• It all started when I realized I was doomed.  I woke in the morning and ate my breakfast in a safe place.  I thought of the dream.  There had been a sent who had their consciousness connected to a machine simultaneously with 100,000 other sents in order to raise a robotic AI sent.  And then, known or unbeknownst to those who put this game and fantasy together, a sniper put a bullet through the head of the young robot-sent, killing them.  The sent that I was watching in the dream woke from the mechanical body they had been put in, back into their own real body, devastated.  They cried.  I watched them…  They had raised the robotic sent.  They had loved them.  100,000 others had experienced it too, the same loss, the same awakening back; re-awakening – into their own, first bodies.  All, at once.  All that loss.  Another…real but unreal…was gone, and they had, the young AI sent, not known how much they had been loved, and by so many.  But the real, living sent I watched wake-up cried not for that.  They cried because they had truly come to love the young AI sent.  They cried slowly, weepingly; sadly…  And I then woke up too.

 • There was a party scheduled for that morning.  I thought it was a bad idea for me to go.  I went anyway, but…when I had awoken the sky was so gray, as if ready to hold nothing but bodies; no more ideations, no more conceptual thought tricks, no more searching.  Just bodies standing and being empty and comfortable and well in the gray, the emptiness.  Like it was when I thisself was a young sent in Germany.  So still.  Hollow air.  The mother feeding me clementine at the table, in the afternoon, after school.

• As soon as we got to the party I walked off.  I could not show up and befoul.  I went through the complex where the newborn-shower was taking place.  I sat down on a bench; and it was put into me.  I needed something…I did not want to rape any young sents…I did not want to attack the groomed-partner…I had not wanted to come at all…  The dream of the gray world and the AI-sent had promised me something, but I had ignored it, I thought, and not asserted thisself.  On the bench near the outdoor pools I could hear the knowledge, the crooked spears of light.  The fury of winding through potentialities, fury of freedom.  The wrath of a reality misunderstood.  There was a…  Stammer the whole…  The…  We will…  We…  We…  We will…

And it rose in me.  I left.  Leaving through the complex gates I paused, turned aside, and acted normal.  It was a misery of dishonesty, made completely wrong by my own inability to disinhibit my technothyions.  In the face of the spider, too, there was a wicked place.  It was after I had gone back to the party and it had ended that I watched the spider for a minute outside of the parking garage.  It was before all the rest.  The crashing down of it all.

 • I deliberated.  Brudda Iz was singing to me in the head.  I looked at the fountain by the interior of the gated community and pretended to attend to those walking about.  There was a stand in the middle of the road, a box, watching those go by, tall buildings riding high behind me, and so so much.  So much opulence.  The sky was silent.  Coming rain.  The plants and the road and the walk and the fountain ribbling and I realized how wrong it was for me to be there, on others’ land, making the decisions I was making.  That I had no right to my decisions.  What were they?  Were they immortals?  Were they around me still, the centuries of dead?

Song after song, about island communities, spiritual communities.  Mocking white men.  He still spoke.  In death.  He was not dead.  Is not dead.

“Go back,” it said, “do not decide based on fear.”  Never be afraid. …  ‘No…  No, that is not the way to do things, that is not the way to think through decisions.  It is not rational.  I have to flee.’  “O child Anarchia, infinite promise/infinite carefulness/I listen, listen in the night/by the cradle deep as the night/is it well with the child.”  Then I left.  It meant another’s death, that I left (all things were transformed).  I left anyway.  And Iz singing, condemning, or… something.  In jest and hate, beyond my un-state/understanding.

 • I walked.  And then the box of the not moving.  And then the bus stop.  I sat down and remembered who I am, likened to when I lost myself and had to beg and wait near there a decade before.  It was well; I read in the book how history is the externalization of the self and thus its non-existence is put through time in physical form and the collapsing of the self comes in the recognition of the need for usurping history’s story and destroying it, ending oppression and domination for all time.  This is what we believe, anarchists, yes?  Yes…

‘I love her!  I have found her!…I can see!I can see!I cansee! Thereisno’  Oh.  Oh now.  “Do you want nothing…”

• At the party (I had healed in the hand of a plant) I made rounds and then sat down.

My comrade sits down next to me.  We talk and they tell me of a video game with four parts in a sequence.  In the second some horrible shit happens.  And then in the fourth you get to kill some religious figure or something.  No.  That was me who said that.  What they said can be paraphrased as: “\Yeah.  This one dude in one dimension here and in another time too shot brudda Iz when he was on the mountain over there singing to you of your folly, and then Iz falls and lands on this dude who was tring to kill you.  To save your life, and to kill you too/”  Or something.  So we get up and go over to the drinks and food and Jacuzzi.  At some point I make it under the bridge.  I had been having a discussion with my friend, another comrade, and I had lit my moustache on fire to entertain them.  We sit under the bridge, (still, remember, this is a super fuckingrich place, the bridge has a fucking clean water stream and a fountain of its own), and their like, “Yo.”  And I’m like, ‘Yo.’  And then I get me my ass beat.  Nah, nah, just kiddin.  Not yet.  Nah, their like, “Yo.”  And I’m like, shit, I can’t stand this constant decision making.  I have to balance the whole of the external dimension of hierarchy and control and still sweat all this vainglorious delusional shit!  Fuck.  I don’t want to kill any of my comrade’s kids.  I want to fucking kill the kids of fascists, -so says I- , and so I take my white i-pod and smash it against the ground.

In the car on the way home the conversation with the partner and the others goes like this:

‘So you’re the devil, huh?  …’  “We’ve been dating for a year and a half and you didn’t know that I was the devil?!”  ‘Well fuck.’  “Dude, you gonna sell your soul to keep us from crashing?  You’ll save your comrade’s baby that’s in their belly and won’t get us killed.”  ‘Ah.  Fuh…  Well, I guess it’s selfish not to.  Yeah, sure.’  “Even though I’m the devil?”  ‘Yeah.  Fuck it, Fuck God.  I love you.  Sold.  For free.  No price.’  And then my friends suddenly become illusions projected onto the plane of existence like this one time when I was being taken to jail, and I realized that these fuckers are all building an illusion out of their contributions to my attention so that I don’t have to know I am in Hell and burning uncontrollably on fire, so that the demons (?) can feed off my lack of pain and awareness of the burning, in order to turn their attention from the fire and the judgment of God.  That I saw, and I was like, ‘Aw shit; my friends are all fuckin devils,’ and then the rest of the ride was like, ‘Aw shit, the devils have it cause the even worse demon overlords rope everyone in, takin all the resources, keeping us from takin them back.  Our bodies must be real.  I’m fucked.’

 • Course, that conversation was in my head, but then, outloud, someone asks someone else something, and the other person replies, ‘\Oh, yeah…It’s not an inverted morning star, or anything.  Anti-Christian.  Like Satanist…humm…foes fuck in both directions, right?/’     

So we get out at the park and I take off and then come back just as someone is sayin the mic check all loud as fuck and the partner walks over.  I ask, ‘How do I do the selfless thing,’ right?, saying the stupidest shit I can gurgle out of my throat, and just then, from behind me, some sent starts in at me totally ready to kill me, breathing out their hate at most and otherwise their readiness to come at me.  We watch them.  They breathe out the energy in the way, (I don’t know how to say it).  We’ll see, but hopefully not with them, cause…nah.  So I take off and run, (after we talk talk talk and try to figure thisself’s way back to sanity…).

 • So, all this shit is crazy, but then I went and had like three days in a fucking stupor, either sleeping, fucking, or reading comic books.

The stories were all the same: some fucking welp and conno, bring about the apocalypse or not, fight for the good or not, know that everyone and existence knows you completely and you’re an open book – or not, (though notably not known by G-d, but by all people, ‘The People’ having taken the place of G-d … for years and all…God-Damn…).  So I fuck.  I watch my siblings fuck each other on porn on the internet.  I watch Kid Apocalypse (Genesis) try to save their friends.

 –          Dreams, the melding, vagina demon and me-me, then the next, the silver window.

 And then, after days of this uselessness and self-aggrandizing travails through traveling tries at figuring through a life instead of living it, but, for sure, feeling the real rest and break from the solip-leaningness, I get ~ not bored ~, but…a feeling of obligation comes over me, mixed with resurging social interest and tha sense of responsibility – to my comrades especially, and for our anarchy.  So I call up the comrade and head to the park.

 • There they are.  We blaze.  And talk.

I get all strange and confused; another comrade comes over and is all smiles.  The first says, jokingly, that our third comrade has a crush on me.  This one puts the hand up in the air, the three of us in the grass, the night fallen fast and now cloaking, and I think it’s for a five.  I smack the palm with the palm, pathetically; and “No,” they say, “put the hand here, one must feel the connection with people.”  And up the hand.  Press.  I see the glint in the eye and the irony.  The fulsome lie, the Always-lie; there is a dimensional plate of glass between us, where both our palms meet in the air.  It separates.  Makes apart.  Distant, distinct.  And I am shut out.  Again aware I remember the phrase so many times to be remembered over the next weeks: “The mirror does not reflect evil, it creates it.”

So I look away.

Not wanting to be shut out of heaven I try to recall what not to do.

 {The Past. – Two things happened in the days of my {(permanent)}-conversion.  One included a mirror, the other included a dream.}

 There at the park I bent the head as wholly down and under my arm as I could think to, trying to look backwards, and I saw in the black-dark the memory of the dream that had given thisone a sight of entering paradise all those years ago.  I thought, ‘If I stand up and walk toward this vision of remembrance I will avoid being shut out.  I will, in fact, Enter.’  So I did.  And once I had walked far enough I was given another, then another, and yet another task-test-whateverthefuck.  I grew annoyed and opened my eyes.  ‘This is not how you love.’

 Walking back to them on the grass I said of the night I had climbed the stair chasing a glowing lover, ‘I wish to run round on all fours, and bray and bite and roar ‘n shit, and why should I not do that; it’s freedom that we revere, right?  This is why we are anarchists.  If I love freedom then why do I not run round and bray and bite and roar and chomp my teeth?’  I looked at the comrades.  The one lay with the head in the lap of the other.  ‘Here is where I draw a line, yes…/?’  I walked off. •