01:21:40 UTC

The sun out there is very warm. You can feel the page, how it matters. Dry typeface, a mild grayglow. Aseat, red right in front, page ahand. The original, the breeze bound, the treatise.

Restive sliding mood. A leavened suspension.

The final plain of Children of Dune. A glowing icon. Typeface, small. A place in wonderland.

Engine pumping. Living all the time. Find the edge. Suffuse.

Summer heat never leave. Never step down, only glance. The air, the smell. They live there, in their unions. 

We go here. Each new heat a summons. The origin. The resting place, the original. Messengers warn of an unwind. Catastrophe. A froze still wrapped. But we know. It's not the unity. 

We love this man. Our friend--friends. Why do you keep making declines. You know them. They love you. Stay close. Leech. You know the next. A twist and wither; then start again. No more wheels. Embrace the cycle; leave the loops. 

Story hour

A man with gray hair sunglassed. Whiskey tumbler in hand. Upon his feet. Book in tow. Aside the lamp shade. Athrone. Bathrobed in green. In study, books awalled.

17:44:22 UTC

Something the fags try to drop on us. I see a little in the foyer before us. I know that God is with us. His will abounds our shoulders. We live among clouds furious. Wide sinful regret. I don't see much more around, except our fateful end, an expansion of force from our oakened patriarch. Adjust. Make yourself something 

The readiness feeling. The wonderful all-sensoriness. A new person. Their hair, their chest, its colors. I see them all in basis, their bright waistfuls. Nothing held back, all the forbidden material unfurled. Escape options exhausted, consummation in the chamber of the banished gods; feel life's new rhythm 

The great big wide horizon, unbroken. Our friends nearby. I know as well as they we're not around anymore. A strong man to make a final push. Heads upward waiting for offerings. That new path upon His shoulders. Can it all turn back, we look ashore, a heavy wave just past, big blue lurking and leaning

August

All laying about--still with no thing to say. One more fix pushed to the line. What is this place, anyway--just a few clicks? There is a referential map, but when is the burden passed on? When is the subject relinquished?

What remains even? Finebaum pressure builds. /lit/ has faded. The Packers are back. Nothing more about that. I just want this all back the way it was before. I want the music again. I want animus of exploration. And to never tire so. Pack up, a trip to the factory. A season reaching new and perfect twilight--the imagined form bounce-broadening into the widest verse; sight shifted maximum to the back end.

Stay just a little longer. It's the underground now--a single fairway, one swing. The dominant style cruises to a new peak. A stiff angle across shaded bright wood. Unleash the beginners. The sight is there now. They stand faced away in The One's Great Design. The poet host of material lurches to a last gasp, where we cast down our schoolbooks one last time.

Why'd we have them anyway? Our dreams, at caffeine maximum, spout the stylings against the real.  I know these things, certified reference points in our greed--summer meadows.

What do I lean into? One stable substance to pour onto... How to use but not optimize?

Madame Web

I think I first saw the trailer in a movie theater. It was a throwback to earlier movies. The ones I loved as a child. America returns to receive Raimi Spider-man. No more do we cast aside a set of reels into irony litter-traps. It's only a story of a paramedic. The reception is an entirety of condescension. So the fog is heavy until we wander in. 

Our modern tragedy has ended. Dakota Johnson, finally offered a beacon--ordinary-citizen. Was there ever another? What happens? The line-reads from Johnson stride right through. It is a total zoomer autistic strike zone. 

Where do we go from here? The sequel the movie teases? But the box-office was dreadful... So back we go to Johnson trash-can roles. 

The Rotten Tomatoes looks solid actually. But I stopped looking at that years ago. So I don't know what that means. I guess audience score is still pure? 

There is a demon lurking behind the walls. We see him occasionally. He usually glances away, anti-contact. Some of our friends, who've long been with us, know the way of these things. It's been over. They've been dead. But still it goes on. A demon whispers back. We, too, know the way of things. Only faggots breathe now. They all know the life and the breath--the essence of living. Our death comes broad. But we see none of our meaning. So we continue. Like an evening dance with a lover. A stunned resilience.

No Title

All 3 bled through without sound. I stare at the 1970s and its spawn, Eli Roth (and his predilections). Balachander’s movie is a well frozen over. I lack comedy. Twin Peaks still frightens. None of us is evil. 

Letting Go has its minimum. The Drowning Pool has a prose situation, but still is meager–despite mathematical matchings of narrative. 

Looking up at the starry sky, noting every face, every direction; these are the Cameron planes. God in each event. Earringed Pax looks at the horizon. I smell blank; the remainder driven to the outer edge. I stare into Lew Archer's moment; he sleazes into saloons. His narration nags its price to pay. If we continue, what comes about? 

Eliot Ness, defender of law, must unseat him. 

How do I manufacture a image with greater contrast? If I shrink the image will I ever see it again? Titanic is majesty--Avatar only clouded-out hell. 

From far astray to this day, born-again. Our trials ended, leaving only reflection. This new period is of reckoning; can we root out the remaining vagrancy of the soul? Is this exhaustion, or just a new physiological epoch? What is its history? How does this status effect circumstance? I, I, I--it’s always that now… What does the extreme subject become? I’ll go to the gym, ride the bikes; but how do I reestablish the timeline? 

The novelty of the written page is gone. Back to the insane and the sober. 

The writing here is better all together. I’ll strike each away till all that remains is the imperial unit. A tight wind of pages to be snapped outside of obstruction. Our only enemies cast aside for righteous men. 

Do I need to peel back the melodrama? Or is it just romance? Just one single thing seems interesting… 

How do we go back? Our dreams still just scan our natural sickness. Some simplicity makes any life lost into a greater expansion. Am I back to the evening sunk into late-dusk? (Think no further than your rolls of the dice.) 

The germs in the air from the hours of anger and mistreatment float away into the nighttime. I open the books and possess their words. Now it’s a foreign place. All the light beams coalesce away and my body centers onstage. They are coming to the darkness--our age broadens, now a new utility for young and old alike. 

You encounter an image, which leaves confidence to wait an extra moment or two. AA, a circle of chairs, lit industrially, seating church-coffeed, work-attired NPCs. Nary a reason to worry at all, just a natural way through. The structure of a period piece brings about this type of experience. Have a seat in history class, experience the simultaneous spirit that weaves the historical into the modernness of the present.

Autumn turns

We sit, still before our actions commence. It's like a windowsill--its depth there to lean upon. A nice twisting rail. The promise of late afternoon, evening still to come. Staring down the aisle. These memories do not present: in neither past nor future. 

Not in sequence; all of the peace parts, then returns to gather its new direction. A play of William Shakespeare. It's weak--there is no action, just a reading through the words. I've found a new pattern and it builds momentum. The grains of the wind by my side. All things one with God, our loveliness. 

All I can feel (and know) gathers together, surrounding--a life earned. A brand of sensation, swiftly in first, then second, up to the final heat. A bright green upon my shoulders. Proud, a single finger upright, exclamation upon my face. My eyes straight forward, reflecting the resignation of the evening.