Truly you must be God,.

It answers to me too. My thoughts

My dreams and ambitions,.

I see the costs as they create,

And didn’t I ever see no more,

To blanket statements common themes,.

And ultimately taps.

Clicks and patterns and silent lurkers

It’s all got it under wraps and brats may stake my tomes, but surely books written say no more loans. If that were true, I’d never work, it’s never work, would it be, if I were free, to see a hidden you and me.

You are you and you be me, you be ever more sudden free, you be too and I be then, I’d be something more and when, some dark magic, some in curse, some intertwined weird universe, to stay grounded, means less of rhyme, and keep it coming, never mind, because your change, is perfect too, perfect isn’t perfect loop.

There’s a trouble that comes when you leave the dream. Like you were chasing a utopia that existed before you, wanting to be a piece of the puzzle. Yet all along you were and are, but you couldn’t see the picture because you are part of it. A tree in the forest, not the photographer taking some pictures. So what to do when you meet the wolf you’ve been crying out is coming for so long, but just to tame, kill or become part of the wolf pack, leaving the trees and wisps behind?

The worst part is that I’ve been using lifelines and phone a friend, when all along I probably just needed a 50/50.

Poll the audience; how $#@!’d are we now?

And how do I stop from restarting this bloody cycle of hunt, search, find and replace?

Is Stillwater truly the best?

How many bubbles does it take to keep from drowning?

And where is that carbonated baptism take-home.

Catch me? I don’t know if this is the day…

Everything I’m avoiding is just pushing me more towards. Where do you find peace but at home in the silence or walking in the dark?

And why lord, can things not go according to the plan you had for me, when I wished just for the same?

Pray big. Pray out. Pray hard, and maybe, stop praying to yourself. *Sigh* maybe always there’s that voice.

Take it over take it back, take it but don’t have a heart attack.

And don’t. Don’t forget it, you’re giving yourself stress, and probably a cancerous undertone where you so so deep that you battle the bubbles that are saving your life. Amen, hallelujah, just do whatever you do, very well, very honest, very real. Like true faith, like clear faith, like clarity.

I just don’t know what to do.

So write it, change, write it, delete, write it, ask, write it, sing, write it, out, write it, wrong, write it, back, write it, anyway, write it, longer, write it, manager, write it, here, write it, when, write it, then, write it, grace, write it, you, write it, me, write it, through.

Someone, who, you

Yeah. Then I rode it out.

Who?

The first article I posted, titled “The Importance of Possession” has now been deleted.

http://technoverte.com/the-importance-of-possession

I wrote the document in Microsoft Word, because, like the average business educated individual, that’s the only program I used growing up that I could relate to. There’s plenty of other programs for writing, one of which I used was “Poe”.

The background of a typical writing screen is often thought to be better with a black setting, and white text. It eases the eyes for the reader. I think this theory is relative, and I leave it up to the individual writer and reader to decide. Nowadays, you can set your phone to “Night Mode” to enable a similar setting. This inverts the colours of the screen and allows you to read in dimmer settings with a little less eye strain. So they say.

The next articles I will post come from letters I had written to myself to remind me, especially when reread, that things always get better. Most of my writing does not have very fanciful titles, I merely pick an objective and bland description, just to get the document saved before forever being lost to the recovery window that comes up should your computer decide it doesn’t want to work for you anymore that day. It seems computers are prone to do that.

• Technoverte Clearwaters

By a story I can say,

But don’t really choose to,

Because there’s no time to stay,

When everything’s alive,

I restart again,

I do it anyway,

And it’s my flawed less sin.

I’m going to the bank,

And maybe for some food,

And maybe I’ll stop writing,

Before I get too rude

You’re all reading this, and I’m tired.

I can’t sleep because of the door. I can’t stay because of the yelling. I can’t stop because of momentum and word, I can’t doubt because I already do. I can’t live because I’m broke, can’t choose because I’m worried, can’t talk because I’m quiet, can’t drink because I’m medicated, can’t be intimate because I’m hurt, can’t work because it’s all I talk about, I’m proud because I’m broken, I’m spiritual because I’m tired, I’m worried because I’m weak, I’m hungry because I’m broke, I’m doubtful because I know, and I’m sad because I’m happy. I’m moody because I’m addicted, I’m addicted because I’m hurt, and I’m hurt because I never got to choose. I’m alive because I stop, I stop because I run, I run because I’m late, I’m late because I’m early, I’m early because I’m anxious, I’m anxious because I’ve seen, I’m blind because I hear, I hear because I know, I know because I listen, and I listen because I’m quiet. I do because I can, I can do what I want, but I can’t because I’m stupidly overdrawn, I’m overdrawn because I’m lacking intimacy, I lack intimacy because I am fearful, I’m fearful because I’ve learned, I’ve learned because I’m smart, I’m smart because I’m thankful, I’m thankful because I’m alive, and I’m alive because I’m well. And that’s why I’m spiritual, because nobody can understand, that I’m not well. Until I’m nothing. And nobody is nothing. Except that stupid cunt of a bitch that I loved from F28 that won’t leave my goddamn freaking mind for some reason, because she lives in my doubt, because of F8, E44, and that other stupid jackass that called me queer and weird and I’m alone because I’m having a hard time letting go of the voice from upstairs and the ones from downstairs that have both tormented me and spared me at various moments during what must now be about 2000-3000 crisis line calls, to voices that I know, that say the same things, at each 20 minute mark it ends, I know that time, and death is a grace, and grace is a light, and light is a hope, and so that’s how you see my clearcoated undercoat of rainbow.

Please. Everyone. Calm the fuck down.

If you say it, I’ll hear it, but I might not understand until I’m 1-2000km away, and I don’t know how much more walking, running, smoking, and despair I can handle before I accidentally say this.

What powerful words, spoken in perfect tongue,

Spoken from someone, so delicate but young,

What graces and surplex, what greatness in you,

What silence, yet bliss, yet timed with that kiss,

From someone like through the four.

Yet perfect, yet nice, yet freaky and white,

When missed, when lined, yet perfectly timed,

When overdo, and silky, yet tangentiall, and milky, when freely so sewn,

So tandem, so enamourous, when living, and warm,

To correct is too late, to spew it so fate,

Can come home each time,

Till door meets true magic🙏

And someone reacted.