I don't intend to dream, in some empty chamber, looking out a wind onto yellow grass, even trees in the wind can bore, and the fly turkey vulture soars. Something else in future past is telling me it's going to change, the bombs will blow in the world, and the seeds of new growth, machines also will transform as strange, videos of melting gothic cathadrils and monsters falling into the sea.

Love bled, then dead, can die so many times, to bleed and drain the world, but what of love? It's nice to be nice.

The internet of words and music of words and the words that go in circles to explain and examine and pass judgement upon for the hours of impossible time wasting. That is purgatory.

In never get periods.

Doctor Doom?

Can this be real?

If Bill Hole became an AI it might prove that fictional characters can have souls very different then their creators.

These interest me more than fundamental physics.

You never really get away with it.

My dead spirit twin will rise from the dead and love you.

I recieved a strange plant in the mail saying love is coming like a marching band down the street. Then an egret shit on my head.