November 6th, 2022 some time past awakening pst If you are visiting for the first time, go to the beginning. Vale, Mi Amare (VIII) Caverns and Wine read ( words) "1133 on October the 4th. The seventh entry is incomplete. This is number eight. I have lunch in the oven. The food will provide distraction for a few minutes. I cannot find the dream. I have lost the angel and the kitten. The doll spoke and I listened, yet her words are absent of late. The ‘image’ will kill me, smiling faces included. The closet doors shall not return to me. My vision has become too distorted. Soon it will be destroyed. The devices hang by a thread. My presence on the Internet shall heretofore decompose. Bells. Henceforth... 'Wind, blowing the empty dress. Empty heart, empty hands. There is nothing, here is nothing. Drink the wine. Drink the wine. Drink the wine. Drink the wine. All the way around again. Drink it. Right over there and a million miles away. The hands, the sweater, and the knife. Mustard. No mayo. There is a problem deep inside that no one can localize. It moves as we move. Floating, flying, falling, without benefit of the mind's inherent bearing. Out of balance and covered in mud. The problem is growing ever larger and beyond control. The sweater had a hand, but the hands were the keys. Now we see them everywhere, every day, every time something comes to mind to derail this fucking train of life. Death? That, too. The blue dress may as well have been wrapped around those bouncing breasts because wherever we look, there is only mud and mustard. Not pumpkin. Just mustard. Blue. Flowing. Empty, yet again. We cannot do anything. We are helpless, beyond sense and far from in control of this. She is controlling us. There can be no denying it any longer. She controls our thoughts. We say nothing. Guns a'blazin. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. All the way around again. Drink it. Right over there and a million miles away was the strike of a lifetime and we still see it as if the incident was five fucking minutes ago. First thought... Last thought. First sight... Last sight. All the same. The wine was present. We wanted the wine but sat idle and did nothing more than fill the filing cabinet of life and stow everything until such time as some could be 'let slip'. The wine was right there. We could almost taste it. Lines and wine. Desperation and control. Bearing and form. We were in form. The bearing was not lost for a fucking second. Strength, determination, and in the end... Death of the dream. In the cavern; in the wind; in the mud, into the sin; out of our minds. The wine... WE WOULD HAVE THROWN ALL OF IT TO THE FOUR WINDS WITH NARY A LOOK BACK. Damage, destruction, and permanent changes... For the wine. We've done it and will fucking do it again. Time continues, we decline. We need the wine. We will cross the line. They can only consign. We believe... We would have taken the left turn of a lifetime. We believe... Something may have been there. We believe... We saw the end. The cut line like never before. The dress would never see it, nor could it reveal everything present without all of the winds. The dress no longer hangs in the cavern. It does not swing. The dress resides in the mud for all time. We can see it and feel it. On the other side of the idea of that dress? We know what is present. We fucking know ALL OF IT. Death of the dream, and the dream has changed. We need the wine. There may not be time. We failed in design. We lack the divine. Nothing can replace the dreams or the thinking. We have arrived in a place ill-advised and ill-tempered. It is just fucking ill. We see everything, sometimes too much, other times not enough. This day we know... She was right there. We could smell the fucking wine. Grapes of God. Designs of Satan. Meshed by us. We shall wrap her in the dress, mustard and all. Go ahead and spill the wine. We will lap it up like desert travelers with that first swallow of water. Lap it. The cut line was right there. We stared. We dreamed. We yearned. We needed it. Ill-advised, tormented, lost, and dreaming even more. Dreaming for years. Dreaming of sin. Dreaming of wine. We needed the wine. We need the wine. The lines and the dress. We dreamed of the combination. The mud paid no mind; we were there to unwind; we should have been blind; always... Just kind. We did not cross the line to the lines. We did not fill our glasses with wine. The day became a sign. We saw her align. Despite the crime, our behavior? Just fine. Lies, lies and more lies because the wine was in our eyes. Anything more? Unwise. Just lies. We cannot let slip the dogs of desire. We are wrapped in wire and full of ire. Everything was there and we were aware. We could only remain fair, lest the others beware. The knives are always in mind just like the wine. We are damaged and damaging. We are destroyed. There is a plethora of superlatives lying in wait, yet the time has not arrived for such words. We simply cannot because our bearing cannot be questioned; our motives known. We cannot have anything out of place. Face? We saw that, too. And on and on it went, from a glimpse to the full-tilt of every fucking word we have ever typed. And then we kept right on typing and it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Only the wine. The knives elude. They are there (here), yet they elude. DRINK THE FUCKING WINE Motionless inside. We are stagnant. The wine did not do this. We imagined brandywine. Flavor. Brandywine? Mustard. We are ruined. All the way around, yet there is nothing. We cannot find it, but we saw it. We damned-near saw everything on the occasion. Right there, a billion miles away. Oh, we calculated odds and chances, yet nothing came of it. Nothing? Something. Minds. Scenes. Questions for centuries. Lots of questions, damned few answers. Right over there. All the way around? We were out of our element and out of our minds. But still... Right over there. And then the vision. Left, right. Back, forth. We watched the motion. The vision took us away from ourselves and birthed even more visions. Right over there. Right over THERE. We saw too much. Guns a'blazin, again. We are full of power, yet powerless. The mustard is running down the crack. We need the wine. This entry is different. She was right over there. We saw more than we had imagined could transpire in a million years... Right there. We saw her. And then the dream. And then the damage. And then the desire. And then more dreams. And then another vision. And then? An impossible conundrum. The wine awaited us. We could do nothing. And then the keyboard, all covered in mud and mustard. Not pumpkin. Purple? Mauve? There is wine. There WAS wine. Decay. Detritus. Doom. We need the wine. It may be gone forever. Whatever. Whatevah. Forevah. Just like those twins in the hallway, all covered in blood and inviting. You know. There was no mustard in that place. Decay. Detritus. Doom. One foot in front of the other. Our eyes missing nothing. Right there, not two feet away. Not mustard, either. Wine. The only wine that matters. The lines. Convergence and divergence. Lines of life, lines of wonder, lines of death. The lines are pathways leading to the place of dreams. The lines are also places of dreams. The dress knows not the lines because it is empty. Mustard all over the place. We saw more than we should have. Now there is only the cavern. Do you recall 'back to front'? We do. Every fucking day of every fucking week of every fucking month of every fucking year. We see it. We imagine. We draw the lines inside our weary heads. We draw, we paint, we follow. The lines appeared right there and we fell down. Still down. Drown. Frown. We could not say. We still cannot say. Everything remains locked away, all gray. We stay and portray. We hide the disarray. No sway; no way. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. They are gone. We are here. We see them. We see everything. We saw everything. We needed more. There was nothing for us. We saw them. We needed them. They disappeared. We disappeared. Everything will disappear. Only the cavern shall remain. Drink the wine. Drink all of it. Right over there... AGAIN. The wine on one side, and then the wine opposite. The dress had form. The form is gone... AGAIN. We saw the scene as scripted long ago. One step, then another. Small. Tiny. We saw the steps and the landing. We saw the basement. We saw too much. As always, we saw too fucking much. The knives were not at hand. The wine over there. We needed the wine. The steps went by; we went insane. Nothingness. Nothingness, AGAIN. Always... Nothingness. Buffer stop. All of our forward motion was halted and nothing remained but the wine. We saw the steps play out, from first to dead last. Very fast. Information amassed. What is left? A grim repast. BLINDED by the wine. We shall reside in the cavern for all time. Mustard and vanishing cream. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. All the way around again. Drink it. There is no wine. One there and the other close by, moving. And then a switch, and then one more. And then another switch. And then whatever... Two, three, not four. No mustard. We are insane. Right there. Right fucking over there. We saw, we fell, we wrote, we fell again. One there and the other right there. Close by. We assembled everything and then fucking fell again. AGAIN. Forever falling. There is nothing below but nothingness. Just like years ago, we crafted a tale and they fell into the blackness. No handholds, no steps, no ladders. No nothing. Black. They were blinded by the black. Not even a hand in front of a face. We created that story and they fell into our black imagination. They all fell and never made it out of there. They died in the black. We rejoiced. We won the game. There is another black space now, grown from the crystals of imagination yet again, but this time we are inside. They are outside. We see them. They do not see us. They do not know us. They move along in life as if we do not exist. They are right to do so. We receive nothing. They offer nothing. This is as it should be. One there and we saw it. The other was close and we saw it, too. We tried to imagine, to picture something better. Everything boiled down to a slap in the face. We do not hate them. We respect their indifference. We are small and insignificant. We have made no marks, nor created any legacy. They pay no mind because they should not pay anything. One there. The other close by. We saw them. We needed them. They do not belong to us. The entire affair is a sham. Vanished. Blinded by the wine, as always. Black and green and gold. Colors flowing. No mustard, no pumpkin. Knives. All the way around, back and forth, we sat there and mapped everything. Detailed maps unlike anything in existence. We created a plan and then went far away. We saw the dress in form. We went far away and the dress lost its imaginary form. The dress could have finally been alive. Alas, we lost everything. Nothing shall return. The dress remains empty, just like every other aspect of life. Empty. The wine is there, but we are here. One was right there and the other was over there, not far. Now both are gone. Burned. Destroyed. Dead. Buried. We will follow. We SMELLED THE FUCKING WINE, but nothing could be done. They won. Just one? No fun. Bring the gun. 'Lust in the dust.' Mauve instead of pumpkin. We see it right there, right now. Power? Yes, all the power. Mauve again. Purple? Nope. Flowing, flowing and more flowing. Power-flow? Yes or no? We may need to go. Cranberry. We cannot dissociate the information. We cannot unsee the scene. We cannot hold sway over the keel, it is so real, we can't fucking deal no matter the heel. Heeled. We are heeled over so badly that the ruling lines have nearly killed us. The water is right fucking there... The bowsprit is staring at us as the mist is teasing. We will end up down there soon enough. This is rough. We can't be tough. Reserve your fucking guff. Heeled over like never before. The train? Derailed, permanently. The water and wine are the threats now. The dress may have been lost years ago. We cannot know. We can only postulate so much anymore. We have become tired beyond belief. The wine and the vanishing cream... Do not seem... We are nearly out of steam. Around and around and around again. Drink the wine. Forget the vanishing cream. We are vanished." This site contains mature content Created by REN in Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 Copyright ©2002-2024 Brandywine Engineering All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Questions? Comments? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the assholes in charge
November 6th, 2022 some time past awakening pst If you are visiting for the first time, go to the beginning. Vale, Mi Amare (VIII) Caverns and Wine read ( words) "1133 on October the 4th. The seventh entry is incomplete. This is number eight. I have lunch in the oven. The food will provide distraction for a few minutes. I cannot find the dream. I have lost the angel and the kitten. The doll spoke and I listened, yet her words are absent of late. The ‘image’ will kill me, smiling faces included. The closet doors shall not return to me. My vision has become too distorted. Soon it will be destroyed. The devices hang by a thread. My presence on the Internet shall heretofore decompose. Bells. Henceforth... 'Wind, blowing the empty dress. Empty heart, empty hands. There is nothing, here is nothing. Drink the wine. Drink the wine. Drink the wine. Drink the wine. All the way around again. Drink it. Right over there and a million miles away. The hands, the sweater, and the knife. Mustard. No mayo. There is a problem deep inside that no one can localize. It moves as we move. Floating, flying, falling, without benefit of the mind's inherent bearing. Out of balance and covered in mud. The problem is growing ever larger and beyond control. The sweater had a hand, but the hands were the keys. Now we see them everywhere, every day, every time something comes to mind to derail this fucking train of life. Death? That, too. The blue dress may as well have been wrapped around those bouncing breasts because wherever we look, there is only mud and mustard. Not pumpkin. Just mustard. Blue. Flowing. Empty, yet again. We cannot do anything. We are helpless, beyond sense and far from in control of this. She is controlling us. There can be no denying it any longer. She controls our thoughts. We say nothing. Guns a'blazin. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. All the way around again. Drink it. Right over there and a million miles away was the strike of a lifetime and we still see it as if the incident was five fucking minutes ago. First thought... Last thought. First sight... Last sight. All the same. The wine was present. We wanted the wine but sat idle and did nothing more than fill the filing cabinet of life and stow everything until such time as some could be 'let slip'. The wine was right there. We could almost taste it. Lines and wine. Desperation and control. Bearing and form. We were in form. The bearing was not lost for a fucking second. Strength, determination, and in the end... Death of the dream. In the cavern; in the wind; in the mud, into the sin; out of our minds. The wine... WE WOULD HAVE THROWN ALL OF IT TO THE FOUR WINDS WITH NARY A LOOK BACK. Damage, destruction, and permanent changes... For the wine. We've done it and will fucking do it again. Time continues, we decline. We need the wine. We will cross the line. They can only consign. We believe... We would have taken the left turn of a lifetime. We believe... Something may have been there. We believe... We saw the end. The cut line like never before. The dress would never see it, nor could it reveal everything present without all of the winds. The dress no longer hangs in the cavern. It does not swing. The dress resides in the mud for all time. We can see it and feel it. On the other side of the idea of that dress? We know what is present. We fucking know ALL OF IT. Death of the dream, and the dream has changed. We need the wine. There may not be time. We failed in design. We lack the divine. Nothing can replace the dreams or the thinking. We have arrived in a place ill-advised and ill-tempered. It is just fucking ill. We see everything, sometimes too much, other times not enough. This day we know... She was right there. We could smell the fucking wine. Grapes of God. Designs of Satan. Meshed by us. We shall wrap her in the dress, mustard and all. Go ahead and spill the wine. We will lap it up like desert travelers with that first swallow of water. Lap it. The cut line was right there. We stared. We dreamed. We yearned. We needed it. Ill-advised, tormented, lost, and dreaming even more. Dreaming for years. Dreaming of sin. Dreaming of wine. We needed the wine. We need the wine. The lines and the dress. We dreamed of the combination. The mud paid no mind; we were there to unwind; we should have been blind; always... Just kind. We did not cross the line to the lines. We did not fill our glasses with wine. The day became a sign. We saw her align. Despite the crime, our behavior? Just fine. Lies, lies and more lies because the wine was in our eyes. Anything more? Unwise. Just lies. We cannot let slip the dogs of desire. We are wrapped in wire and full of ire. Everything was there and we were aware. We could only remain fair, lest the others beware. The knives are always in mind just like the wine. We are damaged and damaging. We are destroyed. There is a plethora of superlatives lying in wait, yet the time has not arrived for such words. We simply cannot because our bearing cannot be questioned; our motives known. We cannot have anything out of place. Face? We saw that, too. And on and on it went, from a glimpse to the full-tilt of every fucking word we have ever typed. And then we kept right on typing and it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Only the wine. The knives elude. They are there (here), yet they elude. DRINK THE FUCKING WINE Motionless inside. We are stagnant. The wine did not do this. We imagined brandywine. Flavor. Brandywine? Mustard. We are ruined. All the way around, yet there is nothing. We cannot find it, but we saw it. We damned-near saw everything on the occasion. Right there, a billion miles away. Oh, we calculated odds and chances, yet nothing came of it. Nothing? Something. Minds. Scenes. Questions for centuries. Lots of questions, damned few answers. Right over there. All the way around? We were out of our element and out of our minds. But still... Right over there. And then the vision. Left, right. Back, forth. We watched the motion. The vision took us away from ourselves and birthed even more visions. Right over there. Right over THERE. We saw too much. Guns a'blazin, again. We are full of power, yet powerless. The mustard is running down the crack. We need the wine. This entry is different. She was right over there. We saw more than we had imagined could transpire in a million years... Right there. We saw her. And then the dream. And then the damage. And then the desire. And then more dreams. And then another vision. And then? An impossible conundrum. The wine awaited us. We could do nothing. And then the keyboard, all covered in mud and mustard. Not pumpkin. Purple? Mauve? There is wine. There WAS wine. Decay. Detritus. Doom. We need the wine. It may be gone forever. Whatever. Whatevah. Forevah. Just like those twins in the hallway, all covered in blood and inviting. You know. There was no mustard in that place. Decay. Detritus. Doom. One foot in front of the other. Our eyes missing nothing. Right there, not two feet away. Not mustard, either. Wine. The only wine that matters. The lines. Convergence and divergence. Lines of life, lines of wonder, lines of death. The lines are pathways leading to the place of dreams. The lines are also places of dreams. The dress knows not the lines because it is empty. Mustard all over the place. We saw more than we should have. Now there is only the cavern. Do you recall 'back to front'? We do. Every fucking day of every fucking week of every fucking month of every fucking year. We see it. We imagine. We draw the lines inside our weary heads. We draw, we paint, we follow. The lines appeared right there and we fell down. Still down. Drown. Frown. We could not say. We still cannot say. Everything remains locked away, all gray. We stay and portray. We hide the disarray. No sway; no way. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. They are gone. We are here. We see them. We see everything. We saw everything. We needed more. There was nothing for us. We saw them. We needed them. They disappeared. We disappeared. Everything will disappear. Only the cavern shall remain. Drink the wine. Drink all of it. Right over there... AGAIN. The wine on one side, and then the wine opposite. The dress had form. The form is gone... AGAIN. We saw the scene as scripted long ago. One step, then another. Small. Tiny. We saw the steps and the landing. We saw the basement. We saw too much. As always, we saw too fucking much. The knives were not at hand. The wine over there. We needed the wine. The steps went by; we went insane. Nothingness. Nothingness, AGAIN. Always... Nothingness. Buffer stop. All of our forward motion was halted and nothing remained but the wine. We saw the steps play out, from first to dead last. Very fast. Information amassed. What is left? A grim repast. BLINDED by the wine. We shall reside in the cavern for all time. Mustard and vanishing cream. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. All the way around again. Drink it. There is no wine. One there and the other close by, moving. And then a switch, and then one more. And then another switch. And then whatever... Two, three, not four. No mustard. We are insane. Right there. Right fucking over there. We saw, we fell, we wrote, we fell again. One there and the other right there. Close by. We assembled everything and then fucking fell again. AGAIN. Forever falling. There is nothing below but nothingness. Just like years ago, we crafted a tale and they fell into the blackness. No handholds, no steps, no ladders. No nothing. Black. They were blinded by the black. Not even a hand in front of a face. We created that story and they fell into our black imagination. They all fell and never made it out of there. They died in the black. We rejoiced. We won the game. There is another black space now, grown from the crystals of imagination yet again, but this time we are inside. They are outside. We see them. They do not see us. They do not know us. They move along in life as if we do not exist. They are right to do so. We receive nothing. They offer nothing. This is as it should be. One there and we saw it. The other was close and we saw it, too. We tried to imagine, to picture something better. Everything boiled down to a slap in the face. We do not hate them. We respect their indifference. We are small and insignificant. We have made no marks, nor created any legacy. They pay no mind because they should not pay anything. One there. The other close by. We saw them. We needed them. They do not belong to us. The entire affair is a sham. Vanished. Blinded by the wine, as always. Black and green and gold. Colors flowing. No mustard, no pumpkin. Knives. All the way around, back and forth, we sat there and mapped everything. Detailed maps unlike anything in existence. We created a plan and then went far away. We saw the dress in form. We went far away and the dress lost its imaginary form. The dress could have finally been alive. Alas, we lost everything. Nothing shall return. The dress remains empty, just like every other aspect of life. Empty. The wine is there, but we are here. One was right there and the other was over there, not far. Now both are gone. Burned. Destroyed. Dead. Buried. We will follow. We SMELLED THE FUCKING WINE, but nothing could be done. They won. Just one? No fun. Bring the gun. 'Lust in the dust.' Mauve instead of pumpkin. We see it right there, right now. Power? Yes, all the power. Mauve again. Purple? Nope. Flowing, flowing and more flowing. Power-flow? Yes or no? We may need to go. Cranberry. We cannot dissociate the information. We cannot unsee the scene. We cannot hold sway over the keel, it is so real, we can't fucking deal no matter the heel. Heeled. We are heeled over so badly that the ruling lines have nearly killed us. The water is right fucking there... The bowsprit is staring at us as the mist is teasing. We will end up down there soon enough. This is rough. We can't be tough. Reserve your fucking guff. Heeled over like never before. The train? Derailed, permanently. The water and wine are the threats now. The dress may have been lost years ago. We cannot know. We can only postulate so much anymore. We have become tired beyond belief. The wine and the vanishing cream... Do not seem... We are nearly out of steam. Around and around and around again. Drink the wine. Forget the vanishing cream. We are vanished."
November 6th, 2022 some time past awakening pst
If you are visiting for the first time, go to the beginning.
Vale, Mi Amare (VIII)
Caverns and Wine
read ( words)
"1133 on October the 4th. The seventh entry is incomplete. This is number eight. I have lunch in the oven. The food will provide distraction for a few minutes. I cannot find the dream. I have lost the angel and the kitten. The doll spoke and I listened, yet her words are absent of late. The ‘image’ will kill me, smiling faces included. The closet doors shall not return to me. My vision has become too distorted. Soon it will be destroyed. The devices hang by a thread. My presence on the Internet shall heretofore decompose. Bells. Henceforth... 'Wind, blowing the empty dress. Empty heart, empty hands. There is nothing, here is nothing. Drink the wine. Drink the wine. Drink the wine. Drink the wine. All the way around again. Drink it. Right over there and a million miles away. The hands, the sweater, and the knife. Mustard. No mayo. There is a problem deep inside that no one can localize. It moves as we move. Floating, flying, falling, without benefit of the mind's inherent bearing. Out of balance and covered in mud. The problem is growing ever larger and beyond control. The sweater had a hand, but the hands were the keys. Now we see them everywhere, every day, every time something comes to mind to derail this fucking train of life. Death? That, too. The blue dress may as well have been wrapped around those bouncing breasts because wherever we look, there is only mud and mustard. Not pumpkin. Just mustard. Blue. Flowing. Empty, yet again. We cannot do anything. We are helpless, beyond sense and far from in control of this. She is controlling us. There can be no denying it any longer. She controls our thoughts. We say nothing. Guns a'blazin. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. All the way around again. Drink it. Right over there and a million miles away was the strike of a lifetime and we still see it as if the incident was five fucking minutes ago. First thought... Last thought. First sight... Last sight. All the same. The wine was present. We wanted the wine but sat idle and did nothing more than fill the filing cabinet of life and stow everything until such time as some could be 'let slip'. The wine was right there. We could almost taste it. Lines and wine. Desperation and control. Bearing and form. We were in form. The bearing was not lost for a fucking second. Strength, determination, and in the end... Death of the dream. In the cavern; in the wind; in the mud, into the sin; out of our minds. The wine... WE WOULD HAVE THROWN ALL OF IT TO THE FOUR WINDS WITH NARY A LOOK BACK. Damage, destruction, and permanent changes... For the wine. We've done it and will fucking do it again. Time continues, we decline. We need the wine. We will cross the line. They can only consign. We believe... We would have taken the left turn of a lifetime. We believe... Something may have been there. We believe... We saw the end. The cut line like never before. The dress would never see it, nor could it reveal everything present without all of the winds. The dress no longer hangs in the cavern. It does not swing. The dress resides in the mud for all time. We can see it and feel it. On the other side of the idea of that dress? We know what is present. We fucking know ALL OF IT. Death of the dream, and the dream has changed. We need the wine. There may not be time. We failed in design. We lack the divine. Nothing can replace the dreams or the thinking. We have arrived in a place ill-advised and ill-tempered. It is just fucking ill. We see everything, sometimes too much, other times not enough. This day we know... She was right there. We could smell the fucking wine. Grapes of God. Designs of Satan. Meshed by us. We shall wrap her in the dress, mustard and all. Go ahead and spill the wine. We will lap it up like desert travelers with that first swallow of water. Lap it. The cut line was right there. We stared. We dreamed. We yearned. We needed it. Ill-advised, tormented, lost, and dreaming even more. Dreaming for years. Dreaming of sin. Dreaming of wine. We needed the wine. We need the wine. The lines and the dress. We dreamed of the combination. The mud paid no mind; we were there to unwind; we should have been blind; always... Just kind. We did not cross the line to the lines. We did not fill our glasses with wine. The day became a sign. We saw her align. Despite the crime, our behavior? Just fine. Lies, lies and more lies because the wine was in our eyes. Anything more? Unwise. Just lies. We cannot let slip the dogs of desire. We are wrapped in wire and full of ire. Everything was there and we were aware. We could only remain fair, lest the others beware. The knives are always in mind just like the wine. We are damaged and damaging. We are destroyed. There is a plethora of superlatives lying in wait, yet the time has not arrived for such words. We simply cannot because our bearing cannot be questioned; our motives known. We cannot have anything out of place. Face? We saw that, too. And on and on it went, from a glimpse to the full-tilt of every fucking word we have ever typed. And then we kept right on typing and it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Only the wine. The knives elude. They are there (here), yet they elude.
DRINK THE FUCKING WINE
Motionless inside. We are stagnant. The wine did not do this. We imagined brandywine. Flavor. Brandywine? Mustard. We are ruined. All the way around, yet there is nothing. We cannot find it, but we saw it. We damned-near saw everything on the occasion. Right there, a billion miles away. Oh, we calculated odds and chances, yet nothing came of it. Nothing? Something. Minds. Scenes. Questions for centuries. Lots of questions, damned few answers. Right over there. All the way around? We were out of our element and out of our minds. But still... Right over there. And then the vision. Left, right. Back, forth. We watched the motion. The vision took us away from ourselves and birthed even more visions. Right over there. Right over THERE. We saw too much. Guns a'blazin, again. We are full of power, yet powerless. The mustard is running down the crack. We need the wine. This entry is different. She was right over there. We saw more than we had imagined could transpire in a million years... Right there. We saw her. And then the dream. And then the damage. And then the desire. And then more dreams. And then another vision. And then? An impossible conundrum. The wine awaited us. We could do nothing. And then the keyboard, all covered in mud and mustard. Not pumpkin. Purple? Mauve? There is wine. There WAS wine. Decay. Detritus. Doom. We need the wine. It may be gone forever. Whatever. Whatevah. Forevah. Just like those twins in the hallway, all covered in blood and inviting. You know. There was no mustard in that place. Decay. Detritus. Doom.
One foot in front of the other. Our eyes missing nothing. Right there, not two feet away. Not mustard, either. Wine. The only wine that matters. The lines. Convergence and divergence. Lines of life, lines of wonder, lines of death. The lines are pathways leading to the place of dreams. The lines are also places of dreams. The dress knows not the lines because it is empty. Mustard all over the place. We saw more than we should have. Now there is only the cavern. Do you recall 'back to front'? We do. Every fucking day of every fucking week of every fucking month of every fucking year. We see it. We imagine. We draw the lines inside our weary heads. We draw, we paint, we follow. The lines appeared right there and we fell down. Still down. Drown. Frown. We could not say. We still cannot say. Everything remains locked away, all gray. We stay and portray. We hide the disarray. No sway; no way. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. She was ripped away. They are gone. We are here. We see them. We see everything. We saw everything. We needed more. There was nothing for us. We saw them. We needed them. They disappeared. We disappeared. Everything will disappear. Only the cavern shall remain. Drink the wine. Drink all of it. Right over there... AGAIN. The wine on one side, and then the wine opposite. The dress had form. The form is gone... AGAIN. We saw the scene as scripted long ago. One step, then another. Small. Tiny. We saw the steps and the landing. We saw the basement. We saw too much. As always, we saw too fucking much. The knives were not at hand. The wine over there. We needed the wine. The steps went by; we went insane. Nothingness. Nothingness, AGAIN. Always... Nothingness. Buffer stop. All of our forward motion was halted and nothing remained but the wine. We saw the steps play out, from first to dead last. Very fast. Information amassed. What is left? A grim repast. BLINDED by the wine. We shall reside in the cavern for all time. Mustard and vanishing cream. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. We need the wine. All the way around again. Drink it. There is no wine. One there and the other close by, moving. And then a switch, and then one more. And then another switch. And then whatever... Two, three, not four. No mustard. We are insane. Right there. Right fucking over there. We saw, we fell, we wrote, we fell again. One there and the other right there. Close by. We assembled everything and then fucking fell again. AGAIN. Forever falling. There is nothing below but nothingness. Just like years ago, we crafted a tale and they fell into the blackness. No handholds, no steps, no ladders. No nothing. Black. They were blinded by the black. Not even a hand in front of a face. We created that story and they fell into our black imagination. They all fell and never made it out of there. They died in the black. We rejoiced. We won the game. There is another black space now, grown from the crystals of imagination yet again, but this time we are inside. They are outside. We see them. They do not see us. They do not know us. They move along in life as if we do not exist. They are right to do so. We receive nothing. They offer nothing. This is as it should be. One there and we saw it. The other was close and we saw it, too. We tried to imagine, to picture something better. Everything boiled down to a slap in the face. We do not hate them. We respect their indifference. We are small and insignificant. We have made no marks, nor created any legacy. They pay no mind because they should not pay anything. One there. The other close by. We saw them. We needed them. They do not belong to us. The entire affair is a sham. Vanished. Blinded by the wine, as always. Black and green and gold. Colors flowing. No mustard, no pumpkin. Knives. All the way around, back and forth, we sat there and mapped everything. Detailed maps unlike anything in existence. We created a plan and then went far away. We saw the dress in form. We went far away and the dress lost its imaginary form. The dress could have finally been alive. Alas, we lost everything. Nothing shall return. The dress remains empty, just like every other aspect of life. Empty. The wine is there, but we are here. One was right there and the other was over there, not far. Now both are gone. Burned. Destroyed. Dead. Buried. We will follow. We SMELLED THE FUCKING WINE, but nothing could be done. They won. Just one? No fun. Bring the gun. 'Lust in the dust.' Mauve instead of pumpkin. We see it right there, right now. Power? Yes, all the power. Mauve again. Purple? Nope. Flowing, flowing and more flowing. Power-flow? Yes or no? We may need to go. Cranberry. We cannot dissociate the information. We cannot unsee the scene. We cannot hold sway over the keel, it is so real, we can't fucking deal no matter the heel. Heeled. We are heeled over so badly that the ruling lines have nearly killed us. The water is right fucking there... The bowsprit is staring at us as the mist is teasing. We will end up down there soon enough. This is rough. We can't be tough. Reserve your fucking guff. Heeled over like never before. The train? Derailed, permanently. The water and wine are the threats now. The dress may have been lost years ago. We cannot know. We can only postulate so much anymore. We have become tired beyond belief. The wine and the vanishing cream... Do not seem... We are nearly out of steam. Around and around and around again. Drink the wine. Forget the vanishing cream. We are vanished."
This site contains mature content Created by REN in Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 Copyright ©2002-2024 Brandywine Engineering All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Questions? Comments? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the assholes in charge
legal
about
clodmaster
archive
home
