These scripted ruminations. I want to profess about incredible things and people, how spinning the Sleater Kinney record "Dig Me Out" laid airwaves across transient dimensions to crowds of people who had to keep their real names hidden since they turned out to be the military coordinates of foreign cities stacked up for bombing and war. But I won't. I will delve, archive like, into the baleful subsistence of life on this hard won planet, which thankfully, to my knowledge, hasn't attempted to throw itself into the Sun since I was twelve. I met a woman thankfully. She is my wife, I am her husband. We do not resort to narcotics or GMO dope usage. We think this has placed a level head on our shoulders, out conniving the movers and shakers from time to time, often in grotesque pitched battles or worse, traps lain in a vessel on the sea, things we've had to escape and think about with no preparation time. Well, life has been like making omlettes while roller skating. No time to think about the transistions sometimes, Life breaks up helter skelter into images of people doing things for drugs while we are knowingly trying to stop the sun from exploding before it gets shot at with another ray of anti matter from the West Coast. This I believe. That Beauty is possible with Truth involved, and that together they make a stable cradle for the benefits of Brilliant Love. But yet, these destructive propensities of "Ego" exist that insidiously worm their way from the manufactured consent of media hoopla into the connoitered brain cells of a sold and used populace, sucking at pills and drugs and booze like the candied glass fragments of a dangerous gingerbread house. Well, I'm stacked. Should I post this for the public? Or will I have office papers thrown at me again along with accusations of my personal insanity that arrive as frequently as molestations?
A equals A should be graffiti on the side of some subway station some day, slashed out in red paint while the trains hustle by in their dingy affairs. It is both the philosophy and the equation of truth, it is how you find it when you are alone, as it was placed in Aristotle and Atlas Shrugged. No accolades for those two, to tell you the truth. For all I care to tell you, Aristotle ingested less lead and mercury powder than the less famous goons he was talking to in Ancient Greece. Ancient Greece, would that beat Prehistoric Greece in a contest for vibrant minds? Somehow, we think so but we also think not. Thank the gods there is persistence somedays if not intelligence.
Drunken dreams of coastal cities that have far more meticulous arrangements in infrastructure portend a de facto thesis that these places exist, not far, and not only in "dreams." It could be made an argument that dream stuff is actually the gates of transit for where a person arrives after their body has been declared deceased. I wonder if that is a sane or insane admonition. Is any admonition, that has been inspected and cleared in full by a maddened socius truly sane, or are the ones that haven't been cleared for commerce the ornate and honest ones, winding their way through the substrates of the universe like strands of emerald twine? We do not know fully, and perhaps a Plan against Ignorance should be instituted in terms of national and international programs. There are other planets that we know of, that our eyes may resemble on certain days in hue, but what we gathered is that the universe's beings could have been the result of some supple experimentation within the flows and excursions of a notion different from Matter. We are not Matter, we are Beings. For all its worth, if you are alive, subsist with the lack of the Matter Hook, where it took its everloving bewitching formulation, but respect materials as well.
My formulation of schizophrenia is a different one then society's label. It appears to me to be a point of intelligence that only very gigantically surpasses the IQ level of the junkie, who is forced by matter and materials towards certain forgone conclusions. Schizophrenics are only diagnosed and subjected to forced druggings by doctors whose false idea of a perfect cure subsists in using the very chemicals they had turned to at parties. Doctors are indeed drug addicts, otherwise they would not act as the gatekeepers for drugs. Go watch a porno. How many of those people were selling themselves only for money? Probably a few, but more were on the path towards King Dope as opposed to relying on sexual perversion as a constant business plan. Dope is killing America, and the processes underlying addiction that we have witnessed are gruesome and involve malicious sexual practices, graft, subjugation, violence, war, cannibalism, and rape. If you're not a user and you get the substrate of heroin or cocaine on you, know that you could become the center of an insidious violence that does not work with the harmonies of a finer nature. Regardless.
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