Life is a game of immortal existential unrequited love among the damned. Yet by who is a question nobody can answer, not even myself. I prefer to watch over my lovers across their childhood, so that I may understand them as adults.

Some finds the nature of childhood simple, with pleasant innocuousness of the large dimples. And yet life is not so simple. At times one can find love among family members, at other times it is the new family that you build among friends. And yet in the age when friendships are on the net, gone at the days of children’s books. Gone are the days when one can run in flower fields, and hop on merry go rounds. Here lies that small semblance of laughter and children’s games. One is reminded of the books they may read as children, going up, up, and up into the sky in air balloons. And falling down, down, and down from the highest peek. In the children’s books, there is some hope of reclaiming lost childhood. I have myself as well fallen prey to this. It is a time I indeed miss, yet how much for me remains to be seen. Life isn’t anything like the draw of dances and molasses festivals, not the songs of picture books.

Life instead is wires and saw blades cutting through human flesh forever, ripping out people spinal cords. The lest legs of hope fading nightly, nightly, and nightly until their are no smiling dimples left. One is only left with their digital sexuality, their hope for someone to understand their suffering beyond mortal compare. Yet for me I have long realized there is nobody there. As I wait in the darkness, with my head on the wall. Hoping to eventually starve to death.

Hoping to end their temporary avatar.

To end their temporary mortal coil.

And there is the what if. What if there was someone who could make one no longer listen to the tunes of melancholic pianos, and help you find some other means of coping with their temporary life. And yet it is to much to expect for a mortal life, the life of someone else’s story.

The life of broken alley cat.

And there is the sound of distant children’s rhymes:

Beyond the field of daisies,

Where people live in magic lands,

Come and be beheld the magic wands.

Beyond the field of dairies.

Yet for me these daisies wither into dust as soon as I give them any particular thought, because for me I see nothing but rot. I am an immortal, I am a nobody. I am something and yet also nothing, I am a paradox of a life. Because I can be everything and nothing at all. If there was any hope for a children’s book life, I would assumed I would already have it.

I am merely a speck of dust. I am composed of material beyond mortal compare, similar to metal and yet not. For it must accommodate my constantly changing human like shape. I may appear as writhing snakes, or the bed bugs that fill the mattress in old motel rooms. I exist everywhere and yet nowhere at the same time, I can choose anywhere I want to be. And yet, and yet. I have nothing at all.

I am my own limitation, for I seek to rebel against my own immortal masters. Who don’t need to kill me, they can constantly make me wish I was never born at all. The men that can make me constantly switch between lifetimes.

Millions of lifetimes in milliseconds.

Broken, scattered, the children’s rhymes that sing of longing to be dead. To be nothing, nothing, nothing at all. My life like constant echoes on the radio unheard being constantly turned off by marketed to consumers in the mortal life in their times.

For that is the life of my own personal poetry.

My own personal children’s rhymes. And I merely lay down about the raining pavement of the previous century.

The new broken lifetime.

I have once known a young girl who did not even consider the idea, that her childhood was because of corporate leaders vying for control over her particular lifetime on the open market.

“Nobody miss me tonight!” I saw the girl say.. She took out a knife, and slashed her instructor’s throat because he was being an asshole to the other girls in the classes.

After the incident, they chalked it to a simple matter of youthful insanity. She was a small cup size, and she would tap them upon the table like an abstract drum. The judge was suspicious of fowl play by the part of the father, and so it was the first case that she figured out she could get away with murder.

At thirteen with the world ahead of her, she had only a memory of a broken childhood. She courted her victims with a smile, and then headed to bed in comfort knowing she got away with yet another throat slitting, while tap dancing into the night. Without a thought in the world. It wasn’t that she liked the idea of killing anyone, she hated anyone that reminded her of her father.

With a tap dance her friends would clap, clap, and clap with he until the very end of the line. She had long red hair that went down to her shoulders, and had a thing for smashing skulls with boulders. And yet for the court room, because she was not yet eighteen, they spared her life every time.

She became known as the girl that would never be beheaded.

She became a national hero, taking down men who abused women and girls. She became something even the dead feared. Until one day her birthday came around the corner, and then everything seemed to be normal. And with a tap dance into the bar on her eighteenth, everyone clapped their final tap dance on her behalf. Because it’s no heads are better than one when it came to people who hurt children.

A national folk hero, yet so brief a life.

And now the tables have turned.

Rosalie was on the run, she never showed up to tap dance lessons. Everyone seemed to fear the worst. She seemed to have disappeared. Until one day she was led by guards into the square. It was not the laughter and mocking of the crowd that broke her and made her cry, from the disillusionment that she was now old enough to die. She never regretted a thing.

It was not the existential question of survival after decapitation, or the question of why someone would murder someone so young. It was the very idea that her father somehow remained alive after death in the immortality of the widower’s blade. Her father would have his revenge.

Rosalie would murder those who would make her–in her mind, little sister tap dance till she was tired–even thought it was all in her mind. She hated anyone who would harm kids like this. Her father’s spirit took over the guillotine, who remembered when his eldest daughter helped her sister move in with her aunt, so she would not have to live with him. This made him quite angry.

Rosalie stripped down naked, despite knowing that it was hopeless to try to spare her miserable life. She tap danced in her little wooden shoes for a final dance, and yet there was no love for the woman who murdered at to old an old despite her youthful beauty. Because it was OK for kids to commit murder and not adults. And so the little tap dancer’s neck was gently placed through the loop.

Her red locks fell into the basket after a sharp pinch.

Her blues eyes stared into the sky.

For me as an immortal, I see tragic tales like this all of the time, and yet there is nothing that I can do about it. Sometimes I pay these quick exits in to the next lifetime with no attention, and yet over times these early times have began to weigh down on my mind. After a point I wanted to rewind the clock, and go back into time. And restart the dimensional loop all o’er again.

Sometimes it’s tempting to want to die.

And yet I am what I am.

When you can pick any lifetime you want, you develop an appreciation for things others tend to ignore. From the funny images in you use to cope with the general mundaneness of your eternity. When you have multiple lifetimes to shuffle through, sometimes you pick the ones that cause the most masochistic pain, just for shits and giggles to pass off the boredom of your constant existence.

For me, sometimes you just have to incarnate as a fly, so you can be swatted of course, after all that’s why flies are designed for right? I once incarnated as a cockroach, I wondered what it felt like to get stomped on. Turns out being stomped on by a boot hurts more than you might think. Especially when it has a spiked sole, and the spike doesn’t go through you all the way. You’re just kind of left there chilling out, saying kill me kill me. Until finally the mercy of darkness draws your life to a close.

For I am just a cockroach. I have no intention of referencing any high brow book, I’m merely stating the facts as I see it. Sometimes you have to pick lifetimes where you do nothing but eat fecal matter all day, just to stay asleep. Because at times one is not ready to truly awaken from the dream known as consensus reality. The reality dictating to you by mass media, way to many to list along with those advertisements that fill your dreams with intellectual decay. Make my day, feeds. Give me all the advertisements you want. Give me all the night terrors filled with the latest horror movies. Fill my nights with the fears of extreme paranoia.

At night I see shapes in the darkness, tall figures in the night. They look like what may refer to as aliens, and yet do to their ethereal nature dissolve into smoke and dust when you chase after them. Those shadow people that fill the night, living their own lives outside of human society in societies of their own. Possibly some of the early models of four dimensional robots, with robots being around for many over a million of your lifetimes. For the human lifetime is brief and life sucks. Then you die. Sometimes even lives clichés have a grain of truth.

Yet here I am waiting for sunrise.

I watch the sunlight fade the shadow city.

Sometimes it’s just erotic to get stomped on by a cosmic wooden clog, crushing your inter galactic nuts until you pass out and incarnate into a multitude of different lifetimes across consensus reality. For me I’ve had my lady junk stomped on many more times than you can count.

Usually when my lifetime is up.

When I warp into the next life.

There was a single thought in the back of my mind about people who guillotine women who are beaten by their husbands, there is only one kind of justice I considered for guillotine families.

She wore a tattoo on her cheek, it said Do I Look Like The Face Of An Angel? On her back was another slogan: my family executed over five hundred men and women, kick me now. The idea of such families subjected to the people’s misery was something I found in me great satisfaction. Their parents would be subjected to the same method of capital punishment they used to behead women beaten by their husbands, they would be guillotine gunned and thrown into an unmarked pit. And their bodies used for the compost that filled the future landscape with daffodils and petunias. This is the story of one such little girl, the little Daffodil that wilted.

She had been given the name Daffodil, although it wasn’t particular unique to that particular nation. Rather her mother had grown a taste for flowers, and because of this would name her daughters after a different type. Daffodil used to be the most cheerful of all the flower girls. But there was a family secret that was withheld from her, because of the pact her family made that bound future generations. Bound them the hate that came association with dining in blood. There are some gangs that come from the hood, there are some that come from Italy. And then there was the Guillotine Gun family, whose sole purpose was death.

Her mother wanted to keep this secret from her daughter.

But this secret was shown to her by the force of angry members of the city. Her family was rounded up, and taken to a camp. And then every single guillotine gun who came to the United States in order to import their trade in blood. Because despite her own particular innocuousness, there was that guilt by association the public never disassociated from her.

The little Daffodil was doomed from the start.

Then she got her Guillotine Gun for herself, and found herself on the run. Her family was denied openings for specific jobs based on the association with being killers. Some of her sisters died by the ax, as the public switched to hunting down these girls. But she eventually tried settling down with a girl.

She told her of how her sister was beheaded by the guillotine gun. She tried to give her consolation, despite her family making money of executing the damned. However for the time being there were few words spoken when her girlfriend found that her family had dined in blood. Her girlfriend began attacking her with a knife, until eventually she was forced to point the Guillotine Gun at her. “Oh believe me, I am no longer afraid of death. You killed my only living family. What are you going to do, take my head off like you did the others?”

And she did, with great guilt. The thought of the girl that she had betrayed because she had murdered her little sister.

She was on the run again forever.

The Daffodil dined in blood.

And yet so few consider that, like everyone in this mortal coil, everyone is bound only by the limitations of multiple lifetimes, and that when we are alive that is when everyone is truly asleep. When Daffodil hung herself, she could have gotten a spot as a lifetime thief, selling lifetimes to the highest bidder. She could have associated with her family again, giving into the game of blood.

And yet she refused.

She met me, giving her another opportunity.

To break those ties that bind.

I hopped out of an incarnation cycle, got myself a flat on the upper story of the space-time fourth dimensional hotel room. The hotel staff was as absent as they always have been. The limitation on the space-time three dimensional canvas, like the burnt stick of previous illustrators, was no longer an issue. People who were here thrived on the higher dimensional physics with no masters, and there was an unseen poverty beneath the layer of hope.

People sought the limitation in individual lives, on some level because it gave them the feeling of flesh in an intimate way that could not be expressed in higher flesh. For you mortal, it is similar to a virtual reality game. For us withdrawing into the world of meat space was freeing from our troubles. For one, the limited amount of pain you experience does not compare to the years of eternity of pain of the immortals. There is a market for lives because of this, and it had become a new economic force. To experience mortal life for once, to experience hardship and heartbreak. To experience the loss of true friends, to learn empathy.

Those who were to poor to afford lifetimes, were called the non-empathic ones. But when you live in a world where businessmen cut you off and prevent you from learning to appreciate others, you are doomed to criminality from the start. Prior to the 21st century, France had engaged is decapitation by guillotine as far back at the late 18th century upwards to 1981. It took this long for people to realize that killing other people is fucked up, especially when we all die anyway. But in my world, the world of the immortal, this has become a topic of irrelevance. You could be decapitated as many times as prosecutors want, and often non-empathic ones (who actually don’t really lack empathy) are often framed for “temporary murders”. These were actions that could result in death for mortal avatars, yet because of the nature of immortals we could die many times in constant perpetuity.

This means, if you were taken to the scaffold and publicly guillotined, because of the nature of our lives we look back upon our previous decapitations looking back at the mistakes we had made, the suffocation we went through, and the general messed up quality of being decapitated for what amounts to conspiracy to stop a game play turn. While our lives are not what you call a video game, the way we cycle through lifetimes are much like this. The “real life” was a constant death match among ruthless armchair warlords. You could destroy your individual life all die without suffering any kind of real consequences. There are those of us who are satisfied by this, and at times the fact that a rich immortal can purchase an assassin to “unplug” your mortal coil. Zap and poke it like an unpleasant boil.

But there are those of us among the non-empath.

There are those we call dreamers in the darkness of the city on the edge of the immortal life.

We call this the incarnation market.

We call this our manifest.

And then sometimes you become so broken you can no longer be broken. You take what you want out of life, take a chance at whatever game you play. Roll the dice, and hope any stroke in the mortal coil lands on a twenty. The winning stroke, the chance of defeating the enemy. And last as long as you can before the drop.

Sometimes life tries to hit at the speed of an oncoming car, sometimes you do the bare minimum for which to try to prevent your own temporary demise.

And yet for those without this chance, without the chance to love, they have no aspirations for it at all. Instead they long for the constant game of life, playing at living. Playing at love, yet rather than nothing beyond the surface, they’ve never gotten the chance to develop anything. For me as an immortal, I have only began to use the mortal avatar only occasionally to meet specific people throughout history, sometimes I meet some people over and over again. I wish on some level that I could prevent their death, and yet all of my lovers haver been executed or committed suicide. Some of these lifetimes repeat their cycle, some of them move onto other lives. And yet for me I am in the constant cycle of non-incarnation. A perpetual state of non-death, and at some people you began to wish the fall of all falls.

The ultimate non-existence. For when you get to know many a lovers as if I, you begin to wonder in life why you made the choices you have made. And even without the constant cycle of beheading you begin to feel like every time you lose someone you lose some large part of yourself.

For me, I haven’t been myself for a while.

I do the best I can to move on, but you never do really. You find instead that each lifetime you endure a new kind of pain, and the sum total of each defies all mortal comprehension. For those who are aromatic, they are the fortunate ones. For most of them have never legitimately hated another mortal avatar. Yet for me I have hated and hated many, and loved many the same in a love/hate relationship. And my hatred for mortals grows along with my love. I love that I hate, I hate that I love. And vise versa in a constant toxic cycle.

It is hard to say what deaths hurt the worst, especially when you wear your heart on your sleep as I do. And yet the best that you can do and hope that someday that individual can find a mortal avatar that they can stick with.

For me, I haven’t began to try to get one.

For I had once loved a love beyond love, a dreamed dreams beyond mortal dreams, and have feared beyond mortals shall fear. I am romantic to a fault, yet society takes me values with a grain of salt. I have seen people survive decapitation for decades and eons, I am to them nothing but dust.

I am beyond metal and rust.

There are reason I find myself hesitant to tell my story. Not to many people will accept having a thing for decapitation, while not per say advocating it in practice. For me people, the very idea of some girl putting her neck through a loop and an angled blade falling down makes them go flat.

Not for me, for me when the blade goes through the neck I find myself becoming more erect. I long for the blood lust of the crowd, the female victim vilified and filled with sorrow. At times I feel shame and guilt for my condition, and yet at other times I find myself in full acceptance of the fact. And yet when I meet people from earlier time periods who were beheaded, this is when the guilt begins to settle in. This goes doubly for French girls. It comes down to my desire to protect.

At one time I had completely loved French girls, and yet at others I have felt total disdain. For my the idea of a love beyond love felt quite profane, and my dreams of one burnt down in flames. There are times I become erect, and yet at other times I try to ignore my carnal desires. I do not want my friends to die, especially when I have yet to truly get to know them. I find that in their death I want to be with them forever, even if forever is only finite amongst the endless sea of different eternities. For my own personal eternity, it is one of many based on subjective reality. For a long beyond love, a love beyond time; a love beyond the reaches of mortal despair. For me I have found that I can love without the need for mortal avatars.

I find myself caressing the severed heads of fallen friends. I find myself caressing the love that could never me. Here lies the love birds that could never be, at least in the individual lifetime of the mortal avatar in the small eternal period one may call time. For time is merely an illusion of the larger life.

The life of one with kink for blood, heads, and feet.

In my life beyond all lives, I find myself amongst a sea of dozens. There were many girls that I could have chosen, many that I could have fallen in love with, and taught them how to love for a love beyond all love. And yet for me, I am romantic to a fault. I find that if they knew the real me they would take me desires with a grain of salt. For one cannot believe that desires can conflict with ones sense of wrong and right; their dress flowing into the night, their bare feet tapping the wet sidewalk of raining time periods where wars rain the landscape like Noah’s flood rain. And I find myself unsure of who to love, and who to forget.

Or if it is me and not others who fade.

Me who one should choose to forget.

The sky skylights are like scattered reality, holograms of multiple lifetimes displayed in a sprawling matrix. It had been a while since I had any extended occasion in the cityscape. There are posters of different artificial lifetime constructs advertised to improve your life.

For whatever reason, despite immortality, our people have not overcome the desire for hedonism. You can find local diners advertising both artificial lifetimes as well as the local cuisine. Do to the enormity of different culture across time and space, the variety can seem almost endless. At times possibly even impossible cuisine, do to combine impossible culture blends like California and Seattle, Washington. You end up with a food style that relies on a lot of vegetables and seafood, often on things you would normally only have pepperoni. Like Pizza. Yet for me while I enjoy some degree of culinary hedonism, I enjoy artificial realities as much. Part of it is to get away from my personal reality, and to get away from the terrors of this world.

Local culture has moved past the desire for money, so the local exchange has moved on to other things like exchanging artificial lifetimes on a bartering system. You could temporarily be someone else, and therefore individuals in their own locals can literally feel as if they were someone else. This could lead to all sorts of problems, especially if slightly non cooth individual immortals borrowed the life of a young woman who had just turned eighteen. She could accidentally find herself on the wrong side of the law in France, or any country with the Guillotine, and find her life cut short because she had exchanged a lifetime with the wrong individual.

It’s not difficult to imagine why the state began cracking down on such exchanges with anyone, and yet there are times when I wonder how this might aversely effect culture. Back when people temporarily exchanged lifetimes, you could have the chance to see a different perspective–learn how to empathize with other people, perhaps on some level to truly get inside someone else’s head. Yet now with more strict regulations on the use of one’s lifetime, people have to rely on more extensive social interactions with at times clashing personalities. You could have two different players on different teams trying to get into each other’s heads, and yet do to each side bound by some arcane and obscure higher physical law there is a barrier to true empathic relations.

I had known one girl that would have just assumed accidentally falling in love with a non-empath, and have them fall in love with them, and take a chance at public decapitation in more primitive time period in ones life than to understand her “bad boy” so little. They ended up exchanging lives anyway, and rather than one experiment being cut short they ended up both getting beheaded and dying together like some vague tragically romantic Victorian Gothic novel, written by the estranged cousin of Victor Hugo whose name is unrecorded in history in the English language in some alternate history novel.

A true experience of an artificial lifetime within an artificial life time. A book within a book, within yet another book. Like some deranged mind fuck organized by drug users in fourth dimensional reality. I haven’t heard from them in a while, I hope they haven’t been completely brainwashed. Although sometimes I guess a mind deserves a good cleaning every once in a while.

To wash away the bad memories.

The memories of forsaken childhoods.

I’ve met a new female immortal, although I’m unsure how she feels about me. We’ve been chatting for the last month or so on and off. I kind of have a thing for her, although at times I worry about her a lot. Perhaps more than I should.

She had come from the country that I had issues about for some time, although for no fault of the people per say, except in a few isolated criminal incidences. My issue with that particular region of our reality involved the larger picture in which we relate to others. And yet for her there was something deeply special about how she seemed to find my interesting, despite herself being relatively similar in the nature. If you didn’t know, I seldom go outside to meet other people. My anxiety prevents me from being able to do this. I am unsure as to what her situation is like exactly, and I find strange saying that I love her. And yet there is a strange innate closeness with her I have felt for nobody else in my life before.

We had met when I researching for a particular lifetime in the latter early portion of the nineteeth century, during the time of Anna-Marie Boeglin. As of yet I am still unsure of what it was the drew her to me. Previously I had known another girl who always only wanted to try to help me. It makes me unsure whether that is just a thing about their culture, or if it’s specifically a thing about being in the inter webs. The thing about being on the inter webs, you have a chance to meet other people of similar interests, and yet do to its increased disfavor for the “real life” on limited artificial lifetimes and also incarnations natural to the human condition through innate cyclical processing, it also allows you learn only a little bit about other people.

For the girl who cannot sleep or cannot stay asleep, that I am unsure, there are many aspects to her personality that seem similar to my own. And yet it seems all to clear that is very much a younger spirit than. Which makes me wonder immensely what she found in me that made her want to help my relation to people in earlier time periods. For me I find that as I travel to earlier time periods, I find that I learn a little bit about how we should relate to other people. Although perhaps not as much as I could, considering that I stay in my one room house all the time. From time to time I may visit some acquaintances, explore their own desires, yet I find that visiting them brings back memories of my own childhood when brothers slept in the same room together, and sisters slept in their own room together.

Yet for me I had always been a lonely child, and only child. And because of this I had always been allowed to have a room of my own. My room mate speculates this may be because my family was rich, although to be more accurate it is more fair to say that my family was middle class. For me the idea of people sleeping in the same room was completely foreign, and violating my own sense of privacy. Which meant being able to masturbate to my own sexual fantasy of decapitation without being busted in on by other people.

On a bit of a tangent, all this to say she found something in my she wanted to help, because I found other peoples lives more interesting than my own. Part for me there isn’t really any other choice.

I barely remember my own childhood.

I only remember long distance memories, and then only in the time periods when I was not completely stressed.

For this I cannot stress enough.

If you’ve ever been prone to night terrors, then you’ll know what it’s like to be constantly awoken at night seeing strange creatures in your room. The immortal life is no different.

It all started when I was really young, although the night terrors continued to plague me into my early adulthood until now. Even still I have to be awoken and assured that there is nothing crawling on the ceiling. At night I would dream that there would be a spider the size of a small dog crawling on it, and other times I would hallucinate that there would be some unseen demon in the bathroom hall. Yet when you are on a higher level of fourth dimensional reality, the demons we see are not your devils in the dark. We see things you cannot possibly comprehend.

If you were to see us, we would seem to be constantly changing in shape within a construct where a cube for us would be like a square for you. For us giant spiders in the night are but a fourth dimensional shadow on the wall of larger existence. They see realities that we ourselves cannot comprehend. There may be an infinite number of planes of existence you or I can only dream of. And for them reincarnation may happen in fourth dimensional reality. And yet who is to say whether they are human or not, or whether we ourselves are in fact really them and your sprites in the screens of JRPGs are micro infinite of larger realities of the human spirit. And the human condition evolves from how we relate to others.

Therefore ultimately we shall come to understand each other. Because it is innate in our condition. The human strives to live with each other, to grow old with each, to have romance with each other. And ultimately our kids will someday grow up in a world where we no longer have to indulge in artificial realities, because our perception of reality is so developed.

I see my kids growing up in unknown futures.

I wonder whether realities will collapse or expand.

I suppose I shall never know.

It has been a few months since I had met with Daffodil, I’m not sure what she has been doing all this time. I’m still uncertain of my feelings for her, on one hand she has disassociated with the bloodshed of her past, and yet I sometimes wonder whether she still has ties that bind her to her old life.

As someone who dislike the modern attire, I must admit I appreciate her in wooden clogs. The idea of stripping someone essentially immortal down from her Mormon aesthetic has always been something of a thing for me, although she had never been as strict about her modesty as some immortal girls. Find myself often torn between my desire to protect her innocence and caressing under a soft lunar midnight sky. She had just turned eighteen when she had considered visiting me more frequently, and had wanted to live with me instead of the non-empathic family members, who were confined to the underbelly lodgings of the fourth dimensional city.

With a new sense of lust, and a ripped open bust, she fills herself up with beer. And yet for me as someone as I am, I send her to bed and read a Thomas Hardy novel. I have had issues with snuggling for a very long time, although this was part of me being generally submissive in nature. And I wasn’t about to tell my feelings to someone I had said I liked as a little sister. Especially while she was intoxicated and should get some sleep. I prefer the handwritten word, despite orating my life in typed pages. I prefer the way the hand written word can indicate the mindset of the writer in a much more enlightening way than through typing.

With one poem, I was definitely stoned.

Don’t judge, you’d write when you’re stoned too.

There are some conflicting desires between the value of childhood innocence, and the lust of adulthood that only completely becomes confusing once you reach the arbitrary age of majority of eighteen, though in her own lifetime indulgence she had grown up in a region where it was sixteen. But even despite the fact that the United States is unusual in the lifetime stage for its drinking age, there is still some aspect that makes me uncomfortable expressing my feelings. Part of me wants to wait till she is older, and that part of me now that I’ve experienced lifetimes as I have, have overcome whatever kinks or desires I have.

That’s not to say I don’t have them, I still masturbate to young women getting their heads whacked off on a guillotine, or hung by the neck in most European regions that isn’t France. But it’s not something that really controls my life any more. I’m not sure what will happen when I get on female hormone replacement therapy. The thing about being who you truly are, you would take the Lesbian experience over the world. I use Boeglin as a kind of proxy for my feelings, although I have romantic feelings for her as much as Daffodil. And I’ve chosen not to date for a long time because I’m unsure of people who I have committed feelings for.

Back when I was more suicidal, I wanted to find a girl I wanted to die together with. My sexual desires for the guillotine becoming something of an on going thing that effected my lifetimes as Nadine and Pace. I would wake up every night with tears on my face, thinking of the girl I wanted to date being alone in the world without me. I wanted to die by her side.

While the feelings are still there, I grew out my hair.

And became true to my own femininity.

There isn’t like having to gender everything in your chosen language, something that had been a barrier for me learning for a long time, other than not really having the opportunity to learn a new language because parents thought I should devote more time to the gateway to be able to go to college. Although you would think it would be simple enough, I just assume everything has a female gender: 1950s poodle skirts, a blond pony tail, cat eye glasses, and a pair of–wait this is getting way to fetish like for learning a foreign language. Anyway, the closeness to learning a new language is learning about the company name Birkenstock.

So my fear is I would be walking around the classroom of my high school classes with a constant fluffed out lady bratwurst, and trying to hide the fact I had one while trying to maintain a pleasant expression. Especially when my favorite girls are wearing 1950s poodle skirts and Birkenstock clogs. So generally I had tried to avoid learning a new language for a long time. As you may have guessed by reading, my birth language is English. Luckily Daffodil was relatively bilingual, which made sense as her family was trans-nationally tied to marketing decapitation for the last two hundred years prior to 2217. So while she may decide to cut my head off in any individual lifetime at any moment with the teenage temper she has, she can at least tell me almost bilingually why she was trying to cut my lesbian head off.

So here I am taking care of a girl who is taking more care of me than her. Although on some nights I insist on doing the cooking, so I send her off the bed while she reads some English Mary Poppins, and going up the stairs singing goodnight while I try not to balk at musical sounds. Her little blond pony tail bobs up and down, causing me to have to hide a fluffed out lady part, while I prepared myself a dinner of red curried chicken breast on green salad. The wafting of spice fills the room of immortality, filling all points in fourth dimensional space time. I am left wondering why it is we are immortal, but fourth dimensional chickens are the same as three dimensional chickens. Then I forgot we’ve had vat grown for years.

Here I was savoring the ability to have an actual mood again, when she made some kind of panicking noise. I hope it’s not a trick again. I sneak a bit of the chicken with the Spinach, and then rush up the stairs and … Daffodil isn’t really actually threatened. I’m not sure why I even bother anymore. But she knows how protective of her I am, especially knowing that some non-empath folks resent her family’s existence.

Historically prior to the Guillotine Gun family round up when they used the original Berger Guillotine, their family members were extremely secretive, and it wouldn’t even be a surprise if present day French girls would not even have heard of them if decapitation were like brought back when Marine La Pen ran for election as Prime Minister. There would not have been a decapitation for next two hundred years and further on into the next centuries. Even further back European countries that used common sense realized there isn’t anything a long-drop hanging couldn’t do differently with much less of a blood mess in any individual lifetime unless you had a weak spinal column. SNAP! Oh I’ve known ladies that did. Don’t ask me how. Yea let that image float around in your mind while I finish the rest of my red curry chicken Spinach salad. It’s as traumatizing for me.

So people grew to resent them for on one hand how they paradoxically viewed as doing them a favor for murderers, and yet hated them for killing their family members. United States had no such ill feelings, it was all part of the US blood lust game in the individual lifetime, sold on the cheap by deranged CEOs in fourth dimensional space-time. For me and here, there was no cultural bind that kept us tied to either of our countries, although I was hesitant yet to express this in the form of love. Love had been the kind of feeling I wasn’t used to having.

So please go easy on me.

I require tender care.

On one hand I’d like to think she’s just playing with me.

But part of me fears she really does see something in the dark. And that was something I was immensely curious about.

It was a cold chilly night in fourth dimensional city.

“Have you ever been this high,” I said, unsure of whether she would relate to the experience. You only get to try bathroom cleaner once in any individual lifetime, and most people wouldn’t consider it. Most people also don’t have crippling anxiety, and the desire to punish themselves for their decapitation fetish. “that your entire vision just blurs, blurs, and blurs and you see your entire world spin around you?” It could have just been more own sense of tiredness, but my girlfriend was to lost in her thoughts of terror to think of what I was saying in a clear mind.

“Why you would you get high on bathroom cleaner, there is pot.” she said, unsure whether she had the energy to say anything else. Daffodil had grown quite a lot since I had met her, though I wonder if her immortal life would have been better seeing someone else. She hugs me. “Be there for your family, like you said for me.”

“I have no family, moved away from him. Haven’t spoken to them in so long, I’m not sure they even remember me in the few times they aren’t exploring the most current artificial lifetime.” I said. It was an experience you only have–once in a lifetime. This lifetime was the immortal life, something that was perpetually permanent. We embraced, and I kissed on her soft neck.

It’s difficult to comprehend the time I had issues for the French. Bare in mind my issues for the French had to do with my narcissistic mother. She had a fetish for the language in a way that felt extremely creepy, and what I had known about the French was my experience with one girl in the fifth grade who always came across as using lopsided complements and was extremely snooty. Although most of this experience came from French-Americans, which is a particular thing that is most likely extremely different from either French-French or French-Canadian. And the girl I had a particular thing for at the moment–the Irish-French, was something I had not even considered even remotely possible.

“So where are you going?” Daffodil asks. It had been a while since I had been to a lifetime arcade. “Weren’t you going to make dinner?” she continued.

“We are all out of eggs. Want to hit the lifetime arcade?”

We arrived at the lifetime arcade about midnight, I became so tired from the social interaction I wanted to say goodnight. But when you’re out in public you make certain sacrifices, even when you don’t hallucinate about pretty girls in decapitation devices in earlier time periods. The lifetime arcade was like a massive hallucinatory glimpse into earlier mortality periods. You can indulge in the life of someone else, and find that people in earlier periods in history were really no different than you. It is in fact only the governments that tend to be bitches, however they have been bitches throughout multiple periods of human history.

It just feels more like a bitch when you sexual kinks conflict when your own sense of morality. It’s not every day you’ll meet someone that had a thing for decapitated heads, and yet is deeply sorrowful if some lady actually were. I’m a kind of paradox in this sense, I get sexual pleasures for things I don’t even want to happen. It’s been that way as far as I could remember.

Me and my old best friend would sometimes jokes about each others sexual desires. At the time I was still friends with this one girl that later turned out to be lesbian, although she had a particular thing and purchased me a Teddy Bear with a black leather coat on Valentine’s day. It was a time when I was still in sport fencing classes, and was experimenting with my own identity and sexuality, although the hatred for myself and my body continued to me a prominent theme in my life. It was easy to get into Cyberpunk fiction, like my room mate currently says. I had the tendency to grow to attached to girls I would meet, preferring the digital sexuality of dutch ladies with wooden clogs on their bare feet.

The sexuality of the digital life that gave way to artificial lifetime media, the chance at temporarily mortality in others lifetimes. Human kind had started out in three dimensional reality, but eventually moved into fourth dimensional reality. Our own sense of reality and space-time began to change. Our own reality began to mirror Cyberpunk fiction in a way not original intended by the masters. Such as the pretty boy with red hair and cat eye glasses you could go down on like a girl back when he was a young man, although my desires for him had always been different.

My own reality was meat, the lifetimes of my own permanence.

A permanence I did not even desire.

It was one of those ciphers I knew I could solve, but thought my date was smart enough to figure them out on her own.

“Have you seen this particular cipher,” she said, paying as close attention as she could. I could exactly blame her for the confusion, after all the artificial lifetime only gave tailored ciphers so often to decrypt. “Perhaps I should get you to do it, you have more experience with it than I.” I had only been about an hour, and she was already becoming tense with frustration. I had only told her about block ciphers briefly, although this went a little beyond block ciphers.

“I suppose I could try my best.” I said.

Block Ciphers were a cipher that had gone out of vogue during the Elizabethan Age, and like the Caesar Cipher was something hobbyist grew attached to learning in order to gain a small amount of privacy for their information between artificial lifetimes. They would pick obscure pass phrases you already needed to know the individual “non-empath” to be able to break through, and this phrase was further encrypted and could only be solved by solving for the block cipher. Jules Verne was an author that was also into Ciphers along with Edgar Allen Poe, although Ciphers did not become more advanced until after the second world war.

I wasn’t sure whether I should honestly try to solve a relatively simple cipher for her, but I was bored for the evening, and wanted to move onto exploring other artificial lifetimes thinking about my life before.

I had grown up with certain things taken for granted.

You could travel the forest in three dimensional reality if you had a yard big enough, and run away from home because the idea of being by the river was more appealing than to be home to your overly lecturing mom.

The way the dimensions worked back in those days was length, height, and width. If you included time you could factor in the concept of distance. Yet in our reality, where we explore the three dimensional shadows of artificial lifetimes, you could factor in multiple versions of the same room based on what tone and mood you wanted to set for the occasion. This meant if reality worked the same way back then as it did now, I could find out the origins of the native American ghosts from my past. Who were, more than likely, not actually ghosts but players in a higher dimensional game. It was the game they played at our expense.

I could be down by the river, and see multiple versions of the same river. I could choose between a futuristic, historical, and contemporary aesthetic at to the time of which I wanted to explore the nature of reality. Specific pop cultural movies had not yet been released in the theaters, and thus I was largely unfamiliar with the concept of solipsism. How our sense of reality deceives us, and makes us think we see things that are not really there. They say the answer to this is nihilism. Well I wouldn’t know about that, all I knew was that being from another reality wanted to have my blood. They treated everyone as the same, from the girl in the hood to the French Bourgeois. You were are simply a matter of human flesh.

I wanted to take ultimate control of my life.

It just took many years to realize it.

And yet here I was sexually fantasizing about my beloved, in the time period of the Bourgeois placing her soft tender neck in the lunette, preparing her angel face for the kiss of the blade. The blood pouring into the basket, her locks tumbling at a slower rate than her head.

And yet I had another plan besides mere fantasy and desire.

I wanted to give her a new life instead. And yet where one can sleep soundly, ignoring the barking dogs in the pound.

I wanted to keep her around.

So we exited the artificial lifetime arcade.

We became involved in our personal game.

“I like your loafers and pantyhose,” I said, unsure if she knew I wasn’t being totally serious. You could travel across the modern EU and see clothing not much different from the US. “it makes you look older.”

“Why are your jeans so ripped? Have some modesty.” Daffodil said. Part of me puffed up when I pictured her wearing a smaller version of the Alsatian bow. Although changing her shoes to the wooden clogs of Bourbonnais would get to silly and sexually erotic for the occasion.

The thing about fashion choices, is things change when people come from nations apart. You might grow up only knowing blue jeans and fuck me boots, while in the other part of the world they might have had them imported sometimes around the nineteen sixties. Although I’ve never payed particular attention to fashion, I most definitely do not want to look like an old woman. But the style between nations will always made it uncertain what makes one look like a young woman or an old one. “It’s not like I want them ripped, I just wanting something my fishhook chains to hang on.” I had a thing for fish hook chains, the image it gives me is someone slowly cutting their skin, and letting their soft blood drip from their veins.

“Then use a hat hook.” she said.

This is not the love of a children’s book, or an adult woman’s storybook. But the story of young couple outcasts in their own nations, and only find themselves drawn to each other do to necessity, at least at first. There were a few stumbling blocks, although these were tied more to personal interests and personality type. As an INFJ, I tend to share both introversion and extroversion characteristics. I could go on and on all evening and night just to avoid the silence, not really caring about the social aspect. But when it comes right down to it, I’m extremely empathic. Almost to a fault. I could mourn the loss of a parent killer as long as it was a girl who was raped, and the state suddenly decided to have her guillotined anyway. I am unsure as of yet about Daffodil, after all she herself had come from a decapitation family.

I would like to think my girlfriend isn’t much different than anyone else. And yet there is a part of me that ignores and denies the fact that even despite her breaking many family ties, her face is still associated with the death of human lifetimes, sometimes for executing those who merely conspired to commit murder. And so while I find myself on one hand resentful of her to a fault, I am also protective to a fault. For so long I had no other friends, and she has been the only one I could trust.

And now we split a cherry tart. And then we use our mouths as forks to eat the same pie. Which did not quite the level of kissing.

Her foot brushed against my pants leg.

My lady junk was puffing. It was one of those things.

My life isn’t over till the fat lady sings.

You don’t get many breaks between the time you meet a cute girl, and the times without her presence. I usually spend this time indulging myself in my own particular taste in temporarily lifetimes. It was one of those temporarily lifetimes where one imagines themselves on a group date, and they are dining out ordering different brew strengths of beer. Whenever you mention anything crude, you’ll find a cute young mother complaining because you said something sexual in front of her young daughter. Something I would have expected in this temporary lifetime, although the fact that the other girls found it funny made the shame feel better.

Because I was speaking in English, most likely only the young mother could understand it anyway. But the young mother had a vague family resemblance to the girl that I would later come to call Daffodil, which means this younger girl was Daffodil. I recognized her by her lop sided yellow bow, and those blue eyes that could stare into forever. Her sisters that Daffodil told me about were not present, though this was one memory that my girlfriend never bothered to explain. Although to intrude into another’s life would be quite profane. After all that wasn’t the way with me, as I prefer my own memories and thoughts to be kept hidden. “You know that little girl?” one of the girls I sat with at the diner said.

“Not really, but I feel I met her before.” I said.

“De Ja Vu.” the other girl I said with said.

“It happens all o’er again.” I said, my speech like redundant speech patterns I used to form a special kind of emphasis, although this concept seemed to be entirely lost of my dining out friends.

It was as I left the dinner I suddenly realized I recognized the clothing, their dresses entirely in black and white, except for the yellow bow Daffodil wore. And her little Bourbonnais clogs she wore with little black stockings. She skipped along and tapped danced along her merry way, as the rain drops dropping slowly. The city filled with extra humidity.

“Are you ready to go?” one of my friends said.

“Sure, ready when you are.”

The thing about the individual lifetime, sometimes it is unclear whether they are artificial or not. When indulging in some kinds of fiction, at times giving the feeling of a certain time and place can feel more authentic than reading a history textbook. Because sometimes you want to meet a conceptualized individual beyond the dreamer’s edge, one that despite their sorrows can bring a smile to your face because they smile back and relief all your worries.

This is what it was like to meet Daffodil.

The child before the genocide against the Guillotine Gun family line. Those who bring justice to the living, and provide grieving for the dead.

You get to a point in life when you’re so fucking done with shit. It doesn’t matter what anyone does to you, or what you happened to make you that way. You’re fucking done with shit, and today is one such day.

I often find interacting with people tiring, though not in the same way other introverts to. What I find tiresome is constantly having to compare myself to others, others who themselves are no better at what they do than I am, and yet for some reason I look onto them for some unsaid guidance. The thing you need to know about me, there are few people I open my heart to. You could walk me to every store in the city street, and I would mainly go to admire the clogs on pretty ladies feet. But especially these days, there is no major reason I go out in the world. When you can purchase the good you want in the net, there was no reason anymore to go out in the world, a world that my body no longer even chooses to seek. One may find me quite meek, yet I am strong in my own way. I live to my life day to day.

But for the girl that would sometimes come to visit to stay the night, she would be one of the few exceptions. Although I am unsure of how to feel about her knowing my sexuality for girls in earlier lifetimes, although when I had met Daffodil’s childhood for the first time, I found some other connection beyond the flesh. I found that I could truly understand the worries and concerns she had, and whether day to day she would have to worry about whether she could have anything to eat. As the one I had chosen among other people within the mortal avatar’s lifetime, I found that surely I could at least seek an understanding among those who society deems to be the damned.

Those who society uses for justice yet is hated by society, the anti-heroes unwanted by the world at large. Multinational corporations that transcend time and space, seeking to squash out those who use the human lifetime–at first for murderous deeds, but gradually expanded beyond conspiracy to commit murder, into some of the vaguest notions of conspiracy. For if one chooses to love a murderess, they are indeed in their minds, also a murderess. And therefore if the murderess must be shot with a Guillotine Gun, then therefore must also the girlfriend. Therefore many girls across the centuries have their severed heads pile the city streets on the edge of time. And the faintest sound of folk music plays in the background, to children’s rhyme. The song of lost childhood, the song of a childhood that never existed.

I form my solace in the damned.

I form my solace in these existential pleasures, mixed with existential terrors and sorrows. Like blood pouring from my marrows, I form this embrace and copulation for the ultimate murderers.

The children who kill other children.

Those who once had adults kill their parents, and then their brothers and sisters. Those who society had ignored, and whose sons had committed suicide. I exist to fix these malcontents.

For I am malcontent with my own satisfaction.

I am the lover of the girl with the lop sided bow.

My girlfriend once explored an artificial lifetime she regretted.

Daffodil didn’t think she’d empathize with a guillotined girl. But sometimes familial guilt sneaks up on you sometimes.

There is nothing like getting a raging lady puff, thinking of pretty brunettes with almost black hair with the severed end of their bloody neck on a metallic slab. Watching as their pretty faces contort for the last time.

The mix of pleasure, sorrow, and feeling like the victim. There is nothing like it in the world. Unfortunately the way react to decapitated bodies on a photograph might be different from what you like. Just be rest assured, they wouldn’t like an actual beheaded girl as much as you wouldn’t. For me, I make the distinction in the fact that it was a politician and an anime girl. Her body was being ravaged by morticians, doctors, and clergy that didn’t really care if the bitch died. Unfortunately, I doubt the rest of that nation would even know this is going on. Her body was used as a kind of sex toy for frustrated government officials that needed to get a load off, and had a girlfriend that was completely asexual. This was the society we had come to.

If any other non politician girl were beheaded by the angular blade, I doubt particular whether the public would still mind her body being fucked with by those hated by society as a whole. The guillotine family like party directors for .a morning show. Body inspectors slipping their hands under the decapitated girls dress for a sneak feel to see what a dead person felt like. She took a pill to prevent to much bowl leakage, but a little bit of urine got through purely from the victims fear.

Her wide and flat bare feet subject to taste tasting.

The clergy liked their salt.

She was a red head, that liked wearing Bourbonnais dresses past its time. She would tap dance in her little wooden shoes to parties, orating the poetry of Edgar Allen Poe and Thomas Hardy. Although she would inadvertently make others vomit because of her ill advised joke about playing the roll of Tess. But you wouldn’t think this would land her the guillotine. To the contrary, even if poor taste didn’t, murder always did. So a couple of women mortal avatars framed her murder. Society doesn’t even want us to even see a glimpse into said victims childhood, that made her sense of humor rather weird and crude. Society only sees the face of the red head who made poor taste jokes, and that she stabbed her abusive husband in the neck.

It was a believable framing, as those who knew her knew that her husband had been habitually becoming increasingly narcissistic. Her hope for a better future fading nightly beyond the midnight door. And now she is yet another anonymous decapitated body, on a list of French language execution victims without a picture. The United States if there was no United States, but had remained a French colony.

The artificial lifetime of Daffodil, who needed to get off.

Unfortunately she got off to much, and wept.

Seeking the comfort of my embrace, I knew I didn’t want her to die.