Barter Town

Throw us an offer. We can't refuse.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

he he he he he he he he

so much time's gone by, and now I find you again
sitting here
without a care in the world
while this bellicose nightmare romps on and on and on

its been two years now, huh? jesus christ. youre still so beautiful, even in the glow of these paranormal suns, bouncing shadows all over the tree bark walls groaning and spiraling and stretching up into the stratosphere (if this place even has a stratosphere). i never expected to be flooded with relief at the sight of those mucked-up, unfashionable plastic letter keys, i thought my passage into this world only opened one way and failed to provide a peephole back over the other side, I didn't anticipate this reunion of man and machine

two years after

two years after. still as lucid as ever. clothes scythed into rags, hair follicles mangled and tattered and matted with soot and mud and dirt and bugs, haggard eyes taking in all those visions and prophecies and scriptures constructed on the fly in the real world, agonizing my figure as an ancillary consequence of their conjuration, splintering lips feasting on roaches and cats and whatever the fuck those wolf-like things are, wearied hands and muscle tendons pulling away at bulbous roots and unwieldy mushrooms halfheartedly thrust into the loamy soil's surface, and i can still clickity-clack my way out of a paper bag over my head and an executioner's pistol pointed to my cranium.

he he he

this world is a paradise if you can get used to the passersby. the temperature always sits at a balmy eighty degrees fahrenheit, by calculations derived from my expertise in meteorology (about one quarter's worth of atmospheric science in the 11th grade). everything is safe to consume. literally, EVERYTHING, even the god damned soil can give a chap nutrients. it also goes splendidly with the spider-tigers than roam about with murderous intent, which a man of my size and stature can intent to murder, then roam about with a snack on a stick for the next few hours. flowers blossom and slither about with their roots in real time, stroking the vitamins and minerals out of the terra with pinpoint, whipping stabs that drain those little pellets of brownie goodness dry, and move on, as rapid in relocation as they are callous during murder. the underbrush parts way for one's passage if one is irrevocably strayed from the path; I always feel like big g up there watches out for me with that one every time it happens

he he he
(but he doesn't exist)
(they don't exist either what does that say about that logic)
but, ignoring the passersby is a monumental challenge. i gotta say that for good measure. they...mess with you. its not an occurrence one can properly explain after experiencing. the first time it happened- oh, look, i can see the post right now! yeah, they meddled with my mind something mighty fierce, if you go back and take a peak at my [last] previous entry. rambling on about heads and times and dates and somethin' somethin' or other - well, i suppose that all makes sense now considering that will and testament you saw must've gone through the delay system already. you guys know all about Lucy, and our schemes, and her untimely murder, and the foreshadowing liberally sprinkled throughout those events that at this here moment is coming around to bite me in the dolty ass. i always wanted to leave a little note in case I passed away. act like a fucking hero or some stupid shit of that caliber, comforting my friends with the knowledge that my passage came not in vain, laden with cliches and last wishes and a metric ton of literary wit dashed into the mix. characterize my jovial nature, my laid-back style of commentating and my benevolent, selfless strive in life towards the ascension of the ontology of the common man.
(i guess we know how that turned out                           ) 

i guess we know how that turned out.
to think that's why it drew me here, thwarting my death wish while preserving me in a state far worse than that provided by the cousin of morpheus.

he he he

well, at least you guys won't ever see the depths of my hypocrisy besides the pertinent examples i provided in my gem-packed last rites letter. but its good to write this out. pour my thoughts into the ether again. scribbling on bark just didn't cut it for my dexterous fingers. never really been good at fine manipulation either. but, two years, skills have been passable, and that's all i need to keep on living.

i got myself a little treehouse. its far away from the ankhalankhs, at least, most of the time it suffices. when the rituals happen, and the one beyond the Pall summons them all, though, those nights are rough on me. but I found a way to live, so c'est la vie. electricity doesn't seem to drain in this magical realm of mountainous treetops and sentient vines, so, mi amor la computadora, i'm ponderin' about our relationship status. maybe we should kick it up to the next level, and you'll let me explore all those parts about you that ya keep secret from the other boys - let me push all your keys and heat up a novel with a body-wracking climax that'll be sure to rumble your foundations

he he he

might as well start practicin' innuendos, in your windows.
well, mine, really. but what's the difference nowadays?
None at all, Michael Blightwell. At this point, not a difference at all.

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