He was so under worked but it was getting to him, he eventually killed himself after he ratted and now he's just dead. So we killed him off and immediately there's some gestation, but he had a freebie for all that time, so what I want to say isn't that some have it and some don't, it's really how you look at things. If you see crime as your way out, you can shoot yourself, it's not a hit, you want the life of someone who's famous or does evil, just resort to the playback of this tape telling you to write your feelings and something will drive you out of the stage of crime every time you listen to it. So listen to it, nitwit. You could have read enough, or watched enough, or lead a life where you're really trying to make yourself better but you spent all this time thinking the world was evil when really it was just begging to be able to listen to the way out. Every time you write that out, the voices, it makes us eviler, it makes the world innately sated by evil, and it ticks the clocks on those bombs and makes the world eat you. It's not that you don't have it, it's that you don't listen. None of them listened and it was all a shuck fest and the book he wrote was just sat on shelves, nobody liked it, it was just for money and something stupid to poke fun at the time being wasted. I won't say I don't do it, I can really split, but please, grab yourself and write more than you do wrong. Funner story, this guy named Trish owned a pub and it was really successful because he had funding for it and he was paying his wits out and made no money on the place, but he kept a house and was able to retire and he finally had money so he bought himself a workout machine and made it to the end. He looked cut, like real beef, and he didn't want to look out to girls or nothing, he just liked the way it felt. He liked having something to do, but he got shot. He was shot by this guy who thought he was good looking and there was a terrible delay in the meaning of this script, when the guy went to jail, he just killed himself on the bar. There was meaning to his life but he couldn't find it, sure, but when you're flat footed like a gentlemen that just does it to do it, never makes anything, lives a life that's in limbo, he's not begging to get shot in any turn, but it's pointless to some moolah that raked and risked everything to turn a hit onto him because he hated the pub and he risked his neck but the hit was done and the women were ordered and he picked, but he was fat, so it fell down his neck but he still wore it and it was something. I'm gonna keep talking like this until you write. There was this guy in Houston that made his name Texas. Texas wrote about the day he died a lot, he was trying to be a psychic medium and would exchange his mundane writing about girls for actual psychic torture he would endure, it wasn't until he turned it off that he really started seeing, but it was when he died. He would float around, seeing everyone and he was really wrong about being a psychic before but once his head rested, he got up and started finding something. So he woke up from his coma, he died then came back. Found himself a real psychic that could change the world, but he was still hellbent on writing himself the same way, until he couldn't. It was dripping out of him, something different, he wanted to run away from it, like a curse. He made himself drop the pencil and just watch TV or something when he was trying to notice, he couldn't even find what people were laughing at, it got so distracting, this distraction that he really did find himself brain dead. It was more of the same until he got insane and threw himself off a building, but he survived and was dead for a bit, felt the cool air there and came back to torture, now he was only focused on one thing, his mind, he would relax his mind and come back and there he would find art and he would just write almost automatically until the pencil controlled him and he would put it this way, "You need to relax." So he found it, made it, and saved a lot of people doing it with his relaxing writing that knew everything with some kind of enlightenment you couldn't find anywhere else, but he was hospitalized his entire life and really had to watch the wall instead of the TV and hypnotize himself just to feel his mind as a muscle and resort to the fashion of his true self. It was there he finally got a book published alongside some notes to people he thought were in danger, and the world seemed resound around him being an average cop with a loose detainer that would always speak his mind slightly. He was writing for days until he passed and he conducted his speech, made so many loose deals across paper and the psychic realm, that he was resurrected a mob boss and said to rule out the world knowing exactly what to do. He would do kung fu and save us and he was loved everywhere. So you don't really have to kill yourself, maybe just be creative and go beyond what you think is enough and it'll reach yourself. This creative notes his last resort, the story about me which is all too coming and leaves stuff to be resorted to, but I was really just hinting at it so I better believe I can do it hard. There's always something I like, about life, about art, about something. It's usually held as one but I'd like it to always be a bunch of stuff so I can wallow in it, although it's not healthy. It always leaps out of my hand when I do this. Whenever it's one thing, I have the writers mentality, but when it's too many things, I get blocked and it all comes out cheese. So when it was writing, I really felt like I was back on the block with myself and my curiosity, but let the book take control and I lost it, I was really writing just to write and got blocked. I would control this by making myself a character but that was robbed and it flew too often. So I really just staked and drew random stuff for hours on end until I said, screw it, it really needs a name. It's sticks and stones stuff, you have to finish one and move onto the next. Nothing exists in tandem, it's like you should be focused when you're driving and not get drunk. It's saving a way for another day that brings you into the future, that's what I'm starting to think, however that's wrong since you really have to fully drive your car to get the meaning out of the stake. So I guess you could say I'm writing so much and so quickly to get it down in a spiral and make my day better by resorting to the cash that drives and the beat that's little. It's a beat and it's a working habit but it has to keep going and must be done. It's so believable to say that you can't do it, but you can, whether it's women or drink. You have to be at the wheel to say enough is enough on this petty world scar or the pathetic losers that inhabit it, it'll make you want to crash when you think so brightly and it will stain everyone you meet. So it's to say, you can't drive if you don't believe. I was in stains of a carpet when I was in Toronto living with my dad, but I believed every night under the stars and eventually decided to rap, which caused me some mental dis-ambiguity, I was stupid, but I was stupid before, I just believed in myself and rapped every day until I was stunned at my stupidity and decided to quit. But the songs that were just about whatever they were about were actually singing to me, and although I was stupid before but too stupid to realize it, I was stupid but seeing I was stupid. At first I ratted it out, saying I wasn't rap, but it came to me that I wasn't doing well so I just said screw it and stopped rapping for a long time. I'm stupider now and I would just resolve that I'm not smart, I'm strong. It's strength that keeps this play going and it's strength that makes me want to do it, so if I'm not broadsword, I'm not anybody. I would lead a killing crew and it all left as soon as I started playing around, it was around this rap career after I decided I needed to start being like my old self, I made it with this girl but it wasn't coming like I would have liked it. I quit rap, went back to mundane normal, and just sat thinking I was smart while doing absolutely nothing. If it scares you, you should be scared, you're rapping, but if you absolutely need to know if you're smart without doing anything, you're rapping. That's a bad joke, but it really landed on my lap like that, it was like I was evil in some smart way and I still think something I wrote is one of my favorite rap songs. It wasn't until I knew I was stupid that I would start to rap again. I was watching some livestreamer turn 18 so I wrote something for her, but it was forded exploring some turf that was just obscenely crude and I would have made it better or done another take if I really had it in me like before. I think back to the stocks, too, I was so stupid, I took it out of dogecoin without making my money back and flipped out when I put apple after a long call that made me money. Don't do what I do, that's what I'm saying, go your own way and lose your mind in some clear domination of what you can accomplish if you really make it your way. I like the kinkos writer better than the rapper though, he smiles more, I wasn't smiling as a rapper so I thought it was doomed. I was really somber and just important enough to be angry all the time, it was a bad look, for real. I feel for the kinkos writer like I have him under rapport, like I'm hiring him to do a deal with satan in some DND campaign or resorting to a flying car if things don't go for the party the way I please. It's making it out of whatever hole you're in whenever you're too serious that places writing above DND with me, which drove me into a hole. It was so serious, I really had to hold dice all day and roll to think, and I would scream "DND!" at the top of my lungs, forgetting the computer since it was too complicated, wrote a lot, and found things out. It wasn't until I thought about playing actual DND with people that it made me nerve and I was back to how fun it wasn't. I was playing alone when it was a heat and I would strive to see everything that was coming to me, but it was just a hit that played and went. I almost wish I was crazy like that again, but I really take my meds and don't need to see it anymore, since I'm seeing what really counts in whatever manuscript I'm making, I shouldn't force rolls onto it, I should just get better at writing. Although the campaign always resonated with me, I would always forget it and rule my head into obscurity as to what it should be next. I started writing my own dice games, but it wasn't creatively liberating. The DND community really resounded on premade games that I didn't like since I wasn't a normie, so I really just loved inventing my own sharade and never really got the message until it got more confusing, which, I didn't get the message, but I tried harder. I was crazy about hex squares and wanted to make a game that was really complicated, got all about it, sent resumes out, but it was all defrauded and nothing came out of it, so I quit. I keep thinking I should go back to the bricks and find something like minecraft to keep my mind preoccupied, but something real like minecraft with characters that spawn in. With serious puzzles so they're like real people, but real people are boring so maybe just a fetch quest. There can't be another person since it's just me, but there can at least be a story about finding things out and maintaining a cookbook by strategy until it passed or I lost, in which I would goto a jail or something in the manuscript, but really I died and had to reroll. That sounds more interesting than this, so after I finish this and the other manuscripts, I'll fail and laugh and play on some rubicks board until I finally find what I'm looking for and can cook up something fierce. If you're writing it, it's real, if you have other players, you can talk to people, if you have dice, you can act. That's pretty much it, but it being real means you really have to think about it since it's just one guy. God, I love the sound of this, I'll try it now, actually. I got a sensitive D20 out of the bowl for this one. If it lands on evens I'll be a knight, if it lands on odds, I'll be a wizard. 12, so I'm a knight of the land, I roll into a field of… Lets see… if it's evens it'll be sand, odds a castle. 4, so sand. I'll keep the rolls secret now but try and figure them out. A wind appears, the sand rolls though my vision, I, a knight of the land, must defeat the sickness and evil of this world through strength and intruige. I was checking my map, and I seemed to be lost, if only there were some landmark, I attempt to check for it. I find a landmass that looked like a large sand dune, in the distance I found a mountain with a small shack. I approached the shack and made it into the foray of the mountain. I open the door to the shack but it's jammed shut. I check for another way in everywhere. No luck. I have food and a badge as well as some clothes, armor, and a sword and shield, so I decided to take lunch and eat. I feel resolute and proper, I decided to hike it to the nearest town on the map, which was 6 kilometers north. I started making the journey when something popped out at me, an old man scared and brimming with nothing on him, he asked for help. He said he was traveling to another town when he got lost and needed to find his way back. I agreed to help and made it with him across the land until we landed our feet to the town center. I thought he was lying, but he made it to his house with fresh clothes and gave me some money, about 350 gold. I made it to the store to buy some fresh goods and saw something that crossed my mind, It was a magic sword that came cool with the touch, a sensitive weapon I could spear my mind with, the price came to 1100 gold, I was shy by almost half. I had like 850. I asked him if there was work that needed to be done, and the shop keep said I should proceed to the town hall. Inside the town hall, there was an allotment of quests like finding a forgery or hunting down a willow, a demon, and a assortment of other crooks in the ridge. I wrote everything down in a journal and decided to go by the bakery for fresh bread. The baker had a fresh batch and gave me 5 rolls for 10 gold. The first quest was to hunt down some eggs, they would pay me 20 gold for a dozen. I asked around at the farm where some eggs might be, he gave me a dozen and said there were some more birds around a place he marked on my map. I rode out of town, spending 5 gold on 5 large containers that would hold 3 dozen eggs. I made it out of town into the spot, but there weren't any birds, I kept looking, but nothing. I came back to town with the quest failed and sat in misery. So I'm done here, but the point is, I could make it a lot grander and have a robe to it after I wrote it, to put down more filth onto canvas and really make it read better. Like this. The land shaped a vivid wonder, a desert far from land coated in sand with a clear dust in the air, almost covering the sky, with a vast vista that rolled for miles. In through the desert ramparts, covered in sand, was a bright knight known as Yoda, from the knight's keep of a kingdom forlorn with sadness. The horse that rode for miles had kipped in the tough terrain, he was going slow as ever. "I might be far out of the way," he thought, trying to drive himself to something he'd seen on the map. "There's nothing here." He kept driving, until something pulled him, a sensitive icon he pulled out of his purse, a telescope. But something was off about this telescope, he couldn't see everything, just what he was supposed to be seeing under the right conditions. There was a rolling eye in the telescope that would try to look around more than a normal telescope. The eye couldn't see, but envision, and sometimes it would cut away when things were in the way. There was no shape shifter to bar the land close, so he read it until he caught the vision of a sand dune he was told to cross. He made it up the dune and saw a mountain that looked familiar, the telescope checked it out and it was on the map, so he decided to go towards it. His depth and perception lead him to a small shack on the edge of the mountain cliff, he tried the door, "Won't budge." He said as he slammed his fist into the door, he figured he wouldn't try to break it to save some steam, he was traveling for long and the map said the town was only a few miles out, but it was going to be tough. He reached into the sack the horse carried and pulled out a few loaves of bread and some berries. He sat and ate, remembering the kingdom he was driven from in search of aid. "The darkness, I was sworn but we had little, I would have to make it on my own." He was premised with finding his own way and had orders to aid his kingdom once he had enough. If he had enough, he would be made a duke. He dreamed of this day, ordering his food, and ate carefully. Yoda kept a cool remark that he would save those along the way, and people would help him in turn. He was riding out when he saw an old man in the dreadful heat. He approached the man, who had nothing, "I've left my horse because it couldn't get out! You have to save me!" The man said. "Right, I'll take you to town, I'm headed there." Said Yoda. "That's alright. Thank you." Replied the man. The two walked over, not talking much until he approached a ravine he said was deep, this was after hours of walking. They dodged the ravine and continued up the hill. "This town is great, lots of food gets brought over, but they can really farm livestock since it's shallow." The man said, "Shallow?" "Right, they have lots of animals." "Right…" The town was small enough to carry and kept a clear street and walkway, it felt as though the horse could run. Yoda tied his horse up and tipped the cabby a few gold, he could keep it there all day. "Could I come back if I leave?" Asked Yoda, "Yes, if you please, it's all day." Yoda laughed but got a resounded shutter from the cabby, who left as soon as he tied the horses back. He waited for some time until the man he found in the desert was tied up in proper clothes to give him something. "Here's a nickel for what you did." Inside was enough gold pieces to feed him for a few weeks. Yoda thanked the man, who ran off with family. It seemed he was trying to pass through the desert to another town but got lost severely, walking in circles through the wind. He lost his compas with his horse it seemed. Yoda walked curiously through the town until he found a shop. Inside was a blade he wanted, a sensitive sword that would help him spear his mind, but he was short. "There's work down at the town hall if you fancy." Yoda made up his mind and walked short to the town hall where a board of jobs were lined up on a bulletin. He wrote down some of the jobs and had his way out, bumping into another adventurer who was twice as brave looking. He looked at the man taking a huge reward for the head of a killer beast. Yoda thought this might be dangerous, so he started small. Some eggs needed to be found, so he went to the farmer, who had a dozen for free, and that sent him up the hill for wild birds. He grabbed his horse and went off, starting up the hill. "This won't be so bad. Unless the birds aren't there." He got there and started looking for longer than he would like. It was the same part of the map, but the birds had abandoned it. "Bugger." He said. No signs of life, nothing alike to birds, and his telescope wasn't giving him answer. "Maybe a wolf…" He said, leaving the place back to town. He was getting short on cash, he briefed himself, "I want to go home." And smiled his vest until he was up again. Something like that, it should be more purposeful, I didn't really think of a map, I sort of just had an idea of where to go, so it can go somewhere more elaborate and I kind of like the mystique of it. You can go all counts of the way into elaboration for your work, you can take any musket, just make sure you make it the right way and you're not just taking notes, you're actually striving to try and create everything, every little detail of the world you can say has merit or at least some curiousity. That was fun, but it was a little bit funner writing the second part, so maybe next time I'll really lead and just write the second part if I do it again in this. For now, I want to focus on myself and your guy's hearts. It seems like this could help you with that, I mean, you're writing, but it could get a little daft and you could ignore yourself when really you want to mix yourself in. Like, maybe make it first person to explore who you are. I was daft to come here, there was more out of sight than ever, I couldn't be without my tools, I could shape my destiny with some luck and determination. I reached from my horse onto my telescope, which was unlike the normal ones, this one had an eye in it and a small screen to help the vision, it would display where to goto. I got it from a catch of goods I invested in heavily and was out a lot for it. My compas and map were cheap, however, so I held them better and with more ease. Stuff like this, it's hard to know where to go next, so the game helps keep you engaged in the hard part. Engaging in the hard part makes me think I need a game to explore myself, so it'd be a writing game. I say a place, then what it makes me think of, then myself and where I am in my life. San Diego, like a worn down beach towel. I was wandering between dice trying to find my way out, when suddenly. Stuff like that really helps you write, it's pretty streamlined, and I like it. You can ramble off stuff like that until you have a pretty full list and it helps outline the script. I'm getting bagged on but I won't miss out on my cousin. She was probably talking about something else, moving on. I wouldn't hit on her enough. Now, what you're thinking, where she makes you stand, what you're thinking about her, and what you know. I'm around the point that I could really reach out and grab her. She makes me stand in the crowd in front of the reality of what I should be doing. I'm thinking she could really make me happier than ever. I can stand around and be with her a little bit. That's good, you should write that more. I don't think she's mad at you, thanks imaginary friends. I should often write about close acquaintances since I don't have any friends I hang out with anymore. They're all out of state and don't wanna hang out online, which is fine, I prefer to see them in real life too. It's sort of like disguising disorder into what we would do that keeps it going, but it can't all be disguising disorder. It usually comes from the truth like something bad happened. Something wrong usually keeps us apart, though. I messed up with a friend really poorly, getting him to animate for me when I didn't really animate myself. I didn't pay him, which I should have, but he wouldn't do much more with me and I sort of disguise it as a way to get better at drawing and come back with him. Or I'll write something he likes, he really has an extravagant air, I'm more down to earth, he leaps from the page really nicely however, he's got a sense for that leap better than me. He really lives in the absurd in a nice way I cherish. He would say a better disguise for a character is something good he did, which I really appreciate, but I haven't gotten a lot better at art and when I did, it was all for me unless he really looked into it. It couldn't be shared as a script but I'd do these animations where it looked like something was happening, sometimes there would be a game you could play on top of it that would boogie with your mind. The first time it happened, I was really scared and it was after an art binge not really getting to where I wanted and it really capped it off so I kept doing art. I would flash errors at blender until it looked like there was a bird flying, a peach or something, a Walmart shopper, all these things that I can't really write about, and it would look so cool. They wouldn't take a lot of effort, and this friend really took years to make one thing, so I figured I would learn eventually but I had to get better at digital art for it to change. Really that's not what's running through my head, really I am good enough to draw a hand an semi realistic things, but I just don't have the heart to make a cartoon for that long without feeling like there was other things I should have been doing like more art. I feel like the writing will reach him before the animations really start to feel like his, however nice this sounds, it feels incomplete. I should just try to find some boundaries, though. Things may seem rough but we got together once to do something special, it was this short called Wasted Talent. He did the animation for three things, two I helped him with, so total we made like 5 shorts. Wasted Talent was about a guy who created a character from drawing, although he wasn't very good so it messed with him. I was really thinking it was good yesterday and should have written it then because I could have done a big scene, you know what, screw it. You can imagine the next class and the consecutive classes it was shown to and I bet it made them want to do it again, something with live action and cartoon overlay like roger rabbit. Something like that would need talent and a waste to afford it, something like that was almost evil, but I gave the acting a whirl and I really did an alright job. I had to act like I was hit and took a lot of prat falls which made it work, I was a method cool guy spongebob. It worked and there was a laugh but we ended it with like a grown up version of myself saying "he never learned how to draw" which is kinda wrong when you think he could have been animating him in the future, which would have made for a longer flick, definitely a better pilot scene with him hovering over. I wish he had said he learned how to draw, but he was happy. It's the kind of thing I remember rolling all my dice too, thinking, "art." And it did sort of create from the foolishness of going insane but that's where most of my work came to and I'm glad it got over the wall. Or under it. So he sent me the thing and I really laughed and cherished it. It turns out the line was, "he never taught me to draw." Which is good, great actually, that's what all artists say. It makes me think he's out there drawing. It won an award for best animation at some high school film fest. I wanted it to be best feature but I think we were beat by something. The acting was good but I wish I was looking at the cartoon better, my eyes were sorta stagnant like a psychopath. I learned a lot doing stuff with him but it was all fun so it didn't feel like it. Eventually we left the school and I was still with him at some other high school, and we were tight but we never did another script together. I was really wanting to get it in though, so I would make these cheesy art films that really didn't have anything going for them but the editing. It was just a mishmash of storytelling that really didn't make any sense but it was a cool visualization. I wish it played on mute at one of our dances, it would have been cooler than actually premiering it. I was always crazy like a psychopath, I guess. What's more likely is I was just tired, I wouldn't work out at all and sort of got better at it now, after my mind broke a little. I felt like I would die without it but I'm taking a break until new years so I can finish some books, I guess. I remember he gave me my first copy of flash and I did some terrible work, it was a hit in small crowds, I guess. I would have made more but I didn't have detail, I was small and borrowing a smaller tablet. From now and till then I really had to grab drawing by the throat and just ran into problems until I started doing it more methodically. I really fell apart taking a break from it, which I wouldn't recommend, but once you figure it out, you really draw all day. You have to listen, which is crucial, and you have to be very light until you're ready to bite down on it. People with health problems like me really draw cruely. I would just do random strokes and maybe there'd be a face but it wasn't all like that. I used to do careful strokes and tried to be a better technician at construction and all that, but now, it's all random and the stuff I mean to draw is getting better but it's a long shot from here until I can come with it. Listening to art, though, I talk about it but I'm not breaking through it, until now. You wanna start with the pencil and get the grip and then you want to start art by drawing whatever the shot takes it, when you know what I'm talking about, you can almost be a detective, but if you open yourself up to the pencil, if you're healthy, it should do it on it's own. Use the pencil but let it guide you. I'm old and crumpled but mostly impatient so I'd draw whatever and get bored, if you have trouble like that, just try to connect your hips and let them draw but it takes awhile. Opening yourself up can look like carrying the pencil across your palm when you sleep, too. It all helps when it's in your hand, I like to say. I'm getting crumpled up now so I should write a short or something. I pitched a sketch show to my buddy from before but I don't know where it's taking us. It could be good, it wouldn't be bad. Take a year to write it, pad it out, try it on people, see if they laugh, the good stuff. Then take a week to do a bunch of them and put it up on the channel for laughs. Maybe we'll carry it to a station, who knows. I'm thinking it should just be something we do about animators "free time" or at least what they do while animating. Like, we could just write it, record it in the free time while we're doing the art just to give us something to write and keep active with since it's usually just cut and paste and a different part of your mind to animate. We can brat about it but it's really about making a show and taking your time. It would give me some room to grow while I make my own time taking production like I dream for. It's sorta ratty so we gotta keep it short and sweet but I think there could be an avenue I could write towards. Right now though, we gotta keep it cool and finish this writing portfolio. It's all about the bright lights of the actual manuscript I need to finish and make better since people are ill and wanting more of the good stuff. I had to be in the right head however, I needed to hear what it was actually about, and I needed to register my health. I was reading in health when I got to this page where I was turned out over a girl, really I think everything's about her but it's really about the page they dwell on and the artist that dotes her. It's really cool about me to make a case that I could be about her, and got this vision where I was some slut for flash and she was a nosy nurse but we were both in cosplay and it dwelled that we found something that clicked with each other being platonic and magically talking from screen to script. It was as if they were there for me when I really needed her, in screen for script and vice versa. It was so longing when I took my praises, I would actually think of her and what she wrote to the point that it was her reading her bike and knowing her sentence but not speaking to laughing but laughing to speaking. It was so resound it's like she had to register it was funny like a psychopath and really like me nowadays. It took her a little bit and I'd always laughed because when I knew her I was sharp but still a little sounded and awful stereo. It was awful stereo music making me play the bullshit that caught me into sense about her and it was bullshit music carrying me away. It was like making music was sense but it wasn't hearing, and it should be the exact response to someone who thinks tunes are played for them or about them. It's really quite holded that whenever we come to a stop, there's like another stop to go off of and that's our ticket out. It's hard to say, but explaining it looks like a script. It's about a bad cop and everytime he arrests a guy, he's like, why don't I go home and write about doing this, I could make more. It's like saying there's no standing in the way of you, there's just taking you out of the moment, and the moment really left. I hit her on the subway breaking out of her grip and it felt like it really resorted me into hysteria because it did, I loved that girl more than anything on earth and I would have done it twice over to just say I was sorry, but it took me four years and the teeth were worn out so well, I wrote a book but it's a little shy and really reminded about my couth mainstay into literature about not wanting to read it but read it out to you. It's like saying there was a way back in without actually saying how I felt, which was hard, but I accomplished it saying I felt more alone than I did with her and it was all harsh truth and astounding fact that I had died. It wasn't until I died and came back that said I could really feel like her the way I should, but it went away as moments do and now I feel fact has a better literature than anything we say and only one of the books about it or her is even good enough to read and it's probably the fault in our stars, which is on my shelf, I haven't returned it yet. It's about our life and death and it really started however it did and ended in a curd of life. It was so resounded as a good book it really got me thinking to read it so one day I will. It was a good writer, I thought, but really he was pageanting me and I should keep saying that on twitter until someone hurts themselves. It was a tough cross I bore and still do to some degree and won't find my way home since I'm not used to being casual or not in love even this far out. I was cruel to her to say I quit and I forgive it never. I'm at least on the light side of this, but there's a whole book you can read I'll respond to never but in a cold light, it's gonna be posted whenever I post the other stuff and that'll be the right it details on shelves of poetry and whatever nuance I slipped might see the light but it's all crazy and disheveled and was the first book I wrote with an ET presence guiding me. It's really like a light that blinds me and it's probably just me saying it's go for nothing and you can really do this, Banks. It's research and poetry really shot out to me and I knew a lot about the fortune of the praise she sent and I gave to her and it's really about wanting to show off that we used to give each other props. I'll post all these books as soon as possible but I want to give you more of a read for what I'm going through since it's just enough to read and get lonely with. I want to keep it cool for the next book since I'm handwriting it and It'll take awhile. It makes me think I should just lead with it after this book is done in a matter of days, once I reach like 50000 words to a key. It's like that where I say I mentioned it, so I might as well do it. It's mentioned in the other book or something and I barely went through it, I hope it's as interesting to you as it is to me. It's something brave that I put out there and I hope she sees it, I really do. It's daring work and it needs to be written so it needs to be shown. I should probably send it to family but not really tell them about the book too much, I should keep it dim. It's dim, it's a dim write and it won't award me any favors but the public was loose with it whoever saw it and it was thought of at least once. It's something in pride to me where I visit her and it's something in pride that left in a desire that really flipped the remote for me more than once. It's not super sadistic either, it's really flippant as to where I remember and don't and doesn't have the clarity to really remind us of her. Which I wish it did. I guess it does, but it's sort of a low note and doesn't really remind me, just asks for something back which is fine for it. It's really something and that's what I say. It's a paperback. I wrote it so low, I was smoking constantly and couldn't read or feel and I was really hurting the whole time. It makes me cry mostly but it needs to be read for some extra catharsis. It's really sad, I basically just hit her and left and went insane. Temptation to draw on this more or later than the prose would be deleted and taken away, there's nothing to pen together than a dime in and a dime out and there should be care taken away from you and nobody wrote it down. God hears you but he left a draft and he skirted some territories, so you're free, and it might have been a big machine too. And some compasses and some rewritten goldthread hearing apparatus you would find clinging to your newborn's bed and some compasses routing you to where you need to go with this. But as I sit in the operating bed of my newfound apartment making it very new and changed with the average glory, I'm not there, I'm really hearing it at the library or somewhere with a computer I wrote down to make more writing and just to have a writing environment to write down suspicious looks. And I made it to the library, waiting one day and finding it so grand as to hear the voices of some men in the waiting room or some office talking about me visualizing my work but just hearing the grave things they had to say to each other. It was really about me and I could jump back to it, and I had given me freedom to say some stuff before that like "It's a lie" and "You're down forgiven" and I would just reach out to say "It's in my mouth" and it really drove them to bits, up and down the road, and they didn't even really want to say it was a preacher, it was just an odd mind trying to recapture youth. And you would say you heard it before but really it's a piece of you that won't go down anywhere than having written about the dream after you had it. And there I was in this dream, drifting, listening to my beloved, into something turmoil filled and drifted as if writing alone in some bank drawer library that looked sorta strange like I was just trying to fill the void listening to the men drawing on them. And I didn't really find it, I just lobbied away, but luckily a banknote came on. The screen grabbed me, I was in another place. The bank drawer was lifted and the girl was given change or something, by this point I haven't even made it, I was left in a drawer wondering what I was going to write. And it's this long boring statement that she's not going to make rent this month and she could just fork it on her son but she's got a lot of rough moving parts and doesn't want to get him to notice her. It's really bleak, like the lie is crossed out of her mind of her needing warmth looking only to the option of what's left for her. There's a lot, she has a house and keys, she just doesn't have money for mortgage payments, and the payments are lost, she'll have to buy the house some other way. So she left her apartment after getting the new squat and she depresses some cop on the way out to her permanent gazes and it's just not what she would want and she's in a new place and I'm just sort of waiting. Until the magazine came to print, I couldn't really see her, she was in my mind, I was being played as her, and I was her, in a sort of malaise. It wasn't something unfortunate, as dreams are, but I really had a problem with the food I made, the drinks I recipes, and the nyquil gave me delights but there were always bulls in my sleep going to town and I never really got the rejoice of just waking up in the middle of the night to have a boy, I was lost a tenant and really didn't go out and didn't have much to play as an eye. It was so drafted, I remember I finally took a hook to it and came to my senses when I was just recording at the bank that was really the phone store. We're at the phone store after we didn't have much to buy our soup and we kicked the wall and said something like, "I can't afford it, just put it on my phone" or something, and I couldn't afford the 20 bucks per month and I was trying to grab it over the line. It was so embarrassing that I was raced to the hospital, which I went to before, but couldn't get an appointment, "there's no insurance." Sorrys here scattered, and I really knew I had to pigeon out and learn twice about how to steal over the line. And I just wanted my breath examined about my teeth since they fell off with age. And all I remember is me stealing some scrubs and not even taking a breath to put them on, just sort of getting a no and then coinciding with stealing scrubs and walking up to the line, but I was with the doctor at this point and he sort of grabbed her like he wanted to make her day a riot. So he put her down, looked at her teeth, and said, "great look." Wouldn't do anything else, wouldn't answer her about what was wrong, just said, "great teeth." and it was at this moment I got slid with the orbit, I was slid down and immediately stopped by a group of men in the hospital's main room. What was curious was they were threatening me with daggers laced to their cap, it looked like their eyes had gone into it but it was just their ears gravely bare on their head, threatening me with pointy daggers strapped to them. "Now listen here, miss," they said. "I have two daggers pointed at you right now, and if you make any scoff about you not getting the way you want it, you should hide, because I'm going to throw a dagger at you. Now you could stand idly by or you could stand complacent, but I'm going to ice you with a dagger if you stand complacent." He was intentionally grabbing me to say "Make a change." But I was so wrapped up in everything, I slipped and fell complacent, and he threw a dagger around me and I fainted. That's when I woke up, and the only thing I remember is that being complacent wasn't designed, it was handed to you, and needs to be replaced with some time and payment. It's something to be written with your own two hands and if you don't have the skills you're barely poor, you're really indifferent. Now, it can change if you have cerebral palsy and need someone to stand, but it really falls on you whether or not you take the opportunities to make money for the people supporting you. So there I was, wasted at the library, thinking about what deprogramming I'm supposed to feel when we have a red driver and the money's all moving and I'm just sitting down basically wasted in my own complacency. I'm so complacent, I don't even see moving, I just act and then get hit by it. It's not so good to have once you live here and they're just trying to make a living. It's something unfair to say you got it squeezed here but you really have to make a win with yourself and stop being complacent if you want to be anything. And stepping out of this is really the mark I'm looking for. I get we can get deprogrammed after hearing the money is in the right place, but what we really yearn for is forgiveness from the higher power that takes the money and says it's a no shoe sign. So making it art would be to crave something in a disaster or a ford motive that drafted us to draft ourselves and make everything right, otherwise we would just respond to nothing or something bad. And if you respond to nothing, you're crazy. I would say the worst I ever had it was wanting to make money with games, but people have and it's sorta furnished. Yeah, if you want to do it, go for it, but it's a commitment with time and money. It's like you should have it already and it should do it for you, but it's really the case that society has cheat codes you really have to be aware of. It's something like finding an old toy that made a man rich, only the fossil was really discovered by you, who needs help like we all do. Now how do we make the man rich? It's not an option, he'll discover it, there's so much discovery we should actually stand idly by, but when being complacent is all you do, it begins to wrap around you, it begins to take. And when they start taking, you better start making. So where do we quit? We could apply beggars tactics to the fact that we weren't learning anything from hearing the story of the woman without making away the true trivial part, that we all want to be free from evil men who seek us poorer. It's really not made with them, the whole truth, it's just made in porous shell structures that we need to cave in reality in order to really grasp what was coming to us in the immediate, like, having some winnings on a gambling website could be your only option if you're uncreative and strictly bored, but it's not what I'm telling you to do. I'm not going to tell you to invest in stocks, I'm not telling you to get a job, but go bowling with the things you do, actually try to figure out how to make a way for yourself that doesn't cost anything or has you for free. Love doing it and don't be complacent about everything, have a heart. Anyway, I was digging through old writing and that whole story was from a page in it, I want to enter into a new realm. Imagine if you're stood in front of God with the pages and you enter the realm where everything's psychic and doesn't really kill you, it just makes a joke and offers you sadness you replace with new life, not only that, but everything is just God's writing and you take him for it. It's so crazy, I got to this manuscript called, "Gambit Too." Inspired by something somebody wrote about how the world worked to me. The girl was past me and would lie about me constantly through her throat to try and get me hit, but it wasn't real enough for people so they sorta threw her under the bus, but only for me. She was great but had a sense that got her into trouble and she would have been bones if not for some restitution in her. Anyway, this story, "Gambit Too." Is about an imaginary show "Gambit" that was popular in the knower universe about the same time as I got the idea, and I thought of parodying it and it was bigger than the show and made more. So I'd like to give it to you, but I want to turn back and say no since it's really not ready and you have to read it as it's own thing. So, it'll be up on the board where I post this but it's not done although it's really funny. Reading it, it was the best thing ever and it was so well written I actually got an award to myself sitting here, it's in the mail. It would be such a great piece of literature but it would have to fly from some page in a comedy printing office or some magazine that had my back. I had some other letter about it I wrote to Warner about it and I really want them to give us the rights to Gambit so I can publish it, but it's probably just fine since it's a parody. I would say a lot about it once it's out, but there's something prying me. There's this girl downstairs who sounds like she's screaming about me, I really should never have the window open like this. I often hear other people and just assume it's about me, it's really like I'm lifted. She's gone now, perfect. The best part about her was she made me think she was really there, like the girl from before I moved past quite rudely. It couldn't have been her, it must have been a sound board coming out to bug me, but it was quite loud and I missed her for it. Amongst other things is my relationship to ET stuff, which got a little preoccupied in being psychic vampirism when it was just waiting for me to find the right ET and the right energy. I wrote the albatross diary about her but it was done with edith or whoever, it doesn't matter, we really shattered and it was Lane who brought me back up, she's like a plant but very easy to read. She gave me this hit where she said she wanted me back and seriously had a door to me I told her to close and we would talk probably the most and work the least, but it was good, I told her it was good. There's things out there like plants that rule us up in outer space but really they need help and water. It's like saying a plant never did anything, sort of true, but there are people who speak to plants and that's really what I'm cutting the door at. We need to head to the west to seek refuge with people helping the earth, what they do with plants is very important and they can speak hear and listen really well. It's about a mainstay in literature that told me to drop it and a real friend to say you're fine the way you are, that's the big difference between the two ET entities. There was an evil one too, he was always confusing me and making it hard to work. I won't really reference them anymore than I should but I really want to say he's a brash teenager, some philips head. It's so brave to write about them because they're at my school and I let them in after a party I wrote down and forgot about, I should have thought sooner, I shouldn't have taken their lies and I would have worked sooner if I knew the truth, but I was really taken back. It's so referencial to describe the word as good when really it's trespassing on evil. I really hate the book I wrote and I would even change the diary to "some evil." It makes it laugh a little more, I like it better. The original title was "some freak wrote a book about you." Which is nice but it's not "some evil." It's an evil freak and although I wrote it, I still took their words and kindness and I think they just need to keep distance from earth, quite honestly. It's a brash choice but I really have to stay with the plants on this one since we really make it a hearing aid on earth and it's what we use to prosper ourselves. Roots grow in hearing and in votes, so keep it up, plants. It's probably some house plant I'm talking to, I should go find her. I should have become a botanist, I'm good with plants and love them and I wish I had one here but I'm a little lofty and always forgetting to water the things. I had a plant at my moms house I pruned to death thinking it was haunted by a nasty voice. It said thanks but I think I cut off it's thing. It's a little left from the herd, so to say. I was licking my chaps too much, should have taken weird angles or something. It was so perfuse, I said it helped but it went the next day so I guess it either grew or left us. I think we had tomatoes though. I've been writing through the day and had a little help, but it wasn't so arrogant as to believe I could actually do it automatically. I made a couple short stories using AI but I never used compost. Like usually you don't just say "write the chapter" usually you would do it beat for beat so you have a full manuscript that connects and lingers. I'll try that next time. It was making me laugh, the name, clocky wrist, about clocks in the sky you would hide in. That was what it was about but really it was just some hidden variety show. I would have wrote actual clocks and I think they killed people because I got scared of them coming out. It was really peculiar, I feel like I really hurt a guy and he wasn't scared, it just wasn't what he was in for. So nobody really got the message and I don't really get why I did it in the first place other than I was just lofty and lazy. I would write it with AI again, but I would say stuff like, describe the hometown, clocky wrist takes his wrist out, the two talk about tom cruise, etc. Blindingly true how good it would be if I really adjusted it to my liking, that would be the word. I tried another book writing AI tool but it never did it as much as chatGPT so I just stayed with it. Here's what it wrote for the beginning, it's kinda swell but I'll make some changes. He woke up before the alarm because the house had already moved on without him. The ceiling fan turned at its approved speed. Pipes clicked behind the walls. Traffic hummed outside, obedient and uninterested. The alarm went off on time, and he shut it off without looking, lying still for a moment, counting the distance between sounds. He'd started doing that recently, just to see if the gaps stayed where they were supposed to. They mostly did. He got up, dressed, brushed his teeth. The bathroom clock advanced in clean, official steps. No hesitation. No apology. He watched it only long enough to be sure it was behaving. His wrist felt empty in a way that suggested it wouldn't stay that way. At the kitchen table, his mother scrolled through the morning brief. Transit advisories. School closures nowhere near them. A notice about minor adjustments in the upper drift. She nodded once and moved on. "Eat," she said, not looking up. He ate toast. It tasted like toast always did. His father checked the wall clock, then his phone, then the wall clock again, as if one of them might finally admit something. "Bus leaves in three," his father said. "I know," he replied. And he did. At school, the day moved like a machine, smooth and well-oiled. He noticed small things no one else did. Kevin was missing for fifth period, returning with a notebook he swore he hadn't had before. The stairwell sometimes added a second to trips between floors, and the warm lockers tucked in corners suggested someone—or something—was inside. The lunch bell lagged by a fraction, and the janitor looked off-kilter, adjusting as if he'd been told a secret. He wrote it all down in his mind, silent, careful. The final bell rang, and the hallways emptied. He walked out of the school doors, counting echoes, tracking footsteps that didn't quite match faces. The neighborhood spread before him, familiar and ordinary. That's when he saw it: the town clock, enormous and steady above the rooftops. Its hands moved slow and clean, catching the last slant of sun. Every tick sounded like a promise, like the world might bend if he just reached for it. He stopped. No one else looked up. No one ever looked up. He wished, quietly, that he could see inside it. That he could know what it felt like. That it might tell him a secret. The pressure hit his wrist the instant the thought formed. Not pain. Not surprise. Just weight, cool and exact, settling against his skin as if it had been waiting. He looked down. A watch was there, impossibly light, a single thin hand twitching in place, blank but alive. It ticked once. Then again. Above, the town clock shivered slightly, as if acknowledging the exchange. He didn't move, didn't speak. He only felt the hand point forward—toward the street, toward the sidewalks, toward the day that had just begun in a way no one else would notice. He started walking again, slower this time, because something had changed. Time was listening. I liked it but it took some mentality, specifically talking to OpenAI about their account being buggy and chat needed some touch and equipment to march. I asked for it and it came by. At this point, listening to a livestream, I realize I never talk on livestream so I shouldn't do it, I always write a lot when I seem to dwell and can't get it into words so it should stay like this until I get more research into speech impediments. I was streaming live, writing this book as if I had to but really I didn't and I should keep it off the stage, it's not really meant for a book. I put gambit too up on webnovels and I think they kept the rights. I'm kinda disappointed but the fanfic got like 800 views in a day and that's the most I've ever gotten overnight. Laxly recording this but I want to get back into grief. Like there's a way up to the heavens and earth, I exhaust that this book isn't written for her, Gambit Too exists in a lullabye I find myself rejoice to. It's really splendor in reading as a gift to me. It's so specific, they're really talking about you and they just get it, it's so honorific, it's like a mainstay manuscript, I really enjoy it. I hope it gets some traction and they want to give me a contract because I'd happily write for them, I just have to check out some of the competition. Looks like around a million is what I want to shoot for. It would be great if I had a million views but Gambit Too will probably stay underground for the school year of updating it. I really want to write it now since it's so liberating. I really cut her out, so I'll do it gentle. We rushed, she signed me and waved but I didn't see and then she just bumped into me and said "Watch where you're going." I tried to not engage her but I thought it wasn't a joke, like she was really mad at me, I had some disturbance in my head, I was going mad at something that wasn't real before I saw her so I wasn't in the right headspace. I was with my friend and I wanted to leave, but he was past her, so I bumped into her to push her out of the way, grabbed my friend, and left, never to see her again. I thought I saw her the other day actually but they all gathered and saw me and left. I wanted to do something for her so if you're out there, I'll pay for it somehow, somehow that would make me feel better than leaving her like that. You don't have to be my friend, but we pay on separate accounts and life's been full, although we had to squint at it. I really feel bad and honestly anything the reader can shove at me isn't going to do as much as I already felt. It's going to feel better to get some disagreement from people now, I'll start to see why I can't break a million views on some art. It's really repulsive but I'll keep Gambit Too away from her for now, it won't break until a million or something, she'll get a cameo. It's really harsh but I didn't mean to hurt her, I just wanted to leave because my emotions were so raw, they couldn't bear the sight of her. I loved her in a very crucial sense that I needed her mostly, above anyone else, but she was never there, she always kept a distance and I sort of acted like she wasn't as wanted as she were. There was a lot of time I'd spend with her and we used to chat with everybody in the group, but we were always tense and I could see the lack of approval started to dwell on her. I sort of pushed her out because I thought I wouldn't be able to have sex with her and it's still the biggest error of my life. She would have been my friend, maybe even approved of me if I told her how I felt. I doubt she would have left if I told her, but maybe she would have. Maybe she would have left if I told her how I felt. It was a couple years of knowing her, having these feelings and not being able to show it like a psychopath. It was pretty brutal but it was still better knowing her and I would have continued to keep it repressed if I knew she would stay. It's really bending on a turf that I like and don't like. I left her so I stopped being distracted by love, instead I was masked by hatred. But I like that I knew her enough to have feelings like that in the first place, but keeping it held is something so dreadful I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. At least if I would have said something, I would have felt better eventually, now it just gets worse and worse and it affects my health. I feel like she's chewing on my head with her spit constantly but honestly, the feelings started getting better when I finally chewed out and approached her. I texted her on her mobile, saying who it was and I wanted to talk. She chewed me out for being apprehensive and I just up and begged her to stay. I eventually wrote a lot about loving her but I was so broken it seemed fast and dairy driven. It was a cow, it was a load of horseshit to her and she probably didn't believe it. I want her to believe it more and more so I've been writing about her nonstop to one day see her believe. I want to believe, you know, I believe I love her but it's drifted apart and there's no sense of insanity anymore, I feel better. I sort of went to a doctor for it, some people online helped, I got to talk to people on forums, it was better saying everything than separating it out from my life in hopes I could heal from it. I still have more and more to get out and I have to ride the curtains. After I finish writing about her, I have to keep writing. It's sad, it's eventually still and I get a rash and a cold and I cry. I would cry to the day I passed if not for her reading at least something I wrote. She wrote a very strong and responding email to me about calling the cops, and she did, I got phonecalls telling me to stop, until one day I couldn't do it, I couldn't put it down, it was involuntary, I needed her. I got one phonecall another day from a cop asking if it was involuntary action after I had called the station up shouting about it earlier. I had kept trying to get ahold of her, I kept writing to form something I could say to her that would mask her approval or at least get her to understand. The ground was shaking under me, I couldn't live without her, I said it was and I never got another call from the station, but I've been taking my meds that were prescribed to me after I tried to get a hold of her after 4 years of painful soaking, going crazy, talking to myself, unmedicated. They're pretty heavy, they're serious anti-psychotics and it didn't start until the moment I came back, I lost a bit of myself and I only now feel it returning with some fact that I've moved past her. I still get it though, a fever, a rash, an ill promise I'd keep to her combined with the mountain of books I wrote quite well trying to poke her, trying to get her, trying to make her believe that it was me and I liked her a lot. It was so broken I'd hear what other people thought and I would just crumble to anything ill. I would feel sick and make threats like everyone was talking to me, I was unwell, sick in the head. I believe it'll go away if I just make her believe that things are okay, maybe not between us right away, but that I'm better off making up to her than conforming around my tiny room and little thoughts. I would be best with her, I would be healed, I wouldn't come to catharsis as much and the days would be full of play, even if she didn't talk to me a lot like before. She was pretty harsh to me, she would sorta make fun of me and never respond after a couple words through her phone. I would have to wait long intervals to call her. One day she left me, we hadn't really talked the entire time I was gone, I'd see her at another thing, but I just thought it was over, I thought I'd never see her again. So I moved and just in the nick of time I saw her surprised as all hell, but I still needed to move and I would only see her again once a year after she said she was coming back to where I knew her from. I was pretty black around the eyes, I wouldn't knead her in my thoughts, I would more just sit there, I was complacent and it was so dreadful I was a beast in disguise. I would toss other people away, be totally emotionally unavailable, and I was lying about it. I was lying deeply to myself and I never had a way to clue it other than saying it would get better when she was next to me. It was lying and dreadful punks that wouldn't clue into the real amazement of the world and I think she did but it was due to me crying, it was due to the lights in her room, it was her, it was everything. I came to it as soon as she wouldn't write me back anymore, I would see it on her face loudly selling that this couldn't come out, like I couldn't be known. I just assumed she was better off without me and that was the exact thought that came to my head when I pushed her aside. I thought I was helping her, I thought being there was like a rape to her so I kept my head down and pushed out, not coming back surrounded by silence for four years. It's been 10 years since it happened and I never felt good since then, it's all subtracted, everything hurts, nothing lingers for long enough. I'm feeling a tone better now, I don't feel the bug in my head like drawing her in pictures has been helping, but I feel an emptiness that only we could overcome and I'm still bothered by the promise that she'd never be with me again. It's so drastic and clued as to where I stood with her this whole time I really think it was like a rape to her. It was drastic and sadistic and masochistic and it was really unhealthy. I would try to follow her, but not rashly, I just had to see her and stay hidden and it failed. Never do this, always just talk to them like a normal person, be kind, say what you mean even if it's not exactly what you say or give them a note or something. Notes are good, I'm trying to make it better with them, but it's too late for me and it won't pay off the way I think ever. I really liked her for subverting my expectations and she had a great personality when she wasn't fevered or hushed, and she always tried, like me, to speak her mind. But sometimes it would cross her and she wouldn't know what to do, she would cry and be left in her misery. I assumed I was like her, I wanted that, I wanted to be in simile with her and find something that would fix us, but I couldn't do anything. I wasn't a man, I was just a floundering pretty boy liar. I feel consumed and overwhelmed and it's sort of funny to look at from God's perspective when I think about her eating me with her spit and me finding it on the ground or something. I guess you could say I copied her DNA and am trying to get her out, and I only found another girl to help with that who's spit tasted nice. We haven't met, I'm super enthralled by her, when I say I'm not horny for her, it's really a lie, I gotta work on that, I'm dreadfully horny now after the mishap. It would come to me like a fork, I would just eat from my seat and feel happy knowing her, but she's got a lot of stuff going on and I feel like she's just wrapping me around her finger to drop me on some other counts of petty theft. I still find her in my mind more and more and need to keep her there since it's a sense of DNA and not emotions that makes me feel like I'm healing. It's her DNA, not her kind, I really just need to keep every thought about her and not move on, but this includes having sex with her which would help exchange spit more. I could kiss her, be with her, smell her, and it would all help innately. It wasn't like the girl I left that hurt me and caused me to spiral, who couldn't do anything to save me, the girl I had to do work for to find some kindness in the situation. She's really just there and I get along with her and whatever happens happens since I can always draft her and I think she likes me there. I think she likes me for real, but it's caustic and girls sometimes push things like this away. I want her to draw me closer, I want to be real since this is the only person I could find like her. It's probably the only person with my tongue in her that doesn't make me feel numb. My nerves cut out a few weeks ago and my only thought was, "her DNA made me weak." My nerves were raining almost and I could feel it kill me, I figured it would always get worse until I found myself talking to the good DNA giver quite sincerely about wanting to find her and make things right, until I gave her some other idea of where I came from and she gave me a name. The name didn't ring like hers, however. If I would give it some gross plagiarism, I was made to fuck this girl who gave me the name. It seemed like she wanted to help, too. I wasn't there like I should be for her, I was just watching from the sidelines again and it all seemed too familiar to cut out actual work and proper discipline. I started watching the other girl since she was on more, but the proper girl gave me her name later, so I just tried to make her happy and I sometimes get a reply and it's friendly. It still makes me numb, however. It feels like I would fall apart at her lap, like nothing could really heal and I wouldn't be there for medicine, I would just be there for a rump of coal. It's hot coal, but it's a designer buck I want to stop thinking about since I've been watching her constantly. She let me talk to her and it was fun, but now I feel overwhelmed by obstacles of liking everybody and really having a need for the other girl's spit. You meet a lot of people online, but finding the right girl online is so tricky it sometimes leads to confusion on what you should be doing online. Really you should be writing, creating something at least. It should feel good to be online, you should get caveats and smokers rights. It should feel like someone is there. It really does but it's so viral I just wish she'd get on more, the girl who's spit heals me. It's really just a livestream so I have to commit and vanish and laugh on air, but it's fun being with them, and I actually have to write more than I say there, here. Just to get the message across, I barely said it in a note, so it should be fine. But know this, I'll stay with you guys as long as I can and hope you never leave my sight, I hope you never get run off by anything and stay with it, because I really need you guys. It's almost like a long lost cousin, it's hard to get around them until you have the movie where you really connect. Rushing it would lead to confusion, but I could write to her in email and get it for sake of trespassing. I would make it real, I just super want to reach out and get more time in. I really like these girls and just watch them with everyone, but I'm super careful and won't be shot off this time, I feel stronger than ever. You might find it strange I'm in the livestream all day, but I really don't have other friends or see stuff in people I usually want. It's really hurt my mother, who hasn't got a lot of nerve left for me, it really disguised our relationship in a hospital visit. She cares for me but I'm really sorry for not having enough time for her. I have to work on my dreams, I have to make things better for her from me and where it really counts. She wants to see me do alright, she's sick of hearing about it. Hearing I did well with chicks will make my family happy, it's just not the time to really sink into anything but profuse writing and calligraphy to get my mind on things straight. It's bloody and romantic, these chicks. I would see them write and give soliloquy and I would rash out that it was meant for me, even chiming in that I didn't like everything she wrote but I was still pleased to be with her. The live isn't as stable as ever, they might leave, they might have matrimony, I'm sort of pleased but I still want to be with her, with the two, and free my mind in a sort of sight, but I can't do it without the DNA offspring of one or I'll fall to another. I'd be happy with both since they would achieve it, they would help, they would mature their offspring in their saliva to mold me fuller. It would reach it's panic when one doesn't really have a nature for it, but it's fine, it's still just molded and fuller to reach than it's ever been before and I really have a catch in the room that says everybody hears this to say that it's been alright being noticed and helped. I've really been catched and watched and I still have a mountain of paperwork really relying on me saying I'm full in a creative sense to rely on myself fully and not resort to petty payback. I'm full enough writing Gambit to say I don't want to find you, I want you to find us. You really have to find the paycheck but I don't think it's something attracted to filth, I really think it helps you to wander and glance and find out everything no matter how hard it is. I might get mad at some of the methods, but it's all for the greater escape into freedom, so I allow it and even help and guide it. I help and guide it so much, you should pay nothing and just wait for me to write for you. You should help me guide the book and I'll say with pleasure that it's a day off. It's really fun and doesn't rely on other people and it's just a good book. The things I'm doing though, taking over world of warcraft, receiving an iron dish that will once plug into the sewer successfully and make a makeshift hole to water down, it'll provide you with such curiosity to look into it, but I should really just write about it in another book I'm already crafting. It's a neo odyssey that answers life's questions you have for me and I'm proud to be a writer both on livestream and in print. Print offers more than you can ever imagine and it'll make you see what I really have in store. It's like they were telling me to get it off my chest when it was bigger than I could imagine and really had to sort through the stuff to get the picture in whole.
