Glass Zebra

But I would like to begin again.

I wonder why I left work during the middle of lunch still.

When I realized he saw me beside the broken pieces of our clumpy jagged edges of the glass zebra, he may have been stung like a match head to the temple, that I was the one he saw there, realizing that the pieces of broken jagged clumpy were pieces of my irreparable goddamn heart.

“Shut the hell up,” Jemeriah reminded me. He wasn’t happy that my boyfriend wouldn’t drive to get my wisdom teeth out.

The dentist hadn’t taken into account that I was thin from my recent long bout with adult chicken pox, and the prescribed medication was unlike any other I had ever.
EVER. He wasn’t there when I got home nor were the pieces of the zebra.

So I nodded to acknowledge where I was now, and felt faint and slightly sick with no ease to my love, then made my way out the door. I shut the massiveleadish steele thing and tried to skip unsuccessfully down the stairway to the lot. I sitting there on the bus bench for three hours before I hailed a cab back home.

I remember the way he saw me, and I saw him suspended there in time and space and he still loved me. I drank him all the time he was around me, which was a lot, and I smelled and let him saturate my own suggestion of being near him – I enjoyed enjoying, being enjoyed, enjoying being enjoyed. he had my heart, he mythically stole it, like a slick Incubus, thief as he stole my love and man; I wonder why he didn’t skip class and just fuckin pick me up from serious wisdom tooth surgery.

Oh so earlier …. The dentist, meanwhile was apparently talking to my friends and I occasionally nodded and was probably really druggy, I told the staff I loved them and would see them soon. Then Jeremiah gave my keys to my freshly ex boyfriend and I dozed while he ordered me scripts at the store.

Chasing him down Tennessee in my old Camaro, crying “GODDDD-SSSPEEEEDDD!!!” to symbolize a moment of great length and filled with cheese, I sure as all hell was not getting the message.

I said yes to him that evening as twilight as his eyes were – I was in love, and hell, he knew it would work. He was so intelligent. I didn’t foresee his lack of thought for those years.

I saw him see me later, while I was fake knitting and fake chewing gum. he asked me which was more fun. I said it’s more fun seeing what makes you crack up more.
“What makes YOU crack up?”
“The fake gum because of the Fake TMJ?”
“Fake you!” We both laughed.
I melted. I felt cocky then said, “Fake knitting is stupid.”
“Stupid is faking- stupid faking fakers!”

I want to be more than what I faked and fucked with.

I am gonna take this opportunity to plead sanity and love for myself and psychological esteem and less panic and happiness and unconditional love and have more time to enjoy and learn from it, cheesy perhaps, believe me, I am not selling a story here.

I am just writing one for us.

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Writing Exercise #117. Mas o Menos?

I had made an important decision that drizzly December lunch hour, a choice that might have been a major turning point, or one that made me realize I couldn’t trust myself, control molecular mutations that were implanted in my DNA, but were fertilized by the irony of life and made me older, smarter, and a riddle unto my own psyche.
I left the office promptly at 11:45 am and it took the usual 3 minutes to get from my desk to the elevator to the front door and down the dozen stairs to the front green and I swiftly broke right up Maroon Hill two blocks west, slushing hurriedly up to the garden gates, and then made haste past the goat petting zoo.

Temporary images whirled past me as I lost more seconds of my hour and tore down to the Landing, the hillside slanted toward sea level and my spine started to burn as my speed increased, the spring humidity filling my lungs with heavy water and my terror elevated to a state of shocking horror for that which broke so many on the same journey to the ends of the earth, the beginnings of the ends of the furiously confused souls who came before me, live amongst me, and will be as unclean with sense of extreme compound awe, as we run past the calm, self-controlled, the composed egos whose filthy poised smirks made our thoughts race faster than our throbbing hearts as we stole away from the sun and found ourselves caught between the past and the future, between the land and the sky, the true and the false, not by choice, but by the means in which we ran though life with desperation and glory. We were born running, we choked on our conscious intensity, and eventually we realize would all die running.

I just wasn’t sure where I was going, but I had to keep on, or let the world stop and close me in its carriage, the cradles of the casual, the place you stop to take a breath is the last exit on the last highway.

Gravity pulled me down the street and I lunged forward as hard as I could, fearing and seemingly unfearful of the fact that my little heart felt determined to blow up in its madness to pump blood into my pulsating limbs, but also my clear head, falling into the ground, falling before I could get anywhere, falling before I reached the new race, the next step to the next step, the next path that always awoke and stirred my soul.

I stumbled on the gravel and drove forth to the liquid at the end of the Landing, the people and children and dogs and boats were the same day after day with faces of security and familiar sanctuary.

I dove into the shallow water and cried the familiar war cry of the storyteller who finally realized to give up on ever ending a tale. Nothing ever ends anyway.


Posted by Wendy Clark at 7:55 PM

Your Semi Daily Blhag

When I have something bothering me, causing me pain, distraction, discomfort, or anger, I tend to Another Day at the Officetake it out on those close to me.

I learned that after being inclined to ride that ridge and I was stopped.

The problem is; that’s your damn problem. You can talk about it and maybe someone will listen or care or help, but they can’t fix your problem and that is now bothering you enough to behave negatively, speak harshly, disengage, and then make the point that you are miserable.

Well, hell; I am sorry you are miserable. But don’t tell me I am worthless or weak or easily stepped on.

Like, say it’s all about you: you don’t have to say so; let’s pretend you don’t have the mind or time to think about choosing your words because you are miserable and a loser.  You recite the reasons repeatedly to any person or people who will listen. That is, up to a point where you to demonstrate to the person exactly how manifestation of misery and self-fulfilling prophesy are created on a level that is fascinating, and how to know you are not that person and will continue to  in no way resemble that behavior and thinking.

When something is the opposite of bothering me, etc., I tend to take it out on those I am close to. Share your good side.

Friends are important.

Friends are people who can take you on a ride in their life and it’s up to you who gets to be those people. And same both ways.

You call that inspiration?

This Friday evening returned the new page. When you speak in metaphors sometimes you really mean it. You meta-for-real speak to me as though there’s figuratively no one home. And I literally tell you there is no anyone home because I’m out with you. And then I black out the resulting insult that is thrusted and blindly explodes like a fireworks it off like a drunk donkey – meanwhile time runs out as my recovery is almost certain, that leans towards the edge of reason to expect a humanistic response.


You broke through the chain fence into the playground; how would I expect you and I to have less than a good time – but you are finally catching on, and I’m trying to comprehend what the story looks like from another point of view. 


I lift myself off the sidewalk and trust myself. It’s not for nothing, may I forget I’ll never be in the light that you have given me. 

Your Almost Daily Blog

Today I learned that things are not as they seem and that goes for objects, people, places, ideas — basically all nouns — and perception can be impacted without having an epiphany, or a moment of emotional impact, or by getting your eyes gouged out when you were clearly seeing or adjusting to whatever phase of the day you were tackling.

I think we see day for night as we distinguish happy from sad and love from hate, but as time seems to take us as it’s travelling, we seem to have the insight we need to recognize the spaces we are surrounded by.

If this means that we are equipped to live a functional and focused existence and we are present while we ascertain the infinite amount of our pragmatic conscious considerations as the moments creep away from our condition, than the constant evolves into the isolation of a preoccupied reality which manipulates the velocity of our conceptions.

This is not a dog and pony show. This is not a vault of dependent illusions meant to specify our next reflex and will bend the fragment of what you recognize as your capacity to sustain a reasonable recognition of your space and will alter as the life you lead will lead you on the way to the next fragment.

Adjusting to the portrait that has already been painted is a process that eliminates a certain freedom you are accustomed to, and singing a song someone else wrote institutionalizes a habit, and we drag out the abrupt until the inspiration is a technique that convinces us to know a difference in our impression and an impression on the immeasurable subjective state of all of what we think is objective. Or the aspect of the reality that simply is impossible to confirm or deny.

Thank you for your decisions.

Please visit wendyclark.net

to listen to some music.

DRAFTY DRAFT

Disclaimer – This is completely in raw form. I revised Chapter One so far, but as you know, most writing is revising.

But it’s fun.

The American Zero ©WN Clark 2011


Preface: Introducing the end.

Most stories begin in the middle. But not all sequences are chronologically driven.

This is not your typical roller coaster, as I am not your average thrill-seeker. For all intents and purposes, I had never sought thrills, but I recognized, after some therapy and research, that my brain was chemically wired with action and irresistible manipulation, and the urge to resist temptation tended to dissolve when a the thrill came and sought me.

If another direction was something I had sought, then another place I may have landed, but I had not thought about a specific destination or any ultimate decision, moreover, my mind’s guidance map was adjacent the middle of nowhere, I was perpendicular to the edge of an unending highway of misinterpretation.

The ultimate forecast was awful.

But I loved bad weather anyway.

Ch 1

We saw it on Friday on the road to Thompsonville, the wicker love seat, right out there, straddling the centerline. I gaped at Susan and she raised her eyebrows, her eyes wide and she uttered a gasp, which sounded like a high-pitched squeak – the likes of which I would have found peculiar at any time prior to this puzzle. I tapped on the brakes of my old Ford; still we slid on the slushy byway. We pulled to the shoulder about eighty yards past the chair. I looked into the side-view mirror. Susan was already out of the truck, with a very red face.

“I thought she burned it, Bobby!” She said and she slammed the door. Meanwhile, I stiffly swung out caught up to her, buttoning my jacket and pulling my hat down to block the Arctic wind. We both staggered and slipped across the icy interstate as she continued to antagonize me.

“I thought you said the bitch told you she had burned it with all the other shit!” She briskly shuffled ahead of me.

“Yeah, that really burns me,” I tried to joke, but immediately felt ashamed of my usual insincerity.

She whirled back to face me, demon-hell in her acrid green eyes and raised her pointed finger at me, almost like a condescending mother would, “WHY do you have to lie, baby? Goddamnit! WHY are you SUCH A FUCKING LIAR?” And with that she was off again, at least twenty yards in the lead of this race to my wicker chair. I hesitated a moment before moving forward. Maybe I was a liar, but not in this case… I started to contemplate that I couldn’t remember if I had or had not been untruthful or not, despite the overwhelming evidence which pointed to the non-charred wicker love seat covered in snow in the middle of the road.

“Hey baby, come on,” I called Susan with the most tender tone I could summon. Susan didn’t slow her pace. I chuckled under my breath with the nonsensicality of it all, all of it, and I picked up my pace. I held my breath and commanded a somber _expression to my misbehaving facial muscles. Man, she was a enchanting illusion in this hallucination of my existence; her long, red tresses were protesting the gusts of wind, like twitching fingers covered with particles of snow that were also stuck to her black overcoat, her once dark boots were completely white.

I tumbled to the ground twice before staggering to her as she approached the old chair. My gut wrenched sickeningly while I watched her disgracefully started kicking it, and I mean beating the living shit out of it, first with her steel-toed boots and then with her gloved fists and purse. Frozen, I observed this obtuse performance – this display of violent rage – that my girlfriend had launched. My chair was actually being annihilated before me, standing on the barely-visible, yellow line. Damn, that wicker love seat had been with me more than any woman in my lifetime of failed relationships.

“Susan?” I touched her shoulder.

She would not acknowledge me. Brusquely, she seized the chair and sat down sternly, staring straight ahead into the great-big-wide unknown. I traced her gaze, imagining what she was really seeing now. The blowing snow became increasingly more intense; visibility was probably less than ten feet and glancing over my shoulder, my old Ford was nowhere in sight. I wanted to go home now: the fuck with Billy’s funeral, the will, my girlfriend, myself. The hell with it all –  all of it.  Even the wicker love chair. It was all one huge expanding disaster that never would dissolve in tandem with my constant need to swim – shit, even dive and do the backstroke through these obscure and polluted waters of the beaches I inhabited. True, my ex-wife was a pyromaniac. She often set things on fire when she felt broken. I was one of her broken belongings; I have the scars to prove it. Distractedly, I pondered why she hadn’t set herself ablaze by now. At this image, I uttered a half-snort, half-giggle. Ellen, my old hellion, or “Hell-ing” was an appropriate name for my ex-flame.

The inhospitable wind continued to intensify and I broke from my daze to survey our surroundings. I instinctively reached into my slack’s pocket to retrieve a cigarette, and silently cursed upon recalling that I had quit last weekend. Susan was sitting next to me, crying softly with her face buried in her hands; her body was both trembling and heaving, perhaps because of the subzero wind-chill, but I suspected that was only a fraction of the shivering factor.

Then, through the dense blanket of blowing snow, there were two faint lights coming dead at us. For several seconds I blinked my blurry eyes and hazy mind…

Riddle me this: Alright… let’s see here… um, okay… so you got yourself: two headlights + two yellow lines + an ice-covered pavement + a girl in a wicker chair in the middle of the road, a huge snowstorm…

My heart came to a screeching halt and then I screamed at Susan while I tried to pull her by her sleeves from my tattered chair.

“MOVE!” I cried as I watched the headlights of the nearing truck smile and wink brightly at me. Besides the pulsating beams and the ten-ton weights in my shoes, I recall my screaming, “move,” both to the truck and to the crazy woman I was trying to communicate with in my lounger.

As many a story goes, parallel systems collided.

Perception was no longer within me, if you can attempt to comprehend; the material world with which I had been so habituated had abruptly altered validity, hence nothing substantially existed, intrinsically rocketed into my own mind the most incomprehensible state of every condition – of the preposterous phenomenon of tangible thoughts m

Consider the characteristics or conditions of all the substance in your intrinsic perception, such as the entities which one can identify as a solid state or a liquid state, (or even a gaseous state), and you believe you know by the very nature of the “subject,” to be just what it is, because that truth is fundamental. Now, suppose these primary dimensions of your reality are permuted, a metamorphosis which transforms every element, transcending everything so that it is the not only opposite of what it may have once been perceived as but the same in it’s lack of form and no law of the universe has any law or harmony, (the gaseous factors would really be astounding) and everything is nothing, and all that is or is not, is a contradiction of the same problem.

The concrete is now the abstract.

The trivium is equal to the empty paradox.

Pure lack of time and space.

Absolute zero.

For no conscious reason, my arms extended buoyantly toward the sky, or so I thought this to be something I did, and skimmed over the highlights of the great big unknown as it would travel with me where it would, with or without me, whatever, amen. This action led to my next transitory side-effect which was (after quickly reviewing the causal theory of epiphenomenalism (physical events have mental effects, but mental events have no effects of any kind) how very useless it was to philosophize at this time, how tired my mind was, then snip-snapping right on back to my strenuously draining brooding of the undetermined unknown and how that unknown was always about to increase in conscious life.

During these mangled, mingled conjunctions of deliberation, of course I saw you step from the shade of the naked and lonesome birch tree beside the storm and closely followed by the truck that symbolized:

Everywhere.

Anywhere.

Somewhere.

There are the places at which you are not, or perhaps where you would rather be, not be, won’t be, the list within the list within the list is infinite, but my point is that the location of where you are (or where you ain’t) is probably the most important place you could ever be. Where you’re notis: any, some, or everywhere you could be, certainly, of course when you have but a critical amount of “time” remaining to reconsider every place where you ever were which led me to this last circumstance in which I was currently entangled, where I was not was anywhere but where I was, at a condition labeled as the end of one’s lifetime; this is the place where you last were, and your mind works itself backwards, instinctively and recklessly, and flashes these excruciating images, words, colors, lines and limits, gaps and speculation, theories, people, pets, regrets, media, motions, accidents, mistakes, recoveries, tastes, dreams, nightmares, mischief, games, fame, humiliation, embarrassment, acceptance, awards, rewards, faith, apathy, remorse, anxiety, true faith, true love, true sex, true blueness of the purest skies, waters, and eyes; good fortune, good graces, all those artistic creations….

The worst part, the most awful worst of all the worsts was terrible: The realization of having to contemplate how anything could be even worse than the worst realization you can contemplate. To me it was feeling that I was departing without saying goodbye; abruptly leaving the party early, sneaking out irresponsibly and silently, the one who didn’t even say, “later on,” and never came back.

Chapter 2

Lunch

I was late meeting my mother for coffee again, so I took my time driving across the city and remembered to smoke a cigarette when I pulled into a parking spot that should have been reserved for handicapped people or elderly folks, because of the proximity to the entrance. I saw her sitting near the bar and she was dressed in her usual Sunday best, perched on her chair like an extremely overzealous kleptomaniac, in love with the heart of the silver haired gentleman who sat next to her – the heart she destined to steal to remind herself why she was not a petty thief but a renacassine lady, as graceful as her eyes when they swayed into her victim’s gaze. Men watched my mother’s eyes as if they were a nice, firm ass, or a knee-buckling pair of boobs on a 21 year old supermodel. This was one of the main reasons that I never made eye contact with anyone until my fifth therapist told me she would sleep with me if I would just fucking look at her. I was fifteen and she was a knockout, but I was not interested in that challenge. I looked her in the eyes and told her no. Then I took my shirt off and I swaggered out of her office, telling her I would be back next week, and I didn’t turn to look at her as I left, but I knew she was laughing. The next six days I spent every moment I practicing and exercising my right to a dazzling use of total eye action. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom contacting my own eyes and the rest of the time on my cat. He was a not a particularly good subject because he could not see the vast universe which I was engaging him with my newfound cool stare. My oldest brother told me to watch James Dean to see how it was done, but I needed more direction. I stopped blinking for a day and ended up in the emergency room that next day. The doctors seemed to think that blinking was involuntary, but I thought that the art of making true eye contact was part of my perfection. They mentioned that my eyes would dry out if I didn’t blink. What did I do? I didn’t bat an eye.

I have wanted to tell that story since I thought of the punch line… many years ago.

During the next short phase I determined that eye contact meant that you had to come into direct contact with your opponent’s eyeball. I was back at the therapist in less than six days. She was never bored with my brothers and me when we were allowed to spend time in her office, but she was constantly trying to break us of our natural will to be independent and unusual. I knew better than to get better. I knew that there was no cure for the world I had invented and looking into someone’s eyes was a ritual that I frowned upon. Look all around you, but never gaze. When you gaze into the world, you must remember that what you see is dependent on where you look. I wanted to have reflective eyes, like my dad. He didn’t see anything – not because he was blind, but because he was always listening. He was thoughtful and reflective and insightful.

It turned out that I wasn’t. I saw a new therapist soon after I told him about her cure for my eye contact disorder. Dr. Buck was impossible for me not to make eye contact with, not only because his left eye was blue and his right eye was brown, but also he had no agenda to divert my focus. He spoke to me without suggesting there was any purpose for me to look at anything, and by doing so, he taught me to see who I was. He was the only shrink who ever read poetry to me and gave me the freedom to think in detail about what I saw, but allowed me the distance to let go of my constant anxiety. Aristotle Buck was his name. I think he was my only friend when I was a boy.

When my mother greeted me, she gave me a hug which didn’t actually touch any part of my clothing and a kiss that didn’t grace my cheek. I smiled at her friend and ordered a black coffee and a glass of ice cubes to chew on. I found that ice cube chewing soothed my will to smoke when I was around mother, and also annoyed her just as much. I was as aware of this paradox as I was ignorant, but nothing would happen if I had nothing to do.

The conversation between my mother and this stranger ignited that slow fire of tediousness in my stomach, where the coffee and ice cubes met briefly and then mutated into their separate energies; both of these substances made me have to go to the restroom quite urgently. I excused myself from their conversation and asked the cute redheaded barista where the men’s room was. She gave me the look that said, “We only have one per gender in this little restaurant, so try not to eat a bran muffin with your coffee here, sir.” I knew that look. I made more than eye contact with her – she spoke to me with her attitude. I wanted to be an omniscient character suddenly, and wished she was telling my story rather than I was, so I decided to talk to her before I went back to sit down and she wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. Plus, she used the word, “you” as if it were her own personal pronoun and nothing is worse than second person narrative. I asked her out for a drink and an autographed photograph of Martha Stewart that my sweet niece gave me when she was visiting me in the Catskills that last summer; she claimed I needed some decorations in my tent. That photo has been in my wallet ever since, and it is just what the women who find me interesting need for me to prove that I am not so keen. She frowned as she handed the picture back to me.

“That’s not her autograph.”

“Like hell, it is,” I replied and briskly snatched it from her fingers then carefully folded it and rattled the picture at her. “You are to blame for the trouble around you,” I said and stretched my arms over my head, letting them fall to my sides in a loud slap.

She actually turned away and farted at me, leaving my mouth agape and my heart pounding. I sat back down and ate my spinach eggs and watched my barista fall in love with some young college kid with an Ohio State sweatshirt on and watched myself the same way I watched her and everybody else. My lack of action and my impulse to act were constantly conflicting. I enjoyed my breakfast and decided that I would come back here some day and the young, gassy sass would let me love her.

I ordered myself a cake to go and was delighted to be somewhere alone, at home, with no one to tell me how things happened that day – no one to all me how the story changes when I am the narrator, and I was ready to be in my own fictional thematic park where I could write about the fiction I saw and plant my own imaginary garden in my little space at my sacred place.

Chapter ?

“No Accidents Permitted.”

The tin sign in my mother’s guest bathroom still cracked me up whenever I read it. But I was long gone well before then; I laughed at everything those dark days.

“Your dinner is at the grocery store,” I read the sign on the mirror which sealed my agonizing fate: I was probably going to starve to death. I tore the note down and flushed it down the toilet. I giggled and remembered how this was going to be the summer of my liberation, reinvigoration, inspiration… and god dammit! I was going to make a big deal out of it.

Of course I did not know how I would execute this fluffy goal. I used my new dance technique and waltzed the hallway pretty well all the marble floor was covered with my shoes and ended up I the kitchen. I grasped a butter knife and imagined myself cutting an onion loaf, then gasping as I cut the bread while it shrieked in agony. I said softly and condescendingly, “Bread. You are food and you shalt not scream,” to which the poor loaf replied, “Take the margarine! It isn’t even real butter!” I roared madly and swayed over the cutting board dizzily contemplating my state of mind.

Man, do I need a plan.

I need a plot: A sketch, a motive, an order; a lot of rich ideas in a conscious and chronological structure to guide my inattentive idleness in a clear direction.

I tossed the fake loaf into the trash and headed out the side door for a morning stroll through the swampy, wealthy, expensive, gated neighborhood. I headed east with my pocket compass functioning – I tended to get lost with or without it – but I had it so that this way I had something to blame for my directional mishap, should the case come up.

The deep south had a strict manner of informing and reminding one how unnatural the great outdoors were when one found oneself outside in the thick of it. I sweat like the born northerner who I was while the bugs of impossible shapes and sizes collided with each other in midair trying to bite, sting, kill and who knows what else they had on their dirty little cell-sized minds when they hissed and spit at me. From the moment I had shut my mother’s screen door to when my new Converse touched the asphalt of the sidewalk, the waves of buzzing tore at my eardrums. The nagging lack of stability and my unusual equilibrium was a growing concern for me as I grew older and less balanced, but today’s disconnection I encountered in the southern heat was all too much for me – every time I staggered towards it.

Centuries later I was at the end of the driveway, I wiped the sweat off my brow with the back of my forearm and gazed at my mother’s house reconsidering my walk and other life decisions that only I could remember. Instead of going on or turning back, I stretched my arms in front of me my hands facing outward in front of my chest and I fell straightforward, down into the thick swampgrass of the lawn – a move of nonstrategic condemnation – where I expected nothing else but my mind to take inventory of my intentions.

It’s a shame about Ray

Uh… *scratches forehead* …it’s true…

However.
The relationships we choose to pursue outside of that cyberspace seem to be much more meaningful when we appreciate the true warmth of another’s body, mind, and spirit in close proximity to oneself, rather than the limited control one has through a digital relationship which involves fewer of the five senses thus separating the parties involved and becoming, as you said, “disjointed”.
Now that I have decided not to participate in the mischief which bounces beneath me and breathes down my back, the lucky day bursts its bountiful fountains of the purest, warmest light within and around me; my love of life and the depth of my own fragile yet enormous temple of true faith is surrounded in that song of the magnificence of being; the most transcendent revolution of self becomes real.
Now that I have decided to burn the barriers of self-conscious self-doubt and self-betrayal, I decide to run into the living room wall as fast as I can and with full knowledge of the eight feet I have to build momentum. And although the pain is quite a bit more intolerable than I would have expected, not only because I thought a small jaunt of machosim might just fix or trick my mischeivious mind redirect the synapses to bigger and better ailments, my expectations are always higher than I could ever reach, and if there was a beanstalk and I caught sight of it, hell yes, I would be stacking phone books to get to those branches and know I was in for something new and cool, whether it broke my heart or set me on a path to heavenly starlight roller-rink, life is all about beanstalks, bruises, and broken branches.
Now that I have decided not to learn any lessons, I will sing you a song about it.
Now that you have decided not to give me any reasons, I will seek them forever.
Now that I have decided not to participate, I have missed the point, I have not given any reason, I have rolled the dice, played the game, and walked away.
Now tell me—you know the stories of the games, you know all the contenders – now are you going to be the dealer or are you going to be the player?
Now blow some bubbles in the wind and sigh happily in the sunny sunshiney super nothing of your immediate detachmentality…. why? Becuse you are no longer a contender; now, not here anyway.

If you trust anyone – make sure you are all ready to get your heart broken again.

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