An Off day (fiction/short story)

Charles had been having a not very so good day at the office. Likely due to lack of sleep and a quarrel with his Fiance the night before, his head space was in a state of slightly agitated chaos.

He had been with this firm long enough that he had a little unspoken wiggle room when it came to the rules so he left for break a little early. About twenty-three minutes to be precise.

Instead of heading toward his car for a brisk hoon over to his normal lunch spot, he instead set his gaze on a bench, kitty corner to the office entrance. He sluggishly proceeded until the bench greeted him.

He took a seat and watched as the oncoming traffic whirled in both directions. Before long he was almost in a state of entrancement. It felt so soothing to watch the cars go by, it felt very dynamic unlike his current state of existence.

He thought about how the cars all moved so fast that no single vehicle stayed in his field of vision for more than a brief moment, that every given second was an entirely new display. He would focus in on one car and watch it until it left a field of vision and than picked another one.

He also thought about how life for the majority of us was the opposite. How we hold onto things because they give us some sort of comfort; the comfort of an identity, of knowing what and who one is. We wake up and put on the same act every day. With our favorite sports teams, our favorite music genres, favorite movies, political and religious affiliations, our family, our social circles our professions, our hobbies, etc.

Its as if when presented with freedom, we gravitate towards a voluntary-sort of imprisonment. But of course it’s all the difference when it’s an imprisonment that we may at least take pride in, as the chains are of our own design and all of what the chains may be bound too is likewise ours to decide.

This thought was interrupted by a squirrel that ran into his field of vision. Oddly it didn’t seem scared to be staring eye to eye with a being multitudes larger in size. Carl found this a little peculiar.

Not nearly as peculiar however as when it looked up at him and began to speak. It said  “Why are you here?”

Carl looked baffled slightly slipping on his words with a dumbfounded look plastered across his face he replied: “Well I don’t know, because of god, or because my parents reproduced or something, can I ask why and how your talking to me?”

The squirrel responded in a voice that was now a little irritated and slightly pressured.
“Did I say it was your turn to ask questions? Never mind that, no I didn’t mean like existentially, I mean why are you sitting on my bench this is where I come every day after I get done stashing my acorns and other loot.”

“Oh my apologies I didn’t mean to intrude, ill get going now.” Carl said as he stood up and began walking towards his car. He questioned weather it was a dream but it felt extremely real and lucid, furthermore he never woke up having dozed off on the bench as he expected, as far as he can surmise he was awake. Furthermore he wondered what kind of loot a squirrel might be storing besides acorns.

He went too his car and contemplated getting something to eat thinking maybe some food would level him out. He did, and went back to the office and worked straight through the break. He drew the conclusion that his mind was playing tricks on him and wrote it off as some sort of daydream and never brought it up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Yeah… about that.

With a gaze fixed at the base of the dim green hill  ahead, the dry warm air of the night took rest around his presence as his vision adjusted to the lack of sunlight. The pulsating flash of a few lighting bugs patrolling the steeply rolling hillside added a nostalgic touch to the atmosphere.

After a few moments of peripheral scanning, he let out a quiet extended yawn, and turned around. The entrance to the bordering forest stared him down like a Goliath; a slight pang of nervousness ran up his spine and into his chest, yet he knew better than to hesitate.

He walked forward along a beaten dirt path, and peered into the complex patterns of wooden pillars shrouded by a network of treetops that blocked out any and all possibility of pervading moonlight.

He continued along the path through the woods, relying on the texture of the ground below for direction; eyes gradually adjusting along the way. The faint sound of talking could be made out in the distance. The destination must be near.

After a few more minutes of keeping pace he noticed the light of a small bonfire radiating through the forest, the voices grew louder and entire words could be almost made out. The closing distance revealed a clearing. Illuminating their gathering ever so slightly with the pale glow of a full moon.

He finds two of his companions seated on a log by the fire, and the third accompanied by his fiance taking rest on a fairly ratty looking blanket perpendicular to the left side of the log. He was greeted warmly with hello’s upon arrival.

After greetings, handshakes and brief preface chattering, he took a seat on the log to the left of his two friends. He was offered a can of beer but knowing he would have to drive later that night he politely declined.

A pipe was passed to him. “This cannabis or tobacco?” He asked.

“Both” Replied Conner who was sitting on the far right end of the log.

Appearing quite satisfied with this answer he drew a blue lighter from his pocket and took a long gradual pull. He held it in as he stared upward at the night sky, and slowly exhaled through his nose.

Many of the details of the night that were previously bouncing around his mind like a pinball machine quieted.  He felt his bodily tensions ease as his consciousness became absorbed in the conversation around him, and the seemingly animated tendrils of flame that danced and flickered about from the fire pit.

The conversation which had previously been about alternative politics took a sudden change to urban legends and local myths; “how stereotypical for a camping trip?” He thought to his own amusement.

For almost an hour they babbled on about things like The Wendigo, unsolved murders, supposed gateways to hell, haunted landmarks, conspiracy theories, and UFO sightings. They tossed around all the timeless nightmare fuel that teenagers and young adults have been using to scare each other into fits of paranoia and fight or flight mode as long as firesides have existed.

As much as he loved hearing these old tales again, none of them were able to get much of a hold on our protagonist. It felt more like a trip down memory lane than anything. At least until Isaac’s fiance Patricia abruptly took over the conversation, seeming almost pressured by something unseen.

She wore a faint look of unmistakable malice on her face as she began to nervously spin them all a yarn that none of them had heard thus far.

She began by asking everyone if they noticed a path that diverges to the right about halfway through the woods. We all nodded. He hadn’t thought of it until now but he had noticed it. He recalled the image of it to the forefront of his mind from earlier and remembered that it was blocked off about a foot in with barbed wire and caution tape. Obviously anyone could just walk around it but the point was obviously to signify that entry was a no-no.

She asked us if any of us had ever tread past it. Seth who was sitting to the right of him, on the middle section of the log, Looked up and said that he had walked down it for about ten minutes once out of boredom, but that the path seemed to go on for much longer. He than seemed a little unnerved when he explained to us why he had turned around.

According to his recount by this point he had suddenly been overcome by stomach pains, a pounding headache, and an extreme sense of impending doom and sadness as he walked, not only that his field of vision began to feel limited, and he began to notice abrupt movements from the corners of his vision that danced through both sides of the treeline. Not usually being one for superstition, he chalked it off as coincidence and decided to head home and rest, but by the time he had made it back to the main trail he felt completely fine.

He said this was quite disturbing, but since he coulden’t explain it he had kept it to himself until now. Patricia didn’t seem surprised by this addition and began to continue. She goes on to explain that there used to be another campsite down that path, about 8 times larger than the one we currently sat at.

“About 20 years ago, when I was about 8, I remember my family used to take me and my brothers camping at the old site. But the summer after my 9th birthday we stopped going. I always asked my family why but would always brush it off, avoiding the subject like the plague. Around the same time a couple that was close friends of the family, as well as a group of college kids from outside of the area, and a couple local drunks all went missing. It wasn’t until I was older that I made the connection. It also wasn’t public knowledge, the newspaper published very little on anything besides the last time they were seen in the village, but after prying several locals for answers I found out that all of them had went up to the campground shortly before they vanished.”  She said blatantly displaying visible discomfort by this point.

She explains how she was obsessed with this ordeal in her younger years, and wanted to learn as much as possible about what might have happened. For three years her free time was spent in the local library studying the history behind the area, or in the local bar trying to extract information from locals and drifters who felt more comfortable to share than usual.

Most of the time it would just be trivial spins on what she already knew if anything, but one night a local outcast whom one rarely ever saw at the bar gave her something to work with. He told her that he had been with the two drunks that disappeared a few weeks before the others.

He had no credibility for this statement, but since she had seen them the three of them walking through town drunk together on multiple occasions she had no reason not to believe him. He said they were walking up there to camp out after a long night of drinking. He said the whole walk in he felt something was wrong but that the other two assured him he was being paranoid. He said they had just been there the day before and he had no reason to think anything of it. When they got in he said they saw a cabin which had not been there the day before. Cabins don’t just magically appear, and there’s no way someone could have built it in a day, besides that it looked aged as if it had been there for years.

His friends who were far more intoxicated went to go investigate, but he decided to turn around and walk back to his car where he could sleep off the alcohol. After doing so he awoke the following morning and drove into town to get breakfast at the same inn where they had been drinking the night prior.

He thought nothing of what happened until three days went by without hearing from his friends. He went to file a report with the local police station, but for some reason they wouldn’t let him leave until he promised not to talk about the ordeal.

He said this was the first time he had talked about it with anyone. That it rests heavy in his mind like an inescapable plague. He lacked closure for the death of his two closest friends. Unsatisfied that he’ll never acquire answers which he desperately doesn’t want to have in the first place. The police seemed just as scared as he was. He was no longer scared at this point however. Just melancholy, angry, and confused.

He explained to Patricia that he coulden’t deal with it any longer. That he was gonna go investigate the cabin for answers that night after he had left the bar, and should he not return than so be it, as it was better than living with the weight of the curiosity and remorse.

They left the bar at the same time, she asked him if he wanted to follow, but he declined and said that he had to go it alone. That was the last time he was ever seen alive. His head was found impaled on a bloody tree branch outside the trail entrance.

His body never turned up, police collected the head and that alone was buried. He had no family around or money to pay for a cemetary plot so they buried his head near right where it sat on the trail entrance.

Rumors spread and the following deaths came quickly. First the family disappeared as they had taken the whole ordeal for wives tails. Shortly after a group of college kids bent on exploring paranormal activity and haunted areas went missing.

Suddenly everyone around the bonfire appeared rather shook. Not a word was said, they put out the fire and walked back to their cars. All of us or so we thought.

The next day everyone tried meeting up but nobody could get a hold of Seth. We returned to the parking lot outside the trail and his car was still there. We wondered if he had drank too much and slept in his car.

They opened it too find his head wrapped up in the blanket that Isaac and Patricia were sitting on the night before. Patricia turned and abruptly vomited on the ground.

They all tried to file a report with the police station but just as Patricias story went; the newspaper would not publish anything about it. We don’t go to that campsite anymore; even the small one.

Isaac and Patricia moved out of town shortly afterwards. Conner and I never hear from them aside from a postcard once or twice a year. We never really talk about it either; we just keep our distance and beg anyone who thinks about camping on that accursed mountain not to go.

Das Ende.

The roof is ablaze.

The sound of sirens come rushing through your peripherals like long extended gunshots with the tone color of a shot-clock buzzer. A quick gust of hard wind smacks your body like a tree branch as a monstrous life-saving steel death trap plows by you en route.

A quick change of gaze to the leftward bow of your visionary plain reveals a four story red-brick building, burning like a mother*#$@er. The roof is already halfway disintegrated, people are pouring out the doors and windows like syrup through a pasta strainer. The whole thing is a mess! 

You and your companion keep walking until you reach the street corner, there you park it and 180 your view for a more lengthy observation and a cigarette.  “Glad I don’t live here.” your comrade mentions half to himself; you nod in agreement.

The firefighters are giving their best frenzied effort to douse the bright blistering chaos, but it seems they are up against quite an a opponent. Meanwhile a role call was being done. We walked over and inquired about how it went, and were quite relieved to hear nobody had been hurt.

After walking away you look back with a devilish grin and exclaim with an ere of childlike excitement that sounded almost manic “Well if their all out we might as well let her burn to the ground. #*!% that building! why do we need it anyways? can’t we just send them too a commune or a gulag or something? Better yet, Let them eat cake!”

We couldn’t help but laugh at our spitefully crude humor. The way we saw it, laughter was a medicine, no matter how you procure it; as long as it isn’t intentionally at someone else’s expense, no harm done.

By the time the firefighters had finished putting out the fire, the building was little more than a foundation, a few support beams, and a couple of the first story walls. Nobody seemed to be able to pick out the cause of the fire.

That is until later that evening, when a bunch of empty cans of gasoline were discovered in the woods nearby. This baffled the inhabitants of the building and many of the town itself.

Shortly after, police arrived at the homes of you and your comrade, after a few questions you were acquainted with a stylish pair of matching silver bracelets.

You see your comrade at the station who’s already ratted you out, you try to duke it out in the station, but when handcuffed and interrupted by four officers trying to get you to chill the $#!@ out; not much progress is made.

Ironically, It was only the comrade who had participated, you were actually clueless until now, however he had somehow woven a way too include you into the story for only god knows what reason.

Despite your innocence you both spend 5 years in prison for arson and destruction of public property. Maybe you shouldn’t have burnt that building down scumbag, you ever think of that one?

The morals of the story are

  1. Don’t burn down buildings, there are much better ways too change the world!
  2. Always have an alibi, even when your doing nothing wrong.
  3. If you are gonna do something stupid, make sure you destroy the evidence unlike this fool.
  4. Don’t hang around crime scenes; even if your innocent, because you never know who isn’t.

 

I don’t even..

You wake up only to realize you are still asleep.

Dreaming still, you rise. Sleep walking within a dream, you get up but eventually only go back to sleep, only to wake up. At this point unsure if you are awake or if you have woken up in another dream.

You could have swore you were awake; until the room the around you dissipates into nothing. It fades slowly leaving a defined geometric wire grid over an empty silhouette which is neither black nor white nor gray.  You look down to realize you have also vanished. Unsure of how you are able to see any of this, you wait patiently, unable to feel any sense of amazement or overwhelm.

The wire grid now dissipates and you forget you are looking at anything. You forget that you are anything, because you aren’t and you slowly stop existing. You would think that you died if you could comprehend what that meant at this point.

A sound can be heard, emanating from seemingly no direction nor source. The nature of which is impossible to describe. Your not even sure whether you heard it or merely thought it. Your not sure if your able to think. You feel a sense of understanding but no words arise from anywhere.

In a flash of neon colored light which cannot be described as being any distinct color or combination of which, you find yourself back in bed. Still asleep, unable to move. Looking over yourself like the camera in a third person video game. You watch yourself begin to wake, as you do the world begins dissolving and your perspective is reoriented to the first person.

You puke, drink some water, brush your teeth and crawl back into bed. Your almost entirely convinced your about to die, when you wake up on your friends couch. The room you were in previously you now realize was a place you have no memory of ever being in real life. Not bothering to explain anything you get up and leave without saying a word.

Das Ende.

 

 

Spiritual Scumbags

The morning began fairly normal. I woke up, took 3 shots of whiskey, as well as a shot of bourbon for good measure, and than preceded upstairs to make coffee.

I prepared two cups, and sat down with the ghost of Former United States Senator Carl Hayden to negotiate the new spiritual import laws on fourth dimensional Tesseracts.

I asked him how he took his coffee, too which he replied sincerely, that he preferred it to with cream and sugar. This was followed by an angry fist on the table after which he insisted that if anyone should ask he takes his coffee black.

“How beautiful.” I thought, even in the afterlife politicians are hardcore liars. Just goes to show that death parts us from our closest friends and family but never our sins. Just when I was finished with my cup, he dissapeared into a puff of smoking, taking the cup with him.

“YOU DAMNED DEMOCRATIC SCOUNDREL, THAT WAS FINE CHINA!”  I yelled angrily whipping the cup across my room. In hindsight this was quite counter productive, as I should have known it would go right through him and now I had lost two coffee cups. I swept up the glass shards into a bowl, this would make a good snack I assured myself. So I sat down with pen in hand (in front of my typewriter) and began to snack on the shards as I write this article.

Now that I’m caught up i’m not sure what to say. We hadn’t planned ahead this far. When I say we I meant my spiritual congregation. This includes the ghosts of Lou Reed, Phil Ochs, Mikhael Alexandrovich Bakunin, Fyodor Dostoevsky, William Godwin, Hunter S. Thomson, and Albert Hoffman.

Me and my dead friends began to form a football huddle. During this we discussed all sorts of upcoming natural disasters,  sociological movements, the results of political affairs, stock market trends, and our tastes in women.

After the crowd cleared out I decided that this article probably wasn’t worth continuing and that I was probably better off playing guitar. This wasn’t hard to convince myself as music is only slightly preferable to writing.

I honestly hope this article was too confusing for you all to enjoy. If it wasn’t you might just be bordering on literal insanity; if you do that probably means we should be friends so like subscribe and leave a comment you scumbags.

The most Lit phone call that probably never happened.

It was about 4 in the morning. Nothing was out of the ordinary besides myself. After smoking my 7th off brand cigarette in a row, I made the critical decision to light an eighth one. I would probably be worried about cancer if I were a real person.

By now it was about 4:05 and I heard a phone ringing. Now normally this wouldn’t be too weird, except that I did not own a phone. I looked around for the source of the ringing only to discover a payphone had sprouted out of my basement floor. It was at that same moment I recognized the phones ringtone: It had been set too the tune of Rappers Delight by the Sugar hill gang.

“Well that’s nifty” I thought. Doing my best not to get caught up in the songs rhythm, yet very clearly struggling; I walked over and picked up the phone,. I was presented with a dial tone that informed me I was being called collect.  I was than prompted to insert two quarters, a cigarette, and half a quart of motor oil, In order to receive this call.

Having just spent every last cent I had on bottom shelf whiskey, I knew exactly what must be done. Sprinting full force to the gas station across the street I quickly acquired two quarters from the take a penny thing (without buying anything of course.)

Many nasty looks were given. No cares however could be found. I ran back into my abode to insert the two quarters before the phone stopped ringing. After that I inserted the motor oil followed by the cigerette, which was spit back out at me with a note: I only smoke Menthol’s.

I contemplated returning to the store but I really didn’t want to waste $10 on a pack of Newport Greens. I ran to my bathroom, and soaked a cigarette in mint flavored mouth wash before drying it with a hair dryer. I was quite confident this would fool the machine. I returned and reinserted, hoping for the results like a hopeless gambler watching the contents of his welfare check being eaten up by a shiny red slot machine at some shady casino.

It spit the cigarette out. “Well shit it must be one smart payphone.” I began to think too myself. My assumption was wrong, however because the note this time read “Break the filter off and light it you fool!” I did as instructed and proceeded to pick up the phone.

Apparently it was god. Which sorry to tell all you Christians out there, but the voice on the phone was a female. Apparently I was elected to become our generations Devil. I asked why? I was not particularly evil. This was when she explained to me that the devil wasn’t actually evil. But more like the actor who plays the villain in a movie. Except that unlike most movies the true distinction of who’s right and who’s wrong isn’t so clear.

He explained to me that the counter culture needs prophets too, and that I was in line for the lineage. Unconvinced I wanted to see some proof that I was talking too god and not an Imposter. The voice informed me it could be verified. When I asked how: the phone booth dissipated, sinking into the ground. I suppose that was all the proof I needed.

If there is anything I took from this meta-fictional experience it’s

  1. God smokes menthols.
    and
  2. I need to lay off the drugs.

People We may (not) be.

This is a scripture of several individuals who I may or may not have been. While I can say with absolute earnestly that I never have been, let alone could have dreamed of possessing the capabilities of such persons. I will leave the distinction open toward and welcoming of all conspiring and doubt. It is not within me to welcome my detractors in any way other than with arms widely open. After all without them too whom would we respond?

It is to your interpretation alone reader, and no one else’s (and at the same time everyone else’s) where you fit as well as myself in this depicted development of anybody who would be anyone. I leave my position open to questioning and conspiracy not only as a challenge of perception, but as a challenge to the overall certainty of ones place within the not so grand playing field of existence.

Existence being little more than ones aspiration to play a role in the most immaculate of all comedies. A self contrived definition reflective of the understanding of all existing conflict as little if anything more than mere irony. With all due reason, could one define any idea for themselves without extracting a self contrived nature in the same action?

Only if they are the first to do so, or if they are so uncertain that they opt not to align themselves with the defense of their own declarations. I’ve never seen any point in aligning with ones own ideals, in fact I argue against my own beliefs more than anyone I know. By what other means (if any) could self depreciation be found profitable?

Suppose We may be correct in this assumption of the universe existing as a joke played upon itself. A joke who’s punchline we may or May not be reconciled with in the after life. A prank which may or may not exist at all. Knowing all well that if it should choose to exist that I must and will do so for no reason other than to have existed.

Not vanity but Beauty. For true beauty and irony really are no different. An observation that sets the dividing line between itself and vanity. Vanity being understood as a spiteful interpretation of perceived novelty. When the interpreter is for some reason or another unable to measure that which is novel he is lead to flip the coin onto its side and perceive it as a disgusting establishment of vanity even if and not surprisingly most often when the novelty is unaware of Its potential to be taken as a vanity.

All these premises are mischievously declared directly in spite of certainty. A self assuming depiction of How I dubiously enjoy spitting on those who cling to such a morally intangible form of (sub)conscious satisfaction. As if permanently silencing the mind entirely lent any advantage beyond numbing oneself from their own experience.

For the degenerate, the intellectual, the artist, inventor and philosopher alike (assuming one can be any of these things without being all) certainty and all Unipolar forms of reason for that matter are little more than a road block in the way of creativity, innovation, or all expansion of existing ironies along with all ability to deliver it.

This speaks to the deficit one acquires through blind faith in theology or the scientific method. However if one is to ascribe to both a spiritual and a scientific worldview simultaneously. Or neither. Than the contradictions of this dualism or the theoretical pot holes left by inaction will give way to the delight of inspirational fervor toward some sort of reconciliation of the two.

And what a delight it is gentleman to be inspired to the unification of seemingly contradictory ideals. This delight may seem naive, and while it certainly is naively perhaps even idiotically optimistic as is true to the nature of all joys and delights. Despite all posits of idiocy this sort of naivety is not only profitable but necessary as our would be fictional narrator will now demonstrate. How should we be expected to retain any genuine integrity throughout the course of our lifespan without an equivalent level of humility? The answer? We shouldn’t.

It is for this same reason gentleman that nobody may hold themself in a heightened regard without immediately looking down on themselves for doing so. The only way around this being self deception, which as we’re already so meticulously aware goes to show that ignorance is the only true bliss. This leaves us with the decision to choose between the blissful advantage of ignorance and the joyous excitement of perception.

Likewise no one may truly humble themselves to the point where they do not at any level of their consciousness take pride in being humble. Perhaps in spite of its disadvantage, this path of excitement may be preferable to some, and worthy of inspiring malice in those who did not choose it. Those who walk such a path become well aware of the malice it inspires in their counterpart, even if their counterpart does not let an ounce of spite through to the surface.

It is for this reason alone that we may not walk the path less traveled by without succumbing to a varying degree of superiority for doing so. Be there many a trickster who denounce any superiority in their individuality but these self-embracing fools are merely taking that superiority to an entire new level.

Humorous it is gentleman that in an attempt to denounce ones own authority that they merely extend the range of targets to which it is applicable. Thi s is because they are now attempting to posit their status as above both those who walk the path less traveled as well as those who don’t.

What we have as this product gentleman is a true blooded narcissist’s narcissist. The type who could kill a man and in the same breath strike his wife to the ground and be fully confident in the morality of it. That he not only considers this an advantage above the men he perceives to be of lesser importance, but as a primary virtue.

While living in stark contrast to a self deprecating and self defeating naive optimist such as myself they somehow spiritually resemble an almost disturbing likeness to one another. Perhaps the one thing these two have in common is their distance from those who walk the common path. Is it possible gentleman, that the anti-hero and the anti-villain are in fact equal opposites?

Certainly one could not exist without the other but does this make them tantamount? By all means it may and it may not, I am not the decider of this quandary. If you believe the world to be the perfect macrocosm of the conceptual zero sum game I suppose they would be perfectly tantamount.

However if you do not believe the net energy of the universe to be zero (as most men of direct action who have not yet been acquainted with any ageless wisdom do, along with the most positive and disgustingly naive of all optimists) than they could not be any more different.

While displaying a seemingly pessimistic view of things, it is precisely why I opt not to ascribe myself too it. Some would point to such a discrepancy and shout insanity. He should think himself perfectly justified as such a worldview is in direct opposition of sanity. It should seem as if all who opposed are condemning themselves to rot in a stalemate of their own construction, though this could not be further from the truth.

What has not been accounted for but many times assumed is that genius, like insanity is also in direct contrast of sanity. Genius and insanity are certainly not mutually exclusive but they are not equivalent either. what difference than stands between them? A genius uses madness as a tool to discover what reason has overlooked, to expand understanding to new lengths and to connect them and reconcile them with what was prior understood.

Insanity on the other hand uses madness as an ethical basis to argue against that which complies with reason. No one asks this of the madman, he is merely asserting his desire to comply with his own maddened perspective rather than reason. An agenda no different than he who sets out to start a bar fight with the laws of gravity.

Lord knows The genius has his fare share of these bar fights as well, the only difference being that one truly believes in its merit. The other merely seeking to ascertain what stake of new knowledge and experience may be claimed as a result. this is not to say that there is nobody standing in between these two positions, in fact most do. It is obscenely difficult to ascertain which one may be inhabiting or afflicting a persons consciousness, even more so for the one standing there.

In spite of all differences they are both certainly artists in the most genuine sense of the word. Albeit in their own respects. In spite of all implications one may be above above the other, we cannot be quick to overlook the madman’s place as perhaps the greatest inspiration of all genius. Not only inspiration but also its primary defense against the eyes and arms lined up in their fear inspired defense of all that is conventional and assumed to be understood prior.

I DARE any audacious outspoken readers to comment.

If you do not press subscribe as promptly as possible I swear by all that is vested within me that I will do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ABOUT IT!