part 80 -

delicious meat.
coffee toke cigarette.
it's medication time, though parts of the clown's brain tell him to stop taking them.
hmm... should he listen? should he obey?

what do we listen to and obey when our mind is a tizzy of babbling voices?
he's going to meet a friend for lunch.
it is difficult sometimes to determine what is quite real with what's going on around him when so many people tell him different things are true or false.
when reason is not much help to be trusted without the needed information.
intuition takes matters into its own hands.
repeating common phrases.
few if anyone have the patience for this.
oh well.

the pronoia is deep in the heart and flies high in the mind. everything, even the evil, is set in place to aid us in our journey.
ganesha opens the way or blocks it as is needed at times for what we must overcome.
but do we learn?
sometimes we do and sometimes not so much.
fly buzzing around.
doubtful doubts about most everything.
as it should be if we are to learn and grow.
the fat black cat hops up on the chair beside him wanting to be petted.
then she walks across the desk to go lay in the sun on the windowsill.
pb&j sandwich.
darkness all around.
bring your own light to it.
shine on and on through ages and generations of humanity evolved beyond itself into eternal life.
the universe acts in our favor.
believe it or not.

something ageless.
something divine.
poop.
the clown knows little but what little he does know fills him with amazement and wonder as he continues typing not p0em for the masses.
could anything be true?
but what is it really?
always changing flowing from one configuration to another as it is needed and should be.
he decides not to have a cigarette at this time.
let's have an orgy on the beach in the waves.
in and out.
up and down.
fun, baby, fun.

what's this about?
pronoiac perceptions to the contrary of deceptional illusions no one must be aware of existing in our minds.
it's nonsense, but not especially so in any great extent that we know of.
follow the non-linear threads of it.
it being it.
suck on it, baby.
nice and easy.
now, slowly pull the trigger.

and it's not obvious like a miracle, but more subtle than that.
it's a clue for those who don't have any.
S.C.U.M.
just like candy.
the useless helpless population of people all mixed up.
hybrids.
something like magick.
if this is the way it goes then that's the way it goes.
if it is what it takes to allow people to be happy for once.
the burning flags up on the hill.

everything seemingly disturbing illusions.
we are tricked so easily by those who tell us they know what's going on.
the simple life knows true from false.
but why worry about that?
we've better things to do, don't we?
we think so.
playing those old songs programmed by the thought police not to give us any strange ideas.

but the good news is that we have several options to choose from and we choose none of the above.
no one might tell us what our freedom will be though they keep trying to make us dance.

the poor victims, if we happen to believe in such things that "they" tell us through the manipulations of the controlled media psychic radiations.
the clown feels overwhelmed what to do.
that is the way they want it.
but he excuses himself and steps outside and after a cigarette to leap into the air and fly away.

depression to feel worse and worse every moment you're alive.
only sleep is the remedy, death is the cure.
let them have it.
people who fall for this repeatedly to the nth level of consciousness understanding the reality of the situation set on the table before them.
bring your manners.
more questions than we might shake sticks at if we choose to do so.
no comment.

life down and out on easy street on line for the next show at the burning theater. everybody knows it can't be beat. the bets are in, the windows are closed. the race has begun.
embarrassed as all heck we proceed toward the next destination on our list.
where this list came from nobody seems to remember, but it's all we got.

$$$.
butts galore.
outer space is calling our names.
but the prize goes to the ones who can focus on problems and come up with reasonable seeming solutions, unfortunately for us.
but we are on a mission.
damn the torpedoes.

awakening to another day of typing not p0em the clown confuses one thing for another into a narrative disclosure of what's left of sanity among us.
it shouldn't be that difficult.
as easy as pi.
it blinks on.
it blinks off.
at what point do we begin to doubt?

it comes for us differently for different reasons.
it's not as bad as it may seem.
cold coffee by now and another cigarette.
the project holds as what is to be.
it's all purpose.
it's invented by us to be make believe truth as it is written.
it is written, it is it.
few understand.
fewer still even notice.
everything vanishes from our minds to be replaced by everything else at once.
an infinitesimal instant quicker than snapping our fingers, blinking our eyes, wiggling our nose.
man drives his red mustang backwards down the street.

at this point there ain't no way back.
there ain't nothing left to return to.
but it all exists around us now in different continuing configurations of space and time.
high-ho.

the clown is happily disappointed with results of the experiment, an integral part and driving force of the project it would seem to be imagined in its derangement of devices working one against the others to the death according to our theory of everything.
dystopia is never too far away but may be the best for us at this juncture of our evolutionary development.
evolution?
isn't that a hoax?
is dystopia a hoax?
are we a hoax?
the moon?

see how easy it is?