She is awake, and turns to amble towards a glass portal.

As she maneuvers the simple exit, she determines her next direction, her destination is clear. She calls for a taxi and placing orders the automotive coach lurches off in the “north west” towards the lumberyard.

The journey is calm, save the ceaseless throb of pain emanating from her upper left side.

She pays real money for the cab.

She arrives at the lumberyard and calls for a jimmy to set her up with twenty wooden planks: some six feet tall, some four feet wide, all precut.

She pays good money for the wood.

She shifts about for five days until a cab arrives with enough suitable carriage to ferry her wooden goods. She plainly offers the cab her desire, and she is shot off towards the “south west:” towards a hardware store.

The gash in her back begins to spurt chunky menstrual blood: she cleans up after herself and saves the liquid in case she meets some dirty thieves who try and monkey with her provisions. Monkeys go bananas for “Snatch Shakes”!

She pays honest money for the cab.

The hardware store houses her final desire: a hammer, some nails, two hinges, and a standard issue utility mechanoid (TM) brought in from Denmark.

She pays the last of her earned money for the aforementioned items.

While shambling home, she is stopped by a fiery band of howlers. Instead of fleeing, she mixes up a hot “blood rag n’ schnapps” and tosses it to her lesser-evolved assailants. Smelling the effluent discharge the monkey bandits go bonkers and begin anal fucking each other. “Snatch Shakes” win the day!

She pays no real attention to her would be attackers.

She arrives back at the initiation of her exodus, the catalyst point for her non-sequential journey. The glass door…

She pays no good attention to her return.

Dropping her sought after goods, she stretches out her hunched back. Lying down, she utilizes the hard wood in the floors to adjust to her mutilated flesh.

Although she thinks that she is doing herself some good, she is in fact damaging herself a great deal. With her open fleshy scapula labia squished against the dirt and shit of her floor, tiny germs and parasites begin to enter her like little sperm. They swim deep inside of her and begin fertilizing her muscle with a child: a worm.

Against the ground, she waits for three years. When she finally does stand up after her 1095 day R and R, she realizes that she is not alone.

Perched upon her back is a fleshy parrot. Emanating from the depths of her disfigurement is the physically manifested bane of her special hole. An obvious tattoo of her shame and her pain: the parasite perpetual.

The parrot makes an awful squawking sound, which accuses her shame directly, openly. Like a bull trying to fuck a goldfish.

Solemnly, she raises her hammer and begins constructing a six-foot by four-foot box (with hinges and lid).

She pays no honest attention to her better judgment.

The completion of the box ushers in a wave of cathartic orgasm for this thing, our heroin. She climbs inside, and directs her standard issue utility mechanoid (TM) to nail the cell shut.

The “parrot”, having nothing to do except read Shakespeare during its hosts concentrated work effort, offered this random advice as limited by its biological ability, just before the lid was shut down forever:

“To die, to sleep –
To sleep – perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.”

She pays the last of her attention to her mutated flesh. Although the being growing along side of her, off of her, is incapable of providing any “real good honest” advice, she is capable of receiving it when it comes along.

She ceases the mechanoid (TM), and heads to a psychiatrist for a spot of emotional surgery.

In time, she learns to lick her pussy wound, cleaning it out before letting it become too infected.

(An awkward state of dissatisfaction inhibits my judgment.)

…

The calm…

I am nearer the core now, and looking back I can see my few regrets, my few mistakes. Looking from the center of this hurricane out at the endless stretch of my wake's influence I can see where, I can see who I came from.

Crouching in the eye of the tempest, meditating on a wanted emptiness.

…

The maggot lays dormant, my mind's juggernaut rendered inoperable.

(Danger sometimes seems to recess, and I allowed myself time to forget a poison, a dagger, a self-destruct sequence initiated by my ignorance.)

…

…before…

Obscured by atmospheric haze, I am witness to the distant tormented motions of a people and culture I had given away. Heaps of dumb material balancing precariously on the summit of pride, surrounded by the thin air of inaction…

Among these bungled mutants gyrates an old friend; someone who could be here with me now, naked in the eye of a beautiful storm. I see her. She is tearing at her cunt with a jagged signpost, bleeding and crying while she mutilates her genitalia for the judgmental amusement of an anonymous teenage jury.

Somewhere, within her tangled movements and seemingly irresponsible motion, I think I see her smile out at me. Flashing across her tear-streaked flesh was a beautiful, conscious, knowing smile.

Cousins from a war with no sides save those that we ourselves so foolishly defined.

…

I shift the maggot’s bulk, and drive it from its hibernation. I coax it to continue circling my mind, as milestone to the loves of another, of a younger me.

(I had deceived myself. I had created Judas as a puppet definition for my fears; an escape from a me that I was very afraid to know.)

…calm.

The storm never moves, and its center, its eye, the catharsis of our own existence is defined by our presence within it.

Bread: “...”

Twenty years old, single, and I dropped out of high school in my third year. I’ve been loaded for as long as my frazzled memory can recall, I am ranting at a loaf of bread, and I have a loaded .357 magnum, which I am waving about in a supermarket filled with employees only.

Nick: “Game over.”

Bread: “...”

To be short, I’ve had enough, and it’s time that I take myself back the only way I know how...

Rewind:

I’m seven years old, smiling. I’m wearing the darkness as a cloak, lacing toilet paper around some upper middle class shits yard gnome. My friends are somewhere nearby, quietly giggling while they mummify this constituency’s domicile with two-ply “rim cleaner.”

(...I am everything right here. Right now. Laughing. Working. Amongst my companions, wanted...)

I’m eight years old and my leg is broken. I have to tell my friends that I fell, but the truth of the matter is that my waste shit father got piss drunk and fucked me up. He shattered my fibula in two places with a cinder block: immediate pain, and a lifetime of mutated flesh, made immortal by a deep, empty psychological wound.

(...I am my greatest rejection. To a perfect father I am the mistake that makes him drink and cry and wish he had something, someone better than me. Better than his only son...)

I’m nine years old, and I’m at a slumber party with all of my friends. After canvassing the neighborhood with our “summer snow,” we retire to one of our houses for games and such. Later, I fall asleep, happy at having been invited along by the two most popular kids in my class.

I hear something and I wake up. Something steady, something constant, although something disturbs the perpetual rhythm. Laughter...

I am being urinated on. The kids who invited me, the two most popular kids in my class, are leering above me, giggling while they piss on my stomach and my legs. They don’t know that I’m awake, and they keep going, gently shoving cheetos up my nose and in my ears after finishing their piss fest.

I pretend to sleep, but I cannot help crying all night long. Softly weeping as the brunt of a joke, the crux of another rejection...

(...My pain is a heat that starts in the depths of my stomach and slowly creeps out, molesting every appendage and portion of my body, until the simple act of communication scares me silent...)

...My nostalgic reverie is shattered pre-maturely by a screaming check out girl, who quickly runs outside and disappears amongst the staccato flash of red and blue police lights.

Nick: “She never loved me. I loved her. Why didn’t she ever love me? Why? What did I fucking screw up?”

Bread: “...”

I’m sixteen years old, and I’ve met a beautiful girl. She talks to me. I talk to her. We laugh, and unlike the entire hurricane of endless shit that has tainted the last seven years of my social career, I am actually happy. Despite my failing grades, nearly habitual drug use, and my parents having gotten divorced, I am the poster child of joy.

(...I’ve given myself over to someone else. A womb. Warmth. A parasitic dependency: a mother. It is time to grow...)

I’m seventeen years old, and I’ve dropped out of high school. I am perpetually high, but I still have my girlfriend. We are going to have sex when we feel ready enough. I am afraid of how I will perform, if I will “shotgun” my load, or if I won’t be able to get it up. I mentioned this to her, and she turned red, but quickly assured me that it didn’t matter.

That she loved me, with or without the sex. With or without an education...

I dropped out of high school. High school has nothing to do with love.

Love has nothing to do with sex.

(...Although she has all of the trappings of a loving, trusting person, she will not discipline me. She will not teach me. I am listing. Help me. Help...)

I am twenty years old and I am single. The pain that started somewhere near my core has reached its full grasp into everything that I am. With her leaving me, telling me that I’m shit, I have nothing to turn to. No education. No parents. No friends.

Just a pistol and enough pain and self-loathing to commit myself to an eternity of blank nothingness...

(...I am always wrong. Weak. Worthless. A monument to nothing, a wasted replica of my wasted father...)

I’m staring straight ahead of me, past the bread, past the shelf, past the walls, past the streets, past the confines of linear time...

(...I slide the gun into my mouth...)

I’m looking for a reason. Scanning my future and my past for a meaningful event. Some chance of blue skies within this endless tempest of hurt...

(...I cock the hammer back...)

I examine my options.

(...I put tension on the trigger...)

Limited by my experience, I am blinded by disappointment and rejection.

(...Click.)

I see nothing.

(...)

Fuck that.

It’s just eating; a constant and careless consumption of a finite pile of resources to satiate an unnatural media desire.

Bills for shit that we don’t care about… Food that will go to waste… Friends that barely know us… Children that grow up to hate us…

(anditiskillingyou)

“Plastic perfection distorts her stretched exterior, while polluted pieces of shit inside her belly rot away. She flushes them out of her distended, leaky anus and she smiles and struts and smiles until her black hole colon sucks her through herself...”

Cancer: "........”

…Brought into being by a mechanical social convention: totally expected. Nobody’s surprised. Nobody’s impressed: not even herself…

She is seventeen.

Bloated with sexual infamy: some forgotten hallway at some forgotten party with some forgotten boy in some forgotten globe of her soon forgotten innocence.

She is seventeen, and she has reached the end of her life.

Listen:

Pride can kill you.

Fin!

…Existences aren’t for nonbeings…

She is 18 – 45, corporate america's uni-age.

The groceries. The mortgage. The apartment. Her fourth bastard child: her cunt is expanding as quickly as her welfare check. The alcohol. The drugs: another abusive boyfriend beating her for another “shit” blowjob. Kids are crying. Teachers are “concerned”. The courts are watching…

She is 18 – 45. Unhinged.

Fads are changing and her kids “need” new clothes that she can’t afford. Her eldest daughter is pregnant and running away. Her eldest daughter is “fourteen”. “18 – 45” doesn’t know how to handle this, so she smokes some crack and gets beat up by her boyfriend. She is raped. Her soon to be fourth child is killed during the rape; the boyfriend is put in jail for manslaughter.

She is 18 – 45. Anonymous.

Lying atop a blood stained mattress, dead fetal tissue fermenting within her womb, “18 –45” gives up. With broken arms she clutches her remaining children, and staring into them through blackened, dilated eyes, she speaks:

“Pride cannot justify any of this.”

…

…Existence is when we consciously are.

Seamless and even the flow of assets into assets into stocks into bonds into liquid into…

He wakes up inside of this neon dream surrounded by $$$$$’s and $$$$$’s of personal affects. He is inside of a polystyrene freak show and this clutter of “urban survival gear” is his bedroom.

He was sleeping…

Rhythmically breathing from within the neural confines of his vacant, subconscious.

He slips back into his slumber like the sandy tide into the open blue ocean…

…His eyes open and hundreds of tropical fish surround him. The sea floor is a network of interlaced coral, the color’s range well outside of our known spectrum. Beautiful fish dart about the phosphorescent mesh, and he stares out at them, floating in the buoyant tropical water as you would in the zero gravity of outer space. Bodies neither sink nor rise. No up and no down.

Just floating.

Captured between judgments. Somewhere between right and wrong. No sense of accomplishment and no fear of admonishment for anything that he thinks or does or says or expresses. Suspended from the opinions of anything else in the whole of the universe. Just his mind and his self... Together. Two lovers eternally grateful for the other's company, alone within each other.

This is the ultimate act of sensory masturbation.

…He feels a large cold hand close around his neck accompanied by an annoying voice, shrill and unintelligible, coercing him away from his utopian loneliness. An alarm reminds him to get up and as he stutters back into his conscious mind he can hear the alarms actual meaning: “.R.e.t.u.r.n. .t.o. .t.h.e. .s.t.e.a.d.y. .s.h.i.t. .s.t.r.e.a.m. .o.f. .f.i.s.c.a.l. .d.i.a.r.r.h.e.a. .a.n.d. .f.e.c.a.l. .s.o.c.i.a.l. .d.e.s.i.r.e.” it repeats.

“…I have my SUV and my bills and my children and my acquaintances and my wife and my mortgage and my DKNY shirts and I have all of the shit that money can buy…” – A consumer report.

Here, among the animate, he has everything that he is supposed to have. Here among the animate, he doesn’t have his self.

Walking through these crowded streets among hundreds of other people among hundreds of individual consciousnesses he feels completely alone; a refugee in an unknown land. Unsure of why he ran away and where exactly it is that he ran to.

Again he finds himself huddling close to his empty overcoat, fighting against the cold and overbearing nature of reality… Fighting against everyday and like everyday he is fighting to return to his self.

To return to his sleep…

Crumbled parapets and disheveled personal affects clutter the tabletop battlefield.

But from behind…

Unaware. Eye's swollen shut after suffering the indignant and impersonal designations; the propagators of fear.

Lick-a-stick cancer.

Force your fist through to her womb. Don't retreat regardless of the operator's orders. It is Saint Patrick's Day and the suffocated placenta is not wearing the necessary hue.

Traditional duty requires a little squeeze…

Just a slight tweak of the flesh…

Pinch!

Fatty layers of mother stifle the infants wailing disapproval, although despite the impossibly faint and unintelligible gurgling you are aware that the maggot suffers your imposed agony. And you smile.

Uphold the methods acceptable within this machines tolerable boundaries.

And.

Suck it up.

Cancerous faith. Fetid convictions. Vain compromises…

Conventions…

Peel away the scalp to reveal the skull, which will willingly yield to the erratic vibrations of a mechanical surgeons saw. Applied pressure compromises the structural integrity of millions of year’s worth of cortical evolution.

Despite the medieval methods you will inevitably reach the essential core self. C.G. Jung pauses, takes a long drag from his flaming sofa, and confides his mechanism in me.

Buried somewhere outside of my own reach and cognitive grasp…

Hidden.

A community at the epicenter of a tempestuous blue sea, a stormy gray sky, an infinite snow peaked summit, and suffering from a technological lapse…

Odysseus caught between Scylla and Charibdis.

Welcome to a place that trades devils for devils. Children for vending machines… Art for commerce…

I am a soldier… Find me unsavory!

Grasped.

Punching my way out of your restrictive intestine… Choking. Coughing. Spitting half digested shit around in a futile effort to disparage swimming pool sized monkeys from cannibalizing my soul.

!Vive Escape!

Blessed sanction represents nostalgia retroactive to my decisions. Any choice cultivates itself inside a womb of indifference because I fear being too close to a past I regret, regress, rape, and will inevitably return to.

Respiratory mistakes.

Breath in.

Out…

In.

Out…

Wear special stockings past midnight in order to glean spectral telemetry… No pressure though…

Fuck PSI.