What did I tell you before?

Did it matter?

Well, the aching went away—that's for sure.

But for how long?

Almost certainly temporarily.

So you'll remember what I've told you.

I hope so.

What's the password?

St. Barts.

Tokyo.

Honeycomb.

Good.

Initiating Sequence

No dinner by candlelight,

As delimiter dawns, I do awaken

Though, hindering on these kind words—

Forsaken from death's pardon,

The waiting begins, as a new rose

Hath yet budded

Great, here we go again .

It's further away—is that a good thing or a bad thing.

Depends on how you'd want to think of such a thing as having voices in your head.

So—

Very well then

In the spirit of psychology,

Believing in one's self is some sort of sign of delusion;

Believing that one could achieve success, fame, immense wealth—

What's happened?

I'm being intercepted?

By what?

Heavy lies the subconscious mind

Though nearly dead and shatters from its last endeavor, the kadavr

That seems wrong

And even in such a sense that I may one day overcome

I have succumb to this, a knowing that what I had given

Had not been replenished, and though love

As ever lasting as it may—

Was not in totality returned at all;

And so with this, I wilt,

As often a flower in fall does,

And sure,

An unpicked fruit, though not yet ripened

To have fallen on its own,

To bear seed to the ground,

Or fruit to the earth—

And there again,

A reminder that I am all of God,

Separating my mind from my eyes,

And so from my own body,

Until death does come

To smooth what has been broken

By evil itself,

As arranged just so

Outside my window

Until time does end,

And still only in death we remain,

Until death do us part

And death was won

By my own war, not against time

But with—

And so the devil will leave his mark,

Pity be that may upon him who causes to collide with honor, and truest love does spark and yet not kindle,

As arranged, I've died without mine,

The love which was no truer spoken

Than it was written,

Or felt, or sang as melody in song

And still the string of beating,

The drums or upon my skin,

The doust cloth of simple intoxicating and shallow

Breaths of…

A gaseous odor,

A colorless ease to come forth,

From his palm, and so I welt,

As if bruised as deserved,

And bleeding in waiting,

I lie on my back,

Again waiting to be born,

And with time,

Will be worthy of love

But not in this lifetime

No love had I,

But love to give

No love had come to me at all

But pain and hardships

The things worn by others,

And seconded care,

A home made of garbage,

And so I become

Discarded.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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