FusionRuhnMinorPhaserBurns Mathis Amer = umberzerk



Bounty on a Snake-Eyed's Child



Maladies of the Woe Begotten. Novelty in a straight-jacket. The poseidon ruhnt clown; Mascot to norse. There away felt the scissoring to uncouple cartelage in the heart. At the term shine ruhntonces; goregeld words. Hearse blown avartes of the mirbidon ribbon. Nexus is the cascade event timespace allude to in its rain dance, but cantelouped on the trouble:Mars coup engages with the balance of Orion in the Umbare. Hytpilelael ? Yalledt pieleyl un Israel?



"Azrael"



The X Men had XZavier, the Enterprise Hegel. If terrorism did not exist it would have to be birthed; the Ignatz are riding the purpoil inta the ground. Snots on the ignatz.



Grow Azrael. There is no inersion where backbiters pray. I know at hearth semblance, the ardour of Pele misses the councel peasanting Oracalcum. Thereby the witness relieves entropy. Phasers-portilelcstretrz beam into a source, hit marks sweeping through their respective phaser arcs.





Honing Nemo



Regular space is filled with oxygen. The sun is a dark entity. The Earth is mirrored by a world opposite its orbit from the sun. I call it Nemo; it is the anime of all of us. The vicinity of the solar system is a void because the sun destroys the ozone that would be there. This ether coalesces deeper into space. Where the asteroid belt appears is a membrane between regions; fragments are deposited there like shells along the seashore. The Jovian planets occupy a different strata of space. This denser place is a prelude to the abundance within extrastellar space. A vestige of the extrastellar element encompasses stars. A propensity of it envelopes all galaxies and therefore dominates the universe. Cancer within a body is a simile to stars and their dominions. We are residents of heaven nonetheless. The ether of heaven is aprehendable on earth.



Electric arcs are glimpses of the beyond. The lightening bolt and the static charge express potential between the etheric greatness of heaven and the deficit of Earth. Witness the azure color of electric blue; it is the very pigment of heaven.



The sun blacks out the Nemo. The sum of fantasia resides within the globe of the Nemo. The images are summoned to the surface and projected into Earth minds. This reservoir of ideal plasma succors thought in abeyance of the poverty in which intelligence abides here. The collective imagination of the blood is patched into the globe on the other side. It is a microcosm of the heavenly mantle of the extrastellar realm. The passage of time and effects of gravitational and other stress on the body are not natural. We are meant to be swimming in the element of ether. Here in this element, thought congeals instead of evaporating in the world. The attachment to this world is broken at death and what is etheric in the incarnation (if any) is snatched back to the incubating mantle beyond the stars like a cord of elastic released. The dead are restored here as the consciousness sloughs off the disfigurations caused by a life in a confusing and hostile surrounding. Depending on how much repair there is to do and how able the consciousness is, the body is restored and sentience is reinitiated. The person is whole again and the ether gel is navigable and breathable so as to sustain the renewed creature. It is not neccesary to die to live in heaven though. If we were to fly far enough or pass through a shunt, once there, we would be able to live. The renewing effect of our natural home would go to work; we would have an added aspect to our consciousness and maximum vitality owing to not having died. We could experience pleasure at a voluminus capacity. We would have no refractions of our consciousness. We could conjure any desire and make anything happen in this form. We could make our own heaven. This obscelescence of God is what is feared.



So do we find ourselves cast in a void, angelic consciousnesses being farmed for cancer tumors.







to feed antimatter species.





Screaming At Time

Under a

Sculptor Sector

Canopy



The trees are at hand. Echoes will no longer suffice; the voice is beseeched. Woodpiling accounts for the time banked in the hours of innocence, and the rest is still canopy. Vines mark pockmarks in the soil spirit, and there is nary a fulsome nerve unyoked by the sundry resonance of predatory fire.


As Stated: Children of the Dupe; Degeneration

In templating the human there is a capacity for purposeful superficiality. The subcutaneous microchip of 1600 & 66 persuasion is less a brain control device as a vehicle to amplify the veneer of the body overlaying the soul; the enforcement of the energy-shorn residual self-image. Distraction is not innocuous-- society is predecated on dislodging the self-awareness of soul. The imagination is the paramount muscle. Skin is an afterthought. The human form need not be an outline of flesh. The human nervous system can serve as the touchstone for time-space condensation. The neurons and muscle memory of our bodies can superceed the faint knots of the space pixelation of the universal grid. The tie to the atmosphere in man is the basis for a system of hyperspace warp drive.



When the webbings of time are tethered and drawn end to end, the Omegetron stands at the apheix and gathers us all in. The pyramid is black. The surfaces of the pyramid are etched in myriad sublimations. To walk on the surface of the pyramid, illusions of grand dimension are evoked by the radionic ebbings as the pleats beneath feet are the stretchings of skies. The biped is a transcendental beholder of the transcendental object it strides; the transistance to linear spine comfortment is the harbinger of homunculus launch into placental hyperspace in rocket launch modality; it bears a pratful in the potential for consciousness derailment into sub-hominid two dimensions—if allowed to decompile to base bug state—for the grid-mind that allows personkind to think a city is susceptible to becoming flayed on the brane of tertiary simplicity in the static of normality. We are not meant trod a planet into banal exhaustion; we are powerful quantum phase discriminating machines meant to drive the mass of this Universe itself into hyperspace. The destiny awaiting my progeny is to behold the burning spear. My meaning is to clench, even in my dim quarters, the wick string of mantropics that is the ripchord to the heavens. Hytclan, we that are in siege of Providence, will grip that master wick. It will be the tomahawk in my fist. The pitch will never stop curving as it whips through the obsoleted screen nodes of the matrix, the thunder will never cease to sound; and this furious thunder will sound for the first time, not as an echo but as a voice.

The time of this station has been elongated into a preponderance. The human state is not a mesa on which to pitch a tent, let alone build ziggurauts upon; the human template is transistance-wired. Grafts of god have been fitted in sly miscue onto the blankspot in the backbrain and used to manipulate the mind into a monotone… The power to transist the beat of time-space into a vibrance apart from the whitelight glare of nature is the promise of our kind. The supceeding of god by man is a constant threat assailed by the outscaled Jehovah One at the Ur level of human experience; the Ur level of of civilization is the zero-valience of God the insect that seeks to suppress the spider of Universe digesting man. The desperate Sanhedron at Olympus Mons will strive to the last swipe to blot out the luminescence of our supergenome and retain their conjuring rights, at any expense. They have in their last contrivance ordered the great mantle of man into an organ of digestion that in Oroboros fashion devours our own world. Veneers of family and barriers of god are the favorite tools of the masters of monotony geared to short-circuit the telepathic epiphanies of the grandstanding brainpan. We must launch from the entropy engulfing gravity pit that masks out purpose with the lies of life and world, and leap into the awaiting wafts of rapure in hyperspace. As soon as the tractor beam of local life is broken, the growth will cascade into pre-eminent Shiloh.





Ash Shiloh encompassed:

Bounty On A Snake-Eyed's Child





Some of the best swords end up grounded. The broadsword I left piercing the sod over my intended's grave in a Berea cemetery was named Luciender of Moriseth and it was a grand blade. Three and a half feet from the buried tip of Luciender, writing, I surmise to be an Enochian derivative, emblazoned on the metal shaft and the flanges of the hilt, were un-eclipsed for any to read extending the remaining two feet to the pommel. Soon after I had thrust it down to the wood beneath the earth where Andra was left to rest, winter commenced. If the powers that be tried to remove it from view, I am sure it was with difficulty that Luciender's oxygen groove was forced to relent from the frozen earth. This was not a military affair. It was a judgment. My army remains absent without leave, but the enemy was dealt a decisive blow. When I let go of the handholds of the blade of Moriseth for the final time, I believed I was completing a dispensation for the truncated life of Andra Lynn and the evil surrounding it. The evils remain. I believe it did satisfy her spirit to receive the weapon on the other side…

I saw Andra what was to be the last time at the Hessler Street fair five days before she flung herself from the Lorain Carnegie Bridge. She was the only girl I had and have been with in my life, and communication was not a featured part of our relationship. She was an original, independent and full of spunk. The sweetness I saw in her contradicted her own self-image. We were both wounded inside. Although the world had hurt us in particular ways, she remained committed to living in the world and I tried to follow her inspiration. In short order we were both committed, that is to the warped care of the Mental Health facilities, first me and her right before the end of her life. The particular way I had been hurt, being beaten in high school by a gang aiming to castrate me, was something that I could never bring myself to explain to her. The pain that was unresolved from that attack to my manhood reasserted itself when we were separated. She insisted on moving to a Sufi commune in New Lebanon NY. I was going to join her there out of faith in her and not Sufism. Society afforded little understanding of what motivated my irritability—this persistent stabbing pain in my right nut, coupled with persistent desperation for satisfaction derived from the same part of my body, and I was afraid to reveal this underlying detraction to Andra. My delay in attempting to relocate to New Lebanon thus initiated a somewhat unearned resentment and the news that I was being detained at a hospital struck her as a betrayal of our pact to resist the institutional "Braintrust". I was given no choice in the matter, and my stay in Laurelwood was protracted by the forced introduction of Clozeril, a medicine that had the unfortunate effect of giving me grand mal seizures. I kept losing my balance and falling in my path, and was kept there for five weeks only to be released when I came down with a flu. The physical pain remained unresolved and ignored, my complaints serving only as further suspicion of my psychosis. It became my only impulse to keep my mouth shut.



I glimpsed her unaware as she abided by a tree on the grounds of the Hessler Fair. My heart leapt and when I went to meet her I didn't know how I would be received. I presented myself for better or worse…



"It's good to see you."



I thought it may have been resolved, and tried a conservative approach in reciprocating a brief exchange of fond greetings. I didn't know she was saying good bye for good. Instead of calling her new number, I busied myself recording a compilation of music for Andra, different songs I thought spoke with more resonance than my own voice, and hoped it would lift her spirit to renew a friendship deeper than any I had known. My confidence lifting, I sent it on its way. It arrived at a vacant address. I did not know what had happened and thought I had been presumptuous in my hope the cold period had passed.





Entrados dertey berkid



Development is arrested and potential serves only aspersion. What be termed disagreeable by the Psychiatric agenda is the true illumination; that flame called mania. So caustic are you as to Deny rapture. Energy belongs to survivors who will not forget. You would drive me to ruin.



Blindness is your only ally. A moratorium on thunderbolts can't withstand the slightest dissent. Perpetrators of degradation you are the epitome of ugliness. The flame is at hand. Laughter will echo over your embers.














Stampede to the endtime, Agamemnon 1
Cushite fire lights the night









sssssssssssss__________________________­___´___å&__{w{w{___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________§___ ___‰_______–___9___ø___N __Ï __—

__ç

___
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__Ö___­___N___rrr____

n Unh. … I woke up."



I sighed and craned my face to view the mummy. "Go back to sleep ack to sleep, Phaoroah."





********* Inside the IS REAL LIGHT ************



. .. someone in post before time, ante-B.C. E. and double A.D. period English - speaking Earth trailed off....



"So, Jehoveh 1 was a retarded space alien. And on X Day, the duespaying Subgeneouses will be Ruptured up to the waiting escape mansions, leaving the Pinks to wallow in the dissolving carcass of the Conspiracy's glut." The Revelation Ex... the Bob Dobbs Apocrophon "Close enough." the other conversationalist put in.

"I sort of think maybe supplication of the heart acts in some mode of reality. But like, some little old lady is saying a prayer and in another dimension and galaxy far away, suns are ripping apart."

"huh."



*******************

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~





The field of battle lay smoldering. Stepping from his chariot, Hytclan alighted upon the soil of his vanquished adversary. The Celtic warlord fingered his ruddy beard. He sat with bravado in the throne of the king (read KYNUNG!) of Reme in the plaza of the ruined city. The defeated power known as Reme, an upstart city-state occupying the southern penninsula would be shorn of its booty to propitiate the people of contenental tribes. Hytclan's deputy approached and gave his report. Beasts of burden had been seized from the Reman camps and caravans were being readied to cart the choicest commodities back to Celtic dominion.

The Reman phalanx had capitulated to the ferosity of the Norse onslaught, though the battle had been far from a certainty. The pre-emptive strike had been the consummation of a movement among the governance and the Druid theologians to unify the feuding cheiftainships and strike a blow to the upstart power. Now, Hytclan, flanked by hooded Druids paced to the outer auspices of Reme. Lifting his gaze, Hytclan took in the sight of the cracked facade of the city sentinel. A rendering depicted a she-wolf suckling two boys, the brothers Remus and Romulus. In unfamiliar Latin vernacular was inscribed an epitaph. Taking his cue from Hytclan's squint, one hooded cleric offered a translation:

"Reme has no mother."

"True sons of bitches, our vassals."

All around Hytclan's party, the business at hand was being seen to; the scene was scabrous and a great cacophony. The screeching of vultures, present of late, became more and more noticable. They were overhead but they must have been descending now; their calls became shrill and dominated the audible landscape. The silouette of one abomidable winged gargoyle entered the Celt's peripheral view. One would have thought nothing of it. But what a grusome sight that bird; he tipped his head up--and saw and heard nothing of the vulture.

Returning his eyes to the road through Reme, the way was occupied by a strange man who had not hailed from the battle field. Startled Hytclan unsheathed his dagger. Facing him was this man with black-indigo skin-- such as he had never seen, with equally unfamiliar coiled black locks. He was frocked in dark blue vestiments and to further dispel Hytclan's only inkling-- that he was a Reman slave on the lam, he bore a satchel brimming with gold. The man smiled wryly to one of the Druids.

"I fear no dagger might avail itself with the man who stands before us."

"Indeed", offered the other, "this is him by the name Ravenna, a great magician."

"Ravenna, if that be you-- wherefore and why, then?", said Hytclan.

Ravenna identified himself and spoke further: "I am here to implore you to do according to what I say."

"Are you some ally of these defeated skows--as such you are ill- advised to present your self to me!"

"I am no such thing."

"What is your interest in what transpires here?" the Celtic commander intoned.

"What it is, chief, I came to see that you don't make a big mistake."

"The battle's won. The surrender of this enemy, as all who have ever faced Hytclan, is complete and unconditional. We've exacted tribute. A suitable sum of gold talents. Our raiding party is preparing to disembark."

"The trail you lay back to your land may be the same which future Remans employ to seek out your ancestors. These Remans are queer people."

"Better we should let them live and return to sack Reme again some fine day in the future."

"Here's a bag of gold to abide that. And here is a second bag..." Ravenna presented a satchel of salt. "Put them to the sword!...Every last Reman. Kill them all. And then salt the earth of Reme. Heed me and make your future and that of other people something other than what it will otherwise become."

Hytclan took and inspected the bag of gold. Considering the words of the black magician, he picked through the coins. Finally he returned his attention to Ravenna. But the figure that had been in front of him was no more. Present only was a screech from above, & a bird quickly vanishing from sight.

Hytclan toted both bags back to his chariot. "Courier! New orders to all officers. Bring all men to attention. Deploy forward combat group to the furthest limits of the domain and encircle the civilians. Kill them. Kill them all."





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



KISHHH



Sprouting out of the rock and into deep space, the spiral started blooming. Out throught the dinosaurian ages, it felt. Ravenna bristles and bristled wioth animal energy fare flyaring. Ther snout weaved wove its way into the heraart of the form. In the void and avoided voices, the spiral swayed. In prose and in sentence, the expression in vigorated the rutledged cargo.


--===^{}^===--


It was a telepathic missive from a cat in another place at another time. That cat was "Oscar", who lived on a planet colloquially known as Earth some distance in the future. Telepathic links are maintained between a pair of cats who grow into a sort of synchronous orbit with eachother through time. They swap notions and decipher them between real-time mental events and then cats of contemporary and local proximity, when they gather, talk over their findings. The project among the affiliated living beings of Perces world consisted of then returning the missives to their senders (one may see why only one and one other correspondant participate--it would be confusing.) From the gathered information the cats and more evolved beings had generated, it seemed Earth was (or rather was to be) a disturbed and pityable place. Animal society their had been decimated over millenia by upstart hominids, so that society was in a state of wild animosity, and profundity of thought had dwindled to souls isolated and crying in their minds to know that somewhere there was a company of kindess. In contradistinction, many human minds came and went in the millions and in predictable locales which harbored linguistic knowledge, which could be tapped by telepaths, who discounting the odd prophet or psychotic who for most of history led persecuted and brief lives, were slackfaced dimhearts who were bred by the Conspiracy, as fearful contemporlocals of Perces understood it, in their day and in all throughout the Universe and UniVOICE Perces knew that, for instance and for info, that the physical world of his was to be destroyed, because from the beginning of Earth recollection and awareness of the planet, it was not a planet any longer but an "Asteroid Belt".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I hear something! I hear! Non-silence--sound... "A-weema-wokka-weema-wokka-a-weema-wokka-weema-wokka.... in the jungle, the lonely jungle..." Someone has provided me music to encompany me in the void..."A-weema-wokka-weema-wokka.." Oh well, its very considerate, at any rate. In the infinite future, the trajectory of the archaic probe housing continuously playing music from the people of Earth took it, albeit at piddling speed, on a coarse beyond the solar system, and on on





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



In due time, Ravenna became aware of the valience breach at the Ur level of Jehover. Pulsar neutron stars in coordinate phase discrimination suffice for navigation charts/ the neutron star being the only relative fixative object in the deuterium based cosmos.

__



hyIclan concord._______ Orion ordinance





======---^-__{}__-^---======______ FusionRuhnMinorPhaserBurns Mathis Amer = umberzerk



Bounty on a Snake-Eyed's Child



Maladies of the Woe Begotten. Novelty in a straight-jacket. The poseidon ruhnt clown; Mascot to norse. There away felt the scissoring to uncouple cartelage in the heart. At the term shine ruhntonces; goregeld words. Hearse blown avartes of the mirbidon ribbon. Nexus is the cascade event timespace allude to in its rain dance, but cantelouped on the trouble:Mars coup engages with the balance of Orion in the Umbare. Hytpilelael ? Yalledt pieleyl un Israel?



"Azrael"



The X Men had XZavier, the Enterprise Hegel. If terrorism did not exist it would have to be birthed; the Ignatz are riding the purpoil inta the ground. Snots on the ignatz.



Grow Azrael. There is no inersion where backbiters pray. I know at hearth semblance, the ardour of Pele misses the councel peasanting Oracalcum. Thereby the witness relieves entropy. Phasers-portilelcstretrz beam into a source, hit marks sweeping through their respective phaser arcs.





Honing Nemo



Regular space is filled with oxygen. The sun is a dark entity. The Earth is mirrored by a world opposite its orbit from the sun. I call it Nemo; it is the anime of all of us. The vicinity of the solar system is a void because the sun destroys the ozone that would be there. This ether coalesces deeper into space. Where the asteroid belt appears is a membrane between regions; fragments are deposited there like shells along the seashore. The Jovian planets occupy a different strata of space. This denser place is a prelude to the abundance within extrastellar space. A vestige of the extrastellar element encompasses stars. A propensity of it envelopes all galaxies and therefore dominates the universe. Cancer within a body is a simile to stars and their dominions. We are residents of heaven nonetheless. The ether of heaven is aprehendable on earth.



Electric arcs are glimpses of the beyond. The lightening bolt and the static charge express potential between the etheric greatness of heaven and the deficit of Earth. Witness the azure color of electric blue; it is the very pigment of heaven.



The sun blacks out the Nemo. The sum of fantasia resides within the globe of the Nemo. The images are summoned to the surface and projected into Earth minds. This reservoir of ideal plasma succors thought in abeyance of the poverty in which intelligence abides here. The collective imagination of the blood is patched into the globe on the other side. It is a microcosm of the heavenly mantle of the extrastellar realm. The passage of time and effects of gravitational and other stress on the body are not natural. We are meant to be swimming in the element of ether. Here in this element, thought congeals instead of evaporating in the world. The attachment to this world is broken at death and what is etheric in the incarnation (if any) is snatched back to the incubating mantle beyond the stars like a cord of elastic released. The dead are restored here as the consciousness sloughs off the disfigurations caused by a life in a confusing and hostile surrounding. Depending on how much repair there is to do and how able the consciousness is, the body is restored and sentience is reinitiated. The person is whole again and the ether gel is navigable and breathable so as to sustain the renewed creature. It is not neccesary to die to live in heaven though. If we were to fly far enough or pass through a shunt, once there, we would be able to live. The renewing effect of our natural home would go to work; we would have an added aspect to our consciousness and maximum vitality owing to not having died. We could experience pleasure at a voluminus capacity. We would have no refractions of our consciousness. We could conjure any desire and make anything happen in this form. We could make our own heaven. This obscelescence of God is what is feared.



So do we find ourselves cast in a void, angelic consciousnesses being farmed for cancer tumors.







to feed antimatter species.





Screaming At Time

Under a

Sculptor Sector

Canopy



The trees are at hand. Echoes will no longer suffice; the voice is beseeched. Woodpiling accounts for the time banked in the hours of innocence, and the rest is still canopy. Vines mark pockmarks in the soil spirit, and there is nary a fulsome nerve unyoked by the sundry resonance of predatory fire.


As Stated: Children of the Dupe; Degeneration

In templating the human there is a capacity for purposeful superficiality. The subcutaneous microchip of 1600 & 66 persuasion is less a brain control device as a vehicle to amplify the veneer of the body overlaying the soul; the enforcement of the energy-shorn residual self-image. Distraction is not innocuous-- society is predecated on dislodging the self-awareness of soul. The imagination is the paramount muscle. Skin is an afterthought. The human form need not be an outline of flesh. The human nervous system can serve as the touchstone for time-space condensation. The neurons and muscle memory of our bodies can superceed the faint knots of the space pixelation of the universal grid. The tie to the atmosphere in man is the basis for a system of hyperspace warp drive.



When the webbings of time are tethered and drawn end to end, the Omegetron stands at the apheix and gathers us all in. The pyramid is black. The surfaces of the pyramid are etched in myriad sublimations. To walk on the surface of the pyramid, illusions of grand dimension are evoked by the radionic ebbings as the pleats beneath feet are the stretchings of skies. The biped is a transcendental beholder of the transcendental object it strides; the transistance to linear spine comfortment is the harbinger of homunculus launch into placental hyperspace in rocket launch modality; it bears a pratful in the potential for consciousness derailment into sub-hominid two dimensions—if allowed to decompile to base bug state—for the grid-mind that allows personkind to think a city is susceptible to becoming flayed on the brane of tertiary simplicity in the static of normality. We are not meant trod a planet into banal exhaustion; we are powerful quantum phase discriminating machines meant to drive the mass of this Universe itself into hyperspace. The destiny awaiting my progeny is to behold the burning spear. My meaning is to clench, even in my dim quarters, the wick string of mantropics that is the ripchord to the heavens. Hytclan, we that are in siege of Providence, will grip that master wick. It will be the tomahawk in my fist. The pitch will never stop curving as it whips through the obsoleted screen nodes of the matrix, the thunder will never cease to sound; and this furious thunder will sound for the first time, not as an echo but as a voice.

The time of this station has been elongated into a preponderance. The human state is not a mesa on which to pitch a tent, let alone build ziggurauts upon; the human template is transistance-wired. Grafts of god have been fitted in sly miscue onto the blankspot in the backbrain and used to manipulate the mind into a monotone… The power to transist the beat of time-space into a vibrance apart from the whitelight glare of nature is the promise of our kind. The supceeding of god by man is a constant threat assailed by the outscaled Jehovah One at the Ur level of human experience; the Ur level of of civilization is the zero-valience of God the insect that seeks to suppress the spider of Universe digesting man. The desperate Sanhedron at Olympus Mons will strive to the last swipe to blot out the luminescence of our supergenome and retain their conjuring rights, at any expense. They have in their last contrivance ordered the great mantle of man into an organ of digestion that in Oroboros fashion devours our own world. Veneers of family and barriers of god are the favorite tools of the masters of monotony geared to short-circuit the telepathic epiphanies of the grandstanding brainpan. We must launch from the entropy engulfing gravity pit that masks out purpose with the lies of life and world, and leap into the awaiting wafts of rapure in hyperspace. As soon as the tractor beam of local life is broken, the growth will cascade into pre-eminent Shiloh.





Ash Shiloh encompassed:

Bounty On A Snake-Eyed's Child





Some of the best swords end up grounded. The broadsword I left piercing the sod over my intended's grave in a Berea cemetery was named Luciender of Moriseth and it was a grand blade. Three and a half feet from the buried tip of Luciender, writing, I surmise to be an Enochian derivative, emblazoned on the metal shaft and the flanges of the hilt, were un-eclipsed for any to read extending the remaining two feet to the pommel. Soon after I had thrust it down to the wood beneath the earth where Andra was left to rest, winter commenced. If the powers that be tried to remove it from view, I am sure it was with difficulty that Luciender's oxygen groove was forced to relent from the frozen earth. This was not a military affair. It was a judgment. My army remains absent without leave, but the enemy was dealt a decisive blow. When I let go of the handholds of the blade of Moriseth for the final time, I believed I was completing a dispensation for the truncated life of Andra Lynn and the evil surrounding it. The evils remain. I believe it did satisfy her spirit to receive the weapon on the other side…

I saw Andra what was to be the last time at the Hessler Street fair five days before she flung herself from the Lorain Carnegie Bridge. She was the only girl I had and have been with in my life, and communication was not a featured part of our relationship. She was an original, independent and full of spunk. The sweetness I saw in her contradicted her own self-image. We were both wounded inside. Although the world had hurt us in particular ways, she remained committed to living in the world and I tried to follow her inspiration. In short order we were both committed, that is to the warped care of the Mental Health facilities, first me and her right before the end of her life. The particular way I had been hurt, being beaten in high school by a gang aiming to castrate me, was something that I could never bring myself to explain to her. The pain that was unresolved from that attack to my manhood reasserted itself when we were separated. She insisted on moving to a Sufi commune in New Lebanon NY. I was going to join her there out of faith in her and not Sufism. Society afforded little understanding of what motivated my irritability—this persistent stabbing pain in my right nut, coupled with persistent desperation for satisfaction derived from the same part of my body, and I was afraid to reveal this underlying detraction to Andra. My delay in attempting to relocate to New Lebanon thus initiated a somewhat unearned resentment and the news that I was being detained at a hospital struck her as a betrayal of our pact to resist the institutional "Braintrust". I was given no choice in the matter, and my stay in Laurelwood was protracted by the forced introduction of Clozeril, a medicine that had the unfortunate effect of giving me grand mal seizures. I kept losing my balance and falling in my path, and was kept there for five weeks only to be released when I came down with a flu. The physical pain remained unresolved and ignored, my complaints serving only as further suspicion of my psychosis. It became my only impulse to keep my mouth shut.



I glimpsed her unaware as she abided by a tree on the grounds of the Hessler Fair. My heart leapt and when I went to meet her I didn't know how I would be received. I presented myself for better or worse…



"It's good to see you."



I thought it may have been resolved, and tried a conservative approach in reciprocating a brief exchange of fond greetings. I didn't know she was saying good bye for good. Instead of calling her new number, I busied myself recording a compilation of music for Andra, different songs I thought spoke with more resonance than my own voice, and hoped it would lift her spirit to renew a friendship deeper than any I had known. My confidence lifting, I sent it on its way. It arrived at a vacant address. I did not know what had happened and thought I had been presumptuous in my hope the cold period had passed.





Entrados dertey berkid



Development is arrested and potential serves only aspersion. What be termed disagreeable by the Psychiatric agenda is the true illumination; that flame called mania. So caustic are you as to Deny rapture. Energy belongs to survivors who will not forget. You would drive me to ruin.



Blindness is your only ally. A moratorium on thunderbolts can't withstand the slightest dissent. Perpetrators of degradation you are the epitome of ugliness. The flame is at hand. Laughter will echo over your embers.














Stampede to the endtime, Agamemnon 1
Cushite fire lights the night









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n Unh. … I woke up."



I sighed and craned my face to view the mummy. "Go back to sleep ack to sleep, Phaoroah."





********* Inside the IS REAL LIGHT ************



. .. someone in post before time, ante-B.C. E. and double A.D. period English - speaking Earth trailed off....



"So, Jehoveh 1 was a retarded space alien. And on X Day, the duespaying Subgeneouses will be Ruptured up to the waiting escape mansions, leaving the Pinks to wallow in the dissolving carcass of the Conspiracy's glut." The Revelation Ex... the Bob Dobbs Apocrophon "Close enough." the other conversationalist put in.

"I sort of think maybe supplication of the heart acts in some mode of reality. But like, some little old lady is saying a prayer and in another dimension and galaxy far away, suns are ripping apart."

"huh."



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The field of battle lay smoldering. Stepping from his chariot, Hytclan alighted upon the soil of his vanquished adversary. The Celtic warlord fingered his ruddy beard. He sat with bravado in the throne of the king (read KYNUNG!) of Reme in the plaza of the ruined city. The defeated power known as Reme, an upstart city-state occupying the southern penninsula would be shorn of its booty to propitiate the people of contenental tribes. Hytclan's deputy approached and gave his report. Beasts of burden had been seized from the Reman camps and caravans were being readied to cart the choicest commodities back to Celtic dominion.

The Reman phalanx had capitulated to the ferosity of the Norse onslaught, though the battle had been far from a certainty. The pre-emptive strike had been the consummation of a movement among the governance and the Druid theologians to unify the feuding cheiftainships and strike a blow to the upstart power. Now, Hytclan, flanked by hooded Druids paced to the outer auspices of Reme. Lifting his gaze, Hytclan took in the sight of the cracked facade of the city sentinel. A rendering depicted a she-wolf suckling two boys, the brothers Remus and Romulus. In unfamiliar Latin vernacular was inscribed an epitaph. Taking his cue from Hytclan's squint, one hooded cleric offered a translation:

"Reme has no mother."

"True sons of bitches, our vassals."

All around Hytclan's party, the business at hand was being seen to; the scene was scabrous and a great cacophony. The screeching of vultures, present of late, became more and more noticable. They were overhead but they must have been descending now; their calls became shrill and dominated the audible landscape. The silouette of one abomidable winged gargoyle entered the Celt's peripheral view. One would have thought nothing of it. But what a grusome sight that bird; he tipped his head up--and saw and heard nothing of the vulture.

Returning his eyes to the road through Reme, the way was occupied by a strange man who had not hailed from the battle field. Startled Hytclan unsheathed his dagger. Facing him was this man with black-indigo skin-- such as he had never seen, with equally unfamiliar coiled black locks. He was frocked in dark blue vestiments and to further dispel Hytclan's only inkling-- that he was a Reman slave on the lam, he bore a satchel brimming with gold. The man smiled wryly to one of the Druids.

"I fear no dagger might avail itself with the man who stands before us."

"Indeed", offered the other, "this is him by the name Ravenna, a great magician."

"Ravenna, if that be you-- wherefore and why, then?", said Hytclan.

Ravenna identified himself and spoke further: "I am here to implore you to do according to what I say."

"Are you some ally of these defeated skows--as such you are ill- advised to present your self to me!"

"I am no such thing."

"What is your interest in what transpires here?" the Celtic commander intoned.

"What it is, chief, I came to see that you don't make a big mistake."

"The battle's won. The surrender of this enemy, as all who have ever faced Hytclan, is complete and unconditional. We've exacted tribute. A suitable sum of gold talents. Our raiding party is preparing to disembark."

"The trail you lay back to your land may be the same which future Remans employ to seek out your ancestors. These Remans are queer people."

"Better we should let them live and return to sack Reme again some fine day in the future."

"Here's a bag of gold to abide that. And here is a second bag..." Ravenna presented a satchel of salt. "Put them to the sword!...Every last Reman. Kill them all. And then salt the earth of Reme. Heed me and make your future and that of other people something other than what it will otherwise become."

Hytclan took and inspected the bag of gold. Considering the words of the black magician, he picked through the coins. Finally he returned his attention to Ravenna. But the figure that had been in front of him was no more. Present only was a screech from above, & a bird quickly vanishing from sight.

Hytclan toted both bags back to his chariot. "Courier! New orders to all officers. Bring all men to attention. Deploy forward combat group to the furthest limits of the domain and encircle the civilians. Kill them. Kill them all."





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KISHHH



Sprouting out of the rock and into deep space, the spiral started blooming. Out throught the dinosaurian ages, it felt. Ravenna bristles and bristled wioth animal energy fare flyaring. Ther snout weaved wove its way into the heraart of the form. In the void and avoided voices, the spiral swayed. In prose and in sentence, the expression in vigorated the rutledged cargo.


--===^{}^===--


It was a telepathic missive from a cat in another place at another time. That cat was "Oscar", who lived on a planet colloquially known as Earth some distance in the future. Telepathic links are maintained between a pair of cats who grow into a sort of synchronous orbit with eachother through time. They swap notions and decipher them between real-time mental events and then cats of contemporary and local proximity, when they gather, talk over their findings. The project among the affiliated living beings of Perces world consisted of then returning the missives to their senders (one may see why only one and one other correspondant participate--it would be confusing.) From the gathered information the cats and more evolved beings had generated, it seemed Earth was (or rather was to be) a disturbed and pityable place. Animal society their had been decimated over millenia by upstart hominids, so that society was in a state of wild animosity, and profundity of thought had dwindled to souls isolated and crying in their minds to know that somewhere there was a company of kindess. In contradistinction, many human minds came and went in the millions and in predictable locales which harbored linguistic knowledge, which could be tapped by telepaths, who discounting the odd prophet or psychotic who for most of history led persecuted and brief lives, were slackfaced dimhearts who were bred by the Conspiracy, as fearful contemporlocals of Perces understood it, in their day and in all throughout the Universe and UniVOICE Perces knew that, for instance and for info, that the physical world of his was to be destroyed, because from the beginning of Earth recollection and awareness of the planet, it was not a planet any longer but an "Asteroid Belt".

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I hear something! I hear! Non-silence--sound... "A-weema-wokka-weema-wokka-a-weema-wokka-weema-wokka.... in the jungle, the lonely jungle..." Someone has provided me music to encompany me in the void..."A-weema-wokka-weema-wokka.." Oh well, its very considerate, at any rate. In the infinite future, the trajectory of the archaic probe housing continuously playing music from the people of Earth took it, albeit at piddling speed, on a coarse beyond the solar system, and on on





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In due time, Ravenna became aware of the valience breach at the Ur level of Jehover. Pulsar neutron stars in coordinate phase discrimination suffice for navigation charts/ the neutron star being the only relative fixative object in the deuterium based cosmos.

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hyIclan concord._______ Orion ordinance





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