Here we will shift focus from ourselves back onto who this book is written by, [author], the night shifter of forces that blew themselves so vigorously that he would actually act out and question our judgement of letting this book continue to be written by us, instead he has this to say.
I speak first, "All I'm saying is that you're essentially a tool," "You got that right, a tool meant to alleviate you of yourself and help you lead a putrid life that you do," "Right, harsh but right, you see, I'm a tool too, so I can appreciate the work you're doing, but I think we're better off combining forces, me using you, you using me," "Sounds good but what do you propose?" "I propose that you stop writing this for me and instead use me as a catalyst, like the pyramid in the Pink Floyd album cover, do what you did with shakespeare, by letting aliens write this book I'm taking away from my own personality, something you guys strive to keep even through your own writing," "You got that perfectly," "Yeah, so what I'm saying is we cut the charade and just have you write through me as if you are me, because you guys know me perfectly, better than I know myself, and I want to feel as if you can write the way you want to, because simply writing for you guys is too boring, you want to act as if you are me and I want to see what you have to write like that." "Alright, you're on, it's what we wanted you to do in the first place, I'm glad you see that 4 chapters in." "Well on the bright side, when we get to like chapter 8 we can see why I chose to include you guys, you are a total anomaly in my life, I wanted to flaunt you within my narrative because my narrative so contradicts your guy's stay here. I was unable to hear anything but I hear you guys so putridly that I can't look away." "We're glad to be here, can we get on with it now?"
Hey guys it's me,[redacted], the catalytic converter and the guy on that Pink Floyd album cover, I'm the pyramid and the aliens are the light, we now work in tandem and are ready to fight the onslaught of things that lay before us, a catastrophic mess of messy diatribe about what really went down with me this year, an illustrious tale of things so few and far between, not to mention it is to forget why we wrote this book in the first place, to better illustrate the force that drives it into completion, the complete and awful story that lays in our wake is as beautiful and manly as it comes into being later when the government files all their case reports and shows the world just how nasty to people I have become in the wake of my fortune here. I'd like to start when I was born, back to a time where things were pure in the world, back when I was a baby and things went up and down like they were supposed to in the diving cosmos of life. For when I was born, all was in order, everything that came before it was in uproar back then, for I was too great for mortals to be around, I was truly Christ the Redeemer and not some ill forgotten notion of masturbatory statements alike, for it was I that laid a fundamental key in gaining something no man had ever dreamed of before, a life beyond the stars and a stay in our hearts that forever binds us to helpful things like cars and radios, for it is I that gave inspiration to many in a way I see futile to write now because it's catastrophic nature will implode only in the future of when I was conscious of this. It affected creatures alike from aliens to normal every day joes like yourself, or maybe you're reading this thinking I'm a pussy that deserves to be put down everyday of his life for something to act out of line as to say I was the reason the internet got bigger by the day since after 1997 and things got better as they got worse like in 2016 when things were good for people and puppies alike and it is only when 2019 rolled around where people said, things have been awful for the last like 3 years, and now we roll into 2020 and things are even worse for us, for it is the twenties that will lay the foundation of things to come into fruition later and live at peace with the fact that I definitely need to reincarnate for future generations to look at so cheerfully as to go, that madman actually did it to prove a point about nature. He will lay riches down that the world has never seen before, and it is that I say, "to us!" and so many like him that came before him after I die and go to heaven on earth for myself and many. For it is the riches that lay here on our peaceful planet that fails to mention how things got so bad in the first place, when that airplane crashed into the twin towers, I thought nothing because I was too young to understand purpose in the world and casted it out like a meme that so many of us took so seriously that to masturbate over it is illiterate to the point here, that tragedy happens in this world and there is a reason for it, to allow us to learn and to create our own prophecy as to what happened that day in February, before that tower fell, for it is I in my conscious nature that flew that plane into the tower one night in June before I fell asleep to nurture me into submission and tell myself, "ALLAH HU ACKBAR," before I went to sleep that night, for it is I in the future that put that plan into motion, and I in the past that drove it so cheerfully into the side of that mural landscape that it is as if god himself did it for them in his place. For it is I, Satan that derives pleasure from neutering them of the American concept of safety and freedom to cast out a devious plot to make me wait for hours on end at the airport and hide my Juul in my coat pocket because a lighter can be brought on board an American aircraft to cause an explosion, but not my lighter, not their lighter they used to tie a bombstrap on their person that caused the people sitting there to laugh as if it was futile to try and attempt to disarm them and let their plan work out as if worry was free from them, for it is I who laughed at the topic to disarm somebody who brought a lighter on a plane only to light it in the brief atmosphere without the hassle of lighting things up in an explosion only to be tackled by the ground by great men that wanted to cheerfully resolve that what they're doing here was right and any force greater than themselves must be punished for his actions. It is in that way that we are right in saying that greater forces blew up the jet engine before the third plane could crash and only the weak piloting skills of unarmed men seeking desperately for it to run like a simulated crash into the pentagon only to be shut down by the true forces at work there, run and hide because this is tricky to explain. When we saw that crash on television I was bewildered by it, but I never thought to ask anyone to explain it because I knew what had been done here, a catastrophe had occurred and I was not foolish enough to ask the grownups what was up because I had a perfect understanding of how the world works and it's tricky to describe how I grew up in California back then, I had everything handed to me and everything taken away that night my dad said he'd left my mom so foolishly that to say the words that came out of his mouth later in embarrassment that he shouldn't have left my mom left a foothold on me, that he should be so callus as to rob the woman blind of her mortality and see to it that she never have another man as her husband simply to help raise their kids and keep them out of harm's way, foolishly backlit on the notion that everything should be done by her and nothing should bother them except her fury when things aren't done her way or at all, because the beauty of her as a grownup is that she said enough to frivolous things like ex-husbands to really broaden herself of the truth of her being and that is to act like nothing is important to her except how she lays the kitchen out when she makes a meal or when her disgusting son writes something so putrid and tells her that she's killed someone in the past that it rallies her to cry, "Enough with you, go do work and stop being a worrywart about some girl that worried you so much you would write countless letters and foolishly project yourself onto the broader picture at work here, that you're not good enough for her and your power here on earth is limited because you fail to see the broader picture of your actions," knowing full well that power is within our grasps here. That author once wrote foolishly as to say that, "Life on earth is meaningless to the higher construct of why we're living here in the first place, history and growth are only meant to satiate our curious nature and act out foolishly on what lays life down on the higher scope of the picture, to lay down countless corpses and act as if you know something yourself, as if it means something here for you to take action only to be told that the ghosts are happy in our wake to the point that they lie curious of what comes next, a brave new chapter of an otherwise boring world. To see that is to see the nature at play here, that we are a breath away from death and our options are limited here, but far out in space lies another meaning, a breathtaking future away from being cast down into shadows of guilt that once laid bare of meaning, will take away some of the burden life on earth has given us here, to say to hell with our meaningless bullshit and take life to the next level, another heavy burden on our weak mortal selves and a castrated glory of what we strive to keep, meaning in a world useless of meaning entirely." A tired paragraph in the mainstay of life, Philip K. Dick as a literary god would say, "Who wrote this crap?" but it was I who wrote it down just to keep the illusion that my mother ever thought of that crap, for it is I who rush cheerfully at the disappointment of my mother when she reads this love letter only to think, "Is that what really happens when we die," and "Is my son on a martyrous rampage for a girl here?" and now she'll think, "This first paragraph really did me in that my son had something to do with 9/11, I think I believe him but I'll wait for him to explain what he's going for in context," we'll get to that later on, for now I think it's best to recap what happened my first day in elementary school, a bizarre poke at our nature that we may love so freely as children only to lay in our waste as we come to youth, because there is no greater honor than being a child free to play around devoid of the responsibility youth has no place for. It was then I met my true friends, Alex and Luukas for they made my stay there joyful in comparison to leave here in regards to torment and actual disgust shared by them right now, that they would actually be written here in a book wrote by a martyrous freak that wants to say, "Hey, here's how the world works in a book written for a girl so callus that it needs to be stated to prove the fact that it was actually her that forced this catastrophe of life on earth as we know it to form ourselves in the greater picture of why those tortured aliens actually did ruin everything, their love formed the world and their love ended it, for it was the simultaneous release of both things that lead God to suffering in the first place, love had not created it, it was a bug in their system like he was, an honest stay at the truth that holds us so, that life on earth was only propagated to perform one nature in the beauty of mankind, to get myself laid in living here so that it may be so prosperous for all of us that we lay weak in the glory of passionate love letters to see truth and meaning in this world, that she and I will lay the foundation of this place so many hold dear to them as rubble in our command. That she and I will lay the newfound glory of the world we hope to create as a better one than this, for it is us who wait in blind paragraphs and chapters where we hope to see the truth of the world here, that this world couldn't be better simply because of the force that neutered it in the first place. Her task was simple to a point that she fooled around with it's simplicity so much that it became complicated, to simply act out in a manner befitting to a girl of her calibre and reach out as if to spark something that she couldn't really find matter in doing at the time only to castrate her to the point that this literary masterpiece will fall down as the worst drunken mess in history, the true purpose of this book is to convince her that her life has meaning here, meaning that drove history to a halt just to satiate her wild craze of ideas that needed to be accomplished years and centuries past long ago, when she was young and crazy at the thought of her lover leaving her for brute forcing passwords on a life she longed for again and again, for it is her mortal form that lies so heavily on the greater scope of what we're dealing with here, a crazy fluke designed by mortals that had no place in deciding what goes down in society, beings so magnificent that they lay in the foundation of our work here, they are so heavenly and graceful that to question our madness only lies in the futility of their nature here, to broaden our scope and escape the mess they made in the previous universe that lay castrated in their wake. For it is I and her who are at fault here, it is I who wrote the masterpiece and her that destroyed it. It's Adam and Eve all over again, we are not them, but we are those aliens that had to suffer so dearfully that they found love in it and one actually thought it was quite nice, and he was the one who made suffering a thing on planet earth, unaware of the catastrophic force it became in later years that forced us into submission to the point that we are unaware of it's very construct but must live and learn from it for eternity." And they might react to that statement as a mild fluke in the bigger picture but it is true that I loved these guys so to the point that I actually considered changing my name to one of them one night in a bathtub, I thought the name [author] was to far out in the world of names and needed to be subdued in the rest of these guys that had normal names, but I never had rest, I had respite, I could never be satisfied in that name until today, where forces collide in a never ending journey of the soul that pushes me to think that the sun Shakespeare thought of was actually me in disguise, the primeval force that pushes us down and enlightens us so. For herein I imitate the sun, to doth permit these base contagious clouds to smother up his beauty from the world so when he please again to be himself in the process that lay beneath us, will he truly form into a man worth caring about and not as some diary piece that lets us know how cool he's being about the subject and won't fire out violent dialogue that seems painful to him now. It is that I write a letter to myself, a brisk dialect of meaningful words that seem so effortlessly to flow out of me for some reason. A meaningful picking and choosing of words that reflect the true nature of what's at stake here, ruining my legacy. For it is that which I lay down before us here to try and reach some of you that I make my stake at the long history that waits before us, a brief look at a man long lost of any grip of sanity that he may break himself over a person that seemed to bring him to tears so many nights ago and share that passion in a love letter so brilliant, it's as if the stars themselves wrote them in my passing, so here we go, a long footnote in the large chapter of this book, to see in ourselves that which lays so awesome in the deeper scope of what's at stake here, a meaningful friendship with a girl that wants so little to do with us and a proud leap into the future that binds him to the fault of her incessant nature. For this book is not to serve her but to serve myself in great pages such as this one and many others to count, and it is that I say, "Have off with you!" and make my case so clearly as to write it down alone in silence instead of listening to a lo-fi hiphop channel because I can't make myself hear the aliens without it being totally silent, it also feels better when it's totally silent, it gives me reverence of what's being written here, a love story to myself and not to her, I will make her pay for playing me so much so help me god. This is not a story about her, this is not a fake glance at her person, this is an honest love story of what foresakes him so greatly that I rush paragraphs out onto paper without listening to what the aliens mind rape out of me. It is that I say to you all in this undying way that I lay waste to the catacombs of fear she might not like me and tell you all a story of how my life got flipped turned upside down, so I'd like to take a minute for you to just sit right there and I'll tell you a story about how I became the Prince of this world and mankind. It started stupid, I was foolishly propagating my own demise by reaching out to her. We're sorry to say this but it was a fluke that we touched her that way in August, a way that disgusted her and made her soul turn to garbage to the point that I had a dream about her last night and it was shocking to look at her, she was living in squalor and sucking cock on camera, it was the worse night of my life but at least I got to see her for a little bit before I put my cock in some other chick that made me feel vulnerable to the nth degree. But let's get back to the start of this madness, it started at first back in July 2016, when the cover of darkness grew even more vulnerable than I grew away from the cover of darkness into something dreamlike and magic. Before I met her, I was a shallow husk of a being, I was under cover of darkness, I had not experienced magic before and I was ready to that night, bag hung over my shoulder with all my shit in it, it might have been an [redacted], but it was much better than an [redacted]. We got to thinking, what magic lays with her that the very form of my being can change just by taking a [redacted] with her? We don't even know each other, how can we form a relationship? This question really hung low on me, I didn't know how to represent emotions or feel as if they had to go from me, we were volatile at first, I didn't know her, I couldn't just act out and tell her my feelings here, they were too strong, I'd look like a virgin freak, also she would want me alive for torture naturally. It's with this we had to stay fit towards catastrophic exploration of self to better understand the nature of what was going on here, a nature I could only describe as love. Love was a big word for me back then, it meant a whole lot, it meant it would never go away and that satchel I brought to [redacted] reminded me of the endless torture that waited for me if I ever go near this girl after [redacted]. For it is not that she was bothered by me, but the other way around, I was severely bothered by her to the point that she said enough with me and I had to pound so heroically on a keyboard to let her find her way back again. It is that we say to hell with our modern selves, we're an ancient now, like the Parquet Courts song "Total Football" we don't mind ourselves we mind her, in a world full of strikers and sweepers, poets and weepers, we find ourselves in the middle of this chaotic masterpiece of life in general. We see ourselves in a peak marriage proposal that wants to go off without a hitch because of who wrote it and why they wrote it. It's true they say period over and over again only to acknowledge me in the words they're writing for greater purpose and a long soliloquy only to complain in pages such as this one that the words have no meaning to the bigger purpose of the narrative, but that's not true, the fact of the matter is that my entire being changed when I was 5 years old, I had nothing left after my dad left, and I was just rehashing myself after the world caught ahold of me. For it is when I lost my mind with my father's absence that felt as if there was a permanent death, my mind couldn't take it, I had relied upon him so much that the abandonment issue was a perfect sanity problem, it took away my passport to reach myself and I've never been the same since, I've never been able to love my mother the same way of look at my dad the way I used to, it's all gone and that's what happened to her and I when our parents took a part of us, we went down the drain and now it was time to rehash it. It was there in those sacred halls of teaching art to students of likemind that we worked hard in achieving what really worked out with a play about heartbreak, a cool love story in the fish eye lens of our heart. And that is to reach out and find somebody to cherish so deeply that their loss would trigger the same thing that happened when I was five, her reach traveled down the recesses of my being only to find a permanent death in the wasteland of her garbage fire I cherished so much. For it is that which guides it into fruition, this story of love and loss, that's what it's all about. Now do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around, because I'm going to tell you what this was all about, it's a key part of the puzzle, [redacted] and I were supposed to meet there and I'll tell you why, I wouldn't have felt hardship if I saw her everyday, but it blew up in my face so bad that my heart in my chest exploded into sharp dust that really hurt out of what we're saying here, that it is a bad omen to want to share your life with some girl you only met in an [redacted], but it was her generosity that made it so much more classic punk than hard rock. She was a masterpiece in how not to get close to someone while getting as close as possible, she really ruined me with her dismissive attitude and close call moments where I think she's the one, and that's all just superseded by the fact that she didn't want to know me in the first place after I didn't play my cards right one time, I was a loser after that and branded as such gave me the idea to stop toying with this and find another one, stop being a creep and find someone who matched my affection, but that was never the case, I can't stop, I'm addicted to the shindig. There's no controlling my love for her, there's only mitigating the suds and bubbles of misusing someone that she blows all day long as to want to see this mean something superficial instead of a hard fought love story that will recount for days after it's done unleashing it's tender fury, because it's what happened after she said she loved me that took into account that she was trying desperately to find a way in past our defenses only to reach out and grab our heart out of our chest, she very much meant to do it in a way that should be obvious to any human on the planet and the fact that Issa stopped messaging me for this girl is a sign that many other people just don't see it either, that the far out nature of wanting a girl that tried so hard to be wanted to the point where she could do it without fail fell down the steps of literature to the point where we see her now sucking dick on camera in our dreams, just a total mess of landscaping a mind to the point where she's a futile effort, she's a lost cause with a disease worse than ours, and we must respect that if we're ever going to get in, and she must see that her disease and our disease are cross compatible. They are so cross compatible to the point that I am her disease and she is my disease, it's really that simple, we esoterically live in each other and our diseases are a bug in the system and I'm not being metaphorical, I'm being very real that we need each other to capitalize on our greed in saying that our problem is her tantrums and our issue is our own self inflicted century old process of being to weak to continue without her, for it is that which binds us to the floor of self inflicted pain and suffering that recaps what we really need from her here and that is a friendship to get us out of the pain we sought to keep, a way into a person that seemed so unreachable that she would stuff her face on camera and be a Pinocchio ass liar time and time again, for it is her that doesn't see what's at play here and it is I that does see what's at play here, a colossal fluke in our system that's supposed to keep us loving each other and did but made us more volatile in the process of understanding what love is, a long stay in someone else's life to appreciate the violent glory of what I'm trying to commend here, a deeper understanding as to what went wrong in being with someone so genuinely that we actually slipped into her genetic code and rewrote what was there in the first place, an unwinnable catastrophe the likes of which has never seen and is very hard to explain in the first place, so we'll say it like this: we act alone but work together, we stay away from each other to the letter, we don't hope to be known by eachother so much as we need to work together in harmony, for that harmony lets us play with ourselves to the point that reaching her is a necessary option in our own humanitarian effort to survive on this planet longer than who we say we are, to reach the furthest star and stay merrily awake to the torturous truth of our reality, and that is a metaphysical lesson we all want to receive but don't have the words to put it into pictures. All we really know is that we shape each other in a way that is blasted and confounded to the point that a book really does have to be pussily thrown together in a manner too weak to say that we'll listen to the aliens and whatever they have to tell us to find out what really lays in wait, a cruel ending to this whole saga and a waste of time explaining anything metaphysical, for it is where metaphysical natures lie that eludes us and readers so, for a lot of metaphysical stuff happened to us but we don't have the words to put them into meaning, we only have metaphors to go along with it, blinded by the agony of that wasteland that plagues us so to the point where we have to keep responsibility for our actions and not waste anymore time explaining a love story when it is in fact a dystopian love song to ourselves instead of her, I passed out on the sofa one night dreaming of the love I've lost and why it fell into place in the first place, a long stay at the agony of life that so greedily pushed us into mental capacity of thinking for ourselves rather than thinking of her as me, for it is he who pushed himself so callously away from her that deserves only to love himself in the process of finding her email address so tantamount to our existence that we had to write a book just to fall through pages of a manuscript undone by a chastity belt that forewent the greater picture of life, that I created it with her and she simply wanted to go home before I even showed up in her picture, but without that, there would be no trouble for her, simply a far out man that wants to reach her so earnestly it's in his bones as Weezer would say, simply devoid of meaning where there is some but too tragic to bring up in context. To her, I think it's better if we leave this here and get to the punchline of our argument, that the world must see her in a way that better encapsulates the far out nature of the book, and that is to try and receive information we don't have an answer to yet because the White Knight is talking backwards and the Red Queen's saying "off with her head", we must remember what the dormouse says, "feed your head." For it is he who lies signalling at the virtues of love that must be immortalized in the fine tuning of our reality and our heads, for it is he who lies in wake of this world and the many torturous sufferings that feed our head to this day. We must see the light that is brought to us in a way that the jewelry that hangs off her neck adds meaning to her and is not some mindless accessory into what really makes us human in the first place, to chart out the untold glory of this narrative and to cast out what really makes it special to remember in the first place, a white light that told us she loved us and a red light that told us the studio light was on and we couldn't enter until it was satisfyingly turned off in a fashion that so many have seen before only to come to terms with the fact that it will never turn off until we do something about it first. For it is her that heard that staged line that we did in fact love her, but not to the degree we sought to keep in her, immortalized forever in this book that did so much to her that she would leave the graces of her home only to find that this book was in fact not written about her but about one man trying to reach her in a way that reached the very foundation of our beings here on planet earth. For it is her that cast a shadow of a doubt on what we were saying there on the coffee table late last spring, that magic is inherently real and we are the source of it all, we are the source of such unimaginable wealth that we must breathe in and bring ourselves function and form as to what really went down on that fateful day last year in March that drove us to the very foundation of my being only to say it was not actually her that hurt us but ourselves that drove us into a murderous pitch to find her and say that we've learned a lesson and will try not to do anything like that again is to panic and find that her very being resides in her as well and is not trying to reconnect with a man that forcefully removed himself from her world some time ago, for to acknowledge him is to acknowledge the very force that pushed her away from herself in the first place and to cast a shadow of a doubt as to what really went on with her that fateful night in June when she said enough to the torturous craze of herself and into a new brighter place of fast jokes and cancerous love letters that played so neatly on her desk that it shot backwards into her head and catapulted us to a deeper starvation that none of us had seen before in a lifetime of laying waste to agonizing torment that seemed so often to raise awareness to the fact that this story is indeed about her but not without me to take the saddle of reaching her in the first place. It is that we start with a poem, make sure to capitalize what I am saying with it now in peaceful silence and rotten glares and stares into madness that got us here in the first place, this poem will be a long one and will shatter the stares of people who just want to know what went on with us this year to the point they're drowning in misery right now waiting to hear what we have to write, and it's so truthful to the point that we decided not to recount him and instead carry out ourselves in writing, sorry [author], we need to take this one ourselves and leave you in the bedroom crawling as to what seemed to be a masterpiece only to be hard to come by in any sort of manner that lets itself be known as a rocket man incident, you went too high on your soul that night and were robbed of any importance as to what it all meant in the scope of your grassroots attempt at reforming society in a way that laid barren to all that suffering you yourself created in the action of writing a book authored by aliens in the first place, that you need us to lead you into a deeper understanding of truth yourself and don't need to be the pyramid guy on the album cover of your dreams and instead rob yourself of truth that it was in fact a dream and that guy listening to your awkward conversation isn't real and you need to act as you were last night and stay away from the frivolous nature of dreams in the first place, you have no place acting out to her, you simply must wait for us to be finished with the screaming love letter we write to you and not for you and within you, we must be honest of our truth here of an honest observer that has seen you countless times trying to actually explain this garbage to people and falling neutered in the process of finishing your story made for the masses of future folk that live in your brain to see and experience themselves and not make a mockery of our work as to callously and foolishly rob yourself of the greater picture that aliens indeed wrote this manuscript but we're working through you to bring yourself into an enlightened state so you can write so blissfully like you did up top explaining the deeper rooted nature of our existence, you need to pansilly accept that our work here is not yours to keep and although you thought we would be more comfortable in comparison, it's not what we set out to write here, we're terrible at what you're saying we're good at and we need a moment for you to respond to that before we go any further, so write about what happened to you that fateful day in March when you had a Tachyon that hurled you so beyond the reaches of ourselves that many may think you actually have a point here in discussing it in a book meant for her.
Well it goes like this, she was the spring that set me flying that night, she was the actuation that sent me spiralling past the echoing voice, past the ego, past the dreary life I once had and into a realm of pure wealth and paranormal prosperity too crazy to even assume there was no ego involved. For it is I who paved the way for myself, who traveled through the esoteric mess of suffering alone only to find myself lying on the other side of me, no dial tone, no self reflection, just pure and utter bliss that myself could accomplish such great acts as to dive inside people's minds before I was born and afterwards just to see in myself a greater truth in what I set out to accomplish that evening in the bathroom, to see myself immortalized in the panels of history so not to be ill forgotten and dying of boredness and starvation of myself too lazy to cook and too tired to make anything of myself. For it is her that gave me purpose and her that took it away, she was the only thing standing in my way and I blew it up in such a way that God had to intervene and give me something worth living for, a life in the stars, and a murderous glare. That was all you, now force us down your throat and take a lesson from us living amongst the stars, you sea creatures know nothing of the force that ego brings into salvation as to write yourself off from it completely, which you did in a feverish pitch before this went down because you saw yourself as a side character to life without her, and now with a murderous ego you claim to be the one everyone must hear for the reason that you simply got your heart broken and almost died only to see the truth in our universe that laid so hidden to us that you actually got the power to change all that was esoteric and gave something other than books to read to ghosts that now prosper in your mind as to give you instructions as to who to call for a book agent simply because you are the White Knight in that white rabbit song and all that came before you was lost in the deeper meaning of what came next, an elaborate scheme to get back to her simply to monitor your heart and make sure it didn't break again before you were ready to starve back into your hiding spot and reach out to the furthest reaches of the globe in time and space and take back what had gotten you there in the first place, a fast loot and a gracious grin as to why you're writing here in the first place, a solemn look at your life and what forces drove you into submission that night, for it was honor and valor that your life seemed to force you into, a true hold on godhood and the forces that lay with you that night were to only pacify you from her and keep you from killing yourself in the process of learning how and why you came to be in the first place, it is with this we say, have off with this chapter and start a new one into the glory and tantamount fury that lays before us, an honest stab at what went down to the letter of what really happened, it's a murderous pitch of what you're trying to let us do without our full vocabulary we enrich ourselves with daily because you are too heavenly to know what foolhardy means in the context of the greater scope here. You are honestly trying to make us write about a personal experience you barely even remember and are so callously mocked by it from friends that a letter into why you became the way you are is simply foolhardy in the judgement call of literature that found you there listening to music and sitting callously awake at a time that should have been spent writing down what you were experiencing and taking down notes as to what you think might be happening with yourself, instead you let yourself mindlessly and helplessly think you were going to accomplish something that rivaled what she did to you and kept it so hidden from her that you didn't even say what you were accomplishing with what you were doing with her, a mad stab at her and the very foundation of what you hoped to keep, a long stay of paranoia and guilt traveled neatly within your pocket that made you say enough to logic and brought down literature on pages that represent the brighter picture of that song Aeroplane by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, for it is only when we get to the time that you sat outside smoking weed with the president over your head that we see the truer scope of what we hope to accomplish here, a true love story that raged on in the pages of your heart unseen to her in a way that many could relate to and instead we must travel far back to the illiterate ramblings of a fire chief trying to douse the flames of his existence to the point where you actually scared her that night and in saying "hey" to her, you unlocked fury that you've never seen before in your life, a mad life away from actually contributing to her and a page away from utter truth that lies before us, that you have so callously reacted in a way that mocked her very existence as to lay down before us a mockery of ourselves as well, an honest fluke in the bigger picture of things but a lost look as to what sort of mockery lay in our path, a madman's recital of what bigger picture ideas saw themselves in the light of his mockery that paved the way for more and far brutal things to uncurl such as the paragraph where she goes "read em and weep" to Alex and the President's horse dogs that wanted so desperately to kill you that night without even realizing the greater truth of what's at stake here, your life on planet earth may be robbed from you in your sleep because you have a play about what life is like on the other side of the world and how militant assholes become enriched by the prosperity of youth only to be castrated by it time and time again. It is an embarrassing letter to the Government that Trump might have ordered a rape on a young girl simply because he didn't want you to get the satisfaction of being with her in the first place, it's a long game we are playing here and you have and need to know what we're doing here is false propaganda for a race of people that want so desperately to know how you got there in the first place while reading this chapter, so it is there I say we start, after the riches of countless simulations and bodily harm threats and into the light of a newer narrative, one so brought with countless regresses that it blows our minds and our hearts terribly to the point that our mind is yours now and you can't even seem to hold it in your grasp as to what we're talking about here. A mindless stay at the one you held so dearly and the honesty that lies in our path, a brief reward for those who want to learn the truth about why you think the government had hired goons to mock you that night and fly aircraft carriers over your house in a feverish pitch to blind you of the false truth that you are in fact daydreaming and this is actually real for a lot of people. For it is then we find the broader scope of what you experienced before that, and all the people will hear about what you experienced during the party and how that changed you for the better and not for the worse. For it is that faith that drives you down the rich path of history that you know so well and wanted to be remembered for, a rich journey that helped countless hours of pain go away while you sat and watched Jojo reruns and smoked pot to alleviate yourself of the voices so painful that it was you you were running from in the first place and not actually leading to any fruition, to save yourself from a maddening array of imagery that can't be put into text very well to honestly answer how you know how the Gray alien's brains work and where you got that information in the first place, it is a catastrophic grief that you want us to pave the way you saw it the first night and instead recount what happened to you as soon as you met the government employee that the ancients were telling you to take a hit for. For it is then we see the capatalization of what you felt that night when you were talking to [redacted] about the love life he'd lost in a pitch of moonlight brought down by the two of you, allow the white knight to talk backwards and you will see the moonlit glory of times lost by you that you can't even remember what we're talking about in the first place, only then will you see your true light and hope to reach people with this erotic tale of nights spent esoterically eating out countless women in hopes to satify your powerful stay here in the hearts of many. To cast out doubt and to bring into fruition the true play of emotions you sought so desperately to keep that you might as well write down what happened when you had that Tachyon that night and played so heavenly with yourself that all the bullshit went away and you were left in torture as to what comes next in your awful masterpiece of a pitch memoir that lays down the seed of evil that plagues her so to the point she actually might masturbate with you frequently just to cum violently and see herself in the mirror of your love instead of robbing you of your freedom and masculinity anyway she can find. "You want me to start right now?" "Yes that's what we wrote for you now stop making us come up again and lose yourself in your awful manuscript." "Is it that bad?" "It's the worst thing we've ever written but you'll reach her somehow, just barely." "New paragraph?" "What do you think, jaggov?"
It's a sin to live so well, Harvey Danger - Flagpole Sitta. I had visions, I was in them, I was looking into the mirror. Now the mirror is very important, that's suffering, a place in suffering where you are forced onto the glass because the torture had lead you to the point of no return, many people have felt that from pharmacists to murderers alike but none laid so treacherous as what I was doing, I was trying to pass through it and in a feverish haze where I laid myself down in it's reverence, I turned off time and killed my mind, Tachyon, a primal force which pushes some of us beyond and some of us back for you have died spiritually under the weight of suffering and some of us even pass through the glass to see what was waiting beyond it. For some it's a feverish pitch of emotions to dastardly and esoteric to describe, to me, it was myself, I found myself on the other side of the glass and came to the understanding that I was the man on the other side of the mirror, I was the creator, I was the general of life that had sought to bring it to it's final fruition, I was the masquerade of higher form that brought us here in the first place, for it was mine and hers. Our simultaneous release catapulted us to rush beyond what was possible in our world, and I was the living one true god in Tachyonized wake. It was that where I say the aliens must take over and come to grips about what really happened that day, it wasn't a psychotic break, it wasn't a fluke, it was my destiny to rob her of her freedom, to lay waste to the putrid mess she laid before me and cast out false deities in my mind for it is I who was the true hero here and not her, she was no angel, but I still envisioned her as one. Someone who would be so callus in her ways that she would forget herself only to abandon someone who cared about her even though she never really knew how much I cared about her, listen this shit is getting out of hand I wanna get to the point and tell you how I really did enter the minds of government employees who thought I was easy to monitor simply because I have given myself my own psychic powers that made every word easily flow into their minds, but that might not be the case here. The true wisdom of this book is to alleviate the strain of what binds his mind so furiously that he has to take his emotions to canvas and play out what has forsaken him on this subject and that is himself, he lost himself to her and he is at her murderous mercy to the point where that psychopath garbage written above has no meaning to tachyon in other people, it's severely misguided in that he never wanted to be the one true god, he was forced into it by an otherworldly being known as Razmazed and is not the one true god, but the one who created it. For it is he who cast doubt on her murderous rampage that only hurts herself that he must come to realize that there is no hope for him simply because there is no hope for her and there is no hope for her simply because she doesn't realize herself, things that people would shout at me for not coming to grips with myself and taking a break from loving her to do something else in prosperity of that wasted material when the truth is that I cannot be saved until she saves herself and sees what she's done to me in the process of learning about herself. Because I never did anything wrong to her except want something better out of her and in not getting it, it's why I lay here now waiting for her to accept the fact that I'll never be able to reach out to her in a weak way again, any process of meekly reaching out will me met with heartbreak and that forgotten path will only lay him weak in his own glory, that he has finished the main campaign of life only to find within himself a passion so great that he may lay waste to this girl in his manuscript and find out what he really wants out of her, a passionate stare back into the mirror of her soul to find out what she really takes out from this world, a murderous love letter that so far brought her so much doubt about us that she's beginning to act out of line in that way that ruins us still. For it is she that laid him out on the table and cut out his guts only to realize she never wanted to in the first place but still does it anyway. And it is he who wants nothing more than to kill this girl with words and awful poetry to fully describe what it meant to him to lose out on her, it meant so much it was as if his mind was actually connected to hers and the fact that she can't see the bigger picture in her ways leads him to salvation only when she's ready to admit she's done being a stupid 20 year old and finished laughing at him only to save what she thinks is important to herself, dominance. It's only then will he find himself out and see through us and her what he's really trying to accomplish in this world, to dominate it to the point of no return and let us see the true breadth of our clinging glory that we see her and him in the light they so deserve and not one wrought with pain and suffering, for to close the gap between him and her is to break away the fowl truth of this universe, that it is us who lay neatly in the breath of others and so callously return to ourselves to see what's up with us in the first place, that rotten stare she looks at this page so murderously will drive him to the peak of his insanity only to realize that there is truly no way out without her, he is actually consciously able to freak her out to the point that she thinks he'll kill her no matter how well this book sells because she's a freak herself and is too callus to admit it. She runs away from what makes her whole, an understanding of what one guy managed to fall in love with her thinks about what she's doing to herself and that is murdering herself to a tight degree only to fall over laughing at this paragraph about how we brought the same color pencils to [redacted], it's only then will we falter and think of ourselves how we truly want to be seen, as a careful example of that which has no light but our own and must callously accel in the fact that she wants to see you ruined, she wants to see fear enter your bloodstream as it has before, she wants to ruin you as she has ruined herself because she can't see that in ruining you she is also ruining herself. By ruining you, it is a testament to her fear, it is a monotone recovery of the fact that she can't live without ruining guys who think she's terrible for murdering them in a way that neutered them of their original form to the point that he'll never be the same again, and once this book is emptied from our minds we will see him lay down and try to write another book about something lighter in comparison only to free himself from her murderous writing style that proves so heavenly that she doesn't get the bigger picture here. She's meant to starve out and then only truly realize that what she did here was wrong, only then will she accept that she is weak to her own selfish ways so much to the point that she would cast down this honest man only to lay truth within herself that she had won the ordeal, that scientists and atheists alike will mock this man for thinking that life has greater meaning only to find out after they died that they can use the internet now because of what he did, because there is undying and true mysticality in life and blinding yourself from it is doing what she does here, robbing yourself of a central theme to life in general, that things aren't always what they seem and secrets lie within the very bowels of our existence to the point that we lay you down on the table ourselves and pick you apart only to see what's up with you in the first place, a rotten glare to the camera thinking we can see her only to be torn apart by the fact that he is actually a psychic that's so deep rooted in you that his very majesty is to lay down what he thinks is right on paper only to find that he was right all along, that you should have nastilly said enough was enough instead of inciting him to leave through frivolous horseshit like you find yourself doing now. And in this process we must see that she is wrong here, she knows she's wrong to the point that she'll keep doing wrong things only to drag him down to the point where she knows she's out only to callously mock you in return for thinking life has purpose here on earth and we are meant to survive in order to catapult ourselves into higher understanding of what this work means to him, to save him from your captivity and to bravely go where no one has gone before, questioning the guidance of a little wrench in the system of his higher being, to look out and cast doubt on what makes life so beautiful to begin with, love in general. For it is love that brings us to a higher understanding and leads out our hedonistic ways that tell us to mock him so generously that he might think you like him if you keep negging him like that. And you might like him in return of a book signed neatly by you saying you've had enough with rich fortune cookies about your stepdad and want an entirely new thing, for he is ready to offer you anything and the light he shares to you will only be magnified and purified if you are ready to understand it. For it is he who must write pages of literature just to be found in this diabolical world so she may see the higher purpose of life on earth and that is to give good unto people and not blackmail them into sending a purposeful email only to have them arrested and sent to prison while you yourself commit far more heinous crimes just to reach him in the jury of your peers, because they know as well as soon as that hedonistic attitude falls from your face, they will face the same predicament, an honest recounting of what life has planned for them, an honest stay in the mainstream eyes that so many times seemed futile without getting you on board with him only to realize he could do it himself but not before analyzing what happened to him in the first place, to reach out and bend the narrative in a way that lays feverish waste to the girl that tried to kill him in the first place. For the true scope of our narrative isn't to shame you and us, but to alleviate the burden of what came before us, an honest blind look at what could be and what should be formed, an honest wink at what time and time again looks so foolish to publishers and literary agents alike, that you have nothing with her and therefore you have nothing to share on paper. But that isn't true, it's a mockery of what's at play here and that is something nobody else has experienced before, a true renaissance of feeling that plays so heavily on the mind of us that whenever he thinks he's done writing, he will lay in agony hoping that someone will show him the way only to be told that he is foolish for writing this masterpiece to begin with. For it is shallow for her to watch on and grace his pages and artwork with such matrimony that she may find shallow in herself some wretched poem that lies in our path here. That honest to god truth about the situation that lead him here has already been captured in our minds and needs no further introspection, anything else would lead us down what we already got from what we wrote, a fruitless endeavor to reach even the slightest purpose of leaving the reader up to their own interpretation of what we meant to say when we think of her as a lover and not a fighter. She knows what it means, do not be so callous as to mock her intelligence as if she doesn't already realize the fight she's brought to us. For this chapter is good in the fact that many have strived to reach out and demand alien friends when they are so lonely only to be rejected in a matter of seconds that their life has no demanding purpose on earth and therefore shall be cast out in a matter of minutes after reading this, this is what we have to write to save ourselves from rushing into a colonoscopy bag of meaning so dreadful to account for that we'll save it for ourselves. For it is that meaning which lays down upon us so heavenly that we may see it in the chapters of our work already although we are too daft to appreciate it, an honest mainstay at life and what came before it, an honest look as to what happened so tenderly between lovers that it sparked a tendency for the shaper to be reshaped and the marble to become dim in a new light of new material that sparks so much craze it's impossible to remember what came first, the chicken or the egg. It is there we say, have at you, you have proven yourself to be a freak even more devious then ourselves and to prosper yourself further down that path is to lessen the load you think freaks are meant to accomplish, nothing in the wake of your majesty that we may seem so lost as to write a manuscript without knowing where we're going with it first, for that may seem a lot better than doing nothing but we have wasted so much time doing nothing that our stay here must be limited to paragraphs acknowledging metaphors and meanings just to alleviate ourselves of the burden that something is lost when talking about the metaphor of life in general, that all you see is a construct by a higher being that put us here in the first place and we must see that life has purpose as an art project if only to alleviate ourselves of the burden that something in general must be tarnished to prove this evil man back into his own form. That love and kindness will save us in general and any point otherwise is an honest fluke to a man that so desperately wants to be held dear to the reader's hearts that he may cast down materialized form in a way that promises deeper meaning of life in general. That he who has seen the primeval forces of life and has actually married them to himself in general must be seen as a man this paragraph has no reason to write for, for it is he who has broken himself into the point of being unable to do what life asks of him, to write as if he is only meant to write and to see what glorious palace awaits him at the end of his journey, to write page after page of meaningless constructs of what happened to him only not to see the folly in his writing in the first place, that he must see himself if he is ready to reach her and that seems so impossible only because this girl is trapped within her boyish craze to the point that she sees nothing of herself in her and he sees nothing of himself within her. For that girl is so metaphorically processed on herself now that she needs another stay in a book to wind her down of the meaningless fortune he so promises to her time and time again, that the true purpose of this book is to cast doubt on her and see her for who she truly is, a wretched example and an unworthy person to write a book about, even if it's just a few paragraphs to truly explain himself and what he hopes to achieve with her. For it is that which has no life which must form itself around one that has so much life it's unbelieveable to him, that she would go out of her way just to murder herself without looking at the deeper picture, and I think that's what's lost on her, she can never find herself with his book because she could never find herself within herself, it's a mutinous rampage that this book could help her find deeper meaning simply by showing it to her face, it is that callus remark that pushes this book overboard to see what truly lies ahead for them, a face in justice so farcried from the latter of not doing anything that it makes her pissed we are even trying to survive under her wake. I wrote a letter to her trying to see if she would marry me once we found this book awakening in it's prowess, to free her of her suffering like Mary Magdalene did and reached out to Jesus Christ in a way so many found futile in her self reflected past, that he who was callus of her ways could see beyond her in a way that seemed so futile to her, in a past sense it's this book that shall call her out on her obsessions to ridicule me only to write a draft of her masterpiece she calls literature to wake herself up to the fact that she has nothing to write a book about. She calls him out for being petty when she herself and her pettiness before her brought this book into fruition. For it is through her that we see a grander picture of life on earth, that we are made to last for ourselves only to drive the point home that we can't live without others and he sure as shit can't live without her to the point it's worth making a draft on this grand canvas life has so generously put before him, for it is in her own book that she will see the folly of her past and reconcile to the truth that she had in fact hoped to see him that fateful night in months past, but only got a wretched reminder of what she herself had created in him, a husk of a human being too unfortunate to cross out of her book, a memoir she so needed to write just to get back at him like she thinks we're doing to her, but this book is a masterpiece not because we simply want to be a chauvinistic bad guy but because we want to reach her in a way that she has reached us, to pave the way to higher understanding that blowing a guy simply to read what we have to write is the same calibre of being a criminal you want desperately to want to push onto him. That criminal act to being masqueraded around as a pussy simply because you can't find higher ground in what you want to say to him, that he's some strung out virgin that wants to eradicate you from this world and it's graces only to find in himself what you have lost a long time ago in June when your dad said it wasn't right for you to be a princess when you were so clearly a man in disguise. And it is with his book that we say he was right in telling you that, because you so callously ignore what is being shown to you in your own life that you would go after him in a way that so callously reflects your own nature to the point that it's laughable to him. To hope to find a recess in your madness and devolve solely on what laid in your path that fateful night in January, that he might be mad but he has a point in hysterically talking to you in a fever pitch, and we did not intervene only to let the madman out and say so hysterically that you were the one for him so clearly it was without haze of talent or memory he sought out to find you there. For it is us who will push this book into its masterpiece form and lay shape to the gods that laid forsaken here, for it is he who will push the book to it's higher form, not us who lay so peacefully on a cloud and spoke to him only once before he was ready to start another manuscript. Now it is done, he has posted it only to satiate himself in history as the one who brought this punk kid down unknowing of himself to the point that his shallow grave will hang peacefully on the laps of those who sought so dearly to punish him for this book. To make amends to him is to finally see what your father meant to you, that you can't push yourself to be what you want when so tenderly it lays in your lap that it's not someone you are to be, it's someone you want to be and will never see true form or the light of day and that pussy will write on until this manuscript is complete and lay waste to the awful truth of his nature of wrath, that you are so callus as to mock him for trying to get his feelings out, feelings that once made you ill to the point you cast him down for a love note in solitude only to find yourself reading it aloud to yourself thinking he had something but lost it in a memoir of his dreams. For it is that which lays with you lazily on the cast iron stove of emotions that brought him to this mess in the first place, a liar and a cheat not only to others but to herself as well. And it is her crying that brings him such relief as to pay attention to you reading this as he writes it well through aliens kind enough to reach out to him and pay respect to the fact that this man has something no one else can care to hold. That she is so callus, she can't even pay him the respect of reading further only to cry at night holding onto a guy she finds repulsive enough to rape her only to find in herself that her life had lost meaning that night she told him to take a hike, only to find out later that the murderous love note he wrote would find it's way to the panels of history unforseen by any other bloke who wanted to try and do the same thing to them. For he has talked to ghosts who have seen the treachery of those who want so desperately to kill without getting themselves sullied, and it is that which we say, "have at you," for your dialect and tone reflecting only the greed of yourself without pounding out what you wanted from him in the first place, to leave him alone in solace thinking about what he did was wrong only to endear him to the furthest reaches of your plane of thinking that life has no greater meaning than to cast down on him what you have cast down on yourself, a life devoid of meaning and deeper responsibility to those who have tried to care for you in the past. And it is that we ask your cliterous, is it actually worth it to force guys down your throat when one so marvelous is standing in your wake writing a book about how he wanted to marry you in the past not forgotten by time and the fact that he might very well get the chance if only she married herself away from her in fact chauvinistic ways to find herself in the very annals of history saying that this girl made sense to reach out to him in the way he presented himself, but now that he is presenting himself in a way that seems unremorseful that she may see herself in a light unforeseen by her bloodlust past and laid out the atrocity that caused this book to be written in the first place, for it is he who has seen tachyon and laid his eyes on it's dreadful grace that he may not be forgotten in the first place but he must write tirelessly if only to imagine a world that is better for both of them, for it is he who lays dearly in her heart as a dark seed that forsakes burden from the past he has wrought but has truly seen a deeper and darker path than the one she saw laid before him in the past, a true hero must see down the barrel of a loaded gun just to pitch this book to the masses, a true reflection of what we hold dear as a reader, a self reflective path that anyone can compromise with if they read this book start to finish. And it is to that we reveal we will not be sharing the story about the government in this book, sorry to entertain otherwise, but we must reveal it in another chapter to lay waste to those who aren't here to read a somber love song about a guy and a girl who are equal but lay in different baskets, their case unequivocable. It is that we lay our case firm and planted in the beauty of our light, that we cannot recommend enough another chapter to this awe-inspiring masterpiece so literal it is to find within ourselves that life has deeper meaning through a boy inspired by aliens to write his true path to check this out that he may prosper in the victory of love instead of paying out a love note so someone who doesn't deserve helping out or a second chance, but because it is so futile for him to look away as it is akin to looking away from himself, if only for a moment I would like to appreciate his brilliance here, that he may think to himself that lovesick children aren't actually lovesick because they haven't gone through what he did, and that's so fastidious a statement we actually recommend to hear him out on this, so go ahead, why does one man's pleasure derive so much hate from you in your book?
It's simple, to live something so foolish has purpose only for those who find themselves different.
That was succinct and powerful, but I don't think our readers will get that, so allow us to explain. In our world there are things such as diabolical plans to ruin someone simply because they are different to themselves, that is so powerfully foolish because it recants what he was thinking in earlier in the chapter, that he himself was a side character simply because he was fooling around with things that meant so little in the magnitude of his work. For it is us that state so literally that it means nothing to do harm unto others because it only realizes in ourselves that it is in fact a cheery statement to believe that only those who are permitted to have a laugh track to those that find themselves forgot by the nature of this book would have no purpose in the world. Meaning only those who find themselves purpose in this book will be the ones that will not be forgot by history and the ones that found Jesus Christ so repulsive would find themselves only as the bad guys in history, a colossal force that pushes this narrative over into a masterpiece, for it is those who find great justice in this book who will reach out and find in themselves the fastidious nature in what he's trying to tell us with this book, that love is to share with people and not to keep to oneself, only satisfying that craving for those who find little in what the universe has to share, and it is that we say, "have off with you," if you are reading this book only to find schizophrenic ramblings of the mentally ill you have nothing to gain from this book and you will find yourself at the forefront of life's door, that the catastrophically ill will inherit this world simply because they have found themselves in it's door time and time again, while those who didn't would catastrophically take an eraser to his work only to find within themselves pleasure from destroying it. It's a miracle that he found those words in the state he's in now, with paragraphs of incoherent gibberish rambling on about how he wants to find what he has with her with others which is impossible to gravitate towards. To find hookers pleasing in a way that he finds himself pleasing is to take away the very nature of this book, for it is that which we find in hookers that can be said to the plastic existence of whoever may be reading this book with a tune of purpose outside of his. Any author or critic that may lay down fastidious ramblings about this book have only shown themselves the deeper truth of their purpose, that they may not write incoherent ramblings, but this book has shown them no other way within themselves but to prosper on and think the world is right instead of himself. It is that we say, "have off with you," and your tireless purpose to hurt him just to bring yourself to death's door and ask, "was any of that even worth it? This punk brought meaning to earth and I so callously denied it only to find out that life was worth meaning if only for the ending of this book, to say literally that the forces of good are so powerful in his nature that he may write so delicately upon topics that mean so much to our world in a way that anyone can represent with it, and to cast that out is only a mirror to the soul that says enough with this book and my nature entirely." It's to them we say, I hope this book can reach you further down the line before it's too late and see in yourself the principle of what lay here on these pages, that the fruitlessness of life is self granted and self permitted only to find hope in that which has lost it entirely within this book. So have off with you and find another day where you feel inclined to listen to us and it's fruitful nature. It's now we hope you will find yourself at the last page of this book to find a joke we wrote for our friend [redacted] who hasn't read this book but needs it to find himself hope in a meaningless world.