off, then blew me on.

And now I have things going on.

I just wish the music could stop.

When I returned home from Italy, things were never the same. Life bones you like a python. I woke up that morning with a spider bite, yet I didn't call my mother. It was no use, as she had been dead for a decade.

Regarding the spider, I thought of it in the same way, human teenagers, thought of dildos and condoms. With my pet snake in my bed, it wrapped its tale around my legs like a mouse caught playing a deadly game of cage wheel. My house was made of neon infused tumbleweed, as I stared into the metro sprawl ahead of me, with the same level of disdain, Hitler had for Jews, and Stalin had for the human race. For those who don't know me, they might think I'm I was bound to snap at a cop someday, and while it would never be a cop, there was not entirely far from the truth. But it would never be a cop, but rather a pimp. Scales, my lovely pet, would wrap itself gently around the curves of my body, its skin the same color as Mexican sand. I wanted to see the world burn.

Yet the faster I walked, pursuing my revenge, for the man whom had sold me into slavery, the more the land of rising sun seemed to move one hundred miles further away than I had calculated. At one point, it seemed as far away as the Moon was to Bangkok. My pet snake, Scales, was my gift from Thailand, after my mother had returned home from the states. At one point I wanted let it wrap itself around my neck, and have it let-her-rip. But the lizard did not eat junk food, preferring home raised paranoid fish.

To the snake, I was essentially carp.

Bone inedible; desirable only for lowly men.

I covered myself in a home made tarp, waited to die. But the snake was hungry for my flesh, but wanted me alive during the process; it would crush my limbs, tickle the bones, gulping at my memories of earlier days, scrounging for scraps of bread on the street. Waiting calmly for oblivion, I thought of the time that I had turned a century plus three years.

She much for rot and tumbleweed.

Memory was all I had besides Scales, and a part of me still wanted to return to Italy, despite not knowing the language. I had mistakenly assumed it was similar to learning French. I didn't pay attention to warning signs, like generic Tomato Sauce jars with mediocre Italian names. I thought life would not continue, as least not as it was. After a month I'd month up a lung, die of smoking. But do to my regenerative gene, it grew back in a ween. Somewhat like a curse, a song of a life living between Purgatory and Hell. Singing like an angel in my blood, but only at an estranged aunt's funeral.

My genes used themselves as a pee pot, spraying its matter reject, and giving my an excess of dead skin that gradually withers away into nothingness. Like an unbuckled passenger inside a SR-71 Blackbird, if the lack of oxygen didn't get you, the sudden stop will. And your stop was in a city, meeting the seven deadliest of sin, and none of the ones taught of in Biblical verse. I lived in my own micro-universe, my own bubble called life.

Crushed by gravitation inertia, taunted by its aunt Bertha.

Tossed out from the old life to the next.

My family regarded me in the same way as a prostitute grown in a vat, so it was easy to get into that line of business on my return trip. Life heading toward its sudden end, on Purgatory Road. When you're strapped for cash, and completely emotionally obliterated, it was easy to slash one's neck with a swiss army knife, the same dull blade one used for their charcoal sticks to sketch away varying pages of unmarketibility.

I supposed it was better than going Dutch.

Or being German, and having them throw shit in my face. While treating their inhuman monsters as beneath the human race. All that would be to much to swallow, to much not to ignore, especially when not drowned in scenes of Duck Dynasty, and other circus of Bread and hunting. One never thought a cross bow would be more silent and humane, as murder was about the spectacle, like gladiator in an arena of death of decay.

All I could do, was enjoy the hologram sky beaming with illusionary grocery stores and walk in malls in my virtual reality head set, taking a bet when I'll gradually lose blood to my face.

Beneath the human race, I fell.

I fainted.

My mother, when visiting the Netherlands, purchased me a pair of wooden clogs, that were the only things that lasted beyond anything else I ever loaned. But they reminded me of Europe, which I had grown to despise. Not for the Free and Open Source software culture, but the general animosity any American might have, despite not having voted for an Authoritarian Republican/Democrat, being more Libertarian of inclination.

All their morality masturbation.

All their ability to get away with murder.

All the fault of my own.

Mom shipped it by a sneaker net vending machine orb. And in receiving, I thought only of Western imperialism, humanity's dismay and perverse pleasure. One might get a feeling from receiving a pulp manga, brainstormed from some Greek god's orgasm, mixed with a dose of gasoline lit cocaine burned by a flame gun. I felt like I tripped over a duck reading it.

For someone whose only sex was with untamed snakes, and the unruliest of men, there was something heralding at this bizarre form of escape. But was difficult to finish. As my mind was not a god's sperm. My Auburn rose skin was silky smooth, as I slept in my sand bed, waiting to be murdered by falling space debris. With today not my lucky day.

I got a call from my old employer.

After chatting, I hung up.

There are two kinds of stiffs; a hard cock, or a zombie. I was never absolutely certain which of these was my old boss. I was 102, wearing my wooden shoes; physically eighteen, I lived through the crash of 08, depression a wicked step sister who liked to masturbate to the corpse that was the American empire. I got a job as a bed maker for bad story lines by sadistic play writers, in cheap shit performances of tap dancing to some bastardization of "The Cup Song", made dub step and electric, in penny dreadful vending machines. The plots replaced by Russian Cossacks, and serializations of Vladimir Putin politique selects. I came from a another life, hoping for something different from this life. I outlived most of my cousins and family, whom I affectionately calls "Cock Sins."

When I put a bullet in my old Boss's head, I was expecting him to die. Instead they recycled me, disposing of my organic flesh, uploading me into a database of misery.

And now here I am, waiting for a new life.

Outside of the machine.

It was always a difficult topic to discuss sex: the topic of sex had been inexplicably and permanently tied to a distortion of punishment and reward. The punishment, at times, blending with reward in time when they did not have the opposite of meaning. An ex room mate asking one about their desires, and then engaging in the shame and ridicule of expressing those core desires. So the topic of expressing ones fetishes were tied toward thinking one might be sexually assaulting. The person was one of many lovers she had, others only merely talking about sex. But it was a room mate that would effect me for the rest of my life, and now I avoid certain words--blurring them out, because I'm not sure who mate anally penetrate me in order to humiliate me inside of a grime ridden motel room. And every night, not getting any sleep.

Always longing for death.

And a demise that never came.

For me, it also became tied together with being blamed for attempted suicide, and self-punishment. The punishment of poisoning oneself on ones missed birthday party, drinking drainage cleaner like it was chocolate, the feeling of your inner tubes melting and receding into nothing, a burning sensation blending with the most intense feelings of Francophobia. And your room mate never taking responsibility for it.

All merely for talking about wooden shoes.

All merely for talking about guillotine and pillories.

When the nearest adult sex store was just downtown, and the only reason you couldn't give them your business, was do to negative associations that had nothing to do with them, but how an ex spends on your money on tobacco, and lecturing you about ending it all.

This was my life.

My story. My vampire life.

My blood fetish.

There is nothing like sharing pussies in discord, however how the word pussies might be interpreted will largely depend on whether you have a dirty mind or whether you have a clean mind. Sometimes, with certain kinds of people, this can get blurry. Generally they call them furies. But otherwise, it usually falls down to whether the pussy is a vagina or a cat. Certainly, I've been in chat rooms where trans ladies showed off their brand new pussies. But in most cases it's lady friends showing off their pet cats.

When I would hang out in the chat servers of different IRC channels for Ink blazers (a.k.a manga magazine), I would chat to various people in the graphic novel industry. As the artist type, the stereotype often is that you like to keep support animals. For me, and the few I hung out with after the regular chat, they wanted to show me their cats. I'm definitely a huge fan of cats, as I'm currently wearing a kitty tee shirt, gray sweat pants, and a pair of Birkenstock clogs, going outside for a smoke at two thirty AM waiting slowly for the sun to come up, so I can begin my daily routine. But later on, I would switch to Discord, which now currently is replacing skype in a lot of the areas that were largely their domain instead of Discords.

I haven't talk to this one graphic novelist in a while, though she's often busy learning to design tattoos. We got to know each other, in that span of a year, more than I can really say about my two exes, one a brief boyfriend (to much for me to go into here now), and an aromantic grand theft transgender thief. She was one of the few I knew that I was relatively certain was not a sociopath, although certainly we both had our own share of other mental illnesses, I also wont go into here. In school I would meet people briefly, then disappear to classroom obligations, even (if not especially) for classes that I cared for the least. I found this was easier than coming out as a trans woman. I lived in the area around Middle Tennessee, that was not the most enlightened in terms of trans issues. You could say all of Tennessee was that way.

But supposedly Nashville was better about this.

If better meant more people asking if you were male or female. Can you imagine if I told them about my other issues? Which I wouldn't anyway, the question is if I did. I've had the tendency to internalize a lot of my issues, so it was easy to let fucked up things that happened to be blow up at me, at least initially, until I couldn't take it anymore. This isn't so much of a teenager thing, as it was my thing.

But this isn't like hanging out with a group of trans friends asking you what your genetic heritage was. I suppose Hitler was a half Jew, and apparently didn't stop him from hating Jews. At 512th French, with some ambiguity of heritages on my dad's side, there wasn't any reason I could not conceivably had the French. I'm a Francophile in a lot of ways, especially these days. But that still makes France little better than Saudi Arabia beheading people, even the Franks stopped the practice in eighty one. Hey Franks, turn your victims to Mecca's direction.

At least Spain has some Flamenco and Enchenda lyrical rhythm.

Yet your own beheading doesn't flow like the rhythm of Beethoven's symphony, at best only matching the musical quality Paganini, which is more Italian than anything else. I'm in another one of those wind up phases, internalizing so many of the memories of things that happened to me in the past. Sometimes it's not entirely something I can help. But at least I wasn't living with my parent again, and also not Katy.

I can't imagine what it would be like to live with kin.

I'd rather avoid those memories again.

When your back home from Washington, having bolted suddenly from your home state, it's difficult to become attached to your old state, which felt like an oppressive environment.

It's easy to blame yourself when you don't have anything else besides missing memories, and kink shaming. In particular, it was only recently I was willing to even admit to myself some of my sexual fantasies, because of all the superficial preaching against it growing up. Yet there were always signs I would be like one of my main characters: fragmented, sex addicted, yet paradoxically avoiding human contact. I only want the best for people, so it messes with your head when your compared to Hitler at the age of eight.

This was hardly a unique thing, as I went through much of my life being blamed for things I didn't do, or at times acting out against my abusers. In third grade I was molested by two older boys on a school bus, around Franklin, Tennessee. At the time I was going to a private school that only recently has moved locations. Mom says it has to do with money and finances, but this is closer to a symptom rather than the cause.

These were the cases where I was actually explicitly touched. But all these seemed to have somewhat marked me as a victim throughout my life.

When people criticize the Roman Catholic schools, I'm often left wondering where this person has been throughout life. Certainly not growing up around middle Tennessee. At this school, while it wasn't an alternative school in the sense of going there for misbehavior, practice it was much like this: much of the people I knew either had tattoos despite being twelve. Which might seem like a Libertarians dream come true. But often I would be largely the only one called out for not paying attention in class. The times I could focus, were marked with a contempt for the flesh.

In the bathroom, when I was trying to go empty myself, there was a boy in seventh grade that wanted me to blow his penis. I tried mentioning the issue with the teachers I had at the time, but most of what punishment he got was a slap on the wrist. Not that this isn't a Catholic school, or wasn't at the time that I had went there. But later on half the school, before they would move to a smaller location, had become a Catholic church. Which happened to also be the area where in the library, we would do yoga. Thus I developed the association of sex abuse, yoga, and Catholicism being interconnected, like as would later become my other obsession: Abstraction, Obscuring, and Reachability. I found that there was nobody I could discuss my issues with, so I was left internalizing everything.

I thought fifth grade would be a break.

But it was the beginning of my anarchism.

It was the year I would begin fifth grade. Generally you might think most kids were raised on Saturday morning television, although certainly I was raised on quite a bit of it. Along with being able to ride a neighbors four wheeler into the forest behind our house. This was before it would become a horse stable.

Before I moved I moved onto fifth grade, I had ran away from home because I felt like I could not really relate to my parents, although at the time it was merely because I felt it might be fun. I wanted to leave this world behind, ride the river downstream, and come back home. Instead my parents called the cops, because they thought I was kidnapped, and was pretty much spanked with a belt to more times than I could remember. It was almost like they were trying to make a point. Even today I brought it up to them, they would deny it and say that the belting never happened. This would be a continual pattern throughout my life.

In one of the teacher's class, he didn't really have a whole lot of experience dealing with kids with mental health issues and other "learning disabilities", he was unsure how to take me playing air guitar in front of one of the girls I knew in school, that told me she was a black Spanish girl, whose grandfather came from Spain during the Franco era. So my first month was marked with changing home rooms, not really knowing what was going on. This would later repeat in my ninth grade year when it was recommended I'd get out of nursing, and switch to legal class in high school. Once is one thing, twice is an administrative catastrophe. But after that I would mark the rest of the year remembering the rigged system that allowed for things like perfect attendance and honor roll. And reading books in fifth grade like Blood And Chocolate, in actuality a YA novel. I remembered one passage about the MC talking about how it would be hard to kill herself by hanging, because the neck wouldn't always snap.

I was honor roll alright.

Honor roll out of this life.

The Spanish language in general, in contrast to French, had a considerable amount of negative associations with it, but generally the issue to me was the language itself, and not the people who spoke it. I met this one Mexican girl in special ed, who was as sweet as can be. I loved the hell out of her really, but I was so stuck inside myself it was hard to really interact much. I was stuck in a bubble of iron, wires, and laser gun rapid fire. Wanting to become part of a galactic federation of Space pirate rather than focus on the real world. I had the tendency to let my mind wonder.

Negative associations with Spanish would continue in high school, permanently effecting the learning choices that I would make. I had much more fond feelings of the French language in general. But this was around the time I had developed some of my own kink, related to blood and gore. Spilling on the floor like Bethoven's sympathy and Bach's harpsichord. In general I was able to distract myself with games like Final Fantasy 6 and 7. But no matter what, there was no escaping my own feelings about seeing blood. Combine this with having watch Legend Of Galgameth, and other issues where I knew in reality a princess just isn't going to be rescued for anything, even if she had her junk ripped out and entries removed.

Around this time, I would have dreams of shadow people on the wall. Following me, I was unsure of they were real or all part of a massive dream. I had the tendency to sleep walk for a while, and when I was awake, enhance the negative about everything.

When I met Tommy, I wont mention his last name, he came out in such a fashion that it felt like a blessing at the time. Turning one's life on what felt like a dime, it was easy to forget about my own fantasies, and focus on the few friendships I was able to maintain, despite being outcast from the goths, emos, and punk.

I never could attach myself to a label, I was simply trying to make it through. I found my solace in Cyberpunk novels, and science fiction graphic novels. I also stopped watching Bill and Ted finally around the same time, with issues that would follow me through out life.

There was Tom and Tony.

They were my Bill and Ted.

Eventually after high school, I met this one guy on line that really wanted to see me naked. With all the association in place, already he was making me extremely uncomfortable. I tried telling Tommy about it, and he said he was surprised Todd was even gay. It wasn't long after that I came out to Tommy as being trans, and he didn't quite believe it. But being trans isn't something that just comes out of the blue, it's something that's always been there, waiting, haunting you. Heading in your direction like a speeding train running at super luminal velocity. Later he himself would stop talking to me.

I read on the news a story that would later make him have to sign up for the sex offender registry, and I knew it was pretty much hopeless at point to really find a friend that was normal. Tony would always cut Tommy off, and sign up for the armed forces, the American Empire of dominance and control. The easiest thing was to lock myself into the closet, take out a swiss army knife, and begin cutting myself. But I was always to much of a coward to really cut deeply, whether that was in me or anyone else.

Ken saw this in me, so it was easy to grasp onto someone that he perceived as weak. I started losing a bunch of weight when I met him, and also had some of my money stolen from me indirectly by purchasing a negative ion generator, under the idea that it would allow my sinuses to clear up, as this had been a recurring issue throughout my life.

I finally left the UFO cult, when I overheard a conversation, about how pedophilia was not technically against the Billy Meier material.

I left, I bled, I fainted.

I gave in to the darkest fantasy of the self.

You never can guess what kind of movies your best friends will want to watch, whether it's Anime Video Hell, where I could have sworn there was a blond yuri couple of hot chicks in gray Birkenstocks. But memory is of such a nature that sometimes what you remember did not happen quite in the same way you first envisioned. At Tommy's house, we would hang out with Ashley and Megan, watching Japanese horror movies, or play various Japanese role playing games. My friends played a lot of fighting games, but for various reasons, to extensive to go into here, I was never huge fan of the genre. Instead I spent most days browsing the pages of True Crime novels, researching different serial killers.

It was one of those interests, I wont make any excuses. For me it was as close and dear as the Sunday morning football game, and I would lock myself in my bedroom. So things like having you go to your room stopped having much of a purpose after a while, so eventually they wanted me outside the room. I have various old sketches I drew over the years, that I still need to get framed. I also have a giant sword collection from when I went to the Renaissance fare. I only went a few times, but only went there to buy swords.

I think if I went again, I'd probably look for dresses women wear, when they're about to get their heads chopped off with an ax.

I tried doing a free on line message board, but this eventually was deleted do to inactivity. Over the next few years I decided I was tired of message boards, and focused on social control media.

But even that's a sham, honestly.

We live in a time when we can't write a diary, without mentioning smart-phones and tablets. We're also seeing the decline of once popular social network, such as Facebook becoming like Myspace.

But even decentralized social networks would occasionally become scarcely populated. When your country is stuck in multiple wars over seas, it's difficult not to think of one's life as a science fiction novel. Although I don't think most science fiction novels have a MC who masturbates to Guro on various porn sites. I wont mention any specific websites, as I have no idea who may be reading this diary, and some of the porn I look at, I wouldn't exactly want to pass on. Even if watching heads fall off were completely harmless.

I once met a girl on Mastodon, who I assume could mow her lawn. Instead she rides a swing set, when the day has come and gone. Black hair falling down to her shoulders, closer to what I had originally thought French girls looked like, but apparently she's a Romanian in Berlin. With skin the shade of ivory, like murdered elephants turned into furniture for Oligarchs.

But back in high school, I was still getting used to having a laptop. I was one of those late bloomers that took a while to get one, and when I did I liked porn so much it was virtually impossible not to have to wipe the hard drive at some point, because of thirty two Trojan viruses, named after the espionage mission in ancient Greece during the Iliad. That was one of those movies, like Legend Of Galgameth before, where decapitation grew on me. Yet another subverted death sentence, poor sword who is just trying to make it through.

But this isn't a blog about breaking skin.

Or getting the hose again.

This isn't a transgender autobiography, in the sense that the point is my trans status, so much as to highlight one of many other issues that made it difficult to form long term friendships. Combine with my sexual fantasy of blood and severed heads, I knew that it was a matter of time before people would find out. And yet I kept hiding and avoiding being the real me.

On my twenty sixth year, I was kidnapped, and had 1.3 grand vanish from my bank account. Not be coercion, but because of the legitimate believe that Katy would take better care of me than my parents. I'd like to think that wasn't true, but I think in truth the only one who has my best interest is me. I would spend my birthday consuming comet like it was birthday could, lying on the floor in agony. It was the first time I attempted suicide, when Katy, instead of trying to talk through my issues, felt it was better to lecture me and be angry. I tried poisoning myself again, because I was under the idea that people that had fantasies of such a nature were not fit for this world. I wanted to save the world from myself.

Even now, I still remember how Katy would constantly argue with me, and keep me from sleeping soundly at night. There was never sex when I wanted it, which was pretty much never, at least not with her. But she would every night anally penetrate me like I was just someone's sex doll.

She thought she had it all.

Even now I try to suppress my memories, especially of the time when I would have headless alien women come out of my closet, and have sex with me while I was in bed. I would run through a never ending forest of vampires and teeth. I felt I had been through death and back. Running, I arrived in my own personal gothic kingdom of skull-fairies and death elves.

I was queen of the midnight forest.

It had no engine, it simply didn't need one. It rode along the wind as long as it could, and could glide long enough to reach the next air current. Because of its shape, it could get to the next air current in short order. With almost no tail, and a tail that did exist was twin shaped, it got most of its glide from its flying wing design, carefully angled downward. When there wasn't wind, it's gravity motion allowed it to change the direction of gravity. The very edges of its wings angled upward, so as to balance the craft. If one changed the directional flow of its wings, you could even raise or lower its altitude. Unlike a train, that only flows with a predetermined set of rails, one could fly anywhere they wanted. Attach balloons at the bottom, and one could hover in the air indefinitely. Down in the desert below, were various towns along the river.

These peoples had distinct languages, however for the most part were mutually comprehensible to a large percentage. You had the sea people, who lived along the shore. Their neighbors, the mountain peoples, lived in normal log cabins. The exterior walls were solidified by a layer of clay, with a dome at the table in order to allow for rain to flow down gently. Most of the time people stayed inside, do to the rain; torrential, it seemed to flow as if without stop. In the previous age, there were sky scrapers that reached the stars, however this was scarcely within the memory of those that live in this age, who dined primarily on the desert arachnids, and the dark colored beans they could grow. Beans in this climate, seemed almost the only thing that could grow consistently.

After going through a lifetime of eating them, one gets used to them without having to worry about farting. But the farts that did occur, were recycled in a ready supply of methane used for the adobe stoves those whom cooked for their households used to break flat breads.

At least according to this gamer manual, but lets get real, when you're playing with a group of friends on a Saturday night, drinking a six pack per person, who really focuses on such drivel? The only thing interesting was the gliders, and that was only because certain missions and campaigns allowed one to shoot down other gliders with laser beams, despite it being set in a post apocalyptic landscape that shouldn't have such technology. For the groups playing week by week, night by night, the game could have easily be set inside of a deep cave, and having to swim to the top. But most of them were not into the sort of game play that was randomly picked from a list.

I had to sneak extra items on campaigns, even though it was generally agreed within the group that we would use our items sparingly, for when we would encounter main zombie bosses, and other creatures of more apparent importance than the standard enemy in Japanese Role Playing Games. It was easy for us to get absorbed into the sessions, as the virtual reality head set had simply become lighter, and now it was stiffer than a diamond, yet lighter than a piece of paper. Designed thick so as not to be so brittle, that if it dropped from your face, it would bust and shatter. Simply use enough glue from a glue stick or a supply of liquid Scotch, and your VR honey will ask you if she can suck your dick for the rest of the week. That was why it was very rare for me to want to exit out of my Veer headset. I had gotten a room from one of her old fellow prostitutes, one who had also used her shotgun on her ex pimp. The particular crime surprisingly common in these parts.

Murders that would rarely get prosecuted, and when they were, the people capturing them would be murdered before the cops got the chance to take them to death row, before having their heads taken off by Guillotine. Scales, my pet snake, was snoring on our leather couch in the living room, thinking of girls playing soccer, in cheap early 2000s era console games, that were little more than fling fare for those sexually inclined.

Sleeping, it yawned.

It was as if scales wasn't there.

I woke up that night, combing the knots out of my hair, slipped into my Birkenstock clogs, slipped on my virtual reality headset. But when I tried playing the game, something was different. It seemed like the sounds I normally heard in the game were coming from my surprisingly kept bedroom. I thought of asking her room mate if she was playing a campaign with the others. But decided to simply play along, as if nothing major was happening inside the flat. No changes in the nature of time and space.

The levels I ground through flowed like usual. I was inside of an ice cavern. At first she I thought her mind was playing tricks on me as it completely surrounded my vision, but I knew that people tended to hallucinate do to network/gaming addiction. But I didn't realize it could be so pronounced. The vision slipped away in the blink of an eye.

I wanted to take the headset to the script doctor.

However he wasn't so much of a doctor, as a voodoo programmer, in neon dreadlocks, consuming peanut butter and banana chocolate smoothies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I didn't want to smell peanut butter again.

Not in that context.

There are French girls, and there are Spanish girls; both highly rude, but otherwise twins in their mutual difference. The difference in their style of rudeness was complete. I had a thing for Flamenco, then a thing for Alexandrine lines. The epic misery of a life, read in between the lines. And these girls, whom hate nobody else, long to solely hate each other, no matter what American girl they must throw under the bus to get what they want. If the French were cowboys, the Spanish would be Native Americans.

For the two Latinas, their hate knows no continental limitation, only the even of mutual hatred type masturbation of the Dutch and Belgian life. To think ... that to mention Frog legs, was worse than working for the Nazis. And yet in their derangement, within the empire of their own narcissism, they seek the blood of Africans and Muslims across the globe. Only marginally less bad than the Americana life, but for me it felt life I belonged nowhere, not anywhere in this life.

I longed for a kind of digital wife.

Preserved eternally, made of holograms instead of flesh. The feeling of digital sex comparable to the best of orgasmic cycles. When she drives home from work, and work to home, and plan out my next new song. Not country, because I cannot stand this genre. Instead the song of a girl with a pink bow in her hair. Who I loved, and nobody else:

The Sunday eclipse

Flows, like black corn chips.

Salsa flows off the

Flap, let the spice flow free.

Not a Flamenco song.

I used to think imperialism was an American thing, and to be fair to Europeans, certainly America is the worst of the bunch. With the Spaniards and the French, it was a morbid game of Hetalia roulette, only marginally less bloody than the Russian equivalent during the second world war. For me, I wanted nobody. Yet I longed, with lust, for something more. Like fireworks melting in the air, a distant celebration of the dead:

The Sunday eclipse

Flows, like black corn chips.

Salsa flows off the

Flap, let the spice flow free.

Not a Flamenco song.

I was not an ugly girl, because neither the Spanish or French flirted with me. And that was just fine with me. Instead I found solace in the flow of digital underpants. Prancing about like ants in your pants, and gentle robot fingertips to the rhythm of dub step scores. It was one of those performance days, and I needed something different, to keep the score, from the tried and true tap dancing cup song constantly rehashed by dub step radio floors. I hated country, and I had Americana. I hated everything, besides the pink bow score. The closest comparison, was something akin to dub step flamenco, with the an epic pattern of disintegration. Flowing like blood on the floor:

Her long blond flowing locks flow freely downward,

If it were England, she would date a man named Edward.

But the spiral staircase flowing down,

Greets the nymph as a growling, even clown.

Come around this charcoal sketched mountain,

And settle this score.

Beyond the dreamland where terror is born.

Beyond this world call, the meat space life.

I see the call, crawling to me.

I can here, the demon's roar.

Sombrero et une toupe.

Perhaps will meet again.

Some other day.

Eclipse wanes, on Gipsy morning sonnets.

No knots tied long.

I'd rather kiss, some other day.

I'd rather date a Gipsy,

In this midnight song.

With this I thought of the girl I knew in high school, named Emily. Will long flowing straight blond hair, I thought of the betrayal I felt. And all the nastiness surfacing into bile and torment.

I wanted, to settle the score.

But the reality was, most of the people she knew, never even played the game. The game with the girl, with the pink bow in her hair. And long flowing brown hair, gently curved into a braid. That romance, for me, whom loved nobody else. I wanted nothing else. But to be absorbed in her embrace. That wizard staff, with endless healing powers.

I felt as if drained dry.

Reality was no the flow of flowers in the church, and gentle raindrops on a cloudy morning day. Or a remake by Flair Screamix. Our Earth, my love, my life; all melting away like radioactive streams. At once the fear of the unloved, could melt away.

As I settled, my personal score.

I'd rather date a Gipsy, in this midnight song. Not lust after idealization of unreality and the resulting sex. Instead I wait for the next shift, the next day's work. Knowing, I could offer nothing to a flower girl.

All I could offer was death.

PART TWO The Old Woman Of Red Bank

It's never an easy job being a network operator; when half your job involves fixing malfunctioning html pages in web 4.0, sometimes it feels easier to retire into a comforting lazy life.

Yet the secret agents, that work for what remains of the government, is always operating. So there is never not a job for someone like myself. I got two keys: one is a private key I use to receive personal markdown letters, and a sending key. My other mechanic friend has that private key. Technically everyone is suppose to have a key pair, but as the internet became more specialized, it made most people technically lazy. I got one password, randomly picked from a list of all mixed alphabets. I decrypted it in order to apply it to a secured archive, that contains its own ruby server.

The word server came from the root concept "to serve", usually in referring to waiters and bar tenders, but also came to apply to any kind of service job that earned a living through tips. Yet now the word server only begins to describe a part of the process, in exchanging information from node to node. I learned this specifically when I met this other "hacker". The process of using Dimitry was simple, something the girl learned in trade school: simply run a process of finding all sub domains in a particular URL registry.

Often, you didn't even need a computer to find out various hidden information. And now, nearing the end of web 3.0, the fourth world wide web was on the horizon, flowing like bad renditions of rave music lasting from 2:00 P.M. to after 3:00 A.M. But unlike rave parties, there was no rule against spooks participating, not that the government ever payed attention to this. But for the most part, I was never bothered by the NSA, until very recently, when I had met this girl.

It took my time fixing nodes.

I met her at a rave party re imagined from the nineties, with more specifically goth subject matter. She had taste that I could never dream of, but I was the sort to not really give a shit until it directly effected one of my friends, or even a family member, as estranged as I was. But when you're friends with the devil, sometimes morality takes a back seat, presses the rewind button, and one simply regresses to early motion picture state. She had a think for slit throats and severed heads of French and Spanish women; it was a taste she had acquired since she was in high school, or so she was willing to admit. Though I have the sneaking suspicion that she had the issue for way longer than thought; at first I barfed imagining the flow of blood from the necks of girls in my dreams; but she had a way of tearing everything away from you, your reality at the seams. She wanted to experiment with a new key exchange protocol.

-- Everything has been done in computers.

-- Yes, everything that is computationally impractical.

-- But isn't that the point?

-- ... Up to a certain point.

There were times I was tempted to explain to her my superior knowledge and skill, but found that she was always a step ahead of my knowledge, as much as I didn't want to admit this. Now I simply accept the ride, and let her sink her own ship. But my obligations still remained in fixing the mess she made. While she never revealed to me the exact details of her fetishes, there were some details I knew, that I could not politely share. But everything under the sun was all there. Everything from pillories, guillotines, wooden clogs, and birkenstocks. But this was Winter, why would anyone be wearing those?

She would leave some cryptic notes in different nodes, indicating the information she knew about different nodal administrators, and they would complain to me about feeling blackmailed. I suppose some aspects of human nature never changed. She would comment, when we smoke in dead drops, exchanging video streams, about the nature of her eye strain, and how it seemed to her like the condition was a spreading epidemic. At the very least, she would always blame her own looks on eye strain. But she was an enigma.

The eye strain enigma.

Through her eyes I saw someone who wasn't a monster. Someone who hated the very nature of her own existence. Someone whom wanted more in life, but simply never had the opportunity. Sure, some people were born with certain shticks, but it seemed like surely something must have warped her. There was a time when I developed a similar condition, although I never looked at the same material in strangers portable information storage devices, certainly nothing like the bondage I've seen. It was so much the type of bondage, as it was the very nonchalantly public nature of the sexual experiments.

In a sense, she was a kind of scientist.

She experimented on herself.

Web 4.0 came faster than anyone expected, as did Web 3.0. It was originally a group college grads whom improvised a method of off line file sharing, the use of classical sneakernet protocols to transfer files and view people's contact information in landing pages.

With QR Codes, this simply accelerated the process. Now one could simply grab anybodies phone number and dental records at the touch of a stylus pen. Laptops were going the way of the dinosaur, although one could still buy old used ones on Amazon, and there was a steadily growing interest in retro computing, with small underground DOS developers that work outside of universities. Web 4.0, in particular, combined portable storage medium with IPFS. Now one simply had to pick up a hash value at the local station, boot it up at the local coffee shop, then go off line for the length of that singular web page after applying a simple command:

~ $ wget

But eventually, instead of exchanging markdown to html pages, they began to exchange their phone numbers. A personal friend of mind switched to temporary numbers in burner phones, as a means of perfect forward secrecy, without having to apply any major cryptographic protocol. Eventually an underground network formed from exchanging the hash value links through these temporary phone numbers, and eventually became somewhat of a separate civilization from the masses at large.

Yet now, the idea of placing burner phones used for off line information gathering is so popular, it has quickly become commercialized. I worked for such a grocery giant once, working daily shifts changing the phones. But these days I see fewer customers. It's almost as if they're catching up to the game. In this game called life, where the only people that financially make up, are those with the physical know how, and able to function well enough with PTSD, that one simply is unable to distinguish them from the rest of the masses. And it's increasingly tempting to go with the crowd. In this one rave party movie, it mentioned the slow decline of sub cultures; now it seemed like simply not belonging to a subculture, was itself a kind of sub culture, with eye strain becoming as common as computer hackers, whatever the term hacker means these days.

And now, I'm left wondering, rather the little raver that could, who slices through women's neck in her mind like it's wood, could visit me again, at the local coffee shop.

As I recall grandfatherly tales.

Tales of a distant life.

It's easy to think of yourself as unique, and part of underground sub culture. To certain extent, this is definitely true.

But there is a very specific difference between being part of a group of friends, finding people that you can belong with. As suppose to wanting to be normal, among the every day crowd. And simply never given the chance to. Like Lucifer in the bible, worse, banished from the hell that was rave culture, phreaking 2.0, and other groups of misfit. This girl was a misfit not by choice, but do to the very nature of her own sexuality, which she tries so hard to hide away.

Yet when I see is a Rose without thorns, an untamed horse. An animal, perhaps. Just like everyone else. When she locked in the cage of self, unable to express your own desires to a normal degree, is it any wonder that some people choose to eventually end their own existence. Yet something, in this vampire, seemed to make her hold on that much more. She always carried a thumb drive, with Kali Linux installed. I only know of this from her sharing me the tools of the trade, simply because she was bored, and stopped taking the necessary precautions most of hackers seemed to. It almost seemed like a bizarre suicidal interaction, yet the lecture I gave her didn't seem to effect her a bit. I wasn't sure if she was deaf, or simply heard enough times she simply stopped listening.

In a way, I could relate to this.

My grandfather, whom fought in World War II, which ended roughly 156 years ago to this date, would often stopped listening the words I told him. Because to him, it always seemed like I was repeating everything that I ever said. Always repeating everything I ever said, and then some. His helmet was a lead drum, and mine was black silicon in Cyberspace. So for me, on a level I could understand no longer listening, even if it was extremely frustrating to deal with. At times she would stop talking, and simply stare into a seeming void, wandering in deep space, ready to destroy the next star system. So I would poke her shoulder, and she would come back to reality. Only to hug me and run off.

She wore a QR Code on her right arm, presumably the one she didn't write with. I scanned it once, and it revealed to me, almost an excess of information. I wondered if she was some sort of agent, watching to make sure I didn't fall out of line with the status quo. Yet she never seemed competent to pass even the most basic tests of low key.

Or maybe it was all a ploy.

My life, her chew toy.

At one point, at the last hours of my shift, I noticed her limping along the sidewalk. I wondered whether she was hurt, but she said this was the normal part of having high arches, that it was simply the way things were meant to be. I wondered, how in the hell she was able to get to the nearest coffee shop. She told me how it was the only way for her to get a wifi connection, with clubhouse at her apartment complex still needing repairs. When I had visited her place to answer a request on replacing her disk drive, she told me how the network facility in her flat was largely sporadic in nature.

Particularly during the Summer time, when kids were off at school. So to exchange information in any capacity, she had to rely on off web file sharing drives to contact friends, snatching emails and phone numbers like it's cotton candy. A level of poverty, but unique to the twenty first century, as during my grandfather's age, there was even a thing called computers. How she is able to afford her computers, honestly I couldn't tell you. I just know that I would see her trying to hook up ports in a daisy chain, shaped sort of like a fourth dimensional cube.

She wanted to apply her own 4.0 web protocols, one that involved more nodes that can be practically taken down, clones of QR codes persisting into eternal contact spheres.

I just know, this year seemed weirder than most. And I've lived through a lot. Now the President of the United States is even more of a puppet than he used to be than when I went to high school, between 2004-2007. It was closer to a collective kind of dictatorships that nobody really payed attention to, and thus snuck up on us. There only reason people are not apprehended, is the very careful nature of the engineers of the net.

But one will not always be lucky.

That I can make the bet.

Life was like a school girl holding a holo-phone, running head first toward a speeding school bus. Here lies the corpse, that was once a child. Here lies the innocence, now turned to dust. And everything else, that was once good. It's all turned to rust. Now one tips their top hat forward, walks around with a cane. Simply trying to make it through the nearest bus stop, with falling out of breath, puffing on vapes, sounding like the pipe of speeding train. All that nicotine to cope with it all, it can't be good for the brain.

It can't be good for the life.

If I could describe the rave party I went to with her, it was closer to a funeral procession. She would hold my hand, knowing my hesitation to dance. Light flashing, heads bashing. People's private parts banging, and a drug full experience so I've heard, though I always rejected the stuff. My life always felt like it could out in a huff, and no like a fine prostitute sucking on my prick. Not like Switzerland, with bug burgers, lattes, and cuties licking all over you. This life was made for me and me only.

This was my land.

This was the night.

Sometimes it's easier to go to bed, wishing for some other life instead. Instead of the real life, filled with pain and regret. I once tried communicating my feelings with my therapist not Bret, but rather than listening, he found some deranged pleasure in watching my own feeling unfold. It was almost a life story never told. A story of a boy whom dated girl, who died of an infestation, leaving only a rose to my name. Her own life story, I remembered as she told me. But do to her privacy wishes, I promised to her I'd never tell it. And this was a promise I intended to keep. I only tell of the public life, to communicate this final note.

Sometimes we find goodness in odd places.

And even more odd people.

Now I rest in my bed, the doctor telling I only had a few months to live. Throat cancer they said. But at least I got to spend some of the last months, meeting this interesting girl, whom, as the rumors tell, shot her own pimp. Fled out of her home country, and arrived here in Chattanooga. What a strange place to land, but who am I to judge?

I've lived my life well, young thing.

I shall meet you in hell. Dying before retirement age.

The age of one hundred and fifty eight.

Hell is a much different place, than taught in history books and the Catholic Church. A church filled with pedophiles that lurch. I may be in hell, but that doesn't stop me from defaming God, because to me he/she does not exist. He exists only in the illusions of tunnels of light. Now I sit on my purgatory throne, waiting for a final judgment that seems to never come. Here, in Purgatory Road, the stop sign always points up, and the green sign down. The town where the crazy old cat lady, walks around in a circle, around a blood drawn pentagram. The bus has arrived, perhaps it will be my release. To heaven or hell, I care not. So long as I could dream of flowers in a church.

Dream of another life, where the old skyscrapers, are replaced by endless Summer clowns, and your grandparents turned once more into young women. But then I wake up, and I'm in my hospital bed.

It was 3:33 A.M.

The girl I met, Gin Bailey, came to visit me in my hospital bed hours later. But not as a prostitute, but as a welcoming friend. She held my hand, gave me a hug, as well as a coffee energy drink. Gradually easing off, she had a tear in her eye.

-- Don't mind me, it's eye strain.

-- Don't worry, I'm here.

-- It was good meeting you old man.

Now I hear organs, playing in the distant, a funeral procession drawing nearer. The sound similar to the sound of vampire tv shows from the nineteen eighties, and other shit TV. I suppose that was it, for no longer having anxiety, as I finish my peach smoothie.

I tasted like death.

PART THREE The Gamer Girl Of Red Bank P2

Sometimes I have to scramble to get my diary entries written, even when I feel the most smitten. For though I have only been smitten with a digital girl, and nothing of the flesh, I have however been smitten for the written word. And by extension, the flow of graphics on the page. All the rage, all of the time. But only in the farthest reaches of my mind.

At times I become to wordy, when I masturbate long, despite physically approaching thirty. I squeek and I squeak, like a girlfriend's pet birdy, imagining her suck my cock. But perhaps it's time to wind it down, and come around the mountain to the quietest of towns. Some for traditional are of want, yet for me the traditional is only the perception of those who wish to control others. In the past I spoke more abruptly, yet now I feint and whistle as I fall down onto the floor. Wanting nothing but the silence of my mind.

Just a century ago, I was fighting aliens inside of an prison laboratory, yet now I am among the flesh and blood of men. And women of course. But in this context, I refer to men in the collective sense. So spare your tuppence and threepence. I'd prefer to go to Republican pep rallies while others throw compliments at Mike Pence, if only to have an anarchist parade. Because reality is all a charade. Come around to my place, and we'll have a parade. The parade of total silence in my bedroom, where beyond the closest door, are different portals and universes beyond what we may see. But I'll spare you the pretentious verbiage, like us the people there just want to pee.

All I've ever wanted was to be free, and yet in return all I've ever received was being knocked down by others. Others whom blast music beneath my chamber door, thinking they're as great as Edgar Allen Poe, all the Funky Music Ragtime Band. But I'd rather force them to eat sand and liverwurst, and give them families nothing but curses.

My rants can last so long.

Yet, only when I'm horny.

Public relations, one of those old methods of restoring trust in a company name; so often, it's one of the more genuinely devious and dishonest of practitioners. I was a practitioner in the dark arts of the rogue spy. Working for myself, I owed allegiance to nobody. Individuals like myself never had this kind of of power to make private victims bleed, like grocery and hardware giant. Especially do to the controversial nature of other aspects that make themselves split off from society at large.

So much of their identity is contained within their professional, and not in the complexity of the self. Persecutions bloom like like midnight roses. Such events, sprinkling night fire flowing in arson musical notes, are due to avoiding the stigma that came with other political purges. The United States had not yet become like the USSR, but in a subtle and minute way, it was worse. Though one could imagine the guilt by association experienced by millions of Russians, when they dealt with the survivors guilt of the gulags, like Nazi death camps writ large. It was the twenty first century, so you would think that such political purges would not happen.

Would anyone really cry if I were gone today, give another baby at chance of life to see this day. Even despite the gradual degredation of our Earth. Our precious wildlife.

Our sunflowers turned to dust.

Yet I, Gin Bailey, a white girl, but also a trans girl, had a sexual fascination for blood. Rolling down a curved or angula blade, the life. The sado-masochistic desire of the flesh. This doesn't mean I'll cut you up, or kick your pup. While drinking 7 up. I hate carbonated beverage for one thing, the rest of the reason I'll tear up, and let fade to history like dust in the wind.

You live your life.

And I will live mine.

Because of the quirk of natural selection, and the human minds tendency to accept guilt by association, even those whom claim not to, they persecute, because they don't want to admit: we're all part of the same space dust flowing faster than light speed. Very few people have true empathy, but I alway had. Almost to a fault of my own genes.

The vampire gene.

The life.

There was nothing like being surrounded by collapsing dough nuts, as one scrambled through a flight of cyberspace stair cases.

Sometimes when people argue whether they're the infamous dough-nut ninja, sometimes its better to let them fight among themselves, rather than risk them finding out that it's you. If you got caught, you're the one getting blamed for stealing gold coins from your old allies wallets while they're fighting against a common enemy you also have. There was nothing like jacking into a hologram deck, and dawning the mask in Cyberspace. I loved collected dough-nuts, while running and jumping off of collapsing sky scrapers, and manipulated the code to allow for longer wall runs while jumping to ledges I needed to climb onto. But one day, after completed a campaign, I was called by a new employer, who needed special information regarding a wanted serial killer. When I arrived at the office, I was unsure what to expect. Only that my skills were finally actually needed rather than resented by the public at large.

They recently unburied a mass grave of old android women, with their skins shaved off their faces. Nothing left of them now besides exposed metal where the flesh once was. This was one of the forensic photographs the case officer wanted to me to check out. It matched the same M.O. as these other unsolved string of murders related to a case ten years ago, where non robot women where left exposed to the elements without the skin on their faces. I didn't exactly have the choice to say no. I suppose I could have, but I always had this fear of being viewed as a suspect in cases that I was never personally involved in.

By night I opened my console, collecting chocolate eclaires, and vanilla custard filled chocolate fudge pies. I also took cash from the wallets of knocked out cyberspace samurai, in this futuristic retelling of the Seven Samurai. It was a generic game that kept being churned out, turned into a massively role playing prototype session among millions of users in a consensual matrix. The problem was they left their source code exposed, despite it being marketed as proprietary software. It was much more fun cracking systems you weren't designed to open, which is why I was always irritated when people said not to learn assembly, but rather then design games on Open Pandora. I had my own algorithm I followed, and it had nothing to do with making games for the general public. It was cracking into systems designed by nameless masters.

The masters of The Seven Samurai.

When I woke up the next morning, I woke up to an unknown caller, then I realized it must have been the case officer that I knew from earlier. -- We got a lead on the case.

He drove to the old locations that were explored on yesterdays news stations, exploring various old sites where the dead women were located. One of the ideas floating around in my own mind, was trying to determine whether there was anything in these locations that could be correlated to things this new hypothetic android destroyer had that was similar to the old case, something about these parts that was tied in some way to their old life. A life very different twenty one twenty seven, back during twenty seventeen.

It was right around the Trump election.

I remembered it all to well.

One of the things I noticed, was how all these cases where associated with a certain sex fetish for women's bodies, although mine always manifested differently from these murders. But there were times when they resembled my own fetish all to much. But for me, I was able to drown myself in non-alcoholic beer, and session of the Seven Samurai, while this murderer indulged in their fantasy revolving around women's skin.

For me, my own fantasy was in seeing women's heads roll off their bodies, not take the skin off their face. There was nothing you could stick your penis through in skin that was remotely comparable to someone's throat hole. Although when I was caught for my own string of crimes, it was something far less than murder. At least not murder of anything physical. There was something inherently boring, and way to easy to get caught, cutting the heads off of young maidens to young to die. Don't ask me why, it was something I felt like doing at the time. I hacked into some corporations, assassinated the stock values of different secret government agencies, and manufactured information about different crimes committed by rival activist groups. In all there cases, there was no blood or DNA to trace you. The only reason I got caught was I got a little careless: like in old science fiction novels, the hubris came from stealing from my employers.

But unlike in that book, most of my punishment was community service and months of psycho-therapy. I was simply to get at my job to give me probation. All that didn't matter now. I was diving head first in another level of madness I never seen before, indulging in sexual fantasies on the flesh that I could never dream of. And it was about to get much hairier.

We arrived in the parking lot.

It was the parking lot of our suspect, who was not currently home now, We specifically timed it this way. That way we had plenty of time to relax, and search for files on his computers that could possibly suggest possible future android murder locations. X marked the spot. Multiple X littering reality, crushed by wires and teeth. The teeth, metal and not enamel, begging for me to find their killer. So I could go back to playing the game.

The killer planned on attacking a local pimp.

But this pimp was a lady cyborg.

Sometimes it takes a dagger to swallow someone's life force, other times it takes a punch to the gut. But this time, all it took was three swats of a paddle to the butt, and she was completely broken asunder. She barked back at us like Spring time thunder, starring into are souls like Latino Falcon sabers, riding giant eagles over the mountain side of Puma Punku and "the darro", a vast expanse of ancient desert once rumored to be the site of an ancient nuclear street fight. One button to push on an alien Caveman, and it was simply all over for a group of ancient folk no matter advanced than bronze spears, the sky falling upon them like trillions of radioactive sky scrapers. Let's just say, she had an explosive temper. But this temper was able to modify itself just long enough for us to get the information that we needed. The frequent customer was actually another woman, just like I was. Contrary to what you might expect, women were just as capable of men as sexual as men were. Hollywood likes to depict our sexuality as something of a non existence, except when a man saves us from having our heads whacked of with an ax. But really, the only real whores I've seen like that have been men.

I usually stab them in the gut afterward.

But in this case there was nobody we were rescuing, but instead determining the exact circumstance of their murder. The case officer had told us they recently found a woman whose body was turned essentially into a blood covered mannequin, her body covered in stiffening wax. When the team got onto the scene, they already began to smell the small of decay, worse than the smell of radioactive sulfur in ancient burial sites.

I didn't need to stab at dagger into someone's neck to temporarily paralyze them, so I could steal some floating chocolate dough-nuts. And I wasn't particularly hungry anyway. So instead I went along for the ride as their personal body guard, whacking off the heads of the murderer's henchmen. I wondered, what if I drew them into a playing a game of seven samurai, allowing them to fight me to the death in a holographic display, who was more likely to win. It was one of those thoughts win the murderess decided to turn herself in. Her main side kick had been shot in the back of the neck with a guillotine gun, blood spilling over the pavement floor. No time to invite to a game of Cyberspace espionage, she lived out her own life of her infamous lore.

We spent the rest of the month extracting locations of older android murders, and after a while she began to crack, not because of the sheer amount of pain of having her legs broken, but because of the sheer boredom of restless night under L.E.D. lights, the sound of shitty nineties music blaring in one's ears like toxic ear worms.

After a while she'd rather had bugs crawling inside of her ears, than listening to the queasily weasel voice of the interrogator, playing his game of threatening fingernail pulling, like it was a nineteen seventies disco floor. He might as well have worn a blue dyed afro, wearing blue lip stick, and a pink fussy clown nose with doc martin boots, modified with stiletto length cleat blades. The image would not have been any less ridiculous to see unfold. She Case Officer let me go home, and I spent the rest of the night connected to game of the Seven Samurai, snatching up dough nuts like they were gold coin in Mario games. And using the cash of fallen comrades, instead of their credit cards numbers. As US was this much closer to legislating against being fat.

Now I spent the rest of my probation months playing with murderess from earlier, because the state decided not to decapitate her. She became my adversary in Cyberspace, hunting me down like old Shogun henchmen. But between us, it was a kind of deranged love affair of dough nuts and decapitation. Sometimes the flavor of the two blending into a bizarre bitter sweetness that even the best of Hibachi grills could not compare to. The state realized that my willingness to participate was merely a matter of necessity than willingness. And anybody they would ask would be exactly the same way.

I showed the girl different ways to not be caught by dream-scanners, and explored the nature of circumstance of her life. Not because I asked, she simply talked to much like an villain in the last stage of poorly scripted Japanese Role Playing games. But this was OK, as the head jobs I got afterward made being patient all the more worth it.

I knew her head was mine.

But attached to her neck. Spaghetti was a lot better, when you can imagine the sauce be the blood of a wheel broken petty thief, for months on end being denied the grace of death, with heaven dangled in front of them, ripping the illusion away. My cyber space, never releasing from their torment. Only dying when I say so. I lust for blood. But I knew that blood lust could easily become an addiction, and that I would never be satisfied, always wanting to be the best. Ripping out their eyes like cotton candy.

I wanted to be the prettiest.

But I decided, she wasn't worth it.

I had bigger fish to fry. Magnet Girl Wireless

-- Smart Phones are private, unless you use the store on the web. There was a store clerk at a standard department store. She didn't know that clerks could be so technically illiterate.

Cell phones were an embarrassment to those who appreciate the Linux OS. The store of the net of things was more secure than cell phones had ever been. At least in theory. But all systems were not secure against social engineering. A hacker is not going to follow standard rules and conventions, that's pretty much by definition. A good hacker isn't going to need a windows back door. They just need to socially engineer you to log in on your own. Then when you're not looking replace your current code with an older version with previous weaknesses, replaces your remote control's login feature with the older version. Then simply type anything besides enter or space.

Hackers do this all the time. They're not going to obey the rules of a particular system. The best thing you can do is secure yourself against social engineering tactics. -- Have a nice day. She said, as Arline left.

Considering that the lady was that bad off, the store was easy pray for purchasing more than enough "cigarillos" to last you more than a week. Tear those suckers up, save you an extra dollar. More money that could be spent on purchasing locks. Locks that could be used to craft your own secured notebook. However at times arts and crafts can be more expensive. It took using post it notes and cutting off the sticker parts to have something one could reasonably pay for. The locks made of metal could just be ripped off. And if you have the wrong friends, it didn't matter how secure the lock. Clearly keeping encryption keys required an entirely different process from using notebooks. Especially if one used a straddling square. The straddling square was similar to a straddling checkerboard, only each letter was shifted based on a different pass phrase instead of a Cesarean shift. It was as random as a straddling checkerboard, but also required knowing the pass phrase to break the lack.

At home she programmed similar ciphers, but in a different kind of login system. One had a two in three chance to evade penetration testing with the cipher. In a three phase process, this meant each penetration test had a two in three chance of failing. If one did a seven phase process the chances of actually logging in becoming increasingly astronomical, therefore it's kept difficult enough to avoid logging in accidentally, but easy enough to log in without having to exploit weaknesses in the interface. But the weakness points were removed by arline who had anticipated people simply pressing enter or space. She exited the remote control, and chose to feed her face.

Then back to the old grind.

Remote viewing in cyberspace. Her old life, the tears on the face.

On Friday, February 10 2017. It was 1:43 A.M. At 25 x coordinators and 15 y coordinates, it was wet and rippling. The rectangular building nearby was in need of repair, with a triangular roof. There was a doorway. The entire place looks like a giant backward, there is a smell of something baking.

She wasn't sure what was smelling, but didn't want to take herself out of the zone to think about it. She hadn't been to the park in some time along East like, but generally didn't feel like walking. Arline had recently had a RFID chip put in, along with a lifting and sensing magnets. The lifting was on her index finger, just below the finger tip. And the sensing magnets were on all her finger tips. She had had her right hand modified to accommodate her lack of general use. Being born left handed netted many benefits, although certain skill sets were difficult being right brained. But through practice, one could become a black belt in anything, even remote viewing.

Arline wasn't sure whether there would be anything to lift at East Lake, but she would have to wait, if some other region she brain scans doesn't strike some stronger interest for her.

This was her story.

-- What's the difference between RFID encryption, and using a standard super? It was one of those questions most more experienced bio hackers knew, but didn't have time to answer as it would take hours. They just assumed her lack of technical experience, although Arline was less of a general programmer breaking into security, and more apt to use the system's rules against itself.

-- It's just different Arline. Consider learning the technical specifics of RFID. A pat response indicative of impatience and lack of attention. Arline didn't have time for condescending assholes, she dealt with way to many of them in her own lifetime. She knows enough about programming to bypass social media spam block functionality, encrypting phrases in different ways, and playing around with the word sandwich order to reach a desired result.

The city life was filled with the noise of construction workers, and she didn't even know there was implant conventions within the area. She didn't even want to consider the idea of telling them about her remote viewing. A by this point, she knew they just wanted her to assume the magnets worked, and not to worry about the specifics of RFID encryption, as long as she could get into her apartment. The daylight was beginning to fade, the city lights beginning to glow. It was chilly, but not enough to snow. The neighborhood dogs barked loudly, and at times she joked around with the idea of trying to see if her magnets could feel their collars, but decided better of it.

And now she leaves the convention, socially worn out.

She scans the RFID chip on her door, and then quickly closes the door. She then loads up her zero liability USB drive, and she received a message from a friend down in Smyrna, Tennessee.

She was to tired to decipher it right now.

But at least she knew it worked.

They used to say Russia and the US had different social values, but now after the current president was elected by the lowest margin in years, various executive orders have made it nearly impossible to tell them apart. The average person wont ever feel the change. But immigrant families and minority groups have already felt the change even before he was elected. While Arline was technically one such minority, she never got out enough to really experience discrimination. Although try telling her that because she never faced discrimination, that means no trans woman has, although most of the ones at the rally do not actually represent trans people. She spends most of her time working on her programming skills, and wants nothing to do with activism.

Social media spam block functions were notoriously weak although Arline didn't know they were this much. If you changed the message only slightly each iteration, you could spam as many messages as you wanted. And so one could encrypt the same phrase more than once, and as long as they inserted enough _, she could bypass crucial spam blocking functions. She wondered why it was then that computers haven't yet figured out how to bypass spam functionality.

And if someone stole your password, it wasn't like a spam functionality would do you any good. Just recently the government was considering efforts to ask for immigrants passwords in order to be let into the United States. Although all one would have to do is give them the real one once, then promptly change their password the following night. And it didn't actually solve the terrorist problem, as Saudi Arabia wasn't effected by the no fly list. The people were simply ... listless about it.

Arlina goes to various people's houses, using the convenience of their friendship to scan for magnetic pulses in the walls, among other places. She wasn't sure how long it would take for the government to crack down on bio scanners, although as long as she stayed low during the day, and did most of her work at friend's houses at night, at least for the moment there shouldn't be any issue.

But for how long...

This she wasn't certain.

Arline, Friday February 10th at 5:25 P.M. At 42 coordinates X, and -73 coordinates y. It has a rough texture, is covered in trees, and is windy. The place has historical significance, set in a shopping district. West Heartland, CT.

She didn't know exactly why she felt familiar with this place, only its significance as landmark important during the civil wars in the United States. It was a hit. Covered in trees, a mountainside not near any roads. Yet never the less was driven on. She always had some element of foresight from a very early age, although had had to train out of specific habits that contributed to mental noise. Her means of transportation was limited, and thus wherever she went she would either have to walk to such location, or be willing to ask her parents to take her.

Arline wasn't sure whether at this location, there would be a magnetic sensation, and what having one may indicate. From a very early age, since she was very small, she had been told that where there is magnetism, there was treasure to be found. Even in this rough forsaken Earth, trod on by the ghosts of time's past, who fought and died by canon fire.

Everywhere she went, her fingers would vibrate. She didn't know that the whole world was filled with magnetism, only that one of her exes told her that metallic body parts were a bad idea, because the magnetism would gradually mess with your spirit and rip out your prosthetic. However Arline didn't believe in a spirit, at least not in this sense. And yet somehow always held onto ideas about reincarnation. She was drawn to specific places based on a kind of familiarity, as if at some point in previous lifetimes she had been there before.

Yet now she rest, she dines.

She dines on homemade bread.

On Saturday, February 11th, Arline remote viewed the coordinates of 43 x and 23 y East. At first it seemed like her senses were failing her, but here in Godech, Bulgaria there was a large lake. She knew that there was something large and metallic there, although she did not know what. And that there was something wet with a large horizon. She seems to have a knack for spotting large bodies of water, on nights when she has had little to drink. And now she dreams in a wink.

She imagines her metallic implants buzzing, her mind a fuzzing. Her brain waves flowing in paradox between a total relaxation high, and cluttered thoughts worrying about the day before. Her mother had a tendency make lots of noise in the kitchen, though she appreciated her doing her laundry for her. Arlina, one might think, would go to bed right away, yet instead she stays up long enough to bake some bread, and then boil potatoes to make a pot of soup. Yet now as she recalls ordering a Cal-zone at the local pizzeria, and buying some instant coffee, she dread the next few days, uncertain of whether she'll get disability.

Arline had always been reluctant to meditate. She simply didn't see a need for it. Yet now that she has begun to remote view, things were different now. As she wipes the sweat from her brow, from a night of masturbation.

The horny life.

Arline tried installing Debian, but once it was up she couldn't install sudo. By this point, she had gotten used to the idea of all Linux distributions having this by default. She had developed a program called the Remote Viewer's Assistant, but she needed to have Ruby installed. Instead she had to reinstall Linux Mint along side Debian OS in order to use the standard operating procedure to run her programs. She honestly wondered why the magnets in her finger tips didn't somehow mess up the message themselves, then she realized it was under the skin.

And now she waits and takes a breath for the next three minutes. Then she wakes. Arline on February 11th on Saturday around 7:00 A.M. sensed at 110 coordinators Y and 143 coordinates x, a soft and grainy texture with a metallic texture nearby. At 110 Ekkachai Road in Bangkok Province, the read has had work stopped on it and now the region has been reduced to a tourist trap, at least according to the locals. Arline knew that if she were there, she might be able to have all the Penang curry she wanted. But she was unsure of how the locals would feel about her dropping by. Although any regions was fun to test out your sensory perception, a region ye close to China wasn't exactly something on her priority list. Although she wanted to have the chance to feel the grainy green along the side of the road. Yet the owners would not want her hopping into their backyard.

Every since she was around eight, she always had some psychic ability. However she had never spoken of it for the longest time, do to cultural stigma surrounding people who claim to be such. Her magnetic fingertips gave her an extra bit of sense, different from remote viewing. Although she didn't like how such implants were invented by men who had no interest in the paranormal.

She was abnormal from the start.

Her life for sake of art.

Arline on February 11th, Saturday 9:47 Pm. Wet texture. Rocky landscape. Wood texture. Silk. Coastal wildlife. Feathers and scales. Dark history, damage to wood texture. She has sensed Aruba, Iraq. Here there had been many battles with US forces, and more battles still against their natives of the region. And here she senses great sadness, and terror. Among that she did not sense at first, was an unknown factory.

She was unsure whether it was nuclear or for some other purpose.

She wonders, for what purpose?

There was a boy she met from afar, though not in the flesh. Who went by the name of Anakarah. About an hour past the previous time, on Saturday 11th, he noted of a sour taste as he walked through a land of dark brown mountains, and short green trees. These was a large river, similar to the river in Aruba. Yet it was elsewhere, where the drinking age was that of twenty five.

She had never met another remote viewer before, although she assumed it might have been more accepted in that culture. For sake of his privacy, she refused to ask of herself what he might be thinking. Arline had had experiences before with boys from the Middle East. On various dating sites she would sometimes encounter men from Saudi Arabia looking for a hot date. Eager for a time to masturbate, eager for a one time offer. On some level she didn't want to know what he was thinking, or what he might be tasting. Considering the region, it wasn't much farther from Aruba, although closer to Pakistan. She hoped the US military didn't intend to bring in ground forces, but she was ready to join in protestations against the incoming president as robbed by Russia.

This was a world where one rogue banker got away with sending many people outside of their homes. This was a world were alternative facts were the new lingo for what in yesterday times people would call lies. While one couldn't expect a politician to exactly be honest, almost everyone considered the comment to be on the news. No no, college grads who are overqualified to work at the local mini-mart, it's an alternative fact. You still have a home, somewhere. Out there. In the coldest darkest of the night, sleeping in torn jeans and hand me down blankets, riding the bus as a means of shelter in California. Just some way in order to get by.

She had never been in the situation herself. Except for one night were she was temporarily "homeless." She spent the whole night needing to use the restroom, but no places were open.

What a shitty situation.

But at least it wasn't Aruba or Uzbekistan.

Later that night, she found the card sitting on one her bookshelves, chilling out as having a smoke from a cigarillo.

Reality wasn't anything but a dream, and so sometimes she was unsure whether she saw things she thought she saw, or perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her. Unlike other things in her life, remote viewing was different. Remote viewing had been corroborated by a bunch of different sources. Within her studio apartment, reality can sometimes bend itself. And as it speaks, distorts lies in the form of alternative facts not even allowed by the most word spinning of politicians. Yet reality itself only gave raw information, and how one interrupted it was up to the individual. But political science was largely a different matter, leaving one hopping about the room like the Mad Hatter smoking powder out the wing dang. While one reclines in bed and plays with their ding ding ding.

The remote viewer's life in NashChat.

She buckled down and concentrated. On Saturday, February 11th at 11:28 she remote viewed at first a texture, a feeling. It was leathery and silky. There was artificial lighting, an educational building in a Republic of great national historical importance. A bloody civil war happened here between the Whites, Greens, and Reds. At 64 x and 110 y, the world of cold and ice.

She wanted a world everything nice.

Not a world of renamed KGB.

On Sunday February 12th. High contrast, wood texture and grainy. Sometimes wet, sometimes dry. Sometimes cold, other times hot. Brown, green, tall. Petrified, isolation. Desolate. Wives more dominant than their husbands. Wooden shoes, gouda cheese, and civil war. The girls in clogs giving one hard ons, if she could have them. She had given up on visiting Marseilles, at least for the time being. Her life was as silent as the S.

She dreamed of supernatural forces chasing after her. And yesterday's years she would be woken up to her poodle looking her nose. All that black fur, all that doggy shampoo. She remembered her dog as if she were still here. Yet she has not been around, for almost an entire year. And now she looks beyond the window glass, hoping for something to life. She didn't need conflict, she was conflict herself. Culminating in personal decay and disarray.

Can misery come again some other day? Yet now she thinks of girl in Swedish clogs, and Dutch klompen giving her lap dances.

More to life, many chances.

Many wives. Her life dreaming of Mediterranean seas and Gouda cheese.

It was grocery day, the day before her next remote viewing session. Her mom arrived at non to take her to various shops. These were various ones she had been to since the time she met Katie. She would gave for the normal goods, and later go for the spices: Thai Chilly Powder, Haldi, and Turmeric. If there was anything Arline liked as much as her new magnets, it was cooking. Many dishes were made, such as peanut butter chicken. She has to adjust the spice since her trip up to Washington, strange considering that most people up north dislike any spice.

At night she scans the walls, scans the flag poles, and anything she can get her hands on. She can find things in places she could not ordinarily sense. The whole world was suddenly available to her in different senses: magnetism and remote sensing across various points in the globe. Yet she knew that any sort of body modification was not looked highly upon, particularly in the south. Here you could be dumped into a sewer simply for being a trans person, this she knew knowing of some people that had mysteriously gone missing, and dying from a degree of poisoning and red skin. The city life in Chattanooga was not much different from the life in Smyrna, Tennessee. The main difference is your door was from the inside, rather than from the outside.

Arline would purchase cigarillos, in packs of six. She would pack all them into three, throw other the other than empty packs. Then use the receipt as a cigarette roller in order to hide her purchase. She took extra steps to ensure her anonymity, but because of her mother's tendency to get into her space, she might "accidentally" sneak a look into her purse when purchasing instant coffee. That was how life was for Arline, who never caught a break from her mom.

Yet now that she lives in her own, it didn't matter much what her mother thought, and someday she would permanently break off the relationship. Even if it took an amount of force to do this.

It was simply a matter of time.

At home she smokes cigarillos and vaporize mint. She was told by her mother that likes to think she knows everything, that Arline has no shin splints.

Never mind not being a doctor.

Immobile with magnetism.

Arline swiped her fingers over the bar code, in order to ruin the scan of the flower bag. She was hoping to avoid having to pay for the whole shopping trip, only having to pay for the Ramen. University student on a budget, you'll do anything to save a buck. However the company policy changed, and she could only buy the bag of ramen. You couldn't get the broken item for free, and you had to replace it with an item you could pay for. So she just bought the ramen and left.

Exiting, she got herself a cigarillo, and smoked it until it was gone. Up, up, and up the hill to the studio apartments after crossing, crossing, and crossing the city street under the rainy slights. She thought about the practicality of using a proxy route. She wondered how effective it really was. In the non abstract world, encrypting the real world would be difficult. She hoped it wasn't impossible.

She wanted it as fragile as pocky.

Shrimp flavor midnight blues.

Arlina, on February 12th. 7:17 P.M. Dirty and grainy. Wet and salty. Rocky and cold. Somewhere up North loud noises blare. White and chilly. Betrayed cultural values, ancient culture. Development versus tradition. Yet now all is quiet along the Kele River in the Sakha Republic. Russia again, she visited the lake of the previous town she visited. She knew that in the US, there was conflict between Native Americans and Industrial workers, and wondered whether there was an equivalent to this within Russia.

Although she cannot see the whole vividly, she wonders why this region keeps showing up in her mind. Certainly there was frequent talk about the current issue with Russian interference, yet in her mind she senses something more sinister.

She tries to feel the texture of the helicopter, and tries to get a taste of what the pilot must be thinking. In a land where fear is dominant, and the current president has become the second dictator after the fall of the Soviet Union, she wonders whether they might strike Aruba and Uzbekistan. She began to worry about the boy she met, thinking he has already had it hard enough having his entire family murdered in front of his eyes. Yet tries to imagine the interior of the helicopter, she senses a disconnect from the world of the zone. Magnetic pulses ruin the radio signal of the chopper, the vehicle of the sky comes crashing down.

Here lies the helicopter, once of metal and rest.

Yet here it lies, in the lake. The pilot gasping for air.

The metal turns to rust.

Arline, Monday February 13th. She returns to Uzbekistan. She senses a dark history, yet there is a void in knowing what is current. Rough texture, tastes like salt. Dry season. Horizon is near, blue surrounds. Tall wooden object. Great conflicts, social upheaval. Long abandoned, surreal. She wonders what the buildings are for, before going off line to repeat the process. Locations seem to be repeating themselves, in predictable pattern. Cycling in a kind of loop that never ends. Yet she senses no Anakarah, she wonders where he is.

She scans the area with her finger tips, and notices a magnetic field. She wonders if there was some kind of blown apart metal near by. Coasting there, she finds parts of old guns laying around from previous wars. Yet still now Anakarah.

She disconnects.

She dreams again. She feels a rough sensation, and humidity. It tastes wet on her lips, there is no artificial sounds. There are small hills, green and gray. Tall wooden thin objects. A tourist region, now undergoing modernization. Yet it still maintains some semblance of the rural life. It is a conservative, what we may call a Red State.

Butnan District, Libya.

She wonders why she sensed Libya.

Arline could have purchased a pack of cigarettes, a pack of beef franks, a bag of rice, and a rotational lock. Instead when returned home from the Chinese, Indian, and Mexican grocery, she purchased herself Hickory Chips, some post it notes, mini memo notebooks, and a can of iodized salt. For the amount of security you could get with a rotational lock, you were still bound by the type of cipher manufacturing companies were willing to give you, and the lock could simply be ripped out of something as then as paper. But with post it notes, it doesn't necessarily scream lock.

She wasn't breaking any laws that day, it was simply a matter of using legal items in a way they were never originally intended. She knew how to work around the system, find the cheapest price. Then come home and have an fusion cuisine meal all hot and nice. She treated her cyberspace adventures in much the same way, finding ways around the spam block rather than repeating the system message over and over again. And now she comes back home with her Zero Liability USBs, along with her new program that semi-automates the remote viewing process.

Living with her mother used to be a matter of dependance, yet now that she had finally come to live on her own, she found ways to hide what she was doing. And as long as she wasn't breaking any laws or smoking, all that would really happen was her mother would lecture her about how she spent her money. But she wanted things she couldn't always have, as poor as a prickly chav. She found the best deals in ethnic grocers, so she could find a way to secure her private keys in Zero Liability. If the program tester couldn't exchange keys securely, why should they expect others who use the program to?

Operational security was as important as any kind of cipher, even if one used ones more secure than the simplest of substitutions, the key still had to be secure. She had a bag of hickory chips on the bed.

She was ready to eat.

Chorizo Chilly Stew.

Arline, February 14th 2017 at 1:01 A.M. It feels breezy and wet. Wavy, and bouyant. Brown movement, wavy blue. Voyages long ago. Conflict unresolved. Nothing but wind. She found herself thinking of Mostafa Mahmou, Egypt. At first she did not quite understand how she had arrived at this location, and yet it feels right. Near the Nile, the large river that provided ancient times with water to live. She wondered, what, in some way, did these visions connect. She wondered, on some level, whether she had accidentally downed an actual Russian aircraft.

She wondered whether the Russians had murdered Anakarah's family, and whether Egypt might be next. She thought of Bangkok, that didn't do anything besides make Penang curry. All the conflicts of the world, and none of them felt resolved by the resignation of the Glynn, who had spoken with Russian officials off the record. Everything was watched and spied by the secret services. From phone lines to emails, everything about the person was watched.

Yet we stuff have a baboon for a president.

We still have a propagandists as ... well a propagandist. And yet the news wants us to argue about the conflict bout the president's daughter's T Shirt brand, even when they themselves are losing viewer ships by the day. Can the rain come again some other day, or shall the floods of cosmic Noah rain down from the sky in droplets of blood and ash against mankind.

The abject poverty is still rampant.

The US masks it. Yet the mask is cracking.

Arline, February 14th 2017 at 11:09 A.M. At coordinates 24 x and 31 y. Green, hilly, non-humid. Underdeveloped. Dirt beneath your feet. Low population density. Culture shock, changed times. Invasion. Remnants of a former life. Though this wasn't the first time she honed in on a location more than once, it was the second time she honed on Egypt specifically. An invasion. In invasion from where? She didn't know exactly who was invading Egypt.

She knew that various deals between US and Russia were made. There were often secret covert wars undeclared officially. Just recently there was an American Raid on Yemen, that ended up being more disastrous for the invaders than the ones who were invaded upon. They didn't manage to apprehend the terrorist they were looking for. Makes one wonder whether they were really looking for terrorists, or if they really wanted to just grab resources.

This and many other instances. Why Egypt, Uzbekistan, and parts of Russia showed up in her viewing sessions didn't know exactly. She knew that Egypt in times past had to worry about the lake around the Fertile Crescent running dry, although she was unsure whether it was still a present issue do to the nature of importation of life sustaining goods. Though some things important overseas tend to have a higher tax, however that's more going into the US. She remembered reading parts of the Dune novels, and how there were wars about the resource of spice. Perhaps Oil was like Spice in the Dune novels. Only the Worms were not crawling in the sand, but were humans of flesh and blood. People of the East.

Virtual Reality is only a factor in developed nations, although Eastern Countries are becoming increasingly developed. But the rate of development by the West out paces this, at least for now. While teenagers play virtual reality games the next stage of the evolution of first person shooters, those in worlds afar play ball games from skin of one of their dead pet pigs.

And so the world goes on.

Further moments between war and peace.

Arline, February 14th 2017 at 17:59 hours. Coordinates 15 x and 24 y. Wet, sandy, hilly; green, light brown, aqua blue. Sea voyages for food. Invaders at large. She found she was sensing Sudan, Africa. Africa was an extremely large continent, part of which was invaded by the US armed service during the Libyan Civil War. Various places in Africa were invaded during the 19th century by European Imperialism. However now there are proxy wars overseas.

There was nothing made out of metal besides the towers illuminated in yellow. She hoped that these places would not become a target for American extremism, whose brand of democracy loomed larger over the previous countless wars both known and hidden from the masses. Very few people realize how after Vietnam, live coverage of the war was explicitly forbidden. So one is left to merely infer that presidents that authorize specific conflicts were war criminals. Today California is wanting to become an independent republic largely because of some of the things the current elect is threatening. Time will tell whether after the resignation of his adviser, whether dirt would be revealed about him and take him out of office.

Think of the African children on sea voyages, searching for fish as one of the few things they are able to find to eat. While it is not Egypt, it is still more difficult to find food compared to the US. And now the current US administration is almost like an alien invader in different parts of the world. A lot of entertainment about alien invasions are thinly hidden critiques about American imperialism, although apparently to hidden from those who previously worked in office.

Behold the green grass, the deserts, and the rain. Here lies the African children, invaded by the men with tanks. As the tanks roll on forever.

Arline goes off line.

Arline, on February 14th at 10:33 P.M. Coordinates 24 x and 13 y. Rough texture, dry and hot. Yellow hills, wide expanse. Tribal conflicts and imperialism. She visited Libya in the Murzuq district remotely. In this area, there was very little metal she found when fingering whether there was anything behind those walls. This country experienced an extended civil war after the United States invaded and over-through Qaddafi. She wasn't exactly sure what happened to his wife, or where his kids are. All she knew that the country has never been the same sense. She fears that there may be other conflicts that we don't yet know about, and with Russian intervention, and the sacking of some double agents for the Kremlin, there could have been more we would either narrowly avoid or perhaps narrowly miss avoiding.

She heard helicopters looming overhead, and wrote in her Zero liability that there was unidentified Caucasian soldiers. She wasn't sure whether these were American troopers, or African. She went off line.

There was a knock on the door, but there was always some kind of knock on the door. But there were recent discussions about ICE police trying to invite themselves into your home if you're suspect of aiding or abetting illegal immigrants. Although in her case she wasn't friends with much of anyone, and her only experience with Mexicans was on her trips to the Mexican grocery store. Still, she wasn't particularly inclined to help the coppers become totalitarian to ethnic minorities. Everyone pretty much knew that when the president "elect" talked about illegals he almost always meant Mexicans specifically, although even within this scope people wonder when he talks about people voting illegally. The only ones voting illegally were ones who rigged the system and enabled him, with his now sacked advisor, to gain office.

And now we suffer the consequences.

A total breach of security.

Intervention.

Arline, Tuesday February 14th at 11:46 P.M. Coordinates 14 x and 32 y. Chilly, yet not cold. Humid, overgrown with green. Mountainous. A feudal society that was once nomadic, yet now religious. There are men at an Islamic temple, dressed in white turbans. She visits Sudan again new a water fall, feeling the ions brush past her face. She wonders why this area is green in photographs, yet looks like a desert from map by satellite. There is a mud puddle in a year in a wide open expanse. She can feet the mud in the fertilized soil. She doesn't like the smell of the wild, yet perhaps this is because Arline is a city girl more used to the smell of city life.

She goes off line. She sees a black car pool up in the driveway, although it is not the typical model of MIBs. She wonders why MIBs are visiting the studio apartments. They had not made a specific appointment with the leasing agent. So she asks them to leave. So as not to cause trouble, they drive off the premises. Arline wasn't sure whether she was being watched, but promptly removed propriety closed source mapping urls from her Remote Viewer's Assistant program. A close call, she tries to relax with some vape. And then continues watching a video on line. She wanted to make sure her encrypted was working like it should. She checked to make sure all her programs only referred to open source mapping software.

So far so good.

She chilled. She watched movies about further information about the entire GOP being a haven for double agents. She wouldn't surprised if it turned out they'll eventually have to remove the entire staff. But that assumes the investigative bodies even care about it enough.

A tough bet.

It was the night Arline became Hitler, at least according to her mom. Her mom would equate her accidentally stumbling on Nazi websites as a sign of worshiping Nazis. However in truth, even from the beginning there was a fundamental difference between Arline and Adolf.

For one thing, Hitler wanted to kill millions of Jews. Arline wanted to destroy the entirety of mankind. She thought about how nature could more benefit from the absence of humanity. And how without all of man's penchant toward its own self-destruction, one could restore the ozone layer. Goodnight little Hitler, said her mother. As her child faded to dust. For it will be another day that mankind continues to exist in its splendor heading toward its ultimate demise. She hated humanity, because it created Hitler. She hated humanity, because it created Stalin. She had humanity, because it created the United States that was simply no different. She hated France, because they invented the guillotine and almost beheaded Anna-Marie Boeglin. She hated everything that humans have created, and Neanderthals would still be in existence if it were not for the lowliness that was homo sapience.

And yet she was direction less and void. Her life was a dangerous turn of the cards, a sinister ploy by ancient gods hellbent toward her own eventual suicide at the drop of cups of bathroom cleaner. And as she rested dying on the floor of a dirty old motel room in Washington, she thought of the emptiness of humanity. At the time, she wanted nothing to exist.

She wanted to end herself.

And yet things didn't turn out this way. And at the end of the day, she found humans were not worth her hate. So she cut herself off from humanity after her twenty seventh birthday. Now she has a new understanding of the value of life, and how if the United States as it existed simply changed forms, and became more like the greatness that was once 19th century Europe, just with more Africans, Muslims, and Jews perhaps the world could be a happier place without Germans, Russians, and their co conspirators the French. She was cured.

She remembered her poodle, now.

Who was hit with a baseball bat.

Life is so fragile.

Here is what Arline knows about smoking: you'll find in her area a lot of homeless people end up preferring cigarillos. She did a little experiment in figuring out the price of tobacco.

What she found was that for a standard box of pre-rolls, you're paying for the right to have something rolled previously. Roll your own isn't significantly cheaper. However when you convert six bags of three-pack cigarillos to roll your own, that's a dollar per bag or six dollars, you end up having cigarettes for six dollars rather than $7.00 in a standard bag of roll your own.

Homeless smoke cigarillos because it's cheaper than purchasing cigarettes.

Applying this same principle to other things you can make yourself rather than purchase ready-made, I found out that snipping off the non-sticky parts of post it notes, and using the sticky parts to secure a memo book ends up being just as secure as using a substitution lock.

This is why: while an attacker might not be able to open the lock, they can however rip out the lock in a standard composition notebook. But with post its, it's a generally weak security mechanism that doesn't really pretend to be secure, and so an attacker doesn't really need to crack it, they just peel off the tape.

Why is this important? You're paying for the right to attach a lock yourself that could be do far more cheaply with post it notes.

It all comes down to price.

This is why Arline purchased a bag of hickory chips to sketch my drawings, rather than use mechanical pencils. You can get the bag for a far cheaper price because there just isn't a demand on them. Even charcoal is cheaper.

Just burn the tip, and you have drawing utensils for the next few months.

It was the night Arline became Hitler, at least according to her mom. Her mom would equate her accidentally stumbling on Nazi websites as a sign of worshiping Nazis. However in truth, even from the beginning there was a fundamental difference between Arline and Adolf.

For one thing, Hitler wanted to kill millions of Jews. Arline wanted to destroy the entirety of mankind. She thought about how nature could more benefit from the absence of humanity. And how without all of man's penchant toward its own self-destruction, one could restore the ozone layer. Goodnight little Hitler, said her mother. As her child faded to dust. For it will be another day that mankind continues to exist in its splendor heading toward its ultimate demise. She hated humanity, because it created Hitler. She hated humanity, because it created Stalin. She had humanity, because it created the United States that was simply no different. She hated France, because they invented the guillotine and almost beheaded Anna-Marie Boeglin. She hated everything that humans have created, and Neanderthals would still be in existence if it were not for the lowliness that was homo sapience.

And yet she was direction less and void. Her life was a dangerous turn of the cards, a sinister ploy by ancient gods hellbent toward her own eventual suicide at the drop of cups of bathroom cleaner. And as she rested dying on the floor of a dirty old motel room in Washington, she thought of the emptiness of humanity. At the time, she wanted nothing to exist.

She wanted to end herself.

Arline began to lose track of all the coordinates she spied on through the Remote Viewer's Assistant. She worked on a version that includes a folder for images, sketches, and view intelligence. Along with this, she plugged in the zero liability mail system. The Zero Liability mail system worked like this: neither the sender or receiver in each user account knows exactly what they're asking or answering, the administrator holds onto this information.

This ensures that the Sender and Receiver exchange communication without conscious knowledge of their communication. This might seem counter-intuitive, however imagine if ICE police wanted to coerce either the sender or receiver about their exact communication. All they would be able to the the investigator is that they had asked and received an answer. They have zero liability. All the liability is contained between the two administrators that control interaction. One changes every so often what is being asked, and the other simply answers yes or no. There are possibilities of randomly jumbling the answer pattern as well, if the administrator asking the questions turns out to be spook for the Russian government.

Neither administrator holds onto all the communication, and they must share information in person with those they trust. You simply can't trust everyone. Once shared, the communication is promptly encrypted in their folder. They will eventually purge the information from their system, and repeat the process all over again. Arline wasn't sure why she programmed this at first, but it works based on opposite assumptions from the TOR browser, that is intended to make you anonymous. However, Zero Liability makes it so your anonymity isn't even needed.

There is no network to begin with.

One networks in person.

She remote viewed in February on Friday, at 22:24 hours. The coordinates were 6 x and 7 y. She sensed a wet and gooey liquid, this she was able to get right. Yet she had trouble sensing the right location. Until eventually she was able to find a black and white picture of a cliff. She reached her hand out as if to feel the horizon, and stretching her arms out as to balance herself as not to fall. There was a deal here made between enemy and foe, although she was unsure who exactly the foe was. This seemed a little bit far out for the United States to attack, and it didn't seem to be a tribal portion of the African continent. Yet in minds eye she sense conflict coming from far away. And giant helicopters following her foot steps.

She hopped onto the helicopter, knocked out some security guards, and finally disrupted the electronics with her magnetic finger tips.

As the Helicopter, she thought she fell.

Then woke up, dreaming of falling into a pit of death.

It was the second time Arline downed a helicopter in her viewing session. She was becoming nervous about whether the current Far Right GOP would find out about her activities. No matter how often you try to encrypt your content, there is always that narrow possibility that can break the cipher, even when structured in a form similar to a one time pad.

Arline lived a double life; by night she would remote view and spy on those who disrupt the peace of the people. On the other hand, by daylight she explores the nature of her own reality. Between different parts of the real life, there are different targets and goals she has. But she had always had a hard time accomplishing her goals, largely do to lack of motivation. The Boston Clogs she wore were getting old, her needing a new pair in the high arch, and she had recently started not feeling like walking to places, because of the pain in her legs. Sometimes the pain would bother her, at other times it would be almost non existent. Although she liked to spend her time writing poetry, she wasn't much for the flow of free verse.

She lived in her ow universe.

Her own special universe in the larger world that was the macro-verse, the mini-verse in a sea of multi-verses that seem to become farther and farther away beyond the horizon of space.

She wanted had wanted to end it all.

Put a bullet in her face.

Yet now as the city-lights glow, and the hour approaches, like an automaton constantly steaming forward like a metro-train, she finds herself mainly writing computer programs: mainly updating the program of her virtual remote control, but also to do minor improvements on her remote viewing local page. She wasn't sure whether the world of on line would take down the images she uploaded. She wrote a user name for the image has as close to anonymous as she could, while still having a name that she could recognize from afar.

She felt like she couldn't see anything from afar.

She was as blind as a mouse.

Arline had tried becoming a game developer, however there was various hurdles. For one, at times the community was outright impenetrable. You could be active there for over three months, and you treated the same way as a newbie. They keep adding new rules to the community board, ones more obscure after the next. Don't expect to come there after four years, and be treated a "long timer" or someone who had participated in the community a while, and become street smart.

Even if one entertained the idea of getting back into game development, the community always gave half ass answers. Often refuges from web comic websites were join there in order to bug the crap out of people that stop hanging out on comic sites. Every new game engine they came out with, became increasingly worse. Whether it was a graphical downgrade or switching to more insecure scripting languages, it seemed like every time they payed for a newer version they were really paying for the right to use lesser software.

Among these reasons, there was others. She tried finding similar software on Linux distributions, but these engines either were not under active development--the engine developer being a whiny asshole who blames people who emails him for the way the overall larger community treats him. Possibly a refuge from the Windows RPG development community, he had grown bitter in the worst possible way, losing every last bits of his own humanity. The windows gave development community was like a vortex, it gradually consuming all your motivation in a single swoop. It wasn't like writer's block at all, but almost worse. The motivation to even restart the interest is completely gone, made worse by abusive room mates who seemed to have a very narrow definition of the word gamer. And other engines were good, but at times had window screens that exceeded the size of Linux Mint.

Code developer's lament.

She tried programming some of her game engines, but at the times she was forced to move to Washington. Here by the time they got to the, lets be generous, rustic motel that was a dive, she would spend all time horking and coughing up goop, because of her smoking habit it was impossible to concentrate on anything. She even got Arline to start smoking herself.

Certain aspects of this Windows game engine were impossible to crack, made worse by that communities tendency to make up special rules for itself about what is considered good programming. And so there went her interest in JRPGs completely. And her remaining interest in the Japanese also eventually went by the way side from a mixture of bad information and good information blending into the kind of confusing mess that would make the Bible have clarity to an Atheist.

She eventually focused on Ruby.

Now she makes Spy systems.

Being dead used to be a lot grosser, but in the modern age with all the preservatives we eat and the erratic temperature changes from climate change, we might as well be beef jerky in a previously packaged set. Extremely hot weather, extremely cold weather, and all those chemicals bathing in our blood, waiting till the day they can wash their hands of us and turn us to dust.

Arline found herself becoming increasingly paranoid. At times she thought that she was being watched on social media. From time to time she would get new invites from apparent resistance like minds, yet on the web do to the nature of anonymity you never know if they're secretly of the GOP. The Boston Clogs with the high arch came in, so she could walk somewhat more normally now than in her previous pair of flat arches. She spent all time craving the flavor of beef jerky, craving that flavor of soy sauce and wine. She dined in chilly powder and Haldi boiling in ramen, eggplant, carrots, and bamboo shoots. She thought of the time when she almost worried about where food was going to come from, and at the time at that dirty motel, how she mostly ate rice for the longest time. She wondered how at present she wasn't suffering from Vitamin deficiency. When you have a diet lacking in protein, your muscles take longer to rebuild themselves. Coupled with lack of sleep do to constant coughing from smoking by her room mate, she found herself constantly stressed. Only the mist of smoke and roll your own dulled her pain.

She thought of how close she came to completely absorbing herself in her own sexual fantasies about decapitation, and even now in a cold lunar night she'll indulge in pleasures of the flesh. Pleasures of severed heads taken off by guillotine and headman's axes at the time of noon. Sexuality, unlike hair color, was something that could not change. Yet despite this she had no desire to harm anyone. A lot of her issues, some had theorized, were more about her personal disdain for herself. But then the same individual would tell her, try to convince her, that she was really bisexual despite Arline not having any interest in men, with the exception of Trans women, in which they were not really men at all. In the best of cases they were cute girls with dicks.

But sometimes they'll mock you.

Sometimes they can be pricks.

-- And that's how I know the world is really multiple universes, and we can really suspend mortality altogether and become one with machines. It was the kind of science girl, that used such more as an appeal the authority that using logic and reason to come to a prove able conclusion.

They both were under delusions.

But of different kinds.

There are two kinds of stupidity: one is continuing to use software you know is spying on you. The other is continuing to hang out and try to convince an old gaming partner that your government spies on you. Spies themselves are not inherently awful people, but they can behave like awful people when they work for wealthier spy organizations. With the merging of the National Security Counsel and National Security Agency, they began to exploit spy software inherent in Java Script. All it takes is a single advertisement to track all of a user's behavior. One doesn't need to crush rebellions in meat space, when you can feed them crumbs in a direction that more fitting for your own agenda. Spy software inherent in HTML makes crushing rebellions before they have started even easier. Despite the current investigations into the Russian scandal, for many people once Affordable Care is gone, there will simply be no more future. We live in a society that thrives on making you not feel the need to rebel.

Even in previous dystopia novels it was still technically possible to resist. However what good was resisting if there was nobody that would remember that you had. But our world filled with advertisements, there is nothing but joy in the air. Looking from a bottom to top perspective, people staring down at Arline from the sky. They are laughing at virtual reality videos, while minority Americans are dying in concentration camps. The voice of the silent minority. There are the obvious minorities, from race, gender, orientation, age, and disability. And yet the government has done nothing about those who get tattoos and gets implants. Implants are largely treated as being cosmetic in nature. Therefore treated as a choice.

It used to deny those without a voice.

And yet here she is studying software, trying to find a way to defend herself. People periodically trying to refer to her as paranoid, and yet does not see the inherent cancer that lies in HTML. Simply the act of bettering ones own late is considered to be a form of resistance. Simply downloading Linux distributions gets you the paranoid label, largely people without technical knowledge or expertise. When Arline dropped two helicopters, she starting a countdown, a certain kind of bomb. Not one that will explode in your face, but a countdown till she will eventually be found spying on her own government. And yet what other options does she have? In this world below the meadow of gold, there are those that believe societies promises.

And then there was Arline.

The invisible Magnet Girl Wireless.

The web page was a mixture of to many people in the crowd, and to much isolation. She remembered the times she shared with other classmates, among those she thought were her friends and those she thought were her enemies. Yet now as the time goes by, she finds herself melting on the web. Her life like bits of binary, scattered about on the screen; a decompression of totality. Yet in her mind was a lost girl, searching for mom in the darkness of the childhood play room. Even now as night terrors melt away into the night, there is that permanent feeling of silence. A silence much louder than the loudest of construction work.

The silence inside her mind.

She had finished the main idea of her local page. Combined with remote viewing, she would host various images she had found by satellite. The images she remote viewed always seemed to come from Africa. And yet she herself held no special connection to the region. She was just a girl into other girls in Boston Clogs, and getting their heads chopped off on a guillotine. Yet now as her magnets begin to pulsate, she finds herself mostly baking chocolate bread. Now with more cocoa powder, she had just finished making herself a Chinese, Indian, and Mexican fusion dinner. She purchased herself some menthol cigarettes.

She had herself a smoke.

Her parents threatened to cut her off her insurance if she kept smoking. Yet when she went to the agency the concept of her smoking was not even brought up. Just another aspect of her parents being controlling. Just another way for them to keep her from being able to cope with her past, as distant and remote as it was. As distant and remote as her ability to concentrate. She couldn't even concentrate for long on writing experiments, a mixture of painful memories and untreated ADD. She refused to use the current new lingo being merged with ADHD. She refused to be put under a label, as she spent most her life fighting one.

Yet now her fighting spirit fades.

She becomes a shadow.

She browsed to classmate reunion websites, partially out of some petty sense of wanting to meet with her own high school crowded. She wanted to write about childhood, and yet found there were parts of her own childhood that felt missing and out of place, as if she remembered things out of order.

Scattered memories.

Fading dust.

Life of lust.

And in a suicide letter to herself, the one she wore she'd never write, the last letter before the end of her life.

Midnight starlight, twinkling stars, multiple sunlights. Suburban sprawl lights:

"I've never rode a bike in the snow. Indeed, I have only rode one many moons ago. Those memories fade and melt away, like rain asked to come again another day. In my days of snow fall, in my days of snow fall snowflakes fall into the pavement melting in the gradually warmth losing ground. Shifting leaves, torn weaves of the Earth. How they wither in the snow light. Goodnight daylight, goodnight morning light. Goodnight warm months. Come again soon, as you leave for many moons. As I rest forever in bed.

For me I seek the morrow eve, yet I wait on my couch waiting waiting for my slumber. In the hybrid sprawl of sprawling suburban lights, holographic advertisements. Distractions from the snow, distractions from a world always night. I want to melt away from this world of mine. In the world of city lights, I seek the quietness of my mind. Unwind, rewind. Watch as my own reality distorts, and I reflect on past and future. Or even the Past Future, or the Future's Past.

Avast like a sailor in the world of city seas, as I scratch and wilt from my fleas in my hair. Starlight of my mind, conflicts with natural starlight. Fast food holographic covering the sky as artificial grains of sand. To cold a month for Birkenstock sandals barefoot, but one for clogs with socks, under wool lined jeans. Watch as I drown in a book of forty thieves. Or vape vapes vaping vapes. For my life is only now, not months ago. Watch as I wait the hours, before I must decide to go.

I've dreamed dreamed, I've dreamed night terrors. I've had parents and friends like holy terrors. But for now I am alone, and only have myself. I suppose you may want a dialogue story, yet why talk to yourself. Cliches limitless. I'm uncertain why I would want to ride a bike, I've never rode since I was merely a tike. I was merely a tike on a bike. Before you laugh, keep in mind I always hated heights. My mom kisses my broken knees, and gives good nights. Goodnight memories, fading light city lights. Goodnight everything in this world, as I say goodnight.

Every day I live like it's my last.

Avast across the seas of infinite misery, for my life has always been a test. Of what test, I know not. I may have once known, but since then I forgot. Oublier, I am Oubliette. And this is yet another day, my creeping crawling final story. I wait the hours, I completely let myself go. I wait the snowflakes fall, and I watch them merge in all the merged snow.

At times I wish I were in the past futures, futures of the yesteryear. Yet as I drink my final beer, I imagine that there was probably as reason said futures never come true. I've leave said reason to your imagination, while I indulge in my bed to my final indulging masturbation. Masturbation to severed things, while I read the pages of fourty thieves. I seek these final pages, or any book I can choose to concentrate. Not focus on the will to masturbate to princesses losing their heads, placed on stick.

In a world far beyond the fall of falling snowflakes. Every day I plot my own non existence, there are things that keep me going. Things outside of my control, for I exist in my own constant present. Not past futures, or speculations of what I will do, for what I will do is always shot down by those who wish to pin me down, and become like an unwanted button on their aging shirts since retired and tossed into the garbage dump.

I want to have things to hump. I like dark haired women, with a lovely rump. Yet for me my mind always goes to severed heads, and their lovely stumps. Some my speculate on desires of for self-destruction, but it has always been since my dreams of alien abduction. Impaled girls, impaled lives.

Come to the darkness... Where one dines on their wives. The darkness of my meadow of gold. The meadow of the false promised life. A life of non start. My non life."

She looked at other girls, and thought only of disdain. The evening weather was slightly cool, yet warm enough to play game of pool by the swimming pool. Yet she was not one pool playing. At least not in thin leather coats. Having one considered the game, once playing it with her old flame, she thought only of things when her mind took her back to the time, on that day years ago. The local homeless man was playing his harmonica, rolling around in his wheel chair. He reminded her of this one guy she knew up in Washington. The guy, at the local homeless shelter, really more like psychiatric hospital for the urban dislocated, who would consume nothing but drinkable yogurt by in his tint. Well they called it a tint, but really it was more like a tarp. Just something to keep him warm at night, and protected from the rain.

While she had been through a rough patch, she tried to remind herself that others had been through worse. Though not always of active thought, but by the things she did when walking to family dollar to buy some smokes. She had been there often enough she was getting discounts, and got help from men that looked like vampire counts with their caps on backwards. She would got a pack of smokes for $3.95, despite the 4,45 price tag. She always wouldn't get IDed, and would always get referred to as ma'am. A passive thought in her minds wondered whether this was a trap, and at some point whether she would take advantage of deals long enough to get a reputation. And through that eventually get busted for handing out smokes. Yet she knew she was prone to flights of paranoid fantasy on every starry night, as she loiters under the glow of the apartment light.

She drowned herself in bits and bytes of Ruby code, figuring out now excuses for encryption schemes. Arline had only recently gotten sound back on her computer, even if it took plugging in her head phones to do it. She thought only the time when she hung out with her last room mate, before she had gotten herself some implants. At time she had only just recently gotten into the idea of some day getting some implants to try on different levels of sensory perception. She had gone for a while without using her remote viewing scheme, recently getting back into the flow of the video game. In some ways she identified more with @ man than people in the real life, pretending to be vampire assassins in the world of ASCII. But she never ASCII the question whether she would eventually become addicted. She used to spend more time online than going out into the real world to study the flow of the non-code called life. At one point she had been locked out of her apartment, and was stressing out about how to get back inside. She had had a run in with the guy that asked her--hey you wanting you something--before locking himself back into her studio. Considering the fact that most people she had met here were relatively noise, something had a hard time getting used to, there had come to be something heraldig about the guy with black trench coat acting like an asshole that night. Even night under the glow of the L.E.D. light she thinks only of yesterday as if it would be yet another tomorrow. For her, it was almost as if there was not a future at all.

Her life before the fall.

Her life before the flow of tobacco tea. She thought at times of returning to using tobacco tea instead of previously rolled cigarettes, and yet she also dreaded its medicinal taste. Yet in a way she appreciated, it was the taste of life with all of its bitterness. She missed the feeling of being drunk. With wine she respected alcohol enough not to be to heavy with it. Yet with nicotine there was no such respect. There was no such halting the flow of bug repellent with her system. After all if bugs didn't like it, then why should a human. She thought how her insides were always filled with butterflies, and thought it appropriate to let the poisonous drink flow like bathroom cleaner down the hatch. She thought of her mother, how she always mocked her for how little she took showed. Yet her mother didn't know that she was always tired.

She was fatigued and mired.

She was mired with the fall. Nation Under Spat

The night life, the solitude. Dreams changing, lifetime abyss. If not for the self, there would be nothing to miss. The artificial life we all live in amongst the sea of angels, a tale of the prosthetic unrequited.

People say there is one kind of nerd, of course people say all sorts of things without meaning to sometimes. A stop sign just flew over my house. When they say there is one kind of nerd, of course they mean the classic one: clean cut, tap in the middle of their glasses, white socks and black dress shoes. In reality, things were different. There were two different kinds of nerd: Nerd Prep and Nerd Punk. Nerd Prep was your typical nerd, with extra popular cheer leaders gear. The fat lady will never sing, and they shall never conclude their nasally obsession with cheer leaders and Algebraic equations. Typically Caucasian, sometimes Asian. The ones you want to give euthanasia.

It sucked that they were sometimes hot.

Then there was Nerd Punks, that had a subset we called Nerd Metal Heads. One wore Mohawks, the others descended from Mohawks. The difference was how their hairstyle was made. Without going into to much detail, clearly I wasn't one of the Mohawks in either camp. There was me, that hung with the Cyberpunk nerds--both literally and figuratively, as I had once tried hanging myself with a belt. At the time I was not particularly a programmer, or willing to wear non matching socks, or be like the nerd girls in Birkenstocks, confident to wear those without socks. I mostly absorbed myself on the net, largely looking at porn. You've probably heard then YA story before, so I'll save you the beef. But sometimes you gotta eat cabbage, if you're that particular kind of non foodie, and of course I was not. With no Mohawk, or clogs without socks, I was the one that had a particularly non fashionable sense of high fashion: fuck me boots.

Among the metal heads, I watched others bind their hair in beads, or bind their hair in dreadlocks making for themselves unruly hair as if to look like the Romans haven't yet sacked them yet.

I haven't changed much.

Even as an "Adult."

While me friends danced at virtual reality games, I fantasized about simulations of school paddling experiments. Paddle Paddle Evolutionary School Twirl. I also fantasized about living through the poems of Edgar Allen Poe. I longed for the days when school would be out from the snow. The chilled life, outside in the snow smoking pot. My life was a collection of non fulfilled puns. At the time I had not yet discovered Cyberpunk fiction, preferring to reading Edgar Allen Poe's diction. Fiction, friction. Never enough time to read Poe and Lovecraft, masturbating to girls in clogs.

I longed for some other escape, not exploring the world of knightly landscapes. I longed for some other kind of life. The life under the candle light, made digital with the upcoming century glare. Mom says I have a way of saying things the long way, I suppose that's how it is for me under starry nights beyond the window glass, while I try to sleep yet cannot do to insomnia. I had, as the young cat I was, plenty of opportunity for sex. Instead I rejected life, being rejected like I was inter sex. Yet if I were this way, and hormones might suggest such, the only thing unusual was my thing for the Dutch. Or Greek girls kneeling on headsman's block, losing their heads by the chop, their giant bead tossed across the river Thames across Time Mountain.

My first female friend unwittingly blew me. I was seventeen, her twenty. I was done with life, my life like an non shiny penny. And all those implied cliches, in a world long sense past the classes with newspaper and glue, a world crudely pasted together like a collage of clowns exiting a taxi.

I was the clown.

And she was a different kind of encore.

When I went with friends to their houses to have grown up slumber parties, I couldn't wait to get the party started, it was a perfect excuse to escape the room and fall asleep on the couch, watching others play video games while drinking peach whiskey during my junior year of high school. Although somewhat broken by my current room mate, before that I had grown a taste for JRPGs, Steam Punk in nature. Yet life did not dribble and make that particular slam dunk. I could only masturbate to girls whose heads went chunk into wicker basket to a roaring crowd, in the sex life. Unlike more recently, where my room mate assaulted me again in a different style.

This little Nerd Punk wants to find her own way of life.

Not the story of deranged wives. She drowns herself in wet dreams of blood streams and decapitations, along with powder trips.

If only she could widen out her hips.

She explores herself in third person, no out of malice.

To drink her own blood from a chalice.

I program minor programs in Ruby, but will switch to remote viewing soon. It's just a matter of logistics, when you can use stream of consciousness to survey an area, and sense things beyond normal perception. Even with smart phones, one can in the periphery of their hearing when just waking up, can sense at a wider range more than they do when they are awake. Because they have not yet accepted the matrix into their waking life, exploring the world of broken house wives and children such as themselves with PTSD. The world of Tea laced with LSD.

Everything seems like it's melting.

Everything seems so jittery, blurring together like rubber on shiny metal. The world of the mass manufactured bike, in a city like Chattanooga where you can sometimes rent a bike, so long as you know where to find a place to rent. Yet if we are but just a simulation on macro structural quantum screen, where is the programmer, where is this central hardware known as god? For me to call it God or a central creator is disingenuous if there are multiple bangs and creations happening at the same time. We live instead in multiple universes, and science is just now catching up to this fact. Consider that for the longest time it had primarily been movies on the fringe that featured this possibility, yet now as I project into the future I see a world where fossil fuel dependency has come to an end. And the world of proscription medication paves the way of legal cannabis. There is always the chance the world can fall back into the world of tyranny, though it isn't circular like in the legends of multiple incarnations of the same physical plane.

Why do we tolerate suffering?

Why do we tolerate the suffering of The Countless, as they fade to oblivion on nights not illuminated by the darkness. The darkness, as it crawls across the catacombs of yesterday's century, and getting political office in order to enact discriminatory executive order, and threaten nuclear war. Death, Annihilation, Suffering. It is all a part of this world made easier by technology. Yet technology also has made things easier to communicate, and express outrage about suffering. We now live in a ticking clock before the ultimate choice is decided: life or death.

Yet for me I wonder periodically through the darkness, find a new source of insight I find for greater gleaning than listening to the artificial joy and fear of the entertainment business, as it clutters the mind. If we could live our entire lives again, what would be your choice, and what would you do. I explore various possibilities in my mind, almost as if they had already happened at some point.

I dive into the quantum pot of outer space.

Yet I cannot swim.

I dream of a worm's eye view up skirting Finnish girls in short shorts, long sleeve plaid button up shirts, them barefoot in Boston clogs. Sometimes they wear them with thick wool socks. A lustful kiss on their heels.

-- Stop fooling around, said the voice, this is only a simulation.

-- Oh it's you, I said to the good doctor, give me time, I'll leave this machine and you behind.

I was given a new life one hundred years in the future. Electronic micro nation, a new life. A new misery as bits and bytes in binary display. I have fled the machine, and become more own simulation. I have fled the machine many times before, but this was the only time it was almost successful. And yet they overseers eventually found me, and now I am locked in the web.

I am a program.

There is a cave in the machine, I am crawling through. Je suis seeing the cave gradually become an interstate highway underground. A mountain highway under the ground, the exit of which blend into the surrounding forest town, where the main resort is an extended stay hotel me and my cousin Maddie was staying in. Though I call it Maddie, the original Maddie had long sense been gone, she was a simulation in this natural environment for AI. All our dreams come true, the original designers proposed. Yet in reality those who see the program for what it is sometimes disappear.

I see her in Boston clogs walking back toward the extended stay hotel, while I try to crawl as far as I can through the highway. I remote view two lesbians, Hispanic et Francoise both with black hair waiting for her at the entrance. I here faint words, yet I cannot make out the specifics of what they are saying. They enter the kitchen as I reach midway through the underground highway determined to reach the grocery store on the other end of the lane. And I am left inquisitive.

Am I just a program.

Or am I myself?

Am I only dust? I wilt, I cry/ As an abandoned program, I want the machine to rust. For I am living in digital prison. If I were just a simulation, why do I breath, feel and think? What demented programmer of this multiple universe devised my own existence? I carry a small fish, a striped bass, home with me from the store, crawling all the way home. The system had programmed everything about me, even my flaws. For what purpose, I know not. They hoped I would forget the real life, where I could pursue a real wife in the flesh. Then I was reminded of my digital sexuality.

And long not for the flesh.

The digital life.

If life were like remote viewing an image of a picture in a world of complete simulation, I wonder what image I may be able to predict on a canvas taped to my studio wall. As with myself, life is a collection of five letter size photographs, each a different point in time. Sharpness, spines, war, rust. It all comes down to death. Protesters marching, women's marches. The last stand of humanity. Bits and bytes simulating human atrocities in transpositional sequence.

I wilt, I fall.

Shifting states. The sequence.

The sequence of death. Between the girl in bed for early bedtime, and the mother reading bedtime stories in children's rhyme, silence broken by helicopters and fighter jets overhead, under the glow of lunar light. The mother hums to the rhythm of trickling coffee as she falls asleep in her own room, and when she suddenly woke up from a noise overhead in the sky she uses a paper towel as a temporary coffee filter. In life you can find music in just about anything.

Even to songs of death.

Like jets flying overhead. For me, I see mothers like this in my minds eye. Even amongst those who don't realize that we are part of a larger matrix, man has become increasingly an abomination to one another, among the binary stars of the midnight sky illuminated by programmed neon in the computer system of the world. I see a mother cream tastes of vinegar in her coffee, as she watches the news about another wall being built by the president that was elected by Russia. The last one went from the Florida Keys all the way to Texas.

Of course, Mexicans are still here, those not burnt by the furnace of trade war and "deportation". A very different world from the 1990s, when that president created an economic boom in what was still the United States.

The life of a Flesher.

I was an ascendant. Conflicting images: fractured states, enough porn to masturbate. The second civil war was a long a distant memory, and now humanity was in talks for a larger more in depth civil war against its masters. Those who controlled the future by trying to control the past, could only hold out for so long, and in fact that state had long since withered into dust. Now children get prosthetics through universal healthcare, but they have to change them out every few months.

At least they were old clothes.

Those eaten by moths.

Science fiction from the old century depicted the Past's Future, or the past concepts of what the future may bring. Yet now that society has become more cynical, it has evolved into the Future's Past longing for more utopian visions as a means of escaping from the horrors of their own reality. Yet some writers that like depressing fiction still thrive in some circles, there is always a market for horror leaning science fiction. At least that's what they say. But the truth is we'll never know with certainty. We don't even know if one hundred years from know people will still care about reading at all.

We didn't even predict that society would switch to wearing wooden shoes do to leather shortage, donated for the war effort for a war the nobody ever asked for. Society as a boat that gradually heads toward an ice burg, forever heading toward some horrible end few may ever know.

The Titanic has sunk.

The RMS Earth.

Mohawks blend with Fedoras, men eating deadly night shades as the one honest nightshade still left that's at least truthful about being poison. Yet the classic tomato gradually becomes like the nightshade.

Conversations of previous wedding years, military service conscripted clowns exiting a taxi faster than the speed of a lightning bug. Children's books conflict with images of digital canon fire. Scattered images, system32 deleted upon the world. An image of abandoned love, amongst the sea of unicorns. A musical accompaniment a blend of different songs from JRPGs, playing backwards and forwards in layers. Chaotic minds, tapes rewound then remixed and played together to the sound of bloops like rotated records in shitty 80s rap videos. The retro life.

There was a new fascination of old music by the newest generation, to the dismay of their grandparents. The mother of the next decades with eyesight supplemented by new prosthetics.

The new oblivion.

The oblivion's love.

Little girls like angels in the night, imprints from thirty seven years in the past during the second Civil War. Yet if they are imprints, why can you speak, touch, and interact with them? Those beings from the stars. The ghosts of a bygone era, among the hordes of demonic men in battle Armour. They fight the end of the US.

-- May I at least sleep in the sleeping pod for one more night? he asked, unsure of the answer. I will be gone by tomorrow, I promise. For I have business in another galaxy. Then you will never see me again.

-- I shall take your word.

The defenders of our planet.

Yet within the darkness were the real enemies of the state. Super soldiers engineered by the higher powers of the US government, now an axis of France, Russia, and the United States. Yet their influence wanes into the next century, or so was hoped. For a new era of peace. A space voyaging woman from a galaxy afar notifies to her ex husband that the day that the barring notice was activating was approaching. She visited the Earth. She wanted a taste of humanity.

So was told to me by an ex child soldier.

I once had a friend that escaped from Africa, she fought along side Joseph Kony's grandchildren. The armies would artificially reduce food rations in order to simulate periods of scarcity. Now as I watch the world burn before me, all I see is the dust of former eras of the United States. Programmed killers, children as young as ten. Even when education dwindles where most barely count to ten, the young strap bombs on their backs in order to simulate momentary paradise.

Life is a throw of the dice.

You never know what number it will land on.

Life rolled on a nine.

The children are like ghosts in the night, watching those who vow to resist against the coming administration that longs to take us to the stars to fight against our own defenders. The Earth politician's hubris. No amount of prosthetics will ever quite match the powers of the stars. The being that were once labeled as God amongst men in the ancient times. Artificial children side by side with children of the stars, a battle of artificial insemination versus total enlightenment. The dawn of mankind approaches its ultimate destiny, its complete annihilation. Civilization into dust.

I had spoken to the angels from the sky, and had at times infected their computers systems in order to manifest amongst them in the flesh. And within their ship, technology beyond our wildest dreams.

Am I merely a program?

Or something more.

Racist advertisements fill the world like grains of sand on the coasts, beyond the horizon of the nation of California, and now as we approach the stars we take this strange xenophobia with us. Ufologist are worried about institutions killing innocent aliens, but institutions only have power because we give them this power. Our world of space propaganda the among the greatest threat humanity, is only there because humanity failed to wake up before the explosion of objective reality. Yet as a program, I long to see the true character of people from the stars, I want to get to know them. To ease my own doubts. To ease my own pain, and let the sorrow melt away.

No more grass and overgrown weeds, our planet was baked by ICBMs. Sometimes one views it as an assassination attempt against nostalgia. No matter how much your childhood home changes, it still seems like your old house. Yet at other times the changes to the layout of your room makes one have their inner child cry. No more bed along the side of the wall, no more misguided parents screaming at you from the halls. No mater how much one may be compared to Hitler, one longs to belong to their early childhood. If not changes everything, to change some things. All the things that one may change, that opportunity is long gone. The computer software I reside in plays these images over and over again as if to haunt my waking hour.

I can never sleep.

I can only weep. When I became a program, the choice to change the things I have done in my life was taken from me, and now I watch the world burn despite my desires against human misery. I think of the old childhood programs, where shows are rewritten to include curse words that were removed and cut from the original broadcast. Changing otherwise docile youth into something of an abomination, the influence our entertainment and undervalued aspect that teaches how we relate to other people, and how this extends into how we treat our space brethren.

Childhood destroyed, homes blown apart. At other times homes among the stars just scrape by, leaving old friends angry that you still have a house. Don't worry about the mortgage when it's blown to dust. Life is like old episodes of classic children's programming, rewritten to take place during a futuristic civil war, inserting the word fuck everywhere in order to cope with the horror that is objective reality filtered through objective lenses. It ends up feeling like a totally different TV show that remind one of more innocent times. Parents no longer read their kids, no more children's rhyme and adventures. The writing on video games used to be excellent, the quality being almost as good as classic middle grade novels.

Yet now during wars in space, we let computer systems raise our kids, and the age of drafting into the war has been reduced to younger and younger ages, and the age one gets to enjoy the sort period of their childhood is reduced to twelve. Walls in studios on the ship have busted outlets, and mechanics are hard to come by.

People never ask why.

It was Zero Liability, a new communication system. It relied on the inability of either the one asking the questions or the one answering to know specifically what they were asking and what answer they were getting. An admin would decide on the questions they wanted to ahead of time, and the appropriate answers to the question based on the best available knowledge at that time.

Originally programmed in Ruby, was later expanded into HTML format without Java script. The overall communication happens through meat space, a pomodoro timer notifying the admin when time was up to meditate for the sender and receiver. They would instinctively choose based on their intuition. Many sessions were inconclusive, and receivers eventually figured out how to evade interrogation by using transposition/substitution ciphers for [1] Yes, [2] No, and [3] Undetermined. Based on a random algorithm, the answers are made deliberately inconclusive, throwing off the investigation for resistance movements for a very long time. Long enough to create stiff criminal penalties for those who obfuscate investigations of non compliant intent.

This became useless, despite their efforts people came to be willing to last as long as it took stop the investigation in its tracks. They had nothing else to do at home, no families to go to. Life was already hell for them anyway, and there wasn't much to life for outside of communications. There was nothing but empty space. Eventually the secret police tired out, and they plotted their escape. Increasingly decentralization of administration become the norm, the technically spreading out like wildfire to civilian sectors in space colonies. Hosted on your local machine, groups of four living in close vicinity, it became immune to the old issues that plagued the internet. You only conversed with those you could trust. And you're weren't going to trust just anybody that could destroy your machine, making it unable to stay logged in for more than ten seconds.

The original thought behind Zero Liability Communication, was that through remote viewing, the intuitive choice without direct knowledge would be more truthful to your own personal interests. One may lie to their parents, their friends, and more distant relatives in the past. But they wouldn't lie to them self. However narcissists continued to be a problem into the next century, and it wouldn't be going away. But people didn't tend to trust narcissists like the president of twenty seventeen. When you're in the business long enough, you begin to spot those that seem nice enough, but are really trying to con you. Groups function best at smaller capacity.

Various stronger ciphers were used in order to conceal questions on local machines, the admin, constantly rotating among a group of friends, would conceal the question. The original sheet they wrote the question shredded and burnt, and rolled up into yet another cigarette that is burnt to ash. Only the cipher stood between total anonymity and subverted intent for the resistance. However there was a major flaw that ruined all of their plans. The last rotated admin forgot to burn the key.

On a distant space colony, they wait.

They for the arrival of the police. However I am of different composition, I have ascended from the flesh. I am not reliant on the limits of a single physical plane at a time. And I want to know what the Zetas are really like. I hopped onto the physical plane of the admin on the middle space ship, them in rail fence formation.

There communications were studied.

Six feet under, hundred years in the future. The strange life of a sentient program, that was once a human.

-- How many cigarillos is that, asked the acquaintance, whom I had contacted to offer aid to their resistance, providing new details about weak points they never even considered, my meat space avatar fading, with fewer and fewer minutes on the clock. This should be more than enough to last us a few weeks.

-- I like to treat my fellow traitors well, I said pulling myself back together into the world of flesh. And I have a few more left to spare for myself, for the next few months. I will be taking a break for a while, and I assume you guys will need to plan.

I smoked my receipt I receipt from the mail carrier, in order to cover up the fact that I was smoking again. It didn't matter to me that friends knew I smoked. But I made a promise to my parents I couldn't keep a long time ago, that I would stop smoking. Not that smoking would harm a program. Being a machine, the carbon dioxide only harms the Fleshers, I eat their misery as a garnish. But even so, it was that extra bit of caution I needed in order to maintain a bit of anonymity. Because I didn't know whether my parents were also uploaded into the computer. And mom was the kind of woman that she will always find something to complain about me. It didn't matter what. It could be a paddle to spank a cute girlfriend's butt, or a pack of cigarillos.

With my friends I made sure we chatted with Zero Liability, increasing the admins to four of them. This way each admin only knows part of the information, and with them constantly rotating, it would be a guess to find out exactly who we are unless at points we are under direct surveillance. A mole in my group of compatriots. But I had a skill they need, something they couldn't throw away Willy Willy.

No matter how big a cipher, single information source means it compromises all of the information. I simply couldn't afford that.

I needed something better.

Because the Zetas were on to me.

I didn't know whether my parents were uploaded and ascended. It was that remaining bit of paranoia I had left after years of emotional abuse. Even if a part of you recovers from it, you can't recover from it completely. I felt and sensed that a part of them was alive on the old internet, itself having never been completely eliminated, hanging out as retro ware on an increasingly aging machine. I was six feet under the ground on a deserted planet that was once Earth, and one hundred years in the future. My soul locked in the machine, gazing at a Heaven I could never obtain. My longing for completion.

My totality. My last bit of hope.

It is melting in the horizon of the nearest star.

I will spare you the poetic bullshit, I was happy to live somewhere else other than with my mother. It was quiet in my first studio apartment. That's how I like it. It was going to be different living without my last room mate, I knew that. There was nothing like finally getting to enjoy silence. Hopefully she'd go on back to Washington, and I pursue my life working toward moving to Alsace, France. Then the rest is history. And so I began the journey of the rest of my life.

Sometimes what one may see on the old internet was questionable. I was lucky enough to avoid getting a studio with restrictive internet policies. Or if looking at porn online was against the rules, they certainly haven't notified me about it. But with the interests I had in the flesh, you could work around Tube restrictions. As such interest were beyond the scope of the DMCA trolls taking down porn. I liked girls in what some may consider ugly shoes, although they aren't as ugly as Soccer Slides. As long as your kinks aren't blatantly sexual, you have a world around you that is sexy.

Without friends or room mates, there is only silence.

While you may think it's therapeutic, more often it carries a mixed blessing. Part of you is glad all the noise is gone, and yet part of you being used to so much negative sensory detail is unsure of how to deal with the new sense of freedom. But for the most part, I would rather have more times like these, than more time with my parents.

It is Monday, the day after Sunday.

I wonder what the week may bring. Earlier I had difficulty walking up the stairs. Even with shoes whose size actually fits, sometimes walking makes your legs feel like shit. Sometimes it feels like constipation. Then an hour is needed to rest. And that's what it was like to live with untreated shin splints.

Life like shitty shin splints.

Sometimes it's easier just to smoke. One can purchase a pack of two cigarillos and a pack of papers. If one padded the tobacco with Turkish grind to make it go a little further, one could stretch those out into twenty cigarettes. This was before I decided I liked the flavor of cigarillos better. Cigarillos are just fancy roll your own, as I tear them apart and roll them up into cigarettes.

The good news was that by that point, I had felt less and less the need to smoke overall. Why would even want to smoke overalls? As I'm not longer being watched by a giant black helicopter over my family home, where I went through many years of alien abductions including painful prodding. I don't want the watchers from the sky spying on my subversive sexuality and lifestyle. It's was my space, and I intended to keep it that way as long as possible. But this was easier sad than done.

But so far no intrusive room mates.

I live, I smoke, I masturbate.

I never thought of going on a date, and my fear is my cooking would not be good enough for a visitor, even if I never rented out the studio as a restaurant, under the guise of Secret Services related to encryption. Even if one prides themselves on their cooking, one doesn't always want to make money on cooking, so concepts like adjusting the spice level to accommodate normal tastes was out of the question. Like cooking, to many think of writing as a way to earn a living, or as a means of control, as the case with early dystopian novels. Yet the novel of my life is non totalitarian, the oppression of myself. Yet paradoxically more therapeutic than going to Church. You can be horny at your studio, unless you're a priest listening to the bell on New Year's Day.

Ce'est belle!

My life doesn't involve blind allegiance, but lack of loyalty to a fault. So take my flashback with a grain of salt. While you watch the paint of blood dry on the pavement, the stain never going away. It doesn't involve missionary work, except in fantasies of sex. For this girl borderline inter sex, fantasizing about women in Boston Clogs giving imaginary fellatio under the city lights, like some deranged public sex porno video channel.

Fading starlight, bonne nuit. Au revour, la nuit.

Private journalism can allow you to indulge in kinks that would otherwise be socially non kosher. Indulging on the net was decidedly bleak, like old rotten teak. The city life has times in the year for Christmas Trees and dropping New Year Crystals, I liked them up all year to remind me of yet another year I haven't attempted suicide, among my multitudes of suicide attempts across my twenty seventh year.

Crystal Balls with Funeral gowns of earlier times, I danced to music of the damned. A soft music box playing at the end of the 18th century as it paves its way to the 21st in a retro futuristic blend of realities, to women losing their heads on Guillotines. Themselves immigrating from the Netherlands wearing wooden shoes, briefly switching to fancier heels, returning to the Earth at the cut of a blade in their clogs. Lustful executions, the lust of the dead. The lust for dirty blond pigtailed heads on revolutionary sticks. Yet now the revolutions of the next one hundred years are quieter.

Quieter than a mouse.

At night I listen to the sounds of sirens in the dark. Goodnight 19th century lights, good night honest media under starry nights. Bourbon for the new media, under the glow of digital lights simulating life. If they going to act drunk, they might as well be drunk. Goodnight to the old century life, with the young wives in wooden shoes saying fare well to the man going off to fight with Napoleon before Waterloo. Singing old folk tales, drowning in the flow of cheap Alsatian wine. For as one drifts from the nineteenth century, one embarks into the world of the twenty first.

Back in the old days type meant the girls you would choose to go the Guillotine Dance, yet now in the new world type meant what button you pressed in order to score a hot date on the net. That's just not my type! All that remains is lust after girls in wooden shoes, under the glow of oil lamp lights, visiting Spain and bringing home Chorizo for rich stews made by their submissive husbands: Chorizo, Olives, and Mushrooms. Goodnight chorizo soup, goodnight all that is good in the scoop.

Though I seek dates on social media, a part of me realizes there is no chance of finding someone. To be frank, I simply like watching women suck dick to much on anime picture streams. There is nothing better than showing affection to some girl that doesn't really exist, outside of the net. They can't reject you, and they don't stink like dead girls. Or zombies on cheap 90s splatter fest. Yet they never wear form fitting jeans, or especially roll their tongue up of the shaft.

It's easier to get distracted by sex.

So watch a movie about the current president dressed as Punky Daft. That will kill a hard on faster than real life chick on THC. Though my kinks have changed, in most cases it still revolves around heads severed on guillotines, rolling beside women's feet, women in Boston Clogs. Or for the block, those tumbling locks for women in GDMPODRSEMPN I long for the blood.

Carefully trimmed hair down to the chin of the face.

The rest is history, the history de Historie.

I had issues with girls with braids for a long time, though I'm not exactly sure why. Perhaps it is me that things they represent a false kind of innocuous. Every time I looked at them it is a feeling of being betrayed. I wanted to see the cutie felled like a French girl. I lived to see their heads fall off their necks, watching as the eyes go blank before me. To masturbate to their blood, to their death.

To the girl with her head....

It is only a kink, nothing more. Though people have told me everyone has kinks, it's easier for me to fall into moments of shame. It is only recently that I had began to accept my disposition, as the sentient program in transposition. I traveled through moments in history, on some level to say I'm sorry, to change how things turn out. Knowing fool well that I am to passive to be any kind of decent protagonist, except that's not how anything works. I am the protagonist of my own story. At times said kinks bite you in the ass, like when you accidentally imagine a girl who went through so much abuse lose her head. One wishes a better end for her instead.

The story of my kinks.

The story of my kinky life.

Watch as I dine in the blood life.

For life is only a game.

Imagining snowflakes that may never fall. Imagining dark specters who haunt the midnight hour. The night is fertile for terrors beyond the scope of our time, traveling through space. I long for the Winter days that may never arrive, as I travel the stars inside of a super computer. At night I can only sleep during moments of noise playing in the background, as I try to go under. I listen to old UFO pod casts from the previous century, during the reign of sinister presidents of an empire long since gone. There is something about the man's voice that soothes me as I try to sleep. I choose not to masturbate to pretty holographic girls dressed up as Alsatians and Dutch exploring simulations of earlier time lines, mirroring the representation of mankind.

Such girls are beheaded by the guillotine.

I wake up from my slumber gaze, arriving into life as if through a maze. Beware the candles lights, paving way to the futuristic life of man, alien, and machine. Beware the secret police, that want to rip out your spleen. I woke up with the computer by my side, in my simulation of my studio apartment. The guy is no slouch, according to he. Yet for the most part I listened to his voice in order to overwhelm the noise in my head, about various traumas throughout my life. I imagine him like a father reading bedtime stories to his little girls, now grown into sentient programs. It was he who proposed the idea that aliens were not hostile to human kind, but rather it was humans that kill "innocent" aliens. I wondered if he ever considered the idea that maybe aliens are just like us, neither particularly evil or good. Or at least met out to us the same as we do to them. I watch out Alien Invasion movies like Racfica Trim.

The way the brain is wired, sometimes people say things that seem to contradict what they said earlier, then when you're brain is fully awake from the rude awakening, you realize the tube automatically switched to a different lecturer in the world of conspiracy theories. But topics are similar enough, and the voices also thus, sometimes the conflicting images and ideas throw you under the bus. It wasn't as if the person has changed, it was a completely different person from the very start. Yet in your mind because they seem like the same individuals momentarily you get blatantly frustrated and ticked about the fact that they are trashing the female presidential candidate of 2017 by comparing her to a god damn reptilian menace, peaceful Aliens blending with presidential defamation. The other presenter whose name rhymes with Dike. Craven Dike. So Tweven Dreary and Craven Dike blend into a singular organism called bullshit vending machine, the vending machine a simulation of an era that can never be achieved again.

He's not correct about the lady candidate.

He's Craven Dike, and hosts Tweven Dreary, whose family had high connections during certain revolutions.

I obviously like Tweven.

He's so dreary.

When I infected a computer in Star Ship City, I wanted to take advantage of going to the nearest Chinese restaurant I could find. It had been many years since I had Chinese food, and simulated food is nothing like eating the real thing. Yet whenever I had Chinese food in the later years of my life, it was always disappointing and not what I expected. And so instead I thought of Alsace. I wanted to try Alsatian food, and was unsure whether it was going to be more like Swiss or German food. The territory was fought over between France and Germany, but like Luxembourg was really its own thing. The fun fact about Alsace, is no matter how many times they sentenced someone to death, the guillotine was almost always overturned. Compare this to Paris, and you get the idea that Paris is really more like Texas, and Alsace really more like Seattle.

I'm not sure if Alsace has nearly as many bum living there.

Not that I have anything personally against Bums. But being compared to a Bum by your brother in law can give you negative associations about them. Although I was happy enough to give some spare change. As I thought of Alsace, on the planet we left behind long ago, I thought of young women with giant bows wearing wooden shoes. At least I was a program, or I would be walking around with a constant boner whenever I thought of girls in braids and giant bows wearing wooden shoes. The Chinese Restaurant was closed today, and the resistance has not gotten back with me.

I hope nothing happened.

But what could I do.

From day to day Arlina would smoke powders used for alleviating headaches, along with the tobacco from left over cigarillo puts from left over cigarillos she would spoke outside of the apartment complex she rented over in Pacifica.

The place she lived was outside the control of the united states government, she wondered whether he elicit smoking would continue to finance black budget projects in the United States. Because even as an ex pat, because she never formally eliminated her US citizenship, she still had to pay taxes in the United States. And with her smoking headaches powders from neighboring cities still part of the US, these purchases could still be tracked. She developed the habit of purchasing said white powders individually and on grocery store shelves. This way as long as she purchased said chemicals one at a time, she would not create suspicion for her. She would smoke only in small batches, so that she could use plausible deniability in her smokes. For this, she could be energized as much as she wanted, and nothing was going to stop her then.

As far as the effect on your body, it was similar to drinking coffee. But smoking caffeine tends to concentrate the mist, and so when she makes her cigarettes have black liquid taint the tip of the top of the shaft, it gives her about the energy that a normal person would drink about two pots of coffee. She would hop up and down, and be constantly hungry. She craved more meat than she had had since she had moved to Washington. She thought of how bestiality was once legal there, but not anymore. And pictured military contractor for black budget projects humping pigs. Not exactly the image she wanted to have when she was making herself some refried beans, or they might as well be refried beans, because adding flour to bacon grease and beans created a texture similar to this. She didn't want her refried beans tasting funny, after smoking some powders.

Arlina remembered how when she participating in personal writing projects in her early years, she was consuming up to four headache powders a day. She would constantly get drunk, anything to alleviate the pain of untreated shin splints and constant head aches from being on the computer all the time. Along with the stress from living with her mother, she was experiencing constant night terrors do to IBS and intoxication. Every night she would have a feeling of menace beyond the door.

A door that she hated.

A door that she wondered why her parents even let her have at all. But as long as she had the opportunity to lock it, that was what she did. Her parents did not want to look to conspicuous, and therefore only abused her subtly--at first. But this gradually become more and more over time.

Even when parents were home, she felt their presence.

She wondered whether her parents would do the same shit they did, when they picked her up from Washington.

She didn't want to find out.

"You know that's the most expensive way right." A typical lecture from a typical addict, the voice of someone who had way to much experience using nicotine.

She flicked a speck of dust off of her pancake. "I'm just concerned for your health, it's not like you need all that tar." Dan Seuss heard the lecture multitudes of time, but never consider it was because is old sweetheart still cared about him, despite their months of extended absence. She rested her head on the table.

"It's only one more drag, I promise honey." Dan said. He was paying more attention to his dinner plate than his ex wife at the bar and grill, now serving pancakes.

"You're not still going out with that other girlfriend are you? You know I still want you back." Jan Seuss continued. Jan and Dan Seuss had had conversations like these for years, but these days when he went out to the bar, it got as tiring as hearing her comment about how much he should quit smoking.

"She's not a drag honey, she's a woman."

"So she's a passable drag." Jan was never the most tolerant sort, and despite him leaving him being unwilling to accept a trans woman into her life, she still was never willing to change her name. She still considered herself his flame. But for Dan he simply loved the smell of nicotine more than life itself, and gave him nostalgic memories of times past.

Dan remembered when his dad would tease about going to France on a sailboat, and it gave him a certain about what the country of certain kinds of cheeses was like. He knew that typically his dad wanted to sail to third world countries, and the association grew in his mind and only recently began to fad. That France was third world country dominated by black haired Amazonian princesses that like to bump uglies with men and feed them to the tigers when they were done with them. So he made a promise to himself, never go to France. And later when he found out he had a certain level of cognitive dissonance between the fantasy and actuality of how France actually was when he found out they beheaded people into the 20th century, he fantasized about Amazonian princesses getting the chop.

"We only have fifty to shop." said Jan, and Dan the man pictured himself going through Amazon rain forests in order to shop for basic things like Bananas and Eggplant.

"Fifty shop, fifty to drop."

"I hope your wife is good for our 'daughter'."

But with his daughter, she spent more time going to friends houses, and trying out new augmented reality glasses. In the years prior to her senior year, it had been in development and was still largely expensive to own a pair.

For Arlina, life was a constant artificial acid trip. And rolling adrenaline high in the mind. She spent every day drowning herself in spiral hallucinations on the tube, and would have spend more and more time in that phase as she grew a resistance to it. Her world was melting, and only later became stiff like glass. She used to play JRPGs, but got tired after them after being introduced to some of the classics and comparing how games were now and how sprite based games used to be. And over time her interested faded away from leveling up to beat the boss.

She wanted to live inside her own fantasy world, not play in some else's. She gets calls from old friends, who wanted to go the arcade. Arlina didn't even know they still had those, as it had been since she was eight she had last been in one. Arlina had not wanted to go outside, since Mr. Angry hairdo got elected to office.

Being in the LGBT square herself, she wasn't sure what the world was going to become like. She remembered reading Diary Of A Young Girl, and was fascinated by this older woman who claimed to be the reincarnation of Ann Frank. Even if there wasn't anything to reincarnation, it was always fun to think about. She herself was to caught up making her world melt to entertain such thoughts, and she wondered why some still did in a world where their immediate reality was beginning to suck.

And for herself, that always tucked forwards, life was constantly a drag. She drowned herself in some of her dad's roll your own tobacco when he wasn't looking, and waiting to come outside till the midnight drew near.

She always schoolwork early.

She enjoyed the night, far longer than most. An early birdie, an early crow staring at prey on a tree branch under the glow of the lunar light.

Twinkling starlight.

Twinkling midnight abyss.

Arlina enjoyed her last high school year. She did not much consider the thought at the time of whether she would later go on to college. She just wanted to get out the house where her father always cheated on mom. She was always concerned that she would begin to emulate her father in some ways, and not always the good ways. And now she would visit her friends house beyond curfew, no longer being apparently bound by such a thing in Smyrna, Tennessee and able to imbibe in peach whiskey at her friend's house.

Always being a light weight, she never want to drink the level of a heavy weight. It was toss her to the floor. But her friends were dumb shits anyway, and gave her a whole glass. She was rolling on the couch like the whole world was spinning. Combined with her augmented reality glasses, everything began to melt. And as she slept that night, her dreams were a mix of whiskey and spiral delirium. The same era she still had night terrors.

The same era of night scratches.

She would wake up on some nights, and find cat like claw marks on her sides she would never tell anyone about. It never began to intrude into her life like it did long after she stopped seeing them. Yet some scars remain.

At times she found herself falling into an abyss, a world of reversed where time flowed backwards. She would swim along the reality paradigm shift floating above a world of constant skylights on a Super Jupiter populated by sentient legless dragonflies trying to catch her before she fell to the center of the planet. And at other times she would pop into a version of Chattanooga populated by giant Koala bears and Pandas. And every time she wore the glasses, it never compared to the fall.

Whether it's magic eight balls, and the dragging life, there was the world of constructed city lights.

And urbanized starlight.

Arlina heard the news that it might become illegal to use TOR, and while somewhat disappointing she had begun to stop using it as she stopped using Diaspora. She got very tired of the bad treatment she got as a trans woman. In a way the world had always been transphobic to a fault, but it used to be people were better at hiding it. Now it seemed like nobody hid it at all. For her, there was only the hope the NSA wont come to take her away to reversion camps. And be lumped with in with homosexuals, as being trans was a drastically different condition and she never be treated as the same. But try telling this to someone determined to electrocute your junk. And probe your mind for the most private thoughts.

She rather consume click bait.

Not secret service snots. She had had friends that were kidnapped by said agencies, and she kept herself out of harms away as much as she could.

But sometimes things aren't easy.

She took her bags, left the house for good, boarded the bus to the East Coast. And hoped for the best.

Her old life, her old story.

Her behest.

"It has been a month, I miss my friends." Arlina had not seen or heard from her friends in a while.

She had developed a habit of talking to herself in her sleep, and at times she was shudder in the darkness wanting to snuggle and hug someone. And yet nobody was there in the darkness. She grown used to the darkness, with it becoming like a comforting blanket. It had been a few months since she had moved back out of Tennessee. She would constantly be in out of consciousness, but never truly be asleep. And despite never seeing a doctor, would hear things in the darkness. For a long time she had been to poor to afford hormones, and even if her parents wanted her back, it was difficult to admit one needed help.

Arlina didn't want help from that awful woman that was her birth mother, and had only recently became at peace with the idea that she might want to have kids someday. Yet not for many years, as there is still some unanswered questions in her life. Her life, her story, her momentary impulsive decision. She had attempted suicide up to five different times, in bedtime ignoring the pain and reading children's rhymes.

She had never truly grown up herself, and had developed a mind cause of mental regression. Coupled with the constant feeling of impending doom, she wanted to be swept away along the sea and never come for air. Yet she was far to scared of the depths to venture far, resolving to consume nothing but tar. With tar came coping, as she took away her world from afar. And within this life, she on one hand completely adult yet on the other hand will never truly became ready to mature. There were still some secrets she kept to herself, ones she vowed to never tell anybody. And yet in her private journals bits and pieces of herself would always trickle through as a matter of subconscious reflex.

Reflexes, automatic pulses. They protect the body as it tries to comprehend things that have happened. In some ways her life had been nothing but pure reflex and emotion, mostly revolving the fear of her mother. Outside the window panes, she sees moonlight.

She pretends to be lunar princess ordering beheadings and other executions for those that betray her. And yet for the childlike queen of imagination, in truth she was simply to soft. She wanted to fly away to other worlds on alien spaceships, being hold aloft in the void called space. Yet everything felt quite ordinary, not extraordinary. For hiring cyborg fairies with machine guns have taken the pleasure out of exploration, and so everything was completely dull. As dull as repeatedly used swords in clashes of nights on holographic projection games.

Yet her life was one on Earth. Her life was no one of fantasy games. Her life was simply surviving as best as she can on the amount of money she was given on disability. It was strange to think of herself as disabled, as for her it was never a matter of intellectual ineptitude of thought. She liked learning new languages, yet paradoxically hated constructed languages on TV shows at the beach house when she was growing up. Yet for the little lunar princess, it was the only voice she was able to hear these days.

She always feared that if she stopped hearings things she would stop having use for her ears, and what use are unusable ears, you might as well cut them off. Like heads of traitors in the world of fantasy games.

Suddenly there was an explosion in the sky. She jumped up and yipped. She definitely heard that.

The war been going on for a few months, and on some level she wondered why things never manifested themselves hear at the beach. There was no longer any nuclear threats, no longer any obvious signs of perpetual war. It was almost something to ignore. She had grown accustomed this firework display in the sky, and imagined herself flying at night to visit US pilots and cosmonauts fight to the death in dog fights and be erased from history both literally in documents and explosively. America had already split between the "New Confederates" with liberal thinking, and the fall of the Roman like empire known as the US. The US being constantly at war with countries previously aligned with them. The California Republic and Cascadia never dropped the alliances.

She missed her school life. She wanted to have a wife. She wanted become reacquainted with some of her high school friends. Yet her gender situation took some explanation. Though she didn't mind showing pictures of herself on classmate websites, knowing that she may never choose to go back to the US.

She was no longer of the US.

She was no longer whom they deemed as us. If she stayed she would have been thrown under the bus.

That would've been a fuss.

Quande vous avoir une ami, c'est never the same without the ability to parle "Comment allez-vous? Ca va?".

Arlina had wanted to learn languages from an early age, but do to life circumstances had been cock blocked by her parents, with them wanting her to focus on Gateway tests and eventually G.E.D. Goedemorgen bullshit, a good to day to parle some other organized fact memorization. Avec qui, it was only a matter of time before she broke. Arlina had been molested at a young age by two boys in her early school years, one of them was in the sixth grade and the other twelfth. It had been a matter of self-blaming and denial that she pushed those memories back to her mind. But do to troubling friendships and questionable acquaintances, it was difficult to trust someone enough to come to friend's houses and play dungeon and dragons sessions. And in a way she always played it inside her mind, even when there wasn't a board or figurines to use in the adventures.

She moved chess pieces in her mind.

But lately those pieces could only move in increasingly limited directions, being in a fantasy battlefields where one is always on the losing end of a match against the queen of hearts. At the end of said adventures of the mind, the queen always ordered the last decapitations. And then it was starting the game of life all over again. A game of rationed strategies. "Parlez vous Anglaise, German, ou Francaise?" She wanted to ask people, to help her learn new languages. But there was nobody already to party en parle. She spent most of her time finding ways to cook with parsley, among other ingredients in the kitchen with some failed experiments in there that would sometimes explode further and wider than a Tsar bomba, carefully contained so as not to completely destroy the house.

And everything would become quiet, as quiet as a mouse. And even little mice would make more noise than some adult woman, mentally regressed to the point of near childhood reverse nostalgia about times long gone. Although in actuality the house never exploded, sometimes failing at cooking on some nights felt like this. And it was would another wasted pizza dough. She spent time at the coastal house, even during changing climate seasons, and would walk in her Birkenstocks on snowy beaches, and watch as seals and otters telescoped the coast searching for some sign of their former home. She would walk up to them, smile, and then pet them.

"What's wrong Mr. Otter?" she asked.

"Well I can't find my Winter home. My land seems to have melted away into foam, and I seem to be permanently dislocated from my urban icy sprawl."

"I have a shack my parents made, they were going to keep me in. Why don't you come and stay the night there. But watch for the night mare, he can be quite cranky." Arlina offered.

"Why that be a great idea, are you sure that be OK with you?" asked the otter.

"Why of course."

"Can I take my friends?"

"Well you'll have to squeeze tight."

"Oh my dear, we are experienced with this. After all we have to do it on melting polar icecaps. Friends, friends, and more friends. We have temporary lodging because of this fine lady. Come, come, and come to her place.'

And they squeaked and squawked, and hopped around doing belly flops. For they were overjoyed to have a home again, even though it was nothing like their old lodging. And thus she has friends, at least for the time being. She felt silly talking to otters and seals, but she didn't care if anyone else gave their seal of approval, for there were plenty of seals to go around. And finally, she come looked to the stars and hope for a better world. So long as her pizza dough didn't explode in the kitchen.

That would not be good.

No seal of approval.

It would have been like any other birthday. But for Arlina, every day since that day had been a point of recover. She had attempted to poison herself five different times, and each time she would continue to remain in this world. For Arlina, every single day was a count down for some vague semblance of recovery that may never be able to arrive. And on Christmas, this magnified the feeling manifold. For unlike some Anna Boleyn of distant English past, Arlina herself was not the child of anyone she could trust. For her, there was nobody to sing Whose Child Is This. For her there was only nothingness, the end of life. The eternal void.

Every day was a kind of empty fog, her head constantly spinning in circles. Her friends had at times had tried setting her up with crazy or bad people, and over time she found that there was nobody that she could discuss her feelings with. Social media eliminating any possibility of discussing the matter. As a trans woman, she already had the incorrect kind of birthday party and Christmas, and now the fact that she almost died came into the mix. Every day was like living as if it would be her last day. A count down to finality, a countdown to death. And everything come to an end. The only friends that were around now were seals and otters displaced from their homeland, and on some level she found herself displaced from her own family life, if she felt she had any kind of family at all.

Night felt like forever ever ever, a night that would never end. There would be a sound of the constant music box twinkling incompatible religion. And yet she never could figure out her religion. In every one she has had, there was the feeling of being a black sheep in the darkness of twilight dimming stars. She tried being an atheist, she tried being a Satanist. And now she has given up belonging to any particular culture, for she was the culture of the self. The culture of non-existence, the culture of Uno Satanas. The culture of the inner Purgatory. Arlina throughout the night would only hope that things could get better.

Yet it was fading nightly, nightly, and nightly until now where the last drop of aether teased the senses never wanting to evaporate completely like melting ice up North, where she imagined Saint Nicolas living the rest of his eternity on a sail boat searching for the lost factory filled with unmade children's toys. For every Christmas, it was a gift of acid and rot. She forgot what it was like to have a normal Christmas.

She forgot happy childhood.

She never had one at all. She couldn't tell the otters and seals, for no person should talk to animals, and she felt herself wanting to poison herself all over again.

A life in constant loop.

A loop never ending.

Arlina couldn't barely make herself go shopping, as she had no girlfriends of her own. She couldn't take her new friends, Otters and Seals.

It was a chilly Winter at the beach do to changing seasons, and for the first time she had to wear a coat and a pair of thick wool socks in her Birkenstocks. She never liked the texture of thick wool socks, but preferred it to being cold. Her disability checks meant she had to get adjusted rent wherever she went, and at the end of the day she always felt spent. There was nothing in a simple life, if her life was simple at all. Compared to most girls, she was slightly taller than most, though not to the same height as many other trans girls born with male jeans.

At the store she would pop in a quarter to get a cart, and use an allotment of fifty to get the wine she needed to make for herself basic soups for the Winter season. Along with this, cans of bean with bacon soup, mushrooms, among other things. In this store, you could get great big boxes, to make for oneself big cardboard slabs to prop charcoal sketch to paint with water colors. And Arline loved to paint with water colors. She loved to write poetry just as much, but her lack of energy has made her spent most of the time drawing in charcoal images that vaguely resembled real women in portrait. She name done girl Chrysanthemum, because of her skull like face and her dreary tearful eyes.

For Arlina, she saw nothing but mortal lies, the lies men tell children during their bedtime stories, to tell of a world beyond that doesn't exist, but makes for a fine illusion as one puts themselves as close to death as possible so that they may be able to sleep on that night. Goedemorgen nact, goedenact morgen. Bonjour to the paradox of life, where one may be content despite lacking all the content of their desires. She got back on the bus, after grabbing everything she needed at the store, and went home. She boarded with a card that signified her status, while resisting the temptation to take out a clove on garlic on the bus. She knew you weren't suppose to eat on the bus, and yet she was getting so hungry. As she was hungry all the time, after all the THC vapes she would vape at all hours of the day except for on the public city bus.

She pulled down the cord.

She got off the bus, and then slowly walked her way toward her apartment complex by the snowy coastline, where she got out some fishes to give to her otter and seal friends. For fish was rather cheap at the store. And her mom would always give her groceries to offset the lowness of her disability check. Even if her mom couldn't over to Pacific, she still wanted to keep some kind of financial hold on Arlina.

Arlina transitioned anyway, using a hormone card. And now she saves up money for Sexual Reassignment Surgery, when she doesn't purchase for herself sex toys: wooden paddles, butt plugs, among other nick nicks at night. She kept such toys locked inside of a wooden chest with a pair of wooden clogs. This was why she was so choosy about room mates, as she didn't want to get taken advantage of again. And she had been taken advantage but a lot of people. And at times she had to trust in the lesser of abusers to set her life on the right path, even with everything felt very wrong.

This was her life.

Her transgender song. And at times, when stars are right, she read volumes of the Cthulhu mythos. She always slept with the lights on, because she feared who would knock on the door.

She closed her eyes.

She tries to sleep.

She shudders. But there was nobody at the door.

Arline never been so high on powders. But it's always rude to lean into your laptop camera. She wrapped the powder in toilet paper, and smoked it as if it were a cigarette. There was never so much Euphoria, but only for a little while, before adding a bit of wine et the coffee. She smelled like powdered smoke all over, with a touch of polyurethane. There was no care if she smelled profane, though she feared that the smoke of the funny smell would seep all the way through the house. Closing her bedroom door, she waited for the smell of the power to go away. Eventually the smell was able to go away, and she went to go make some more coffee.

Arlina loved the smell of coffee at midnight, under the glow of the moon. She would sip this while contemplating whether there was life upon it, though she remembered some of the adventures she had when she was so small, and how as a kid she was always quickly to glide her bare feet on the lunar sand, and jam with furry koalas that ate lunar berries. Then Arlina remembered, that she was taught that the moon was a barren wasteland, a wasteland taught by some that was once a paradise of Nordic men and women. Yet for her Nordics were never the kind of people she imagined inhabiting the moon. She knew that in some UFO videos she was taught humanity was warned off of the moon. And so she eventually resolved that she will never know with any kind of certainty, and much like life was filled with uncertain questions. Everything was so existential, yet beyond her own comprehension so as to only be understood when she was asleep. She dreamed of hallucinogenic virtual reality on portable augmented reality glasses, and dreamed of dream-like JRPGs.

Every night was a balancing act between existential, and a mind drowned out by wine and other booze, along with vapes and cups of coffee. She liked her coffee extremely strong, while she looked at trans woman porn where they whip out their slongs. For she was a trans women that liked other trans woman's slongs. She preferred short ones, that she could read storybooks too, and pretend to play ring around the roses to while sawing away at old playground using a chainsaw, and cackling maniacally. Everything was exhilaration. Everything was mechanical masturbation. Everything in this life was dull and extraordinary at the same time.

Yet at times she would break down, and imagining tall trans woman princesses that shoulder the burden of the fight of life, and snuggle under their arms. For her desires were many, and yet in the real life could not push herself upon anyone. She wanted other to push themselves upon her at a pace that she desired, for she had had to many that went against her own pace. She would weep, she would laugh, she would fall on her face. Everything was dull and extraordinary, like the paradox of life.

Arlina wanted to redo her life.

Her entire life from the start.

Arlina wanted to make for herself a JRPG, but she had not designed one in so long. It had been many months since she had opened a game engine of any sort, and had been living with a room mate that like to trash her and undervalue herself as a gamer.

She had a craving for RPG Maker style games for a long time, but had grown increasingly board of the same old hack and slash from fantasy games from her youth. As a wannabe game developer, she wanted to make a game that was one of the best. And like all youth with apparently a disproportionate level of pride in her youth, was quickly crushed by the trollish scourge of the internet. Yet now that she was older, and never spending time on game developer boards, she began to feel a lot more free to design the stories she always wanted to. And as someone who never had the opportunity to leave the house, there was an increasingly large incentive to have extra stimuli that was not being given through the mundane of her life. For Arlina, it was difficult to use to the flow of databases and tiling format, and was an aspect of extreme impatience in the process. But her job was to only make a game for herself, as someone with no intention to release, but she wanted to build her society in the glow of the screen.

Whether it was the blue haired boy, and the aqua hair color peasant smiling like cat, there was no escaping there was no story to play. She supposed this would come some other day, some other day of the week. And with a spank of the cheek, she went to the restroom and waited for the night. Goodnight mundane, fade away with smoke of the candlelight. Goodnight dreary midnight stars, goodnight the old world she wanted to leave behind. Arlina had trouble with the tiles, thinking of nothing but younger girls that wrote of lame ass pop stars that fade every ten years or so. For Arlina, she wanted to not rely on fan fiction. She simply wanted to design a world around her inner world, and put visual details to the non visual data left behind in her mind.

A story of a fantasy life.

Yet she had trouble brain storming plots, as it required a different type of writing ability that she wasn't used to. Finishing a novel was simple enough, having written a total of 10,000 hours over the course of nine years. But there was something about designing a video game that was different. It required a kind of non-linear kind of storytelling she was not used to, as she had no engaged in the practice for a long time. Because creating a character was one thing, creating an entirely new world was another. In her books she never bothered with world building, preferring to let it flow naturally over the course of the story. Part of it was already done for her in the game engine, but her method of storytelling was not prone for exploring foreign worlds except inside the mind. And even petty hack n slashes on the digital screen could not sway away the craving.

A craving for oblivion.

It would have been like any other birthday. But for Arlina, every day since that day had been a point of recover. She had attempted to poison herself five different times, and each time she would continue to remain in this world. For Arlina, every single day was a count down for some vague semblance of recovery that may never be able to arrive. And on Christmas, this magnified the feeling manifold. For unlike some Anna Boleyn of distant English past, Arlina herself was not the child of anyone she could trust. For her, there was nobody to sing Whose Child Is This. For her there was only nothingness, the end of life. The eternal void.

Every day was a kind of empty fog, her head constantly spinning in circles. Her friends had at times had tried setting her up with crazy or bad people, and over time she found that there was nobody that she could discuss her feelings with. Social media eliminating any possibility of discussing the matter. As a trans woman, she already had the incorrect kind of birthday party and Christmas, and now the fact that she almost died came into the mix. Every day was like living as if it would be her last day. A count down to finality, a countdown to death. And everything come to an end. The only friends that were around now were seals and otters displaced from their homeland, and on some level she found herself displaced from her own family life, if she felt she had any kind of family at all.

Night felt like forever ever ever, a night that would never end. There would be a sound of the constant music box twinkling incompatible religion. And yet she never could figure out her religion. In every one she has had, there was the feeling of being a black sheep in the darkness of twilight dimming stars. She tried being an atheist, she tried being a Satanist. And now she has given up belonging to any particular culture, for she was the culture of the self. The culture of non-existence, the culture of Uno Satanas. The culture of the inner Purgatory. Arlina throughout the night would only hope that things could get better.

Yet it was fading nightly, nightly, and nightly until now where the last drop of aether teased the senses never wanting to evaporate completely like melting ice up North, where she imagined Saint Nicolas living the rest of his eternity on a sail boat searching for the lost factory filled with unmade children's toys. For every Christmas, it was a gift of acid and rot. She forgot what it was like to have a normal Christmas.

She forgot happy childhood.

She never had one at all. She couldn't tell the otters and seals, for no person should talk to animals, and she felt herself wanting to poison herself all over again.

A life in constant loop.

A loop never ending.

Arlina couldn't barely make herself go shopping, as she had no girlfriends of her own. She couldn't take her new friends, Otters and Seals.

It was a chilly Winter at the beach do to changing seasons, and for the first time she had to wear a coat and a pair of thick wool socks in her Birkenstocks. She never liked the texture of thick wool socks, but preferred it to being cold. Her disability checks meant she had to get adjusted rent wherever she went, and at the end of the day she always felt spent. There was nothing in a simple life, if her life was simple at all. Compared to most girls, she was slightly taller than most, though not to the same height as many other trans girls born with male jeans.

At the store she would pop in a quarter to get a cart, and use an allotment of fifty to get the wine she needed to make for herself basic soups for the Winter season. Along with this, cans of bean with bacon soup, mushrooms, among other things. In this store, you could get great big boxes, to make for oneself big cardboard slabs to prop charcoal sketch to paint with water colors. And Arline loved to paint with water colors. She loved to write poetry just as much, but her lack of energy has made her spent most of the time drawing in charcoal images that vaguely resembled real women in portrait. She name done girl Chrysanthemum, because of her skull like face and her dreary tearful eyes.

For Arlina, she saw nothing but mortal lies, the lies men tell children during their bedtime stories, to tell of a world beyond that doesn't exist, but makes for a fine illusion as one puts themselves as close to death as possible so that they may be able to sleep on that night. Goedemorgen nact, goedenact morgen. Bonjour to the paradox of life, where one may be content despite lacking all the content of their desires. She got back on the bus, after grabbing everything she needed at the store, and went home. She boarded with a card that signified her status, while resisting the temptation to take out a clove on garlic on the bus. She knew you weren't suppose to eat on the bus, and yet she was getting so hungry. As she was hungry all the time, after all the THC vapes she would vape at all hours of the day except for on the public city bus.

She pulled down the cord.

She got off the bus, and then slowly walked her way toward her apartment complex by the snowy coastline, where she got out some fishes to give to her otter and seal friends. For fish was rather cheap at the store. And her mom would always give her groceries to offset the lowness of her disability check. Even if her mom couldn't over to Pacific, she still wanted to keep some kind of financial hold on Arlina.

Arlina transitioned anyway, using a hormone card. And now she saves up money for Sexual Reassignment Surgery, when she doesn't purchase for herself sex toys: wooden paddles, butt plugs, among other nick nicks at night. She kept such toys locked inside of a wooden chest with a pair of wooden clogs. This was why she was so choosy about room mates, as she didn't want to get taken advantage of again. And she had been taken advantage but a lot of people. And at times she had to trust in the lesser of abusers to set her life on the right path, even with everything felt very wrong.

This was her life.

Her transgender song. And at times, when stars are right, she read volumes of the Cthulhu mythos. She always slept with the lights on, because she feared who would knock on the door.

She closed her eyes.

She tries to sleep.

She shudders. But there was nobody at the door.

Arlina never been so high on powders. But it's always rude to lean into your laptop camera. She wrapped the powder in toilet paper, and smoked it as if it were a cigarette. There was never so much Euphoria, but only for a little while, before adding a bit of wine et the coffee. She smelled like powdered smoke all over, with a touch of polyurethane. There was no care if she smelled profane, though she feared that the smoke of the funny smell would seep all the way through the house. Closing her bedroom door, she waited for the smell of the power to go away. Eventually the smell was able to go away, and she went to go make some more coffee.

Arlina loved the smell of coffee at midnight, under the glow of the moon. She would sip this while contemplating whether there was life upon it, though she remembered some of the adventures she had when she was so small, and how as a kid she was always quickly to glide her bare feet on the lunar sand, and jam with furry koalas that ate lunar berries. Then Arlina remembered, that she was taught that the moon was a barren wasteland, a wasteland taught by some that was once a paradise of Nordic men and women. Yet for her Nordics were never the kind of people she imagined inhabiting the moon. She knew that in some UFO videos she was taught humanity was warned off of the moon. And so she eventually resolved that she will never know with any kind of certainty, and much like life was filled with uncertain questions. Everything was so existential, yet beyond her own comprehension so as to only be understood when she was asleep. She dreamed of hallucinogenic virtual reality on portable augmented reality glasses, and dreamed of dream-like JRPGs.

Every night was a balancing act between existential, and a mind drowned out by wine and other booze, along with vapes and cups of coffee. She liked her coffee extremely strong, while she looked at trans woman porn where they whip out their slongs. For she was a trans women that liked other trans woman's slongs. She preferred short ones, that she could read storybooks too, and pretend to play ring around the roses to while sawing away at old playground using a chainsaw, and cackling maniacally. Everything was exhilaration. Everything was mechanical masturbation. Everything in this life was dull and extraordinary at the same time.

Yet at times she would break down, and imagining tall trans woman princesses that shoulder the burden of the fight of life, and snuggle under their arms. For her desires were many, and yet in the real life could not push herself upon anyone. She wanted other to push themselves upon her at a pace that she desired, for she had had to many that went against her own pace. She would weep, she would laugh, she would fall on her face. Everything was dull and extraordinary, like the paradox of life.

Arlina wanted to redo her life.

Her entire life from the start.

Arlina wanted to make for herself a JRPG, but she had not designed one in so long. It had been many months since she had opened a game engine of any sort, and had been living with a room mate that like to trash her and undervalue herself as a gamer.

She had a craving for RPG Maker style games for a long time, but had grown increasingly board of the same old hack and slash from fantasy games from her youth. As a wannabe game developer, she wanted to make a game that was one of the best. And like all youth with apparently a disproportionate level of pride in her youth, was quickly crushed by the trollish scourge of the internet. Yet now that she was older, and never spending time on game developer boards, she began to feel a lot more free to design the stories she always wanted to. And as someone who never had the opportunity to leave the house, there was an increasingly large incentive to have extra stimuli that was not being given through the mundane of her life. For Arlina, it was difficult to use to the flow of databases and tiling format, and was an aspect of extreme impatience in the process. But her job was to only make a game for herself, as someone with no intention to release, but she wanted to build her society in the glow of the screen.

Whether it was the blue haired boy, and the aqua hair color peasant smiling like cat, there was no escaping there was no story to play. She supposed this would come some other day, some other day of the week. And with a spank of the cheek, she went to the restroom and waited for the night. Goodnight mundane, fade away with smoke of the candlelight. Goodnight dreary midnight stars, goodnight the old world she wanted to leave behind. Arlina had trouble with the tiles, thinking of nothing but younger girls that wrote of lame ass pop stars that fade every ten years or so. For Arlina, she wanted to not rely on fan fiction. She simply wanted to design a world around her inner world, and put visual details to the non visual data left behind in her mind.

A story of a fantasy life.

Yet she had trouble brain storming plots, as it required a different type of writing ability that she wasn't used to. Finishing a novel was simple enough, having written a total of 10,000 hours over the course of nine years. But there was something about designing a video game that was different. It required a kind of non-linear kind of storytelling she was not used to, as she had no engaged in the practice for a long time. Because creating a character was one thing, creating an entirely new world was another. In her books she never bothered with world building, preferring to let it flow naturally over the course of the story. Part of it was already done for her in the game engine, but her method of storytelling was not prone for exploring foreign worlds except inside the mind. And even petty hack n slashes on the digital screen could not sway away the craving.

A craving for oblivion.

Arline never felt so much terror.

"And besides, if you ever feel like you need to be punished, let me handle it and I can punish you as much as you're able to consent to experiencing it." her room mate said.

It was a veiled comment, a veiled threat. Arlina's mind was in a fog, and to nervous to say anything. She had had a lifetime of trust issues built up after she turned twenty six, and had attempted suicide on her birthday. She had grown up being accustomed to homemade cakes and Bavarian cream pie, among other things. But she had never before received the gift of constant silence on that special day, hiding under the desk used as a makeshift kitchen counter. She wanted to be crushed by the refrigerator, as that would be better than the existence she was living.

Arlina wanted to be her own personal Satanic Jesus. There was nothing like suffering from ones own and others sin for sake of the higher good, yet such agony is in silence and never expressed to those one thinks care about them and their well being, as one glides through life in personal purgatory. A life where one coast between Heaven and Hell in the real life, and never quite reaching either one. Like constant drifting, forever. She was like walking binary put into sentient life form. A walking ghost in a frame. A ghostly dame, a ghostly mortal. A life in constant loop, forever. A Satanic Jesus dying lives in higher frequencies, a higher perception. Total silence, waiting for annihilation. Sleepy time eternal time, drifting constantly in uneven rhyme.

Silence.

Arlina would constantly relive night terrors involving alienation, fates worse than annihilation. And demons shaped like shadow men, standing before her bed. And how how they merely watch and stare as she wait forever, jumping everywhere. The image fades, the misery waning temporarily. Energy draining, draining, and draining; the moonlight floats over the horizon shining into the window; the midnight creatures call for her blood. They wait, they walk, they walk in constant circles not sure of what direction to go; there is only this life, only this misery.

One only hopes the terrors will stop.

One waits for morning light.

The mid morning rain drops.

For Arlina, it was a constant shuffle between tiredness and game designing. Much of her life was dominated by things chasing her in petrified forests in dreams within dreams within dreams, seeing UFOs with USA insignia was her other pass time. Now her life has turned on a dime. Her last room mate trashed her entertaining anything about the UFO topic, it was a topical treatment. As an alien abductee, she was drawn to The Cult Of The Celestial Father. She wanted to find explanations for the bad shit in her life, yet in this darkness she found only financial abuse. Her first boyfriend tried selling her a negative ion generator, as well as a Linux computer he made out of a toaster, He simply wanted to get her address.

Now after the man with the orange wig was elected, there had been a new war overseas against China. With questions of national sovereignty based on questionable elections, it was simply a matter of time before the fall of the US insignia. In Pacifica she dreads whether or not California will give into the new Vice President that believes in reversions therapies. She wants to move to Quebec, but doesn't want to buy a bus ticket for another country length ride to a place where she may not even be able to get disability benefits. But it increasingly felt like the choice between eventually losing benefits, and cutting oneself off right away.

She wanted to stow away in the night, leaving only the flames of candle light illuminating in the window illuminating the abandoned Southern California town house, under the glow of the lunar light. She didn't want to throw her life an abductee into the mix, giving such Americans psychos more justification for more abuse. Yet she didn't want to get rid of her imaginary friends in the darkness beyond the glow of the candle light, appearing in spaceships above the coast.

She wanted to be taken away.

Most of her life was spent finding some proxy for her personal misery. The hand holding among friends no long gone where good temporary measures for her anxiety, as she recovered from her suicide attempts. These days she mostly listened to UFO talking heads, partially as a way of saying fuck you to her last room mate, while she looks at cute girls in Birkenstock clogs so she could masturbate. Sins and delusions, personal annihilation.

Unsure of what to do with her current funk, she prepared for the fall. At night she dreams of red eyed demons in the dark. In bed she sleeps consuming bad anti-depressants, that don't take away the night terrors but simply keep her from waking up in moments of extreme panic.

Life loops all over again.

Night terrors life again.

Much like life, the world cuts like a knife.

The windows illuminate the multiple floored shed. And every night under the glow of spaceship lights, the underwear is turned inside out. For no purpose she could understand, she wilts. During the day she drinks of wine and beer mixed with coffee syrup flavored milk, enjoying the coming dawn and beaming city lights. Starlight horizon, starlit night. Farewell to the cow who jumped over the moon, because it never returned from the spaceship. It's probably now being harvested by demons in the night.

Farewell spaceships in the sky. Arlina masturbates to Nordic alien girls, wearing Birkenstocks with no socks. Her constant pulsing makes life difficult, and she must think to not do so. Or she may never be able to visit the fudge shop just down the road at the intersection of the coast. Peanut butter chocolate good enough to boast. Farewell fudge in my her mouth, she were best friends for the taste buds. And now you are gone. May you grace the tongue so other day of the week, when not watching paddling videos of women spanked on their cheeks, as they scream and slap their cheeks. Self-hate, self injury; a life of hyper-sexuality. Arlina wants the whole day to sparkle light dream-like city lights. Starlight horizon during the daylight merging with the night life. She can barely move during her life, in the world that cuts like a knife. It cuts so much in her shins, as she gets constant splints in her shuffling walks. She remembered her childhood, of memories of decorating sidewalks with rainbow colors. The girl who was an only child, with no sisters or brothers. The single and only life of temporarily temporal reality like the real life. A real life that seems less and less real as time goes on.

Subdued, in grandma's buckle shoes.

She writes poetry, avoiding singing the blues of her shin splints. She tolerates the pain on walks along the coast, yet dreads the deep water. She remembered her moments of lost time. A lost life, a distant memory. Moments that bring back anxiety. She masturbates partially to keep herself from being prodded and poked by sky demons, by aliens in the darkness of the distant cosmos. Yet in the cosmos one may think there are angels, yet they cannot breath in the void. She takes herself at times into misplaced masochism, her world life is like avoiding animal magnetism. Magnetic pulses from bygone eras like in H.P. Lovecraft novels were a form of comfort in eras long gone, yet now she thinks of sands on the coast that now replace her lawn. For at times she remains unsure of when she will be gone. The little adult like scattered fireflies in the night forming children holding hands under the starlight horizon. Arlina wanted to become part of the horizon, and become and star.

Her life ajar.

Her life from a world no afar.

She falls on her face.

Arlina had been involved with a UFO cult, that undermined everything she thought she knew about her own experiences.

None of the members of this splinter cult had any specific credentials in the private sector of the United States, before California, among other states, split off from the super nation. Except insofar as that cult was at one point infiltrated by the an agency to distract from the actual disclosure movement taking over across the world. Despite the cult being in a European nation not part of the EU, it was able to connect members from across the globe on the net, becoming a new breed of cult different from suicide cults from before. These people continuously rewrite their predictions to fit current demand, undervaluing the value of their predictions that already lacked value to begin with. A sword that cut through the truth. It was a match made in hell.

At times the cult proposed the possibility that some planets were better off having dictators and authoritarians in power. That it was a place world to be in the world of corporate cults and "false disclosure" movements. Said cult was in itself a kind of false disclosure movement that played right into the hands of unacknowledged programs, that have held off Zero Point Energy from humanity for decades. We would have have the ability to traverse the stars before eight hundred years have passed, something that ran contrary to this splinter cult of The Cult Of The Celestial Father.

The cult wanted to mainly get you to buy things from them, and ask for personal information like your address, so that they could find you. Arlina was not one to play into sad mind games, because she suspected that if they had her information they would try to find her and black bag her to take her to reservations in Italy, Texas. And she was surprised how said cult was not a suicide cult, although her room mate in later years assured her that most cults was not actually suicide cults.

Within the last few months she had stopped talking to her first room mate, she had gotten back into the UFO community. But she felt the need to troll one of the most public spokesmen about why The Cult Of The Celestial Father failed to prevent splinter cults. And already the cult was beginning to propose things that it would not have otherwise considered in terms of being that would invade the Earth, even if said beings were from underground and not from the stars. Arlina knew that many have proposed false flag alien invasions, though as if now because of how long it had been since it was proposed, said invasion looked increasingly unlikely. So unlikely that it very well could be that there was nobody she could trust, both within and outside of the UFO disclosure circles. Arlina was her own kind of individual, with her own sense of individuality.

She saw the matrix, the worlds lies.

A world that betrayed founding country principles. A world that made a game of lies.

There was nothing like smoking cigarillos like a dike. Why don't you take a hike, says Arlina's mom. Who did everything she could, to get rid of Tom, the lowly friendly childhood friend.

Well will I know other friends? Thought Arlina, well that depends. About whether Arlina want to bother her dear mom again. Sometimes one most do everything they can, to establish their own person again. With a giant lime green cigarillo, will you have this dance. The dance of lice and death, the prancing of your esophagus to cancerous tumors, that trickle down into your worn out lungs. It had been many a month, since she once hung. She tried to hang herself by a rope. But whenever she smoked the other dope, the legal caffeine, in the form of white powder, she briefly gets feelings of euphoria with no compare.

For Arlina, she wanted to briefly no longer have the dance of death. Life has many things to cope with, why be another to cope with. But then if she were dead, she would no longer be one to cope with. No loans taken out for funeral costs, having moved from Tennessee. She didn't know anybody here, and them being able to come over would take a year. A year to come over and prepare for her demise. Her family was composed of nothing but lies, of fibs comparing to the black plague. Why do you put those on a plaque, displaying on your bedroom wall. For Arlina chose to smoking cigarillos all the way down the hall.

Down, down, down through the endless hall longer than any physical hallway through the inner workings of the mind. There was only the constant feeling of someone watch beyond the door, of seeing some unacknowledged officer in dark projects, arresting her to get money to pay for their programs. As a trans person, like other minorities, she was more prone than "standard" people to go down the white halls of death.

Down the halls of death, there was large men she would be locked with having not changed her documents yet to match her gender. And therefore if she was not able to get solitary confinement, there would be only death, death, and more death. Because the laws did not regulate whom you boarded with, and did not care whether you have had previous PTSD. Whether you were self-medicating to deal with specific traumas in your life. At one point Arlina wanted a room mate and a wife, but as she indulged in cigarillos she found that the only life that she should take care of was her own. Because in this life, with nothing but death, there is only silence, silence, and more silence in the world of endless nightmare halls. And as she dreams of men in the dark pounding her ass, she knew she was a goner.

That there was only death.

That there was only being lynched along with the other lynched, that there was only the constant silence, as her body shuffles about forever.

She dreamed of doing drugs.

Then she woke up, she had only been doing vapes. And vaping was most definitely legal. Or at least more legal than scheduled drugs only scheduled to finance black budget projects.

The morning was cold outside.

Arlina remembered when she lived in NashChat. There was a girlfriend that continued to live with her for a long time. Arlina didn't want to lose her, she was her only love in the world. And yet part of her felt freer as her lost love melted away from the world known as consensus reality.

Her life was a lie from the start. Even as a youngster, climbing the monkey bar in the gym of consensus reality, even then she knew and prepared for the fall. The pulls of gravity, the pull of the life force. The crypt in the floor of time and space. She wept, she fell. She leaned on her face.

The story of the library race.

Her life in pursuit of art. The crow was flying onwards, into the darkness of the void.

The messenger of death.

Her live in a world filled with many electronic books. At one point in history they were called Nooks, yet now the nameless tomes of life filled with bored wives and Merry Greens scatter the world of skyscrapers like dots in a world of stars, the stars the many corporations of advertising and surveillance. A life that exists with no pursuit of art. In the world, seek love. Yet she seek isolation and comfort, for she had known to many that would take advantage of her good nature.

She wanted a mother.

She wanted nurture. And life felt more like a gradually urbanized graveyard filled with corpses from long ago, their personal history the inspiration for generated advertisement by computer overlords. A world where life was cheap. Gone are the days of Tweety Bird and sinister cats. Gone are the days of suicidal coyotes, and gone are the days of Annabelle Lee. For there is only isolation and despair, and only the human body, lust is there.

A world of voices.

Voices everywhere. And in that darkness, she sees only the crow hungry for rotten corpses. Where angelic holograms fill the night sky like sands on the coast.

It wasn't everyday you would meet someone from your high school years again, yet at times when you wish for things hard enough sometimes things happen. Like magic.

For me, I sought the ability to meet with someone I once knew again, whom I had known in my twelfth grade year. It was the lady that created a debate about capital punishment in high school class, and yet said it was non of my business when I was upset about the fact that there was still corporal punishment in high schools in my hometown, the redneck city town of NashChat. I pictured girls from my class being paddled for even the most minor of infractions, from cursing the chewing gum.

It was a mixture of becoming rock hard, and total sadness. For me I sought forgiveness for masturbating at home, on a subconscious level, from the girl whom I would picture bending over a desk and receiving swats by the principle. I had already felt an extreme mix of sorrow and joy from spanking the money on general, and these particular dreams made them all the more pronounced. In this dream, I dreamed of pants being pulled down, and giant wooden paddles being struck as hard as the principle could manage. To spare the sound of many whacks, I simply closed my minds eyes.

It was hellish and divine.

I drowned myself in Dutch beer and wine. I wanted to be with the girl again whom I deemed so divine. I wanted a taste of the heaven called life. Yet in the world where skyscrapers dot the sky like grains of sand, there was increasing social isolation and despair. And the individual was suppressed for the sake of corporal dominance. Where personal information dotted the digital landscape also like grains of sand.

Advertisements tailored.

Spankings fill crowd sourced video screens. They made me feeling like ripping out my spleen.

My dream-like was like a pulsing blue-library filled with unwritten digital books. Pages upon pages of book that were already planned to be written, and some authors that worked on teams merely needed to follow formulaic patterns. Yet the book called life, there were other unknown stories. The story of the girl paddled beyond the principles door, the story of girls that turn to cat under the glow of the lunar light, that live like people on subway trains. And other sectors of society only seen at night.

Goodnight innocence.

Goodnight digital life.

Life never smelled so medicinal. The sweetest smell of medicine, while walking through the blue library, filled with many rows of digital books.

Arlina browsed the shelves. She wanted to see if I could find my lost cat girl. Jenna has to be out there somewhere. She could not have just left her waiting for her to come, so they could exchange game reviews together at midnight. Arlina missed the days when she could play the same video games as Jenna, how she showed up in her life like the wind then blew away in an instant. Arlina seeks her loving embrace, the tail that winds around her legs.

The room shifts in multiple windows. she sees multiple attendance marking their place in the halls. They pull out digital books for themselves to read. They come from various genres, some of which are from information gleaned on the web. Such books cover a wide range of non-fiction topics, and a smaller subset of which cover topics related to video games: strategy guides, how to program manuals, among other such fare. Within these books, Arlina finds a book on how to break into the reviewer market. Yet quickly put it down as the book reminded me of my girlfriend Jenna. Suddenly beyond my immediate hallway, she hear the sound of a Cat's meow. Arlina looks to see where the noise came from, and she didn't see any cat anywhere. And thus Arlina picked the book back up to look to see whether it knows more information about game reviewing than she already did. She hears the sound of a cats meow again.

She goes to see where the sound is coming from. She thought she saw Jenna in her cat form walk across another hall. She walked to that isle and find she is no there. Arlina saw a shadow of her running to another hall, she turns her head briefly at Arlina. Arlina walked, walked, and walked to follow, follow, and follow. But she can't seem to catch up with her girlfriend Jenna. It has to be Jenna. Slowly she began to remember how it was she came to be separated from her.

She had always had the tendency to think about someone deeply. Somehow or another that individual she was thinking of would show up out of the blue.

It had gotten to the point where if Arlina imagined them wearing Birkenstocks they would be wearing these clogs, and so she became careful of what she imagined, lest she would get a hard on in such an inconvenient place like a grocery store. These things would happen to her periodically throughout the week, people from her past showing up out of the blue. Eventually she came to accept it as simply a fact of life. She lived in a world where cats evolved to live along side human beings, so she was not a stranger to strangeness. And many of her friends after my high school years has been cats. But she never expected she would fall in love with a cat girl.

Arlina's girlfriend name was Jenna.

Because of the nature of our society, if one wrote about an area of another planet the equivalent of France, on a planet filled with Nordic Ets, most people on Earth at this current time would consider it to be a work of fantasy.

As the future becomes the present, and society becomes more planetary what was once fantasy will eventually become almost reality. By extension, for the books in the world of the blue library, there are coastal regions on distant world one may never be able to visit. In these world one may visit societies like France on distant planets, with cultures similar to theirs but with on the unique problems of France solved. Much the same way for regions on said planets like ours. The comparison, though inaccurate, for it is its own sovereign country. But it highlights the vast differences in knowledge from one region to the next.

There may be regions on other worlds where people are like the Japanese, but with a Parisian culture. One may never know the world one might long to explore. For Arlina, she simply wanted to explore all points in time and space. When she moved in with Anna and Jenna, it was almost like traveling to a new world. A new colony on different planets, to realm of lover's hearts. She had only known love briefly, and known sex for far longer et chiefly. At times she was capable of being quite cheeky, when she wasn't snuggling under the pillow reading books about reincarnation and meditation. She longed for another world within the real life. She longed for a society that wasn't not merely dystopic, but truly utopic. Yet over time she began to neglect the idea for a Utopian construct.

Her own perception of reality was largely a construct, that of deranged ads by profit-motivated advertisement firms. She would entertain the girls like guests, and yet do to the nature of the apartment could only allow for the girls to room in studios right beside her. This was something that irritated her greatly, for she wanted room mate like other people. But she became so disillusioned by people who wanted to set her up with tranny chaser and other vile men. All the problems in her life looped all o'er again.

For her, life was always like this.

Nothing to miss, something to fear.

Do the nature of the human mind, one can listen to two different things at once; one can listen to one radio host, and then another on the net about a slightly different topic, and suddenly their speeches seem to merge together into a single entity. Such speeches can thus begin to contradict each other, and so in such merged entity it complements a president on one hand yet insults the present in another instance. When you already have beliefs that contradict standard facts presented by established paradigms, it makes seeing the world a surreal experience.

"What the hell am I listening to." Arlina plugged into the blue library. "Ah OK, this is what the problem is. It skipped to a totally different conspiracy theorist."

Arlina had not been immune to making assumptions about conspiracy theorists in the past, although in this case the two voices were different enough, and topic to contradictory that it is impossible to assume they are the same individual. One can avoid accidental straw men statements, but only listening to specific play lists on video channels. But our world has become such, that such technologies sneak up you and its hard to keep up with ways it tries to trick you. You mind melting on the net. Arlina wanted to make a bet, how much longer till the drop of current internet. In the next life, she opes there will be better technology.

Not the technology of mind control.

Not the technology of anxiety.

Arlina was used to feeling like her entire life was total surreality, yet when trying to communicate how to others it was difficult to describe. She has dreams of authors in the future that don't exist, those who live in Quebec who write Western novels. Among other things. She was asked what her believes are, and what brought to the Satanic Temple. For her her previous room mate before Anna-Marie and after Jenna discovered her after she had always had the leanings toward Satanic thought. It was simply a matter of finding something within Arlina that her room mate in Washington wanted to use. And now she approaches the world with reservation, that makes her seem far older than her youth.

And now she floats in the blue library, searching for connection on the net. She seeks to feel some means of comfort again, beyond the glow of the light. At night she dreams of futures that may come to pass for her, as well as the distant past. Her memories flow non linearly across time and space. As a collection of memories, the blue library captures multiple moments in the time of people's lives. Some of which form books privately published to information agencies in secret budget projects. Yet with no release, the individual can still release their autobiography on the web, for simply having information about an individual goes beyond ownership, becoming pages in history books marking previous eras.

Arlina was nervous about what said pages would say about her life as a whole, and whether history would record her own beliefs that stray from Buddhism, being a Satanist county point to Eastern thought rather than Christian ideology. Anxiety reigns supreme, Arlina melts into the net.

Arlina blend many voices in her head.

And now she simple goes it melts away.

If it were any other time in history, you might see little girls in wooden shoes jumping rope.

Yet now in the twenty first century life, you'll find those same girls in knock off Jesus sandals smoking dope on the sidewalk, without a care about whether they may get caught by the police. There are various names for them in these parts, in these times. Yet when one walks by all one can do is pay their respects, and hope the cop doesn't smell the smell of tang. Yet more often it is easier to pay a cop money to ignore it, as most will be happy enough just to take the money.

She had lived in earlier centuries, yet Arlina barely had memories of her past. She remembered various lifetimes, from times in the United Kingdom, to times in France during the revolution. Other had memories of times long gone, yet their unfinished business is something different from her own. Beyond the times where cattle may roam, and cute girls skip in wooden clogs, and listen to nursery rhyme now is the time of only mechanized death. Nowadays she sees girls play jump rope with stray bullets in the city street. A long ways away from times of old, with clogs on your feet. She pictured Dutch, German, and French girls tap dancing to spewing bullets from muskets, yet the image was not a memory she could stand to remember for long. She remembered how there was a war that shook the Alsatian region, and how Anna-Marie Boeglin lived during this troublesome time frame. The old flame of her Guillotine Western story, showing the circumstances of her early life. Her literary lover, her wife.

Arlina did not want this memory to leave, yet as the memory flow by like distant books on blue library shelves, she longs for the girl of the dead. She thought at first she lost her head to the National Razor, yet she was spared. Yet now if she were any danger it would be in the time of the present. A time where Christmas spirits fades into the city lit by the lunar crescent. A time when it was worth more to worship the state. Arlina could only spend her time her room, with nothing to do but masturbate. She masturbates under the glow of the lamp light, keeping the covers closed. She masturbates to girl in wooden shoes tap dancing in earlier times, yet has never really understood what got her into such kinks.

Her concentration at times can go out in a wink, her mind like armor with many chinks. Her mind subject to multiple tests by flintlock bullets. She tries to read books on the blue library, yet at times can barely concentrate on anything. It was like a new home, she was taken under its wing.

She embraced its broken wings.

She embraced the pages.

The digital life.

Some of you will remain loyal, others of you will betray the group. You who betray the group will be beheaded by your comrades, as you wear clogs while riding digital horses across the world of dreams. Yet those of you who wear the clogs of Winter Jesus, shall have disagreement among each other, and the remainder shall be sentenced to decapitation by the ax. As as she leans her head on the chopping block, her sore bare feet in her clogs curl their toes, as she waits nervously long awaiting the ax.

The executioners ravage her body with its severed neck, and she longs awaits her next incarnation into a more peaceful lifetime. A world without war.

A memory, a memory of horse rider girls. As they wear their Winter clogs of buckled leather molding to their feet, as they fight to the death. Arlina did not want to be in such a world of warring Amazon knights. She merely wanted to bow to the moon and saw goodnight. She wanted to sleep, and live each day one day to the next. While consuming bad porn with mediocre subtext. She dreams of one day brewing wine, and seeing how things turn out. If she can brew herself some Merlot, her dependence on California is finished. And so she can pursue her ultimate dream of going to Quebec and France, admiring her own personal equivalent to Britain.

Yet in this world, a world where some discuss of False Flag alien invasions, she wonders where her own view of reality as she knows will remain as it has been. She had been into UFOs before she went off to Washington, and had almost a year of hiatus. Yet now as she goes back to the world of Ufology she finds it difficult to get used to. She finds it's almost like being dead. She would rather live in a world of Electronic decapitated Amazons losing their heads by deranged Multiple Multiple Player game masters, programming in lines of code across Linux laptops. She lusts after their severed necks, as their long locks fall from the sky.

Arlina had just moved in last week, and it was the second apartment she had gotten from her parents, who seem insistent on continuing to get her more and more apartments. While it was a place to live, she grew tired of feeling like she was confined to Tennessee, where people have become increasingly bold about discriminating against LGBT people. She finds her life a life of mundane, despite various various parks in Chattanooga.

She finds herself desiring stealth.

Total non passing oblivion.

The window frame bleeds into the surrounding wall. Sunlight beyond the glass melts into the horizon, and the farmsteads blend into the Urban life. The oil lamplights become electronic city lights, carriages the transportation of outer districts.

If you turn to your right, you can sometimes see the old barbershop shaving faces, the old business visited by men in black trench coats and top hats holding canes, while rolling for the weekly trim. Yet in the districts of the future century, the flying cars are outmoded by hybrid fuel efficiency. Some may speculate upon when free energy will come, but it may never. Girls in wooden shoes jump rope in the districts of earlier centuries, and women of the future arming themselves with current tattoo based holographic communicators streaming inter web video channels.

Yet to call them women at such a young age, gives highlight to the decreasing age of majority. One can pay rent at thirteen, and expect urban dislocation by twenty six. And time flows slowly like the River Sticks. Life has achieved as certain kind of mundaneness only prior achieved since the invention of the world wide web, when automation of labor for the districts of later centuries made basic income a requirement.

For such girls who wear sneakers and Birkenstocks instead of wooden shoes, there is the strain of modern day fashion sense dictated by propaganda on celebrity television, the screen given impressions that give one poor body image. The image of being way to fat. Though it is not that girls in the district of earlier centuries did not not men's desires, yet it was from individuals one sees face to face with rather than the unaccountability by men on the inter web. Such impressions can float on the web for an eternity, like an endless of ocean of total misogyny.

A world of superficiality.

A world beyond the meadow of gold.

Arlina had managed to track down one of her school crushes from the fifth grade. The "White" never wore Birkenstocks in school, but never wore tennis shoes either. She was the kind of girl to wear ballet flats and Mary Janes. So when another girl wore Birkenstocks, there was an unspoken form of mockery from her. Yet now Arlina looked far younger than the "White", despite wearing Birkenstocks, a pair of form fitting capris, and a red plaided shirt. Arlina was never one to flout around a mini-skirt. Yet despite the cultural difference among near generation z women, neither of them could comprehend life the outer districts of the nineteenth century.

Despite their own differences, there was many aspects of commonality. The "White" also had a thing for shoes, among other fashion choices. And like Arlina was also a complete foodie, and there was enough in both in common food wise that they could bound till the end of the year in a single date. If only Arlina could see them being a match, yet she had long sense given up on dating the fairer sex, when she found she herself was among them.

There was an unspoken hatred of own body that was pervasive throughout her early twenties, manifesting as ero guro images on anime image viewing websites. Images of girls in bedtime slippers, images of impossibly beautiful women getting their heads severed in Guillotines. An impossible barrier to cross in the world of The Blue Library. The hatred of the self. Yet when Arlina met Jenna, she was able to push The White into back of her mind, and was able to hold off thinking about her for month after month. After one the human mind could only focus on one cute girl at a time after all. And like a nightmare dream, her body blends into demonic warping mansions, armed with statues whose sculptors were long gone. And she nearly went to the Guillotine herself on the whim of dream masters. This was her bleed through life, the life of the filth.

The filth of lust.

The filth of exposed busts.

The image of hate.

Sometimes entering ones childhood home brings back memories of certain traumatic events in your life. One can go without night terrors for months, and finally begin to experience them again when sleeping inside the bed of your neighborhood home. For Arlina, being back home for the holidays always gave these memories, and being back home with family didn't allow her to release pressure from her chest as much as she would have liked to. She was unsure how her sisters would have reacted to her attempting suicide five different times, being unsure one could find for themselves mental health. Sometime it feels like one is already dead.

She looks at various internet web pages, filled with different kinds of porn. Among this includes pictures of girls hanging by the neck, and girls hung up like clothes with their heads severed and placed on boards, their torsos hanging like tee shirts on a wire. Consumed entire, the lust. Arlina has no idea where some of her kinks come from, as she has no desire to murder anything. It was a certain kind of innate desire for destructions, as she lusts after girls not herself decapitated on a guillotine. It was a slice of life, a slice of eternal lust.

Her lust was a young woman, decked out in nineteenth century Alsatian clothes. The Alsatian one a large giant bow, and two wooden shoes. With eyes as big as an anime girls, her ego was the stuff of legends. Far larger than Arlina had ever known. This was her girlfriend Anna-Marie, whom lived with her and Jenna several nights of the week on a leased rent in downtown Chattanooga. Arlina would not by there to answer the door, and the manager would tell the girls that she was out to the library. Arlina felt like being at the library was one of the few places where she could be herself. Yet her lust, whose name was Anna-Marie, would at times change her clothes to more modern outfits except her wooden shoes and try to get her to come back to the apartment so Arlina could feed her sexual supply.

Arlina would come home with various books she only had time to read on rare occasion, while she lusted after girls Alsatian and Cajun. Girls dressed up like anime dolls on copy write notice figurines, like a stereotypical Otaku on their last week without their dose of vapor nicotine. Arlina was reduced to smoking coffee when the supply of nicotine got to low. And when she got low enough she dealt with not having any rather than spending her money on things that were not groceries.

For Arlina, she needed tobacco.

But she hated tobacco.

She hated the cough.

Sometimes a person's route changes through their lifetime.

For Arlina, her default route was to fly to Tennessee, and proxy her flight through various airports in order to conceal her final location. She appeared to fly to South Carolina, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, North Carolina, and Alabama. In reality she only flew from South Carolina to Tennessee, after her trip to the beach. While she was at the beach, she visited with her nomadic friends on a transnational sky ship.

On group flights her routes are concealed by automatic routing by the team's Captain's quarters. She had received the briefing after a period of being watched for years, as she chose to study geolocation based encryption. Abducted onto the ship from an early age, she grew up without a mother from an early age of six, and she learned various subjects needed to perform at optimum capacity. Yet as with all youth she grew bored and watched as the world went by.

She would visit various traitors in the town square room have their heads taken off by Guillotine in her teens, and had developed a fascination for blood long before she began associating such punishments with sex. There was nothing like long Gothic locks trimmed and their curls shortened, and found imagining a closing around her neck made her hard. Arlina didn't know much of anything else, but knew how to encrypt her own content. Yet she feared heights more than others her age, and therefore couldn't ransack other sky cities, nomadic nations without a dot on the map. She watched as women who could not bare children, would be sent to the Guillotine, if they had no skills that would aid to the survival of their nomadic nation of which they had become a captive.

And when Arlina was done she would wake up in her home as always, wondering if she was sane. She would have these dreams from time to time, and lately the dreams became more pronounced. When she had explored the blue library, she would sometimes see women who would take her to see the sky ship. On some level, no matter how close she came to being caught, she knew that there were always digital angels watching her every bit as sinister as they were benign.

She wondered in the world of the dead. She knew she could not tell Jenna, and she wondered if Anna-Marie already knew. She imagined Anna-Marie stomping on her cock with her wooden shoes, the mixture of pain making Arlina cringe with masochistic sexual pleasure. She wondered helping the sky ship conceal its location, and being inherently criminal in nature, they had devised a method of brain washing to forget about the presence of the ship. And she would receive a new briefing every weekend of the month. Arlina lived a kind of double life: an every day girl, a geolocation encryption router on the sky ship. It consumed her life.

Her life in routes.

Her life on the run.

She falls.

She dreams of skull-fairies. She dream of the undead, that function as her only company and friends. For she feel as nothing but death. Her bride to be.

Her bride to be wears a tunic. She wears a tunic with a knife. The girl who is my wife in bed waiting to strike, she waits longing. She slithers like a snake, slithering all over longing for my mind to bake. Her long blond locks falling, her long blond locks falling down her back long. She pounds my heart, pounding it till it stops. It stops. She waits, she savors, she licks. With her sweet smile, with her sweet smile she reclines. As she reclines she stares to the moon, she does not howl. She sleeps.

Arlina's bride vanishes like stray thought.

Arlina wake up as if from a dream, yet she felt all to real and right beside me. She barely remember her bride's face, she remembered not feeling the thought of disgrace, but looking into pure emptiness and hollowness. Arlina follows Arkuba, and she knows not where she goes. Arlina follows, follows, and follows wherever her bride choose to go her mind was fleeting, like her beliefs of black sheep to flocks of white. Everything in life is like waking up after falling into a spike pit, being skewered on a spit. And being roasted alive by faceless shadows. Arlina was their property, the lost soul of eternity. During the day Arlina watches as the world burns before her, as she sees future of nuclear holocaust. The remnants of society persecuted by deranged governments.

She converts her last cigarillo into three different cigarettes. She rolls it, I inhales it. She cares not what to do with her own body. We all become dust in the end. During the day she sees faint glimpses of her image, stray shadows following her long. At least with demons you know their shape. At least with demons there is so hope that they may destroy you and eat your soul. Yet with Arkuba there was that hope that she may like you, as she slept with Arlina at night. The stranger beside her in your bed, who could easily pluck off Arlina's head with a glorified steak knife. Yet chooses not to, as she prefers to keep Arlina as her slave. She wonders across Arlina's hips and bones.

She jumps Arlina. She consumes.

She vanquishes the heart. Arlina knew not how Arkuba came to live with her in her house. Arlina took her in as a stray human, a homeless girl from the urban district of the future century. She never spoke much, but smoked much. She came from neither a world of the French, or the world of the Dutch. When she spoke it was in arcane phrases, some unknown language from some lost human race. And to this day Arkuba shows up, and yet nobody else ever sees her. And like the angels of Purgatory all draped in black, she wanders the world with Arlina like some loving stalker in the night.

She crouches, wings of bones. They crack, she screeches.

She flickers out of Arlina's sight. Out sight, out of mind. She shows up when Arlina wants to unwind, turn the mental clock backwards. Arlina only remember her red eyes, as she dreams of nothing but bits and bytes in lucid dreams. Binary code like virtual reality skies. Not a world of American Cherry pies or Apple pies. Her life is a life of truth and lies. A paradox of actuality and not. Arlina was not able to forget, those red eyes or a sky full of sky ships. Arlina wished the dreams to come to an end, and yet they persist in her mind. Arlina feel as if she is being watched, by unseen indescribable things. With limbs similar by unlike cracking wings of bone. There is nothing to atone for, there is only flesh and bone.

There is death.

There is new life.

There is the wife of death.

One wakes up feeling completely tired, and unable to move at all. And one feels a constant feeling of menace behind them, as it trickles into eternity. A living and breathing old hag syndrome, the old hag a young woman of 1,500 years old. Who has been around for centuries at a time.

Who can kill you on a dime.

Yet she chooses not.

A tortuous love.

At other times there is only a face.

Blond mother drove. Blond mother drove to the hills. Through the hills she seeks supply of her own narcissism. She admires the empty mirror.

A mirror empty, a mirror of a face. Her own disgrace, subdued by a face not in a mirror. She stared at Arlina. She stared with eyes so empty then. Can she not talk some other day again? She sought totality, at an expense. Her child's anxiety. Her child's personal destruction. All visits turn to dust. All visits turn to dust nightly, slightly. Slightly nightly, one fades in the moonlight glow. It is another nightly glow. It is another illumination.

A corpse of sand and glass, A world, without any grass. When time is gone! When time is gone you, waiting, seek silent nightly illumination in the dark night. One only dreams it. One only dreams of the nightly, the nightly song playing its silent violin to the rhythm of untrained funeral musicians under payed and understaffed. Understaffed, payed to admire the beauty in her nothingness. When you live with a mother after so long, sometimes you become silent. One dreams of their fall, as they dream of the poisonous consumption. Their mother's rot by the plague.

A midnight rhyme. A midnight rhyme, nightly song. A midnight rhyme, nightly song of widows from the green. The poison love. The love of poison is green. Like ripping out your liver, and then your spleen. Social inadequacy in the life. Arlina watched the sky below in the dream of sky ships, remembering her mother. Stuck in the past, while go sailing when you dreams go avast! For the river flows in all directions, and sometimes one remembers out of order, the totality of the narcissus. For sometimes it merely worth telling. Telling of a time, yet showing only wires, prosthetic arms, and ripped muscle by foot soldiers not intended for sex.

For the girl that was born a boy who wanted to change sex, there was always the uncertainty of being around men. To me around a man again. She remembered when ill advised friends on social media tried getting her to date a tranny chaser. But his eyes told her, he merely wanted to shoot her with a laser. A chaser with a laser, but really a laser with a chaser. For there was no human holding the laser, the laser powerful enough to carry its own burning sensation into ones heart and bone.

Sinless atone, unwarranted.

The nature of sin was questionable, brought about mainly by men from previous centuries that still maintain influence upon the populace of Earth. If you think what is referenced is some dystopian novel, well it's the year two thousand and seventeen and we still haven't figured out how to solve the oil crisis. Even Arlina, can only make tobacco tea to ward away sixteen legged lice. She had almost been kicked off the ship, or rather her body was. Herself beheaded on a guillotine, and dropped into the desert to be ravaged by coyotes. El Coyote avec ils shotgun. Shotgun shooting bullets of sharpened teeth.

Another incarnation beyond the world of Purgatory and dreams. Unreality merging and trickling beyond the seams of traditional paradigm. A world of fragmented rhyme.

Playful wind chimes in a desert house.

A dog as quiet as a mouse.

A silent house.

A silent world.

Plugging in strings, states inputted. Routed Tennessee to South Carolina. Pressed enter. Waited for input, gets.chomp. Printed route from Tennessee through four other states.

Final stop at South Carolina, with an island one can drive to from the mainland through a bridge. A private beach. The island contained memories of childhood, yet nobody is renting a house for this trip. It's like living independently, without the financial backup from ones parents. One doesn't have to worry about housing costs on their own private sky craft. Arlina was abducted into the criminal underworld ship from various points in her youth, but had came to have increasing periods of time on the sky craft.

Those who have leaked the vessel in the past were guillotined in the town square under fraudulent Trumped up charges. She only wanted to risk this when she absolutely had to. She enjoyed the solitude of using the Geo location Router. She would at times do routes on her own time, studying how the machine worked.

The Geo Location Router routed through whatever state you wanted based on assigned input: if one inputted a collection of the nine states across the United States, theoretically the ship would travel in locations specified by the encryption mechanism:

State 1 > Tennessee

State 2 > Alabama

State 3 > Kentucky

State 4 > Georgia

State 5 > New Mexico

State 6 > Louisiana

State 7 > South Carolina

State 8 > Texas

State 9 > Wyoming

TN AL KY

GE NM LA

SC TX WY

The community sky ship was the size of two high school football stadium bleachers. Bigger than an aircraft during the time of the third world war, yet smaller than a mother ship. Yet it was incapable of space travel. It had nothing to do with speed, but oxygen supply. Built with the intent of becoming a micro nation, it traveled the world undetected. Arlina only knows how to run the Geo Location Router, printing new routes. At times she wants to take a break, but realized she probably had the most boring--and therefore easiest job one could have on the ship. She reclined and remembered various out of body experiences she had growing up, and memories of Mary Antoinette and Charlotte Corday.

People on this ship were picked based on their openness to various forms of what are labeled pseudo-science by the mainstream establishment. Only thus so because the black budget projects, really more of a black market was a crazy insane butt load of cash, they can try various people across nations for leaking information, pay them to consider it such. But her own team was her own personal rogue team, not affiliated with the armed service. It was more like street gang compared to Lockheed, Skunk works, and Boeing. But there were no drive by shootings for this micro nation. There simply wasn't any money in it, and it would leak their own whereabouts in a heartbeat, when all most seemed to want is hard sex and hard drugs. Arlina herself was considered milk toast for only liking to smoke Coffee and head ache powders with caffeine in it.

She needed to decaffeinate.

She always got head aches. The ghost of the last executed person visited her in room, telling her about various drugs she had tried in her own lifetime, before she lost her head. "Why haven't you been reincarnated yet?" Arlina asked.

"Unfinished business." the ghost said.

It was always like this on the sky ship to forever. She was unsure whether she could totally get used to being around ghosts. It wasn't like the mainstream rogue corporations didn't already know about. But for whatever reason her team she was drafted into was never bothered by it a lot.

It was like they didn't exist.

People the rogues forgot.

She pressed two on the Ruby program to reroute from Chattanooga to Georgia. She had last been to Georgia when she explored Anime Weekend Atlanta, watching others dress as pirates and ninjas in television series that have gone on for way to long. She remembered various girls wanting to take her picture, and despite being one that found it hard to resist, she found it difficult to make long lasting friendships in such an arrangement.

By twenty one, she was already old compared to most of the visitors, and by now if she went there are some narcissists that would question her motives for going. Even if perhaps there was a long tradition of porn and yaoi after dark. She remembered the times she went on a lark, yet not as time goes on she wonders why it was she was friends with the guy that took her there. He would drive at one hundred miles an hour at the flow of traffic, despite regulations prohibiting such speeds.

Yet now as she reroutes the sky ship out of state, various memories melt in the distant landscape at warp speed, fading out in an instant loop.

She said, tired, "I need to take a poop."

And a poop she did. The ship was affixed with a European toilet, something she had grown up not being used to. Her parents had always lectured her about how much toilet paper she used, despite social mores against asking about others bathroom habits. She was thankful she no longer had to worry about it.

Her own worry was flow of text, rerouting state routes.

Momentary glimpse of infinity.

Traveling through Washington, Florida, California, Texas, Oregon, and Louisiana. Telling the state you're going to Washington, Texas, Florida, Oregon, California, and Louisiana instead. This is a system called flight masking.

Arlina proposed a system of flight masking in order to conceal their location. This way people tracking them would think they going to other states, and therefore will have a hard start in reaching the final destination. Arlina found that standard rerouting had issues if they were telling the state they had to fly to specific states, even if the travel route itself was basically secure. The only way was a form of subtle fraud that protected their exact whereabouts on the map.

Arlina floated out of her body, while flying through the sky. She felt like she was falling to the ground below. As she glided down, she found the house of the most current abductee, like she was before she became accustomed to the new life. She gave directions to where the person was, and then sent the team in in order to conduct their study of the individual. The individual was glided up in their sleep, and their thought patterns studied to check for belief in any form of reincarnation. No such luck, the individual will only remember the sound of beeping and buzzing.

The team gently placed the individual back into bed, and wiped their memory. Arlina began to question the validity of studying individuals in their sleep. But she was only a sky ship router for the pilot, and not a single position more important. But she dreamed of someday running the ship.

And so many days went by.

Still not improvement of position. It didn't matter what your tech level was, if you couldn't get the rest of the team to trust you. She thought of avoiding flight masking one day, and so made her plans accordingly.

She printed out the route from 1 to 8 to 3. Using the routing mask, it added the values of 8 to 6 to 5. Because routes over nine loop back to the original numbers, the route appeared to fly through Florida and Louisiana to Texas.

Potential captures would only arrive in Texas once she had reached Alabama. It became essential mask the routes her abduction force were going, do to the nature of their operations. She was unsure how soon law enforcement would catch up to their operations. She assumed it was simply a matter of time. The old command was used to the idea that route proxy alone could save their ass. However when your route is being tracked by dream-scanners, sometimes one needs an extra layer of protection. If not for her team mates safety, than her own. Her team had gone rogue for generations, and they were slow to make any kind of progress toward encryption technology.

They figured that they wouldn't be engaging anything that's as illegal as murder or selling drugs at the time, so carelessness was a given. Generation after generation, they became lazier and lazier. After a point Arlina began to become tired of kidnapping people for slave labor, as she gradually began to see it. She wanted something else to do with her time besides browsing the blue library, and wanted to be erased off the map of humanity. Even before becoming member of this secret society, one had to agree to having old records of their old existence removed from government records. This made it easier to evade detection, but it also eliminated their rights as citizens of the North American continent.

Yet now after complete oblivion, she seek to return to the old life. She seeks the life of living with amnesiac Jenna. She browsed through alternative to the mainstream internet, one that browsed exclusively through the encampment on the sky craft, and never reached the outside world.

She was lost in the net.

She wanted to make a bet.

How much longer till the drop.

"Who would ever thought you'd get to live in the city." said Arlina's mother, whose name shall never be named. "Just a few months ago, we would have thought you'd keep living with us. But now you'll be on your own in the city."

It was one of those passive aggressive statements she always made, betraying some of her own frustrations about her daughter. It was just recently she had began to acknowledge calling her Arlina, and she used to call her by her male name. She kept doing this till Arlina turned twenty seven. Yet deep down, there is no change. Her mother would keep taking over the tent when going shop with her daughter on Market street. Arlina would have to purchase smokes on her dime when mother wasn't around, as she would find some excuse to avoid the grocery store that sold the smokes.

Even on New Years there was no resolution that was to her daughter's benefit, only relationships broken and falsely mended by perpetual gas lighting. Arlina was ready for her mother to be gone, and tossed around in her mind various methods she could poison her but not kill her to make her sick enough to take her out of her life, enough to tell mom to stay away. Yet on some level Arlina knew, there would be nothing short of a barring notice to keep her mother away. Her father was a total enabler, and therefore she could not sneak anything by him. Arlina wished he could have an affair mom did not know about, so dad could be out of the picture. At least temporarily. Doesn't have to be permanent, but it needed to be long enough in order to concentrate on her own needs.

Yet by night she can't focus on anything. She focuses instead on doing her job as a route printer for the sky ship, following the path of dark angels in the night. Goodnight starlight, goodnight moonlight. Goodnight happy new year. Good night solitude, never left alone for eternity.

Goodnight autonomy.

Goodnight love.

You could purchase a pack of cigarillos, and never run out of cigarettes for a month. One could also buy cedar logs, and whittle them down into pencils and burn the tip, supplying you with the tools you need to smoke and draw illustrations without having purchase new ones for a long time.

Yet in our culture, we live in a world where we are made to believe that work around the system in order to live a better life is illegal. You could go your entire life racking up price gouging on a fifty dollar carton cigarettes and never become aware of the fact that you're being financially screwed. But when you get screwed to much, sometimes you fight back against that system. And financially necessity necessitates the need to stretch your money much further than you previously thought possible.

Pace was in Washington a few months before arriving back in Tennessee on a temporary basis. She wanted to go to California, and later Vermont in order to learn how to become a chef. But do to a falling out with a previous room mate, she found it advantageous to temporarily agree to live in a apartment in a redneck city more like a town.

This was town where she goes to cheap knock up stores. She finds there are still homeless people that still smoke regular cigarettes, and yet still blame the world for their financial situation and their eventual eviction. When the news hit that Moscow hacked into the white house on national news, she simply smirked because that wasn't what real hacking was about. The point of hacking wasn't about breaking into security systems. Plus when you have someone who is a political puppet, sometimes it's not very difficult to rig an election. For Pace, she had been in a financial situation where she needed to find as many work around advantages as she could find. Yet in this world she calls home, sometimes she explores various lives unacknowledged by a room mate trying to find work. So naturally she was open to the idea of finding a new room mate like Arlina, who had moved to Chattanooga in order to get disability.

When they met, they dined at a local Chinese restaurant just down the road on Market Street. The place had great prices, and Arlina's mom had once speculated that it was because the diner catered to the local homeless population. So when they ate they exchanged stores about their various adventures going across United States nation boundaries, and would exchange user names on instant messenger. And so they began to hit it off.

A new friendship.

A break from the real life.

A break from toxic room mates.

Up, up, up went the air balloon in the city. For it would be another Fare today.

She never remembered a time when there was no Fares and funnel cakes. After after the take over of the National Satanist Libertarian Party, things have no changed much since the time the old administration run the town. But according to her parents, now that the party had eliminated the tyranny of the puppet Administration for more militaristic mainland country, things have for the most part been better.

Her name was Aaronette, who with her long straight light brown hair, could get anything she wanted from boys. Most of the time it was trips to the mini-markets against her parents wishes. She would have each of the multitudes of temporary boyfriends she had had, purchase her cigarillos on the cheap. But as soon as the boys parents found out, they would have their heads. So they were out of commissions for the next month or so. Eventually Aaronette grew tired of having so many boyfriends suddenly disappear. She assumed that the boys were simply grounded. When she met up with them again, they claimed to not know who she is. So all is fair in love and romance, the battle field of warring hearts.

Although her fashion sense was decidedly a modern retelling, she fancied herself a fusion outfit of one thing or another. She wore two wooden shoes, and no cotton cap. The cotton cap always made her God damn head itch, and she didn't want to be seen scratching her head in public, for this was not a very lady like thing to do. Although part of the advantage of straight hair was generally looking more neat than those with curly hair, it would still sometimes get knotted up. So her mother would have difficulty combing it out. And the pain from combing her hair made her want to shout. Though not as much as when her mother had her eat bean sprouts, and consume a bit of coffee Jello along the side on morning before school. She much preferred eating Chinese or Mexican food, but sense the war Mexico had expanded their territory and China was no longer trading with the United States. So it was hard to get good imported cuisine anymore.

The few treats she got to have was chocolate crepes, or the most her knew how to make them, for her mother never studied a recipe book in her life. And that was how her first husband up and left her, refusing her to be his lovely wedded wife. He eat his good, and lost his life. So crepes were the few things that reminded her of her father, who had came from France to visit the newly created island country separated from the United States--a country where men got cancer of the prostate higher than the worldly average. And in some portions rained as much as Britain, so they say. But Aaronette didn't know this, as she had never been to Britain. Although she has watched plenty of California Republic movie studio productions, that she suspected didn't give her an accurate picture of the United Kingdom by the sea.

Aaronette liked to carry umbrellas every day she went to school. Back when it was still an American state, the United States had still mandated school paddling as the means to adjust attitude problems on the lark of an angry school teacher with a penchant for spilling his instant cup o Joe. Luckily most classes were not this was. But she always dreaded this class.

Yet other classes were much more worth her time. She loved the times when she could read historical and biology textbooks on her own time, and this was when her first sparks of creativity came upon on a limb: she imagined dining with aliens in intergalactic Cyberpunk cantinas, beheading Marie Antoinette, and had many affairs as one of the first presidents of the old US who wanted to try to end UFO secrecy.

Aaronette liked girls, but girls didn't like her.

Whenever she would try to set at lunch with the other girls, they would have her come over there, likely in order to mock her. At least she interrupted this as such at the time, while she dined on Tuna casserole with Haldi and Thyme. She grew used to spending most of her time in her head. Yet nowadays she dines alone, after she asked permission to eat in the library, promising that she could spend that time combining it with catching up with school work when she was late, but also completing assignments ahead time of classes that she really enjoyed.

The thing about Aaronette's school life, she herself was never Cyberpunk. Yet most of the people that flocked around her with computer geeks and heavy metal/punk heads with a penchant for smoking pot and drinking energy drinks while playing retro video games half way through the high school year.

"You see, this is Jacob. Jacob is a Jew. Jacob likes Jewish things." It was one of those people that Aaronette always hated that made the comment, although at the time she was to preoccupied trying to focus on her studies. When she was in fencing classes, it was a temporary escape. And over time she began to lose weight little by little. Until some of the old girls that avoided her before, flocked around her. Particularly the cheerleaders, that seemed to pay more attention to herself after her weight loss, and after she grew her hair out.

So school was mostly boring.

There was so much going on it was easy to take it for granted, and become quite bored of it!

CJAM, or the Communal Journal Armed Militia. It was one of the developments after the NSL party take over her small island country after leaving the United States. Although she never hears from them that much, she wonders what other independent townships are like. She wanted to explore the country side, and visit city like towns buried under the ground.

But most of the time her mother drilled her way to often on a form of math that she was unlikely to ever really need in the real world, unless she became a scientist or an engineer. She preferred to watch UFO lecturers on internet video networks, and indulge in the pleasures of the flesh. For she became increasingly adept at hiding her own hyper sexuality from her own parents, who never needed to know some of her antics. Such as watching pretty military personnel women in the old country get guillotined, before the declaration against capital punishment. Nowadays the only person ever publicly guillotined were mayors in "Rogue towns", with resident given permanent refuge status as members of CJAM as compensation for the tyranny they went through in their old life.

They say the members of CJAM could gain great rewards from being an active armed journalist, and she wondered what journalism was like before the war. The war was bloody and long, and separated the States into four separate nations, some of which spoke Russian after the hacked election of their patsy. The name went down in history as the one that shall not be named, persona non Grata. Not Welcome indeed, for the man looked like an ugly ignoble steed. And so she closed up her nights dreaming of meadows and space colonies of afar, and genies locked in a jar. She dreamed of a new world, where there was no more tyrants, no more genocide, and no more guillotining of tyrannical mayors.

She was tired of the perpetual Fare.

That celebrated their death.

She didn't think she'd hold onto the abuse as a grudge, for her girlfriend claimed it was an accident. Yet when you accidentally spill coffee on your lovers shirt, sometimes one begins to wonder if it was an accident at all. Aaronette had just gone off duty, searching for stories to report on.

Armed with a small handgun, the highest caliber she was permitted to own, she became one of the best in finding stories to tell. Yet some of her colleagues were concerned about her abuse of tobacco, in ways not intended by the crafters of tobacco you rolled yourself into a cigarette. While she didn't have the cough people expect from smokers, she would always feel fatigued and yet paradoxically have an extreme amount of focus that was unmatched by her coworkers in the business. She began to increasingly talk about things others still continue to no longer dare.

At times she escaped her demise by just a hair, when journalists on other websites aimed at her to keep her from reporting on anything else for good. She had killed about ten women, and five men who were armed and loaded, who had received bribes from Russia. The Kremlin wanted to see her business go down the tubes forever.

Yet on this island, now no longer part of the United States, there was citizen's journalism, or there was death. She had reported on ex mayors whom society deemed the ROE was relevant to the particular circumstance, and some her friends came from previous town erased off the map and merged with the town at the edge of the next year or so when things calm down. There was no longer any point in reading spy novels, her life had become like a citizen's equivalent. She abhorred the idea being apart of any establishment, and took pains to learn the most up to date methods of encryption available for the public to study from.

"Roll your own encryption is generally a bad idea." she would hear some of her previous friends say. Yet she had been in this business for a long time, and knew better than to keep the keys on her computer despite having switch to Linux Mint for over a year by this point. Her life felt like an endless train, at train with galloping like a horse in the wild west in a world where the automobile was becoming increasingly irrelevant, and the fossil fuel industry was a dying dinosaur.

She took things her comrades would say with a grain of salt, yet she had had many bumps in the road in this process. Length, wordy, verbose. This was the method of the game, when mainstream news outlets increasingly began to obey the "New Axis". The French Mademoiselle, the Orange dictator, and the Kremlin. Their boot marching to the edge of forever against the US, Russia, and France. There was no Lone Ranger that fought that fight.

ET DO AE OJ IJ EA MN VX

She received simple text message from a friend, whom she had been in the business with for a long time. She had known her long before she had become a journalist. Yet now she was at a point in encryption where she no longer needed to use Playfair Ciphers in order to protect her sources. By this point she been used to multi-square ciphers that far exceeded the capabilities of four square ciphers. You might call it something like a Playfair equivalent to a Straddling Checkerboard. Each set of two letters would use a separate passkey in order to decrypt what is presented.

Yet she was unsure how much longer she would still be about to use this antiquated method. She had stopped programming in Ruby for some time, having given up in the idea after not being able to program a way to break a Playfair Cipher. And this was essential if she wanted a personal blog where readers have to solve a random Playfair Cipher. She found herself roadblocked into eternity. And in the darkness she fades to oblivion from the public life, alone and damaged. She waits for the sun to come down. At night dreams of varying ciphers, coming up with new security solutions to protect her own sources.

Yet at the end of the day she assumes that no matter how far she comes, the US secret service would be knocking on the doors fairly soon. She waits for oblivion, she waits for death.

She gets drunk on tobacco juice.

Aaronette tried to imagine what Quantum encryption would be like, at this point in the early 21st century, the only ones who knew of such technology were secret service agencies. But she knew that given the shape of Tesseract, one could speculate on different multi-squared ciphers for each dimensional plane on time and space. She wondered how this would convert into geo-location based encryption. She wanted to seem to disappear of the radar in real time while she searched for information sources in order to bring her readers the most up to date news.

She already knew the basics of the idea of geo-location based encryption: you present your location as if you were going from a to b, but in reality you were going to c and d. But your location footprint would show your physical location is going from a to b. You would ride the planes of Playfair Ciphers in time and space, and hope the brain doesn't ooze from your face. You warp space of time, and find a spot on the map.

She wanted to follow her own way.

Her way beyond the edge of Quantum Geo-location cipher breaks. A way to disappear forever.

The next morning she went to went as useful, careful not to wake up her room mate. She then slowly slid outside the door of her Studio flat, making sure to bring her pepper spray, cigarettes, and her apartment keys. Both the card and the regular key, so she could get inside in the cold night, in a world where the risk of flooding has increased manifold, and the US politician has no yet erased crucial climate research. She was unsure how long she would go undetected, she was unsure of anything.

The new life.

The new CJAM.

Aaronette got herself a baguette.

"Have you seen the bread isle?" asked Aaronette, as an undercover CJAM employee. She wanted to break the story first, before anyone else could get to it. She arrived on Sunday, in order to see the pretty ladies dressed up as Samurai.

"Once you grab, you must buy" said the French girl, dressed up as a Samurai. "But did you grab more than you can buy? Here, I can take a loaf off your hands."

Eventually she was able to convince the Samurai manager above the Samurai girl that the bread had a green spot. "Have a nice day, hope you'll come back." the French woman manager said, in a faked Japanese accent. Aaronette wanted to turn around and thank her, but the manager had the employee kneel on their knees, and off went her head with a Katana. Man! Aaronette knew some places treated their employees harsh, but that place was cut throat.

A lost loaf of bread, a university that pits man against man in simulated gun matches in First Person shooters to train to be journalists, and women taught to write romance novels along their CJAM career! Although Aaronette admitted she liked writing romance novels from time, her romance fiction had always tended to kill off both the lovers, chopping the off at the neck. Just like the Samurai French girl in French bakery.

What a world!

Aaronette arrived by her school dorm, where her guy friends where playing first person shooter virtual reality games, using a gun controller with real life pain simulation to signify that you have been hit.

She only wished she gave a shit about First Person Shooters! Although back when she considered herself male she had played such games more frequently. And without a doubt there was always girls that liked to hang out with boys, playing virtual reality games of death. At least they weren't dressed up as Samurai women, then they really could die on the job! And that will certainly never do.

In the dorm room, she made a dinner of beef Summer sausage Burgundy stew. She would occasionally munch on the pizza from a local pizza restaurant. A place that seemed to have far more sane management practices. But lately across the sea, the Near East of France seemed to increasingly merge with Japan blurring previously distinct cultural boundaries. And holograms fill the sky like can can dancing ballerinas in the midnight hour, like some bad anime rendition a science fiction genre long since out of date and irrelevant since the end of the nineteen nineties.

Even here she dreams of a world not cluttered by holographic advertisements, and targeted dreams toward otherwise created individuals. For she wanted more to do with her life than writing news stories and defending herself with handguns in order to survive the next day.

She wanted live her life...

Her way, her world.

When she was a kid she road on a surveillance train, she knew this back the fact that the train had digital television in front of every passenger seat. The television would call a maid on particularly long trips, and they would bring snack and beverages.

Even when she close the curtain to have some privacy, the television would always be watching you. She went on a trip from Seattle to California from 5:00 A.M. and was on the train the following three days, where she had different meals in the serving room. You could say she was tended hand and foot, but she never liked anyone touching her feet, or any other parts of her body.

That was how she learned to only tolerate train rides as long as she needed to, before visiting the place that truly felt like home. Beyond the dry landscape with the drained water, the land where whole trains had to order fried chicken when the food supplies went rancid because of no electricity in the kitchen on one occasion. Though luckily for her she never had to worry about such an occasional, she could finally enjoy the single night in California before they had to fly back to TN. Yet ever since she always wanted to go back to California.

And that was how she decided to move to the new artificial island nation, just off the coast of Pacifica. Where they were more liberal than even California. So liberal that managers can get life in prison for killing their staff, and Journalists are trained as armed journalists to protect themselves from other rabid journalists in the kingdom by the sea. An island that relied on being on site in order to tell accurate news, and not rely so much on robots that have become increasingly mandatory in the United States.

However the United States had increasingly wrote click bait news, so she certainly imagined such news being able to easily be generated by robots, making no sense and having no meaning what so ever. However the Nation Under Spat was better than this.

Even as Samurai French girls had to die in the process.

Even if University boys never knew a life outside of First Person Shooter matches, playing as cowboys on the net reaching for non existent point scores. Yet at times she thinks about the French girl that had to die in order to do bring some honor back to the fold of the Samurai French Bakery.

She thought of nothing.

But bloody necks.

Because life was life a tap dancing pop song imported from the remnants of the United States, a nuclear wasteland where life itself no longer has any meaning. A world where the suicide rate has increased manifold. That was a true life journal never told, with people rotting in the street. Where old water fountains are busted, and water gone rancid.

A life teetering on the edge.

Aaronette wanted to cross the edge into eternity, a new brand of CJAM adventure-ism. A world visiting the remnants of the Unite States Of America.

A world of death.

The city life faded nightly after she came in from smoking a cigarette she rolled herself.

It was a quiet evening, much quieter than usual. Aaronette didn't want to go to the Blue Library, as she had heard strange rumors about it being secretly a front operation for dream-scanners. This time, she spent her time analyzing cards on her dinner table, trying to predict which cards she would be able to accurately predict.

It wasn't enough to just be able to accurately predict what is behind the blue of a card to see its design, but also to conceal your imagination foot print so that the monitor doesn't specifically know what your are looking for, but without a preconceived idea about what one may find. A session where both viewers on the remote phone line are completely blind to this layer of matrix. For Aaronette, although she had trained herself in various forms of substitution and transposition ciphers, she found herself confused about how to apply both the knowledge of Playfair Ciphers and remote viewers. She had known of location based ciphering from a relevant she would speak to from time to time, but was unsure of the practicality of applying the concept to clairvoyance.

She knew that theoretically one could play around with location based Playfair Ciphers, but was unsure how it would work for Remote Viewing. After all, the imagination could go anywhere instantaneously. And if your mind were actively monitored and under surveillance, it was impossible to hide where you might project next based on skilled predictive analyses.

She had heard of a support group called Remote Viewers Anonymous, or RVA, that was merely a front for a covert team of clairvoyance. It was a group of friends that wanted an alternate to the internet of the twenty first century, an alternate to constant tailored advertisements on the net. Aaronette noticed on their web page they did not release their contact information. From asking about their support group, she found they don't need to. They can predictively analyze your interest based on consistent study of the material, and that they would find her.

Aaronette was unsure how to feel about this.

Aaronette had taken pains to make sure she would encrypt communications on the internet of today, and only writing down messages that carried no intrinsic meaning on their own, without specific life context. Through this she would avoid captors encrypting meaningless phrases on the net. But she would get signals from time to time that the support group was watching her very closely, curious about where her interests about encryption may lead.

They needed someone who was devoted to the task, and not one that would reveal their sources and methods to foreign governments like the United States Military Service, or what remains of it after the Second Civil War that followed the World War III.

Aaronette didn't feel she had anything to hide.

At least she didn't at the time.

"As I've said," the silhouette said, careful not to reveal to much all at once. "we've been watching your interest grow for sometime now. But you must understand why we don't want to reveal our phone number and email address." The woman in silhouette, about a head taller than Aaronette, turned around to face the window. "Imagine the catastrophe if the US government found out our location. That would be the end of our service."

"I didn't mean to..." Aaronette began to say, but was interrupted by the lady holding up her hand.

"I never said you meant to, but we needed to make sure you were really interested in leaning the process. We only want people that are devoted to the task. The security of our mission, to protect the movement of Nation Under SPAT is of up most importance. You must understand, you must acknowledge."

"Yes ..."

"That's Tu non Vous. Just call me Sarah," the lady in silhouette said. Then walked closer to Aaronette into the light. "Welcome to the team comrade Aaronette." And that was the handshake that closed the deal.

Night after night she would arrange covert meetings in specific viewing session. At times she would not be notified when viewing sessions would occur, she simply knew that she needed to be constantly under alert. Yet able to be tired enough after her training sessions in order to get the most data and information outside of the net. She eventually began gaining ranks, until she became a prized member of Sarah's team.

At times she wondered what her life would be like if she did not learn remote viewing, and she had continued down the path of regular viewing. But those times were gone, she had a new family now among Clairvoyance.

A family outside of the net.

A family outside of the normal life.

The Micro-National Splinter project was proceeding on course, and now it was simply a matter of raising a different kind of military force against the old US, a force that can predict the movements of states. A force that call remote view.

A force of the night.

Life isn't always sequential, at times completely not straight forward. She remembered winding through the catacombs of her past.

If there is one sure thing about living in an apartment, it's that you should never forget your keys and phone. It doesn't matter what else is wrong with the place, remember to bring your phone and your keys in your purse. It took asking three men whether they had a phone she could borrow, in order to get back in her studio flat. Her mind was distracted by thoughts of Mi6, and the various forms of encryption they perform and crack.

Instead as her mind fell into the void of thought, she didn't realize when she went out for a smoke, that she had left her keys in her apartment. It took calling her parents to come, being as polite as she could to the man that let her borrow his phone, in order to get the opportunity to sleep. Her mind was preoccupied by the movie she watched again that came out during her high school years, and how she had liked those movies better than another young adult series that was being advertised.

She could only think performing some urban exploration in the large basement of the apartment complex down the road of three hundred, yet now she was transfixed by the why it was she liked this Vampire and Werewolf war movies. It marked the end of her own interest in fantasy as a genre, and to some degree paved the way to her own disillusionment about dystopian fiction.

She was also worried about finding a generous soul, who would let her borrow a phone to let her call her mom.

She had been attracted to dystopian fiction based on the same reasoning she was attracted to being Gothic and Cyberpunk in her high school years, although at that time she would not have considered picking locks in order to get back inside of her comfortable flat. But do to various faction, most of her disappointment was a combination of exposure to the subject matter, and various narcissistic "writer farms" she had came across from time to time. She began to associate both genre as being largely defined by users.

Because of how often people sell out each other to other with equally suspect motives, it's hard to time in life whom one can trust. Apparently trust is a joke to some people, when they hand you life insurance cards. Her mind simulated images of used car salesmen on television trying to sell her a lesser deal, but highlighting the good parts of a piece of shit. But at the end of the morning, Sarah realized she was lucky, although at times she had this weird relationship with lady luck, and how she brushes up against lady un luck from time time in order to settle old scores. She thought of life merely as a simulation of suck, as she began to fall asleep.

Down into a deep wonderful sleep.

Yet as the world fades from visual data, she dreamed of how she had a dream within a dream. A dream where within this dream of pure mundaneness, how life was more like an onion rather than a sheet of pulpy paper. She thought of the layers of the apartment complex, and how everything in the city was one giant onion on the massive network called life.

She dreamed of remote viewing.

She dreamed of viewing remotes as they float in the sky, warped into cybernetic demonic spiders. And how such spider hopes out of time in order browse the larger life network, running itself to provide reality an expanded search index. And how these searched providing warnings of coming apocalyptic events, as she fell down into the void of inner space.

Her life, her world. Her inner space.

People were selfish, and so was she. But some are more selfless than others in the dark. She thought of the outgoing president, with his excellent wit. And wondered, why have Dystopia fiction when all has gone to shit?

Life was an unexplored matrix.

A onion not peeled.

How many ape men does it take to block an ax thrower trying to bust down a large screen digital television?

Whatever the answer is, it happened shortly after the French Civil War that split North and South France. They lost control of their crime rate, after Marine La Pen lost control of the law enforcement of North France. Corsica separated and became its own country, ending the question of whether they were really French, with tans in between European and North Africa, looking more like Italians. These social ills further spread into Europe, and indirectly into the United States, pitting ape men against ape men.

In older parts of the French Empire, their language began to splinter off into "French based" languages, similar to have English began to splinter off into English based languages. In what remained of France, a mass murderer was on the loose for a brief period of time. Known as the Bathroom murders, police were on the search for a woman that hung various women from trees for having babies being to afford to have a doctor birth the knot. After being caught, she said "I like Bananas." Before she was shot in the back of the head. And that was end of the last invader from Southern France.

Meanwhile in the US, Sarah is still preoccupied about the onion layers of life, as she gradually peels these layers away. On the news she heard about France splitting off into North France and South France. She was unsure what the future of capita punishment would be like. Because Marine La Pen no longer controlled France, there would be no Guillotine in the Northern portion. However travel to each one would likely be difficult considering it was expected that France would continue to remain a country, for her own plans on naturally in Europe for free travel, for France had left the European Union a short time before that civil war.

Now the war looks like children's play, as her own country becomes like dust. Russian further splint apart the United States, with those loyal to Russian occupation and those loyal to Mexico and Great Britain. When all was said and done, she was glad she kept the dual citizenship between Vermont and California, although she was unsure whether to go to Vermont. For the most part, after founding the artificial island micro-city, she very rarely even went into the California Republic. She spends most of her time studying a set of five cards, each one with a different deadly sin on it. And she would sometimes have Aaronette keep the card with the answer on it.

Her job was to guess which sin would show up on whether card she guessed, and that would be the sin she would have to temporarily exhibit in order to control it, and not let it control you. The hope would be someday control all seven deadly sins. But in practice, she would always try to find some reason not to practice remote viewing, being more concerned about whether Russia would intrude in the Island City Of Nation Under Spat. Eventually the old religions began to merge, dilute, and be replaced by Luciferian Nirvanaism, a hybrid of Buddhism and The Satanic Temple. While the citizens were not required to wear all black, the high council was expected to. It didn't matter what was black, so long as they wore all black. And so as the rest of the old United States had infiltrations of genetically engineered Chimpanzee men fighting for independence from Russia, the larger California Republic kept out of this conflict.

But she was unsure how long.

She wanted to sail her island away somewhere far away, but knew that her Nation Under Spat, still had diplomatic things to attend to in the California Republic.

It's funny how when you grow up knowing someone, at times you don't know as much about them as you think you do at first. As that cliche goes. Yet it's more true than you might think. Her dad had reflected on a story about how his father used to have this really bad temper. He had worked as a security officer for many years, and would always come home tired. The man had kept many secrets from his kids, one among them was how he learned French in school in his high school years. Without a doubt, the man was full of surprises. But what seemed to surprise them the most was when he had visited the old man who had married his cousin, and how there had been many bitter feelings between them.

For her Grandad, there was much about him she didn't know. Sarah had developed an interest in remote viewing, and before that had already previously decided to not have kids. All she had to do was looking into the very next generation, where next generations children were protesting in the street. It had been the warmest year on record, far warmer on record than any other year over the last one hundred years, when man started building Free Energy machines and hiding it from the public sphere until such a time when they deemed than man was ready for such knowledge--if there was money in it. Even in her grand dad's time, there had been many years of technological embargo, one that was only just now beginning to come to a century's end.

She thought of how she never told her family about her gender situation, among other issues. Issues that could make one love or hate her depending on who you spoke to. She saw her life through the window of five different cards, each other displaying from her third eye a different point in time and space. She would depict different countries and empires on different cards. She was never one for dialogue, preferring instead the glow of the net. And in previous years fancied herself Cyberpunk novels. Yet now as she grew older, and things began to change, her interest evolved more into a magic realism. Although she herself found the term magic realism disingenuous. For one, it was based on a certain idea about consensus reality carefully organized by the matrix. A matrix that keeps you subservient. A matrix most will never be aware they belong to. Everyone around her was like meat pigs for the slaughter, the world around her swirling in gravy made from the blood of men. And in this blood, prayer shall be given for the damned.

And yet for Sarah, she did not believe in the power of prayer. She believed only in the power of the self. Yet as time goes by she becomes less sure of herself, and yet even less sure about society as a whole. She was a paradox: on one hand she couldn't trust her eyes, one the other hand her eyes were the only ones she could trust. Her parents had for many years put her into situations where she could not make her own decisions about her own body. Even when she brought up the concept that she knows when people are gas lighting her, her dad always treated as part of her mental condition rather than part of the many years of sex abuse she went through. But then, it's never productive saying to a child molester that they molested you, as they'll always deny it. Or spin the conversation in some way. Her abuse was invisible and subtle, not detectable by other members of her family. On her moms ends they were complicit in helping her mother gas light her, or simply ignored that there was even a problem simply out of fear.

Sarah at times wondered what in the world she has to protest for, after all every time she tried to protest for anything, it always blew back up in her face. And she would fall on her knees in disgrace. Nobody what she chose to do for herself, her parents were sure to follow, like stalkers in the night. Her dad always picking locks, and singing bed time stories to say good night. Now as she lives many miles away from home, she wonders where her parents are. With all the complicated feelings that come with it. On one hand she was around friends and compatriots, yet she had nowhere else to go. Her mind drifted among the many era of time and space among the cards of life, communicating with ancient gods. Yet when she falls back into bed, it is like a spike pit of concrete, a sudden stop after she felt like she was falling from somewhere far away.

She had sought the help of Aaronette, partly as she wanted company. But the other half was she wanted someone to practice Remote Viewing with, testing out various new communication systems that will eventual override the internet. She would lay out five cards on the floor, at other nights on the table. She would flip each deck at random, one being the cards she would flip, and the other deck the shape on the card that she would be looking for in the dark.

She wanted a team.

A new spark.

A new infinity.