GORELOGGERS MK.5 V3.2 🜛

Swathes of waves were coming in waves, pitiable little toy soldiers garrisoning a compromised already fort: they found an opening and whipped in, they made the deed into a joint action. There were little beads of sweat on my forehead, they toasted it inkly the shy manner of spoils. Shy because they did not already pick them, they circumambulated them, for there were still ringings to be heard and I was not dead or asleep yet. "They toasted it inkly". I still heard the parabolas they were coming in waves. Not a perfect sine function. I closed my eyes, and reflected on the parabolas again. They were coming in swathes but never quite arriving, pressed on to my squishy department of the head. They cajoled it: "you will never find where they landed". At times they are almost like some opaque butter flourishing the wave functions. I arose slightly, redid it the faint end points of my blanket. Hastily I dropped my head on the pillow again. I may have to take another painkiller pill, even though I was already arriving at the round table to sit in for a treaty with the garrisoners again. Sir do I speak to your representatives now? You are warriors but the warriors of my headscape are vets. For I suffer every day, they have been crowned the little maniacs who were not always how they are. At once I was also an innocent little boy. A friend of mine had severed our ties because I could not reconcile our ties. I had said to him, why do you think the determined state of universe, though bestowing upon of free will onto all creations, does not punish the ill-doers and gifts the righteous. "Gift is a German word". What if we were to take the matter into our own hands? Complete earthly matters completed in earth, "why would you want to burden God even more?" In retrospect he was not a friend of mine ever, merely a passerby. But he had instilled within me a fraction of a sense of all the many roads of the world. Surely, it was always there, from less at times to gladly enough. And I do not speak of it as plus-point mind you I have always been at the odds and offs of it. "It seems that they— it's the odds of that that ushers ultimately"— indefinitely the couple at the controller board maken to saints of primal births through now and it all eternity, succumb. They are crusted to the notion that even if the wheel of it is bound to coming off from the mountain slope time after time it must a find a new ground on it to fiddle with and dig on. On the same mountain. And gradually the hill of the logarithmic universe is encrusted to the defilement hoard that is not round nor expanding to hoe the infinite plain with, limited sustenance and always a burden. "Or maybe it's the bane of sentience weee. Bane that will always be killing with slow but suer is". There are far too many hole's in our mother earth's mountain. Yet it is disposable, the notion of finding time, that the world is ending soon. "It was going to and it is not going to"... We are, fundamentally, falling into this— lava enwritted pools. They are not so long. When we drop into them it is so hot to, this far too many bundle of possibilities are kept to a place, not ones to reach for for there are problems at hand. So the possibilities near the bay are kept at a bay. And through many trials when we are able to offset the primal scoops of inconveniences, when we are able to think of rising beyond the notdeep pools, someone always shits in the pool, someone who were by no means outside of it. At once dedicatedly making the blessoms noodling for air and while the mission to rise is not completely thwarted, they are contramended to focus on them only. About the future of mankind. If the spirals of time are wound around the stick of civilization there would be a shortage of flux lingage "remaindering ever the point that is omega"— I rose again. My throat was a piece of wood. My head was a pisces of two antelopes. Shrrrrshhhissshhhu. Brink of extinction. I have heard it again, just as I began to touch the floor. An encolating sound— as if a dentist left it there. "Sound and schmerz". You cannot remedy these headaches. I get on my feet, looking at the obtuse anglearea of the door at first, dim light coming in crusadely. They don't seem to replicate what I was going through yet I was bound in it. "The oil drum is approached then siphonented by kegs of oil, oilgnant grown inert now, rancouring the usestage of the drum". I sweated profusely. These locks have been marinated. I touched my hair with a belonging caress, traced some of them sweatlines. Fan above me rotating, pints of light flocking in, flock shimmering in the warmth of the room, jutted by the rotations: "like twinges of sitar". With an eager sense I walked out of the room, halted just before the dining table. "How do I come here every time?" No, not how, not the means but— that super specific motion of intent. It has not always been like how it lately, now, before. Not on this level I am on now, it was oneth, but once I used to piss myself and it was tangentially erotic. One hot summer night, the justified reaches of the bedmatt sat flat on the floor. I had released my pelvic valve: first, a warm minthilled of stream fell on my lap, and across, then it permeated my yellow pants, destiffing them about. My yellow pants, soon it was soaked. Lying there I felt a distant whimmer of satisfaction. I do not piss myself anymore, and I do not get any satisfaction anymore, a croppedculture of the same deed or otherwise. But why do I come here, for some reason I feel it is all connected. Once upon a time, I made my way on the same pathingdots, and some one had come and shot the shoptender witness, shooting him thorough and his wares were colourited with bloodest of red. I could not yelly say, to my ghost companions whom had been livenpoached from scrawny and lumpful books alike and into a silent entourage by me: "Come on lads and lasses, eat your fills, these rusgullas, these beautiful pink rusgullas"; which were not to be embroidered by drying clots of red blood. Who shot the shopkeeper? Surely it could not be Maganlal. On one of those streets, I was dispossessed, walked through a street of rape. Two lines of ashen-turquoise buildings and in the middle lay the road. "Look up towards the sky". Eye of Maganlal. Double corneas, double lids, double pupils. He was the spirit of scathed moon; glowing over the mattes of the street, not just this street but entirety of Banaras. "Someone shot the shoptender but not him". "Who had shot him" might have been a lesser concern than me being on a famineclock then. Tick tock it was ticcking. Now as I was walking to the dining table, to the fridge to pull out a bottle of cold water to quench my thirst with; I felt the breath of Maganlal toppling on me. He does not want my headache to go off, to have this headache seller disstep the steps he had traversed to have his shop set up here, on a gore inside my head. I pulled a bottle of cold water from the fridge, pouring them on a glass. Then I opened the medicine box... Among the unrigid pile of tablets and capsules I found him. Him, not Maganlal, not the shopkipper, my brother aspirin. "But brother, should we meet all so often?" "You are a snarly bleeding khajiit my dear, just like all of them you don't want me to have a quick relief". "You will not have relief, not tonight". Cold water felt on my tongue and throat, then a little tablet joined their unmirthful stream. "Just like that there was another painkiller on my stomach". Which will then send a signal to my head; coroner of corotide blemishes. I cannot feel you yet mister. "You will not have relief, not tonight". In the dim green of ambience, I found the blue of IPS. Its stocks are full and it felled me on a bizarre maze once. Imagine: 'was running off on stubs of concrete, cut evenly from the both sides to hoist an edge on its median. Like a perfectly cut pencil. But it was not exactly sharp, at least not sharp enough to cut my balance right there at the start and to fell me to the bottom of whatidontknow. Or maybe to gruel my feet and toes into bloodwade all over its galore. From bottom to upwards, crucification of Jesus. Arsonbacked, fleeing ever so loudened as exhaustion takes over merit. In front of a cold ridge I had arrived. Jumping now— then I fall into whatidontknow. And then I am back. Not at where I am standing now, gazing into a bluegreenness. I had waked up, deep into the night, it was 3 AM maybe. I had gotten up, raised to the position. Horizontal, vertical, a mix of the two. Soon I was more vertical than otherwise. I pieced together my whereabouts; my feet touched the cold ground and soon I had found myself at where I am standing on now. Gazing into the green ambience and blue. "Tropical dandy!". "Red birds will fly out of the east and destroy Paris in a single night". On that same day, just before hours into the postpropelled midnight, I was at the balcony. The whole day was passed in lifting up and arranging furnitures into the newly rented apartment. I moved them, not alone, I was joined by a group of happy midagers, who were chatting and joking among themselves— a group of three people. Whole day I was toiled by the physical labour, then the mental tonsure, regarding where to put what. Later that day, into the night but nowhere near the end of it, I found myself at the balcony. The front one. I sat there, on a chair looking into the surroundings beyond the balcony grills. " Deja vu! You were to be here again". Smoking cigarettes from the brand called Gold Leaf; they had just recently released the pack of new smoke labelled HD. There was nothing all so high definition about it, except the King's filter was hollowed out upto approximately half the length of the filter. And I was borrowing the feelings from someone's— a group of some someones' solidified and immortalised bit of time, "Ma! I didn't notice." I am dying, ma! I am dying again. Immortal performance! You could never discard it. There was no fan in my room yet. For nearly a whole week, I smoked in the same room, the smokes would get congested onto the various pieces and articles in the room. Leaving the room crested with odour of smoke till the half of the following day. But it would not go away for good, for the clamour of smokesequence was girdled within every day and night. For a week. Past forward: I was on the balcony, hours before I was felled into that cosmic abyss. What I said: I was there on the balcony. I looked around at the surroundings beyond, a three-story building in the immediate front, a one-story beside it, then another of the same level beside it, then a three-story beside it... I turned left and saw it, a five-story building, by the prayer space building. By the laundries, its immediate cousin. Red birds will... These streets and alleys are so familiar to me. It feels like just yesterday there was the nutheaded laundrist here. A queer fellow with fitting behaviour; "100% dundee". Play 4'33", over; it feels like it was just yesterday that I played hide and seek in these streets. I knew every sights and heards by heart, sometimes I would come up on entirely different places, looking for places to hide. I would look at the laundrist going by his daily routine, looking like a squashy bird escaped from asylum. "He was not that bad". He was a matter of laughter and scorn by the kids of that street. They would yell out from a distance, paperjetted of insultation, "Hey dundee!". Proclivities! Proclivities! Sat on a stool, hogwashing the laundries. The big round concrete bowls, made of cement. How many year has it been here? There was no building by the laundry then, it was a skeleton of rods and concrete, unabashed from the ground up: a construction site. I made through its knickers, near the pantaloon of the mosque where the two intersected. I had seen through its tatters and etchings on the wall: round and disfigured of contour. Some paints like blemishes falling from high up there. A little bits of paint here and there, musks of air conditioners. Looking up the both surfaces had not met by a uniform slit. Soon I reached the narrow's turn, it went right. The view from a moment back: hard immer window of the mosque, situated at a sorrowful distance and "I am not giving up". Fast forward two moments: I was on the new of the turn and it was stricter, the new of the two surfaces up had not met by a uniform narrower thinnerslit; it would be hell to move if I got in the middles of there. In retrospect, I did did not get there, where that pantaloon met with the knickers of below was not my concern. And I am saying it only now. You can never quantify the regrets in present. You can imagine it but not dog sacrifice it "they left another leg there, in the flesh of the rear...". The regrets felt in the future, the anxieties felt in the past... Click! I unclasped the doorknob to veranda. I was back in my room, heavy with the headache. My minions. Dear and loathing. I grouped into the veranda. I sat down. Then felt around my pocket, here's the cigarette packet. I felt around my other pocket, here's the lighter. First puff, first letting out of smoke. Slight sizzle on the tip, you can hear it, drizzle rizzle. Count out the instances out of your personal stash. I have passed many sleepless nights here, here on the cold floor, various scrap appliances kept on a table— no. Two. An abandoned bicycle. Tubs of flower plants whose flowers have dropped the vanity of expression of joy of flowers. Happiness is the moment shared, says flowers... There was also tubs of plants whose main attraction was the daunt, bold bioembroidered patterns on their leaves. All of them could be seen to have smellled very pleasant. No I do not go their, go nearest to the plants to smell whether they smell great; they just look like they smelled great. So fresh and so dead. Some of them have not been watered in a long while. Yet they persist. All together as one. Like these plants and their sojournful flowers and their meaty leaves; they are inside my head. They are reproducing there. Rapidly. Soon their nymphlog will break out of my skull and tether me to the sky. Malgre la nuit. I saw it, and still I see it. Asymptote to the sky, they meet at milky way's dairy. They are two cables, I looked through their foci, they are never going to stop hedging. Hedge to the edge and sir we are not so sure. Malgre la nuit. Sizzzzz. Phuuuuu. I ashed the ash. I looked right, at the mosque. It's pond's glazed by many sweats and spit. A friend once told me that its waters will always remain pure. It will not carry an contagion, it will not carry semen nor salt. I know now that won't. There were various little fishes, feeding off the air and gasping for breath, upwards from the water surface. They know stationarily that these humans lost their fate starcrossed. "You complete my faith". Gradually my eyes hovered over the building behind the mosque. The same one where I had went to hide and sought. Its luminous cementblemishes which I had happened to see. It stands erect now, bold. And ghastly in the night. The mosque's staircases projected onto its lower body; two levels... No, three. On the fourth they jutted and cut into the mosque's very own, leaving the building in their immediate behind crossed into some transitory lavishness for three stories. "Thus its jurisdiction maimed it, the building, deep into the night". From the fourth level you could see the building clearly. Its very unremarkable stature. It was a plump one sure, but it was not a marvelous. Hell, it is run-of-the-mill; one created solely for and only for convenient spaces contained therein. There was a bank in the second floor, there were pharmacies in the first floor, and delved deep into the first floor: there were a few utility shops. But you could not see them from where I am. I could only see, the outside of soon-to-be rented spaces. Entirely mundane rented spaces. But they were mystifying in a manner of speech because they still not had been rented. It's strange, why are they not bustling with activity yet? No, it was already very late night but I never saw them in action under broad daylight either. "Maybe it's your mistake?". I drew another puff from the cigarette and started to go up. "First floor: medicines, utilities, hardware". Second floor: bank. Third floor: I do not know. Fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh... Melancholic empty spaces. Empty. On the rooftop, eighth: a mundane rooftop. Then I saw it, hoisted: a telephone tower. It was mundane too but I saw not its mundaneness. Swathes of waves were coming in waves. Two greenlights blinking in the somewhere of the tower where control boards lay perpendicular to the ground. Pitiable little toy soldiers. They split into different bands. I heard their arrogance from down low here. "I fell into a hole". The screechings in my head were getting rousier. Rise rise fool, sesame fuck! Sir do I speak to your representatives now? I know you have been garrisoning heads. He took dead bones and gathered them into bodies. Une minute, deux minutes. I see you all now, patrolling beside countless supine bodies. Angering arrogance. They did not gather the loots, only circumambulate them. Countless supine bodies stuck into that matrix. Their sweats detached from their bodies, seeped into their designated matrixes, as if a doll making plant. Their bodily odour provided instances of activity, spasms of anitthaw, they screamed: You are not dead, but only sleeping. You are not sleeping either, you are stuck in a limbo of ourness' making. I gave in. Pitiable little toy soldiers, you will not have me today. But I have no strength, I have no strength to make it into my amiable bed. "And what good would that have done anyway?". I gave in steadfastly. I lay on the cool floor of the veranda. I have no care, my seats are falling off. "You will meet so many like-minds tonight!".