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RENAISSANCE EDIT I find myself free, these days.

A cell, a shelter, a hospital, or in any way detained, I find myself not. My brother idiots disdain for me springs from thus. I appreciate the warm fresh air that hits my face as I leave my house, and as I walk the cement of my town, I savor the pavement like fine liver. The agents around me of CIA stature and report know me personally, and I will discern their involvement with KGB intelligence officers here: it is a gist of a wind Ive picked up that these intelligence elites may be Russian spies; but also I have heard wind of cameras inside televisions and microphones, too. This I am not so sure of. Her appearance so untrustworthy, the agent, that I might not be associated with her in full. My brother is in his own way an officer and felt that, should one thing be accomplished by his power, it would be to arrest me. He had made a path from my bed to his truck bed and had the aim of hauling me to jail so that I might be a puppet of his. Know not did he I was being schemed against already, and for it, my freedom shall be savored another fine day. I will report the story with finer detail commencing. The climate is war-zone, and almost nothing is believable. Certainly not my brother's story about why he visited his employer's psychologist. The subtext of my life here is a confused mess of plots and subplots between CIA agents, seeing as I know one. It's all depressing. Activism was impossible. I am special. Unfurling my plot to sleep, the brother plotted to arrest me. "Completely miserable sot. He arrested the wrong person, and tried to capture me. I was going to be his puppet, yes." Before he accidentally woke me, he was rubbing his hands together and muttering such things. Taking control of my limbs was his aim. To enjail me was to make it work, and twos on a night of dew brought 2 upon me--too asleep to capture, close enough, and I was to be taken from my bed at 2 in the morning. He say unto me, that I was arrested. But between me and him, a spy approached. I must say, it was a charming spot to hide. Fit for freedom, I wrapped and bagged him, and drug the man to my brother's truck. He said, "Woe, to me." Controlled, I will not be. Taken lightly, his arrest should be forgotten. It is writ to him, signed Adressee

The Brother Idiot

I'm free. Ask a commander, or his dreamy counterpartwhose nightly poison mars my morning judgment. In fact, I'm not in a cell, a hospital, a shelter, or any other detainment facility at all. I've been free for a while now. My brother idiot disdainfully recognizes that. And don't forget to ask the American KGB defector (now CIA,) or her acid-freak cronies who answer for her. They won't deny I'm free. They think I'm getting too used to it, in fact. The warm fresh air that hits my face when I leave my house is underappreciated. However, when I finally get home after days or weeks of confinement in the city, I savor the pavement like fine liver. I take these little trips to the capital in order to find my way through the world. I feel that if I cant live with any governmental awareness, I cant live at all. However, the outlook is grim for any kind of change-making. Being scanned and questioned is the norm for anyone who wants to represent themselves. If you ever get to see the person you want, youre so demoralized by the time you reach them that the message seems out-of-place. The world is falling apart around me. Just now, there is a man perched outside my door to capture me if I leave. He's CIA, not KGB. And if I don't look, he'll make a way to his black car behind my neighbor's house and silently drive off in a few minutes. As well, inside each unforgiving pixel in my monitor on which I am typing this document is a single camera designed to follow me around very closely. That's over 800 times 600 cameras trained. My hard drive is the kind that has no moving parts. This is so that the signal is not interfered with which un-randomizes all my software. Any program which shuffles or slideshows randomly will be manipulated to convey secret messages from the KGB or CIA. The story is always so specifically designed to confuse me that it takes huge amounts of effort to deny them their hold on me. Most of this is true. In fact, my imagination has taken an o-kay situation and transformed it into a personal hell. Its the music, I swear. I listen to ambient music so the lens which I view the world is false-perceptive. The CIA versus KGB plot may be inaccurate for example. This ordeal, at least by whose responsibility in matters of surveillance is concerned, may actually be linked to just one national intelligence agency. And although it definitely seems like two competing forces, perhaps good versus evil, I reject both spirits. The towering resources required to watch me only match my importance. This is fact. I know a CIA agent very personally, and therefore it became easier to monitor me than to monitor her. Any influence she might actually have on the world would have to be through me, her puppet; because her appearance is that she is so untrustworthy. But, there may not be a camera on every pixel of my monitor. And it seems the CIA agent at my door has actually just taken off. And finally, as I rehash my perception, I instead receive most messages not from randomized software but from my squandering society which (remarkably) still values ad space and pays for radio seconds. Its all depressing, still.

I've swept. I've cried. I've been mopping all around the house. Being sad has no use, in the end, but being clean brings us closer to God. That writ should go in a letter to my brother, who is by no confabulation completely miserable, and soppy. The climate is war-zone, and almost nothing is believable. Certainly not my brother's story about why he visited his employer's psychologist. Taking time out of his leisurely evening, which is approximately six hours at its longest estimation, my brother went to a psychiatrist who told him that he (my brother) could magically control me. There was no ulterior motive behind my brother's visit to the psych doctor, certainly not his own misery, and upon leaving my brother did have those powers of bodily control. As my brother left the psychiatrist's office, the doctor warned him of only one thing: the powers might only work if I am incarcerated, and would maybe even be useless were I to be freed. So I don't take my freedom lightly, anymore. It is a phenomenon I have noticed that, being surrounded by brilliant people, not specifically me being brilliant but the people who influence me being so, that anything I say or write has special, almost genius significance to me and sometimes the entire world. It is like a golden tongue. So the plot which unfolded this morning, while being un-special, will seem incredible to anyone reading this. Opening my bedroom door, my brother plotted to arrest me. He is, in his own way, an officer, and he felt that, should he do one thing with his powers, it would be to arrest me. He had made a path from my bed to his truck, and was planning on bagging me into the truck bed and hauling me off to jail, so that he could then control whatever I say or do, or whatever it was he wanted to do with me. I was going to be his puppet. Before he accidentally woke me, he was rubbing his hands together and muttering such things. My brother didn't know I was already being plotted against. It was in his strange way that he naturally loved me that it turns out he would be forced to arrest the wrong person, who was an alternate officer, and who burst out of my closet to attack my brother. My brother is a large man, and came out on top. He said, and had difficulty with the words, You are under arrest--! Of course he was planning to say this to me, and when he flashed his badge at the wrong person, me being awake at this point, he was somewhat disappointed. Because as my brother was granted police officer-ship, he was only allowed one arrest: and he had just wasted that arrest on another officer. Automatically, my brother cuffed the other officer, who seemed a little flabbergasted as well (no one gets arrested for spying,) and carried him to his truck. To me, my brother said, Good-day Jordan, and dragged the other man to his truck. I may never be controlled by my brother idiot. But the terms of his arrest has made it so that he is no longer an officer, and thus is now a target for surveillancemaybe we'll find some common bond in the future? As for the man he arrested: he is being punished scientifically with an equal level of misery that my brother harbors. I guess that's fair.