Down.

I felt the aches that come with it; my chest heavy, but came no tears. I yearned for that release, but I could not be met. Only further festering was to be remained. I cannot seem to find light when I do not know how I became engulfed by the dark.

Cut.

Feeling it necessary to remove myself from the family smog, I stepped into the blood-chilling outside air. I curiously walked over to a normal looking police officer, who was oddly waiting on the sidewalk near the house. Waiting for who or what, I did not know. We had only begun to converse when a brown truck with a tan-striped side went revving by. Skidding the corner down the street, we heard a thunderous crash and a girl screaming in the distance. Without a moment of hesitation, I went sprinting to help whoever could have possibly been hurt. Jumping the hedges, I braked myself in mid-air as I saw the truck immediately in front of me. I collapsed to the hard concrete as if the ground beneath me had been ripped away. The driver leaped out of his truck, lunging toward me. The five-inch blade slid deep into my side. After the painful extraction, I reached to grab the knife in his hand, only for him to stab into the flesh between my thumb and forefinger. Trying to pull back and shield myself, he sliced about my left forearm and hand. The shield bled. I finally took hold of the knife, stabbing into the right side of his abdomen. Cutting severely into his chest, I did not look to see if he got up afterward. I slowly took step after step back to the house. The now seemingly odd police officer was nowhere in sight. I pushed the front door open with whatever strength I had left. Wandering around the family dinner party, I dripped crimson as I called out for my mother.

Waking at 6:27pm.

Boy's wake.

I look to forward days; your knees bent before concrete and soil. The place of your palms cradle his roots of aged, draping between fingers of youth. With earth sifting through, and sprouts waking high; he swims back to you.

Conflict.

And so it goes with machines. Astronomical sums are nice, but blood is best. Flesh is easier. Mind and will are excellent. The captain is all these. The computer doesn't know I live. The captain does. He looks, he sees, he interprets, he decides. He tells me where to go. And as he is my captain, as I go.

Straight to hell.

Then hell it is.


Ray Bradbury's Leviathan '99.

Feel of the leave.

For even the thundering rocket, which rips the soul on Earth, walks silently some few miles high, treads the stars without footfall, as if in awe of the great cathedral of space.


Ray Bradbury's Leviathan '99.

So little to say, but so much time.

Two days short of two months, stemming from a friendship of two years. Propelled too fast to be peculiar, only feeling simply natural. Our hearts enveloped within each other, to be warmed and held above the cold. Despite the surrounding noise, there is us. Among the specs, the bed, the table; we drifted about this plane. Only now, have we finally met.

Untitled 2.

I think this is working really well. Us? Yeah.

I really think so too.

Untitled 1.

No matter the escapes, your bludgeoning words are all I hear.
Though fragmented replay, the message remains whole.

I am fighting, struggling to not let you all down.