All of these scattered parts. Horcruxes of myself. A world separated by glass and links.

How am I not myself?

Who would I be if I didn’t write the stories?

What’s in a name? What’s in a place?

I’m spreading myself too thin. I’m like a supernova blowing up in every direction. I’m scattered. The issue is in harnessing the energy. Every minute spent doing one thing is time taken away from another thing. That’s what excited me so much about ello in the first place.

The Mole

Another night passes, the memories of it are deeply lodged but I feel something existing in that shutter island revelation — a forgotten something ingrained.

Today is my Friday. I still have yet to be register trained. I am scheduled to arrive fifteen minutes late. Yesterday was trash day on the homefront. I made it before the truck came. There was cold coffee, creamed and sugared waiting for me in the fridge.

Musette is everywhere, existing through the whole of time. I see her face in art. What does this mean for me?

“You are taller elsewhere.” Says the master of the Salt City Mystery School, the one who first confirmed the secret paintings which I had been seing now for quite some time inside the text.

“We’ve got you on register training at two, says Bart, the freshest of my bosses “when Pedro comes in.”

I can take it. I can handle the training. I am a tough son of a gun. Change is good for the soul. It helps beat back inertia. Inertia is the enemy. Momentum keeps men looking young. Keeps the a different deck of various gods living and breathing inside of you. It’s them can bring about the healing of a broken back. Imagination, dream, power, war, breath, life, art, death, pain, misery, woe, magic, luck, love.

When are they going to make me a part of the union? Bought time I had the right and safety of being a few minutes late to work. I’m a good guy. People smile in my presence. I can talk to you about a book until your ear falls off. I’ll ask you what you’re reading just about every damn near day of the week.

My goddamn phone is about to hillary goddamn die. How am I supposed to talk to you when my shmickin phone is verging on its last breaths? How am I supposed to review a book when the person who recommended it is sitting right next to me in this jungle wasteland of our explorations?

It’s hot as hell in this apartment…

Audiophile getting healthy as fuck trying to compare my schmiggies to his real thing. He’s a good lad, but a bit dropped on the line of what’s hot in this world.

Oh, come on! How am I supposed to review my friends when they’re all sitting here in the same room together reading every word I’ve ever written?

“Just keep ‘em comin’” says the dullard. “Don’t even worry about quotation marks if you don’t wanna.”

Maybe I’ll go to some far land, away from all of ye. You can catch me later when I slip the link into your tweeds. Maybe if it didn’t hurt my back so damned much typing up this manuscript I’d have pages upon pages more for you to read when the late night train is just about approaching. Some of you are already going on six beers by now. Till then I guess I’ll just keep talking about my coworkers like it isn’t a single thing them quick witted and fun loving bunch is just going to happen to read when they get the link to the site in their tweeds one day, slipped in there by an overarcing pride, a vanity, letting them all know the glory of my name, a god in their presence.

Ah, schmuck it. I’ve got more reading to do. There is an entire store to catch up on. Can’t be left behind when someone wants to know what’s what in the head of good old Bibles. The Appropouture at large. Number one hitman of the gangster squad. Coming at you buck naked and a thousand degrees. Because it’s HOT in here with a capital T!

“Don’t talk.” says the lady in my head. “You don’t have to tell them anything. You can be anybody you want in this world. It is your dominion. Give them what you want + Give them what you want = SUCCESS!!! What do you get out of writing anyways? You could be a professional reader for all anybody else cares or is worth. Do you what you want is the whole of the law.”

So be it, but I’ve got to tell them about my coworkers. I can’t just come up and quite quit this yet. I don’t know who I’d be if I didn’t at least write the words. Can’t here be thinking that I’m writing books anymore. What is this shite anyways? Just a scrrawl of whatever you feel like saying just to fill the holes for another moment of time to pass away in detention or the backseat or whatever it is you feel like calling it today.

There is no editor. Get that in your thick skull. If I want to call them schmiggies, I’m going to call them schmiggies. I want to call them niggers, I’m going to call them niggers. I don’t even want to call them schmiggies. It’s Musette’s word, but I’m using it, and no one’s going to stop me. No editor red penned anyways. Enough making fun of can usually quit a man his humiliating ways, but what am I even saying? That’s not hardly the truth at all! Enough making fun of will drive a man further down the hole of his own humiliation faster than any praise or negligence ever will. Because mankind likes to be ass fucked and ain’t nobody enough a man to deny it when their prostate is being poked. Holy grail magik right there. Just ask my good friend Moonstone, head of the Salt City department of the mysteries LLC.

Ello is dead as a damn doornail. (redacted).

And here I am blogging my thoughts off for the sound of the keys replacing the music which my phone won’t place their earphones in enough for me to play for myself.

And there’s no weed in the house. Hasn’t been since we moved in. The old roommate gave me some before we departed. But I’m not buying it anymore. Not with the rates being what they are. Though my job is the perfect one for a good getting your smoke on and passing the hours to. I don’t want to count anyone’s change wrong, but I’ve got to give myself more credit than that.

One of my coworkers has bad breath. (redacted). Now when she talks to me I can’t stop thinking about the potential for a disgusting waft to pass beneath my nose.

I make some coffee, putting the pot on the top. I sent the letter to my mom today. Dropped it into the big blue box outside the post office. Musette was called into work tomorrow. She was up until ten. Some fucking mess up with her coworker fucking messing up the schedule. She has to wake up at three thirty to be ready in time to catch her train. Hopefully her alarm is set. The last time she missed it I kid you not I thought my world was going to end.

The sink, it smells like old, rotten, hard-boiled eggs. That’s not a good sign. Is this my New York experience? Old rotten, hard boiled eggs? I let that sit in my gullet for a bit, taking a few more puffs of my schmiggy. The thing is almost out of juice. The juice is in the other room with the sleeping Musette. She sent me a text while I was at work telling me not to disturb her on account of her scheduling conflict. I gotta get that juice though. She would understand. Smokes the thing just about as much as I do when she has the opportunity. I keep it with me at work all day even though I can only smoke it on my breaks and when I’m coming and going. I smoke it outside for respect for everyone else in the building. What a stupid thing to do. I should ‘vape’ it everywhere. Be a real hard ass. A dick. That’s what you want to be in this world. Not a pussy or an ass. A real weiner. That’s derogatory, right? Everything you can be in this world is derogatory, right? The hopeful are the most unattractive. Disillusion until cry. Then at least you have something worth looking at.

If I can heal this back, I can heal the world. That’s what I’ve always said. I’m not sure if this nicotine machine is helping or hurting. It’s worth a try though, right? I seem to like it well enough.

I go into the room and get the juice, using my phone as a flashlight. For all I can tell Musette is none the wiser.

Libelous nation. First in the world wars. A heart worth fighting for. A heart worth dying for. The prose poetry of Charles Baudelaire. Drop a pot on the cat’s head. For all the good that does. Just enough to hear the Howl. Keep us going with Black Sabbath on the speakers. The roads are icy. Keep your hands on the wheel.

Somebody send me some benzedrine, and some painkillers for the back. Maybe some marijuana to keep the edge off, and some lsd to get my thoughts into some magic places.

Support your narrator. Whats so wrong with that? Here I am working, and for what, tits and giggles? Not even enough tits, if you ask me. Giggles, maybe a few. But I need tits and cunts, for describing the (redacted).

A Social Revolution

There is power in the spilling. The potential for more than I had before. Try as I might, I cannot deny it. The few strands of loyalty, titans, those not afraid of stepping out their homes, keep the blood of attention flowing through my form. I am alive for my friends. Alive in their feeds, fellow Endless. A social revolution growing by the second.

Spilt apart. What do I need to restore again?

Imagination. There’s something to that. Dream. The text is one thing. Awareness. Embodiment. Meditation. The alignment of chakras. Patience. Peace and acceptance. The moon, full on the sky, a gateway drug. Drugs are something, and the courage to take what’s useful.

Pain. I feel it spurting in my knees, rising up my spine, and catching in that misplaced vertebrae. Crook neck disjointed. A burning in my body.