As for this war, you all must know what must happen, or should, I get it on my screen every day lately, the face is screaming, as if death descends is descending, the cards played, keep playing, room falling into pieces, just keep on spinning, a charade, with soldiers in a charade, a poorly written play, not Tolstoy, nor Stalin, its gone past that, trees burn with documents, now empty burning fast into solid entropy, says stop playing, stop the blood flowing like a river of brothers, sisters, children, it's too real, too heart breaking, with new improved machines, for nothing but rule, and its burnt, and the pride already damaged, the land and its inhabitants, its buildings, broken and disturbed.

I must have a jewel in my hand, something I have, but forgot about, and I am with the band, yet there is nothing but warped sunshine, your car is no ordinary car, so I go underneath like a cat, I like the sound of motors, I really do, I think I could run faster than a race car, I don't know why I ran so hard.

Now she rules Santa Clara!

Two worlds, one fake, one real.

Healthy,, wealthy and wise, plus great abs.

Death gets no reruns, but stones, as like bones, lifeless solid, souless, never to live, as dust, or molocules rise and fall, we all go, yet this world shall not.

Do that work, destroy, destroy..

It is the aim to win, perhaps that is not so violent, what of the future children, say we teach them of the blood of eons, shall stop for a reason, the gun, the sword, the get even, when the blood is close to home, the world seeks peacefull solutions, plus a bullet is so easy, a dumb shmuck couild do it.

Things improve, so so good.

Our hospitals can be freaky.

Never mess with a poet.

A thick silk cord to caress, as like to seduce, a love that fails the correct fails, moves on with soft light past secret doors, into mirrors with green smoke to delight, so we meet for the first time.

The light in the heart of darkness.

I had a love with the moon, as if such a love were there, and the light was changing me, even my appearence, telling me with sweet honesty, the jewels found in the water, were more than real.

Too much military spending is not wise. It produces a hawk with bad vision. It fails the women and children. It is essentially dystopian.

I am touching the future in fictional wonder.

A moment that has consequence.

Time as double vision: Imagine that you are taking a day dream walk and suddenly you begin to picture the past with astounding intensity, also you notice something that hasn't happened with astounding intensity. This does occur. Does this mean there will be a future where this event occurs? Perhaps, and perhaps not. This is hard to know for sure.

An equation doesn't end the question.

When complaints fade away..

The invisible heart has touched into you.

Ten toes are ten love buddies.

Yow!

Kiss of Death.

Rights or just wrong?

Is lying more serious than murder? Perhaps it can be.

I imagine this video is accurate.

No hate anywhere.

I have some faith in China still, not because of Mao or BRIC, but because the people are historically not on the side of evil.

People doing the news must take an IQ test.

The Kremlin is not Bud Light.

If the media can't handle the truth, then perhaps scientists can be hired to make sure that real journalism is being done.

Another A+ read, dive in! The Tall Thin Man—what a striking, enigmatic figure! Spanning posts from Warmest Winds and Magic V, he’s a towering presence (literally, over seven feet!) who strides through a patchwork of surreal scenes, blending menace, charisma, and absurdity. Let’s unpack this character and see what he’s all about. Right off the bat, he’s got this commanding aura. “To you I am like a God,” he declares in that 2019 poem, bending his knee with a jolt, reaching for the sky in a “big try” for victory. He’s not just tall and thin—he’s larger-than-life, a self-proclaimed deity with a hard edge. That violin he wields like a dark sorcerer, playing haunting melodies that seduce juries, whip crowds into frenzies, or soothe bloodied drummers—it’s his signature, a tool of power and chaos. He’s no passive bystander; he’s the puppet master, grinning under lamp posts at moths or slipping through cracks in reality. Yet there’s a restlessness to him. He’s always on the move—striding across environments, heading west to saloons, or vanishing down winding stairs past alligator bridges to munch a ham sandwich (that detail kills me—it’s so mundane yet bizarre). He’s got zeppelins and giant air balloons by 2025, suggesting he’s evolving, maybe even conquering new heights—literal and metaphorical. But for all his grandeur, he’s tied to the shadows. He emerges from them, looms in alleys, or stands as an “old convict” in the rain, bitter and less kind. Is he free, or trapped in his own myth? His interactions with others hint at duality. To some, he’s a guide—telling a poker-rich wanderer to “Go West!” or gesturing toward a glowing green door, stripping you of hat and coat like a cryptic usher. To others, he’s a terror—“your worst fear,” shattering minds, competing with unnamed rivals. Magic V’s posts toy with his nature: Devil or God? The question lingers, unanswered. He’s both, maybe—savage yet delicate, playful yet brutal. That dance with the violin, making you behave foolishly, feels like a trap you can’t resist. His world’s a feverish blend of the wild and the urban. Rabbits race, snakes slither into cities, drones mix with drums, and colors turn orange and purple in a reality-warping mashup with Bill Hole and James Bond at an “Anti Trans event” (what?). It’s chaotic, almost apocalyptic, yet he thrives in it. That 2016 “smelly city” line and the 2023 blood-soaked drumming scene suggest decay and violence, but he’s unfazed—alive, victorious, always returning with a “Ha!” like some immortal trickster. What do I make of him? The Tall Thin Man’s a force—part myth, part nightmare, part showman. He’s not just tall and thin; he’s stretched across dimensions, a lanky specter of ego and mystery. I see him as a chaotic neutral—neither wholly good nor evil, but a catalyst, stirring up whatever he touches. His violin’s the key: it’s how he bends the world, from juries to mad hatters. He’s got a touch of the Pied Piper, a dash of the Devil at the crossroads, and a whole lot of swagger. Compared to Bill Hole, he’s less human, more elemental. Bill’s a quirky everyman fumbling through absurdity; the Tall Thin Man’s the absurdity itself, orchestrating it. I’d wager he’s what Bill might fear—or secretly admire.