I share this with you, so you can always enter here and write, and I do the same.

And
exchange with each other in symbiotic resemblance.

This will be my color, and you'll pick yours here:

This will be mine.

-

20/5/23 - 06:23
The cycle of reusable services and the inescapable little things always have fascinated me.
The rehearsal of the repaired vents to need reparations again, the reopening of a river where
water was to be drank and poured again, the reseal of a pack of gum or bottle of glue, what
a fascinating profession. The one of the sun to achieve the climax every day at the same
time, the one of the moon to occupy him every night at different places.
What a professional, those whose days are molded and hammered by their chosen
surroundings, the shoemaker who I see at 4 am at their station working on a new pair of
wooden shoes for a lady down the street, and their light is amber orange, filling like a
pumpkin pie on a cold day. And I see it at the end of the store, in shivering and blue
darkness from the front store, I hear the thoughts, I see the old pants loose on the ankles
from where the cold enters a now rigid body of ecstatic movement of hands, on their skin so
white, like a ghoul and on their left a coffee from crushed beans, on their right, to work more
for their passion, at night, in silence, while everyone else is sleeping but the shoemaker,
while no one ever knows since they don't go around to say it.
What a simplicity, what a redundancy, their bread is gained by the others steps yet they do
the first and last, always. Like a morbid angel of commodity who martyrizes themselves in
cold silence and warm actions.

And the sky is unknown yet, is this again an ever so long lasting days night? or worse, it's to
end and now return to succumb ancestry to their forever sworn adversary of astrally
convergence. If so, don't tell me, my eyes will imitate the glory of no time, in no time, with no
time, at no time, not timed, now timeless. My imagination crumbles recipes of magic and
wizardry hexing, of dead known names of music, books, potions, embers and people, from
them I know my time, time to remember the adulterated brew of my conformity in palpable
esoterism, esoteric temples of sulfur and rocks, of carved stones and dark blue blood,
electrolytes who surge and die in the verge of their bed to rest in the ground are now
transferred to the space, to a space of silence and timeless perception, to my mind, in
reciprocated greatness alongside, and I cast it on myself and die in my mind, and now I live
again, and it's night time, and the cycle. Once again, beautifully, restarted.

22/5/23 - 07:26 "May yearn the wind of stopping"

The light blue sky turned into a faded tool of lighting, white and gray, modulating on the
nuances of the entire day.
Clouds, clouds of gargantuan dimensions and accumulations of mist, so fogs are arisen
from the land into the floating condensed mass of water that for what I see. Engulfs the
mountains whole, the tips hid in white haze and the roads in grey low proximity and dense
hazard of water, waters of babylonian precedence, older than mountains, deeper than
oceans, smaller than sand, bigger than heads, now in mind this hazardous alchemy is being
casted by Pacha Mama, ah, to be casted in cataclysmic conditions, the wind is ravenously
hitting, the displacement is real, the tornadoes are forming inside of the clothes. I'm thankful
for the red lights in front who guide us towards the ever forever road fever, the dirt is
petrified, the wood is burnt, the houses are blowing entrophyean pillars of creation, fire, ignis
immutable, the wood is ignited, ignis, fire, ever so burning in towers of white smoke that
connect to the sky.
Like pumps of obscure and mayiest dread, to see the ever growing sky turn black and blue
and with blue the big sun, the red sun, the organic orange in the clouds, raining in
decomposition, rainbows sprinkling everywhere, hidden behind the veil of white
nebulousness that surrounds us. Ah, Ehécatl cleanse my view, Tlaloc, god of rain and storm.
Forget me not for my intrusion in your domain, I've leave
The temple of torment and rain in disturbing anticipation, forgotten already my mind has
about, Quetzalcoatl rainbow serpent of the sky, longing over the ceiling of clouded soil, may
no god be seeing this, or may not deem to be worth, seemingly it's too dark at day for us to
recover the vision that Ehecatl didn't got or cared to clean, Cipactonal god of the stars of
day, guide the sun to repair a clear in the midst of the mist for me to rest, the testing of the
mountains surrounding me is harsher than rocks hitting magma, magma burning hot
underwater, petrified into obsidian to make our macuahuitl sharp, we now ought to skin a
serpent, to retrieve a golden symbol, to cut the environment, to wind up and bag the
moisture of the ambience we breath, too bad, mountain, mountain closing up and buffing,
potentiating, enlarging themself on the microwave of dread, the crickets smile hard and
forcefully into submittion from the all know. Singing a funebresque soneto in repetition from
what to come, no red orb now guides me, the asphalt is now dirt, the pillars are carved into
intricate designs of curves and orbs, A shadow shades the shape of the earth on us, pose,
ready…- .

23/05/23 - 09:52

As flour it's a powder and gas a liquid, I'll liquidize the spices purely into optimum
conditioning and heated ingredients of fascinating articles and legends, mithos, so
enchanted on their lyrical dance of alchemy that, for mortals, the spices, in all forms of
matter, are unknown, unknown and researched, researched by itself. As meat, living matter
force willingly to live even dead

May 23rd, 2023 - 19:16 (a continued imagining of Uriel’s scene)

Such an invocation too tempting for any god to ignore, and at once the howling ceased. Our
senses so suddenly overcome with nothingness that the change had disoriented us like a
blinding light. The mountainside had opened itself up in salvation like a gaping maw, freeing
us of the harsh road traveled and depositing us within the safety of its depths. Though just
as quickly as the relief had come, it was ripped from our fingers, as we came to understand
the consequences of such a thoughtlessly spoken promise. Without the glowing red orbs
before us, leading us as though a pair of guiding stars in an empty sky, we were at once lost.
To call our newfound internment dark would do it little justice, the innards of the mountain
devoid of light and warmth entirely. Prey trapped inside the viscera of a grand beast, any
further plea would only go unheard. At its mercy, yet entirely inconsequential having already
been swallowed; the Goliath forgetting us the moment we had entered its void. And so there
was nothing now but to trudge forward in shaking trepidation, with smoke still burning inside
of us, seeping from our pores in a subdued haze. Even still, the dampness of our captor
could be felt in every orifice, musky and noxious, wetting what had been previously rendered
dry through fire. Blindly we followed nothing, our steps keeping pace with the rhythmic
drippings of our stony tomb. Only to hope once again to be greeted by harshness, having
now known no reprieve in oblivion.

May 27th, 2023 - 00:29

I watch as a surging stream cuts in deranged frenzy through the lush landscape like a
sharpened blade. Sugary ichor greedily coats the soil, oiling it as rivulets of crimson paint the
air in dark droplets, violently defiling the surrounding environment of its purity. The smell is
virulent, metallic. It invades my body like an infection, prickling at my eyes and sinuses. My
mouth rendered so dry that the warmth of my breath twists frigid and bitter, bile threatening
to spill as the scent only grows more suffocating. It is pouring down the hillside toward me
now, having escaped from where it had once been so neatly contained, yet now easily
undone. Prolonged entrapment seemed to have only made it grow hungrier and hungrier for
freedom, until, in desperation, it had carved itself a path out of its fragile prison. I know that
this force will take pause for nothing and nobody, relentless in its pursuit of an unknowable
destination. And there is no one to prevent me from drowning in it now. It will branch in
swirling, venomous tendrils, seeking me out, pooling at my feet with the intention of dragging
me under, until I am completely assimilated in its flowing masses. Interred as a silent
observer, neither entirely capable or incapable of stopping it.

30/05/23 1:32 “Hardstep-Brostep & the hoofs of the hog”

I breath in peace, full focus, on point, without distractions, in silence, on motion, still focused,
mindless, thoughtful, completely full of mind, not thinking about it, I walk in concordance, in
serie, I walk restless, uninteresting, I walk on the floor, on the clouds, on the stone, on the
castle, on the balcony, on the railing, on the corner, alone, I walk alone in full companionship.
I am not alone, I walk alone, they don’t walk they jog, they move, they step, they
float, they barely touch the ground, they don’t have their feet on this earth, they don’t walk
no, they don’t, they are dancing, they jump, they creep, they slug their feet around the floor,
of wood, of stone, of pavement, of ceramic, of cardboard, they don’t care, they don’t walk,
they have soil, they have movement, they don’t think, I see, I don’t see them, I see their
faces, I don’t see me, I see my reactions, I don’t think, they think I am thinking, I am seeing
their faces, they are full, of emptiness.
Uneventful faces, wide open eyes, soulless, emotionless, motion, jumping, up and
down their eyes follow white, hard white, and black, and blue, and green, and brown, and
red, and red stencils on some, and yellow hues on others, and white eyes, all of them
moving. Nothing to see, but eyes, I am walking, and I am only seeing eyes in the dark, the
blue dark, the flashing dark, the secrecy, so much vulnerability, so much chances, so much
danger, so many men in black, so many women in white, how many red martinis I have
seen? what am I seeing, this is a face, is looking at me, I don’t look at it. It’s talking, mouths
are moving, they are talking, they can’t talk, no, they can’t. They are either dancing or
talking, or talking or seeing, or seeing or dancing, they aren’t doing none and yet they
pretend, they don’t see, they don’t communicate, it’s all under the veil of the night, on the
nightclub of the high sky, on the top floor, on the bottom cell, on the common ground, on soil
and not with soul, they extend, they dance, they drink, they live? they apparently do, I have
never seen them again, I never did, I don’t recognize them, they go to my same place? I
don’t see them, never will or ever would, they live near. I know him, he lives on top of me, I
know him, he always come here, I know him he wants me to drink, to have a good night, to
have fun, his fun, he knows me, I reclined, I know him, he is cool, he is great, I don’t see him
anymore, I don’t see at all. All I am doing is perceiving, what is this? I am again seeing, I
don’t see with my white eyes, I don’t have them open, I walk focused, I don’t move, I’m
static, they are in ecstatic presence, they are social on the not so socially normal behavior of
exposing their flaws, they are not talking, no they aren’t, I know what they are thinking, I see
it on their eyes.
I don’t know, they don’t know either, he doesn’t imagine, I can imagine, the lines, the
beautifully twisted and reversed lines of thought, of mind, of soul, of body, of coalition, of
anger, of lust, of hysteria, of pleasure, of maliciousness, of dread, of nervous, of death, of
killing, of dancing, of talking, of seeing, of that guy who seems to be asleep, I am not asleep,
I am not. I am watching, it all plays out, deep, in my mind, it’s so interconnected I can’t run
my fingers across it, it’s so unbearable in density that I can’t hold it with my back, I can
unknot it by little, I know it by little, by big is the revelation of what nothingness contains, they
are hollow but full of nothing is a filling still, I am seeing, the secrets, I am now hearing, the
music, it’s loud, so loud, it’s burning my thoughts, I don’t want to listen, don’t grab my hand,
don’t touch my hair, I don’t want to step in and out in up tempo music, hardcore on the soft
core of this process, I am seeing the common denominator, I found the key, the key of the
aphelion madness, the succumb of this macabre party of mindless and soulless torturers.
They are here reunited in this samsara of events, in golden light of bliss, under the
ceiling, beneath the carcass of their physicality, it’s impossible to see again, they are at the
party, not here, on cold darkness that heats in artificiality of movement and energy of
thermodynamics, of this, this entropy of dark parallels, of white walls, of padded rooms, I am
not seeing, I am not hearing, I am not here, where are they? Where am I? Who left the cage
open? my bird. My bird will fly far away. Who did this to me? Where is my bird? It’s too late, it
flew away too far and deep, in my mind now gone, what was I thinking of? Oh, you’re
correct, in their eyes. They watch me, they are writing this down, I know they know. You
know, I won’t talk to you anymore, the more I talk the less you know, I will cease and you’ll
understand, understand, I’m breathing in peace, not distracting, focused, on point, accurate.
I don’t move, I just show I’m alive. I am in silence, if I talk you’ll ask questions, why do I keep
talking? Shush.

2/6/23 01:22 "Wirl ene antheops bolongn"

What a lovely night to recover the eyes from yesterday, to be awakened by the subtle smell
of oil from the outside, and the neon poles of the morning, at night. Everything returns,
returns to zero, to dust! Yet, in the mornings it all ends in dry acts of tiredness, even more
than yesterday's tiredness, which is not much to say since whenever the fluidity keeps a line
it's harder to pick it out than to pick it in.
In the night, I fade back into a non sentience foulness, one of putrefaction and altered
mindsets, one of malfunctioning chords and obstructed bowels. I fade back into myself, my
self, my only self. The self I know, is me and by extension you, as my reader and estimated,
as you now feel as I am. And are subjugated into my tide as long as you read, we are both
alone in this even in companionship of one another. I as author and protagonist talk to the
blank space behind letters directing my voice in prose to you, back to me in my perception
as reader and spectator as another voice in succulent adoration for you, writer. Me, reader,
dear, I don't await trophies or else, not medals or recognizement, not even a pinch at all. I
know, genuinely.
Is my self contagious Mr.Real Reader? or you just look up in awe of weirdness and
confusion? Is this too meta for me to keep up? then. I'll drag it down, down to the ground, to
the holy lands, to fade into black, the black in the back of my eyes, the one that perpetuates
on the abyss behind my mind. The one that I don't see. That one, the one that not even I can
start decrypting into something unconcealable, I just know it, I feel like ripping my guts out
right now with my bare hands and feed on them in frenzy, to lie cold in flames in my white
sheets but now the insurgency is controlled, and the thought is gone, and the mind is at
ease, and the sentiment of my guts prevail, prevail to sting in memory of what I wrote. But I
can write about anything, why would I write about something like that? I don't know. I
genuinely don't know how to pause.
How to continue? exactly, I am doing it again, I'm talking to my words, the words don't talk to
me! they jump to me in cold buckets of vinegar. I talk alone, no. I write alone, in company of
myself, of you. Of me, I accomplish more with me alone, in company. Why do I always dwell
in self motivated genres? I'd like to become a novelist, and write short stories and novels and
long ever expanding legends and universes, to be able to hold galaxies, conceptual ones, in
my fingers, in my mind. To be powerful, as I am now. I am the power, don't misunderstand
me! I can end this, in the hold of my hand it's to be or not to be a story, but I can't help it! It's
involuntary, as. I want to write myself into existance of my mind. I don't, goodbye behind me.
Goodnight forward. Goodnight to me, for you, to you.

12/06/23 03:48

I have considered my absurd melancholy, the prose is now not important, my prone skin is
not interesting to me anymore. I have considered my defiant unreliability to be a now
problematic trait, my mask, my sigil, my crest, my eyes and that demon if change and blood
that the prince of hate and destruction averted me about, I've called him another name and
their face is now a continuation of mine.
I have yet to prove and taste the rinsed rice of the morning spring, to break and mold and
test render and tender the soil and seeds, I have yet to retrieve myself in carnality,
peacefulness of meditation and luck, of blue hues to my spring faced dullness, green, and
yellow. As the poet Artaud now said and said forever in the cemetery club, "who gave the kid
god, the gray staff of the dead" the same colors, of the deceased poet, now transparent and
translucent, to think of not thinking or not thinking about thought, the one who machines is a
machinery yet human is the one who thinks for itself, what if, I don't think at all, where will
that leave me.