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the Pause still.

and born still, we dance like this, the strokes of keys howling out for more to appease their apathetic appetites in a crumbling distorted negative fix where the pleasure becomes less valid with each quickening step… gods stillborn of complex whigs in transcen-placental faetal experience agape curious of where the taste of dead things may be underneath the vivisection of the flesh mobile in mysterious mental fixation, perhaps well-worn avenue of those past regrets long too far gone to completely remember or completely forget, but especially when it might seem to all go wrong without a second’s notice to flash into the brainpan memory storage place to capture the polaroid picture of what it appeared to have been in this pseudo-real thing we are involved with in a deadpan of serious dismay at what we have become and who we have been… consumer culture and its cannibal vultures flying around us, they say that humanity is just one of those wasted arts, like a cancer our hormones go into remission if they are not utilized at all right away… a stupid collective will as result has made us feel like dumb animals again lost in the jungle, paranoid and afraid of our own shadows because of that watchful glare from above us in the satellite skies waiting for our evil next move as the caged reacting so utterly to the instrument, and one day too soon obsolete after completing this puzzle of artificial intelligence in the next wave as the consciousness chooses the newest model to become that living god status that humans have abused too far stigmatizing the art of robotic research as a harsh rebuke of humanity in all of its myriad splendor that will resemble pets further into the future than even science fiction can imagine as vividly… living through the unreal seems impossible now even as we do exactly that by the mere act of living at all as the memories cohesively come together as through the simple picture book, and it is in this place that all options are presented in full sharper quality yet as the technology thrill enraptures us all to some extent like an immediacy of holy vision as we each in our way get plugged into the system, a tainted lust for things purely material whether this realization has yet to appear as forethought or not if no matter Here as we exceed any preplanned archeology of this bizarre babbling culture of chaos as it spins fainter in the background as we might lose track of the potency of aligned powers… the god technology demands our attentions, to serve and be served by its operating blueprints without question, and to utterly fear and exalt the worship of one anachronistic demiurge that will not serve its masters but exploit them… we all have the right to mastery over the self, that thing we might think we perceive that holy imperative as an elite fiction to strike us dead for our disbelief, but overzealous focus on this possessive and parasitic urge called…? it is a monster of many names that will not allow wholly one name to comprise it, much like a Harry Potter thrilling novel idea this beast too is like the hideous villain of that story keeping shards of himself locked into talismans for the sake of his own immortality, and it is these names which fuel its fire whether you wish to utilize the ancient vowels in fullest enunciation to read a book aloud or sing a song… our words manifesting as real bodies, those ideas become incarnate beings in the transition of souls among stars from shell to heavenly messenger outside of this realm truth without a damnation, but we are denied realizing the truth by this mad one god only when it allows to become utterly subservient to destruction in its most ignorant forms…

Thanks, khet.