My finger-nail is caked in coconut oil.
fiction to post: 3817
so obvious: wear face-masks; [
_________________________^ which have at least
Hostager 1: I’m getting so horny;
I can’t help it if all these people
want my ass. I’m working
so hard keeping people hostage, illegally.
Hostager 2: Virtually or in-self.
Hostager 1: Both [heheheheheh]
I mean C’mon we’re holding
them hostage [further implicating
2] they should have sex with us
2 : [Obviously possessed
[to create Safety.] I dunno
I should get my hair done.
1 : What about me? C’mon!
I need to have sex.
Raped 1: Screams Screams Screams.
Raped 2: Dies Almost in Fear. Then
Revived. [How?] I liked it.
^ Stockholm Syndrome.]
fiction to post: 3.8.17 part two [Not Mental Illness]
When I close my eyes; dose or
close ; I see flashing lights which
help ‘revive’ my energy & . . .
inculcated [sp?] right
judgment] [no missing ] on purpose]
(b) [Functional Mental Illness]
When I open my eyes I often see
flashing lights; and they remind me
that I have decided upon desires. [like the compartmentalization of hills.]
(c) Open-Closed [Neither But Not THAT]
How do I see flashing lights?
Part Three. The Death Statement & Fictional Art Statement: From My Perspective
dedicated to my real f. s.a.p. the friggin’ sap of three.
I know the tree, made him un-comfortable;
and that he didn’t like the dollhouse;
tools of tr. profanity in poverty; like-that, I guess.
How odd; I hadn’t thought about it so immensely. I was just there for the tour; and
I just hadn’t had a chance to visit until then.
I guess how you make a place like that your home; is by cleaning what’s mostly or definitely yours; and then it is your home despite; what is that called: racism. Their racism. & then I guess you get older and it comes back to kill you; but those things are still yours; those real works. are yours.
They never got to go to his funeral; and I did. I buried him “free” since I was his only like relative at the funeral. I don’t think they even told his brother; and I didn’t have his number or real name then; at that moment; in that stages of reality interchange. We’d been kidnapped past real names of real brothers, at that point. But not real run-ins with real brothers. You never knew. But this part was real; except I wasn’t a boy that buried him; usually they needed a man to bury you or at least a boy. Ha-ha-ha-ha that made me laugh; because they had no way to no me. Ha-ha-ha-ha I knew him like actual knew him when I was a young not boy. He was my brother’s [only] best friend among many friends and higher real relatives. In the detachment of his deadened eye expression I could see the kilt of a best friend. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha it was no secret. & I’m from heaven at-least; ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. & My brother was my favorite before he died, too; in a similar way; in a kilted way: “higher!” Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha the secrets of best friends. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha you never knew. Always protected by the dia-frams of brotherhoods; ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
Do you know what racism is? The woman next to me won’t stop fake cleaning despite not being the cleaning woman-persons; until she looks exactly like me. No! It’s my face and me.
The truth is; I didn’t want anybody else who knew him then, there. I didn’t want the pain of his brother to color his way. what a word, color his way. I didn’t want the racism against his father, tainted into non-progression; to limit his understanding of him; I didn’t want the grief of my brother and some of my neighbors to injure any of all of them. I could only trust myself; and those that didn’t know him then; to “higher” him to “free” and that doesn’t mean that you didn’t feel his pram.
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha prams are interesting creaters of sighs.