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.

Still awake. I think I’m nervous after my shift coming up. Wanting to know what preparedness I will have, when I will be working again, what to sow for future, how to cope with business. I get a sort of primary detachment, and then like to stay. I hope we quickly see each kind come, Sunday, I am already in advance tired for afterwards. Reading me is like a transparent book, a crystal screen, a temporal stopwatch. Here mark me, cometh my words like prose, my mind at disease, and if you can interpret, thou shalt understand your difference in the restoration. When I get tired, I’m fire to paper, when I’m yonder, I’m awander.

I now hear the black. A jacket, a cup, shadows in the trees and grass. Pants, pole, island, silver smoke. I see the brown, tree, chair, table, white power stretches, screech, coffee, support, tablecloth, marble, bottle, box. Clear ice, orange snack, espresso pouring, gin blue, wine red, her magic touch. A lucky note, a placement, a kind soul, a gentle voice. I feel the tempo, a warm beat, a pattern on my forehead with ash. My dime, my orange grace, perfectional directional force, remembering, the things I love, those choice moments, of a time before the twenty more times, a rehashed line, a rehearsal, a cane, a white swan, soapy boxes in Irish cream, before to after, no ice cream, now we’re six, now again, now a dendrite mess. Connected to the godly voice, soul dug in how sweetly indescribable. Three mice, one length, one minderful pick, and an aching thumb. Not dumb, then down, then his growl, as I think there’s frown, then dance, no internet, sometimes hummingbird, and chance, a tie, a vest, the best, two words, no power, little wish, redo twice, a bounce, a drtramic moneymim, only one, more when’s, wind breaks, then soup, wows, and thoughts. A lot has happened this week to snap, to capture it in a thousand words, just pics. In my mind, there is a phrase, I want a raise, and job. My career with

Snatch, snitch, and swivel.

Ello. Elle.

God created, the problem himself,

Asked us for a change, to fix ourselves,

When truly what he gave,

Was  the body of a soul,

To put all the sin into,

And then, we ate of it.

Are we not what we eat,

Do we not need to judge?

Are we just a little human,

Like the old one that sold?

Are we all not a little dark,

And a light into ourselves,

A trouble at the core,

Trending to chaos?

When at birth,

We’re but two single cells,

Created in white purity,

And merged to forge the steel,

That sharpens each day our sword,

To pierce the heart of darkness,

The body should unite,

The one but only darkness,

The light inside alright?

And if we are to be,

The ending of it all,

Should we not just jump,

At each and every call?

So when the demon comes,

It comes from mind within,

And if it starts outside,

Does it not start also in?

And if we’ve heard it out,

Could it just let it be,

Because my heart’s so troubled,

By something small as thee,

Little faith you have,

Little bread to eat,

In the timing of it,

All it does is repeat.

And should it not unwind,

While we wait for it,

The wisdom that he broke,

Just to make us eat?

And yes a healthy dose,

Of truth it surely hurts,

But without pain I notice,

This mundane could be worse.

And only time will tell,

If the power should come back,

To counter our own magic,

At each little crazy hack.