I, harbinger.

I am the pac-man of the soul,
I come hungry, ready... ready to devour,
I cannot be stopped by the mere mortals of shape,
I will not be doomed to stupid destiny of space,

I have found the reason to destroy,
I am not only the thought,
I have only action,
I, harbinger.


---
Written and emailed, as a response to this insane thing: http://www.hypnoid.com/psytest2.html

My Diagnosis:

You need to help others and to be thought of as a generous and kind individual. Often you are taken advantage of and regarded as simply part of the scenery. You work best when handling the work yourself; you do not appreciate a managerial role and tend to be uncomfortable in that position. Friendship is important to you, but it is generated on a personal basis, rarely a professional one. Consequently, family life is very important to you, and is often the most important aspect. Because of a strong sense of propriety however, you will sometimes consider the eccentric behavior of your friends and family as a personal affront. Often you find it difficult to speak up about personal anguish or pain, feeling instead that it is something an individual should bear in silence. Tradition is important to you, and you feel a sense of belonging when operating within the constraints of a predictable routine.

Something something... don't mind if I do.

To wit, it comes.

The ground shakes as I scrawl the letters backward in the dirt. Starting the incantation in reverse, is something new. It might draw up 'The All-Knowledge'. It's something like a piece of the greater, infinite, intelligence of the universe. It was lost to us in the primordial soup, of the galaxy's formation.

This is not even a gamble. I die today. Either I will become insane and then explode or I will be fundamentally changed. If this works, my guess is that I will be absorbed into the fabric of space time; to become pan-dimensional.

Overhead the stars swirl. I know that this is it.

I think of blue sky; first bulbs of April; red leaves on a breeze; the day after a long, deep, snow; a girl from childhood; a long-lost companion... -Sigh- *

140 CHARACTERS AND GOOD TASTE BE DAMNED!

gently washing the rain falls as sludge into the crevice of an unwashed mind it stops looks around entertains the thought of checking out...
decides to stay a while there is no certainty of anything other than self which is why solipsism is so sexy to this fellah and wants to ....
ignore it most of the time as he'd never get anything done other than think about how far this conspiracy goes how deep my own mind plans...
it's own paranoia and then he remembers sex and these feelings go out the window along with parts of religious dogma and rambling...........
incoherently into the night and out the window.

Kismet is not Orange, But you do look marvelous in it...

Along the corner he traced his step, backward into the marginal silence of the night.
Clanging bottles. Bursts of laughter. A car horn. A siren.
And there was a silhouette, walking in a gliding, dance.
She turned and became a burst of shocking color.
A night-blooming flower, graceful and succulent.
And there he stood a flash of laughter, and 200 proof energy.
They paused briefly, for each to warm the other.
A crossing brief, tender, and light.

walk

along the virgin rock,

no highways have come to be,

patient schist lays dreaming,

centuries per second.

THEN,

at once awakened,

set aflight, then...

falling, falling.

Now,

metamorphoses of sand,

dust,

starstuff,

dream,

a second in a day.

AmplitudeAnteMeridianModulation

There is a station in the distance that only broadcasts pain. I follow it's broad highways into the wee hours of the mourning. Who hurt you DJ? Why do you keep playing 'One Headlight?'

But, that's not what you are really playing. You make pain seem like it has only brushed up against you, like the wind, silently in the night.

You smell like vanilla, a bruised and broken open fruit. What the masses call 'plain.' There is no truth in the hive, only propaganda. In truth, vanilla is the only edible orchid. A rare sustenance amongst pure desire.

But, that is where I hide; in cold trivia. I often ignore the warmth that I feel. Now to reach and confidently pluck. There I could, finally, separate myself from the vine.

Somewhere... maybe there.

Downstairs lies hope. In the dream of space and the final of my frontiers I look down. Solitude is hopeful, loneliness a curse. There is an edge so sharp and fickle, I must stand on it, baiting the ground to swallow me.
-"Fucking chickenshit earth!"
It doesn't take my dare.
I walk back to the stately hallows of my manor and sleep until my eyes are sandpaper.
Then, I drink, until I cannot walk.
Then, I furiously masturbate, until the seed stains every wall.
Yep, here's to the end of the world.
It was such a big one.