1. The Madman Has Somewhere to Be

I spoke too many words without telling a thing when I was young. Pretenses that kept a cool suppression muted in the face of any adversary. The valor we disguised with pride and laugher that held an oath that we meant “it is necessary and sufficient to seize the waking life,” another mantra I held for some time, “to give life into your destiny!”

“The system knew how to eat you alive. Sure you’re not in command of the wind, the way things blow, when it takes fate to claim, for years I was safe, I’d recommend careful – and, you may quote me.”

You would have never known much about their psychic pain, their scarlet recovery from suffering, and then you’d most likely have to actually start to think the premise of my involvement was not about my role in the prophacy of mankind to understand this reality–a life of giving accurate solutions. IT WAS beyond me that their brains feed on the dry wallpaper of thoughts unforgiving, and find their roots in mild to severe discomfort, only to make them act on their undefined convictions through fear of controlling the shock of what they cannot accept that’s at fault.

Dee Contour saw them bridge the gap of inequity from foolishness on day two. On day one, they sleep, so the motif is set. But they nevertheless fight for resilience on day seven. Yet we both don’t say it to anyone – the consideration of a greater & sharper set of threaded thorns against life’s side-channeling with deepening cresent enlightenment: ‘FIND YOUR VOICE’ was discovered on floor five of the hospital. The day of wanting escape is around nine. Then their last resort to escape from these walls gets muddied by new faces before they feel more helplessness and the cycle is to resume. I fought to let these people find causality in their voices in ways that they need things to be shown & could make sense to them, for it was what evades certainty in the mind, to care this way. Dee Contour Senior has the gray hair to back a claim than could cause you to remember rapressed or just deeply faded memories of your childhood, which feels entirely new to themselves when you care this way – but lost on most entries where I hung my neon of “forever” before or until they had seen the reality of that in the light of dawn. “Look at that what’s on the back cover of the assigned reading:

‘FIND YOUR VOICE’ in marine blue, highlighter yellow, and deep red. No one knew what I meant by that.” Don’t try to filter it deep down just to forget about the good, the bad, and the madmen sacred to the environment enough to give something back to those who had not expected anything to be there at all. They share a sacred space here.

Tonia Nosa-Deth was a rebellious fifteen-year-old girl from Britain, who claimed she had been in love with an older man, resulting in her family committing her to the hospital where KDL lies awake wishing he were elsewhere, and by sending her to Davenport, IA they removed two of the moles in the scheme to put her into prostitution for this man – right after Tonia first heard the words “FBI” spoken in broad daylight, she heard voices (around this time) guiding her to follow her “internal locus of control,” and she had since dreamed that the bureau had already put her in a Covert Operations “training camp;” so I could relate that my experiences with the system had felt like something was larger than human intelligence & taking control of us, beyond any comprehension we possess, KDL explained that three people had stated that, in places such as this before, that he knows of, that these places often doubled as secret schools for operations for all sorts of target practice for the US Justice Bureau—played by the actors’ plucking strings behind the scenes in the shadows. The music was starting again.

I entered the downtown emergency lot on androgenic hallucinogens, toxins that keep the keyhole transmitters locked into a wrong loop of reuptake, and there I confronted eyewitnesses of other crimes that happened months later. What DO they mean to run from? “Nothing to hide, nothing to run from, either.” Only I had to think for a while. It’s hard not to feel nerve-endings twist with every ounce of my nerve-racking being at stake in the vanity of strangers who have things to hide. “Go home after you talk to the big guy out front.”

What you cannot think of is mass surveillance, so that the security to not be waterboarded in the living room of a squatter’s hideout. What then becomes of us but our voice? Within this sad & helpless era, another epoch of misguidedly misjudged losers calling themselves artists. We’re all directors. “I feel so/so.” We were all stray cats lost to be found by the well-wisher’s – so the love was gone with someone else’s maniac-esque prismatic light formulated glass pane fragments of blue and yellow, colors unrigid in their indifference? As it was (then but not now) the root of my emergence. Because our faithful directionality has somewhere to be.

I assuage we can agree that love for those we cannot understand will often fend walls that stand in opposition, from time to time – to allow them to exist in this state of counter-to-effort effects, efforts (or lack thereof) have made these individuals themselves.

“You know, It’s never so simple.” This was running through my mind a ways before it drew a last-day-on-earth kind of sound, thinking of my friend’s goddaughter who had a fear of knives so she stayed out of the kitchen during dinner, and left diners alone to eat at home during birthdays, and was horrified by my stories of interacting with a pika patient for hours at a time, but the fear-exposure worked. Here’s the gist: Young people may not hold themselves to their word, but the hallmark of an adult is holding yours like your life depends on it. To be afraid of knives is one thing, because yeah, at any time something sharp can hurt you & make you bleed real, honest blood, but to see the terror in the world post tragic event, after event can leave you in real agony.

“Nothing happened, you know, between me and this older gent.”

“You know my motto is not the same as my mantra,” I continued, “My motto is: ‘the madman has always somewhere to be’, but my mantra changes each day.” Here’s the realist response to the Copenhagen interpretation, “We become what we already were after time had brought us to where we are now,” or “It’s harder than your heart because the truth is in the way,” or “I wish I remembered all those places I’ve been, with the people I was with, the way it was back then, because, then, I would know what on earth happened,” etc.

The same light of gray in winter with crosstalk on whispering inside voices of libraries, I witnessed a murder that day. Then surely you saw it, too. With which you saw the first snow of yesteryear in red, waiting for you to paint with. From before fractalized-time exposures, they said so too into your voice (and whatever the trend to compromise), a story born of a tragic situation.