They stand in unison. All their dreams disabled because warlords will break loose, at any moment. Hear the sound of silence; noise is the sound of mankind, and silence is peace. And the helicopter, co-opted to safeguard the impossible. I played the game thinking of you. It was a squad and I was the star, super commando leading them towards the eradication of races not ours. They were ugly, and we were nice. We were nice, in absolutes.

Green ants scratched off by heavy metal. That was God’s POV had he been there. And I was there, just not in mind. My mind was having trouble processing feeling fine. You created me for decades.

They were clones and they were killing every individual. The irony is it was me in charge. But then again, it was you in charge of me, always. So, in reality, you made me kill myself. Come on.

They come in dimes. Like your explainings of nitroglycerine. I tried to sell them out, like dimes. But you don’t know what I’m talking about.

Words are so much text, and the endgame is a multisensorial bunch of common experiences. The common, I loathe. I hate you, why bother.

He’d argue that lies are where honesty lies. Truth is always selective, he’d said. Truth may perhaps be a mistake. The great filter, I came to realize, operates in truth-seeking. And you obsess over it and let it desecrate your core. But when you lie, all truths–little, small, mini, invisible, atomic–all show up. The result, the lie, is a beautiful conflagration of everything you care about; protected and limited only by intellect.
In lying, what matters hiding comes to life. In truth-seeking, only the banal and safe and explainable—ugh—resonates, replaces and renames. The rest, you, is deleted.

All of my lies are wishes and now you know them all.

Take a spike of salt and pull it over them fields. I take for granted the greatness of your sight.

Think Janice, for example. At her work desk, in beige ambience, papers float aloof, for a lot of time. Those papers is I. I am that time. Time increased and time gone by.

O piensa en Jimena. En contra corriente, nos desvió hacia la cúspide de un escándalo automatizado. Y sin embargo, las vistas aún asemejan a la iconoclástica vintage NYC Al Quaeda.

Me reencuentro en sorbos de desgraciada perseverancia. Imagina Jimena. ¿Cómo podían quince años ser más inútilmente colocados en un plano no mayor a lo necesario para vivir? Para vivir no hay que saber vivir. Pero todo el mundo quiere saber, nadie quiere vivir.

Then again, my thoughts reign supreme for her. Now imagine Janice. One of these days I may have to buy soda popsicles just to feel her again. Cut at heart in perfect frenesy. Maybe in some other way I’ll remember Janice.

Imagina Joyce. Imagine Jazmín.

Open your arms and salute me to your solution.

I end things that are unavoidable. When I was sixteen I knew you’d leave me, back and forth.

When the heliographic metacosmic rhythms recalled me of you, no one stood a chance. I feel serenity in announcing that you will never not get me. These pulses have a name. I bet you’d depict my sentiment so crisp like crisps from the Ashores. I knew we’d visit that place. Black kitchen love garden. And the amount of drones and watermarks, failings of a reality we desperately avoid. On another note, all perfect places down there.

My diary says I’m free and so does my dictionary. Somewhere around 2007 a little devil burned a bible for YouTube to see. You said he made you this way but all he did you inspired it. Another ball and another biscuit. Never mind the countless hours we talked about who cares. Who cares. I don’t care. You cared, you silly boo.

When hypothesis meets adrenaline, a cathedral of green arrows begins to boil. You know nothing. All you did was be there and react accordingly. Insomma, t’avevo scelta e nun te n’eri accorta. You drained my eyes and left me feeling uselessly complete. God is carnage, and I wrote all the scripts.

With helium and horses, on fire on fire the kid advances. Hopes with a broken scent. Shoutout to Ritalin for sponsoring this video. Ads encoded into her brain, for no other to reign. Heil America.

Remember the Beretta in your father’s head, powered by his own might? You will never understand, darling, the weight of shame for everything that was to come.
I remember your denim low-skirt uncoloured by the riptide. I remember because you told me to remember (no you didn’t. I invited myself in. You let me into your diary with eyes wide shut). He assumed you’d be just fine, maybe better off, resilient and powerful like a powerpuff girl. Maybe his therapist convinced him to do it. Maybe you should go kill him. Maybe he was a rapist. Maybe he couldn’t handle it anymore. Or maybe you just sucked that bad.

Assuming is true when assuring is not. Mom won’t be pleased with the result. Beretta is not a brush, Jeff, dammit! She can clean all she wants. You can hide all you want. But it’s done. Emily stop. Emily stop. Stop drawing my face.
Why stop when everything you make is a fucking masterpiece? I’ll pick up all your shades of Emily and frame them with titanium.
You were sick and she was looking for dick. You are still sick and she’s still looking for dick. But mother knows best, mother wants the best for you. Remember what she said? “Get yourself a boyfriend and get out of here”. But you aren’t looking for dick. You are the greatest. You tamed your own silly impulses of despair. You are a monster and you are a star destroyer. So kick me again, write me someday, and run, Emily Blame!

Kind limited kind of kind. Orange blonde cut in half by digital mortars. Kind, kind no commas. Short-a lived, what good is that? Limited armor shit armor. Shit blonde shit kind. Replicants of artificial oblivion. Not kind only seek and hide. Vanished into dust of star. Gone but, sadly, missed. You think of all you want. Think of all your wants. For I don’t figure [no more]. No passion all insane. One thousand attacks but how many I-love-you’s? Liar and cheater, and kind of a limited kind. Limited time to shine. Enjoy the shrine. Built with golden soul love now smelly and metal red color. Built to last, built to forever. For a god of blank. You were made of chalk. Death to premium colors and aspiration. You literally bark like a dog. You literally walk on the sidewalk. You don’t even fly.

It is built in perfect; no hope of deletion.