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.

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.

She pulled down the cord.

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 wanted to redo her life.

Her entire life from the start.

A story of a fantasy life.

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.