Moon Beam

Coffee shop politics,

In-formalities of nostalgia,

Lives converging in bubbles of noise,

One does wonder the state of their toys,

A cold street chill blows through the boulevard lane,

Lives shuffle past like nothing to blame,

In the dead of night,

Illuminating glow worships to every delight,

I wonder what their lives are like,

Happiness and stoically slight,

Some a lie, others delusions insight,

New Year's Eve reminded Nova that she did not belong to this world, darkness was slaughtered by pledges of light, as the symphony of dreamed oaths danced on the souls of stars; she felt both enhanced by the night and empty because of it. Optimism, festive souls, and death beds; the palace of last goodbyes was a road trip in memory, like a weathered hospital, or the ending place of people's vacant wishes, grotesque in the completed cycle of lost spirits. Death was dangling more by the years and less by the decades, to ravage a poisonous uprightness of life in that limited; escape gravity, and a spiritual calling, trying to free itself from reality. Moon bathing in a sea of hopeful romantics begins the day after empty resolutions and vein hangovers.

Truth to self and the truth we hope to sell to others finds good memories; pain, sadness, happy places, and a longed-for façade, that mimics the smallness between inward visions and outward desires. Normality appears as a life goal in contrast to the lies others seem to lead. Monstrous and barbaric is a reality to believe in certain kinds of freedom, like a tightly woven piece of barbwire wrapped around the organs, where one can run free, just before the wire tightens. Most are lost in some concrete jungle of popular interest, which ultimately means one has to validate themselves to those high in the skyscrapers.

She lived in an underground world and she could barely remember her given name. Alternative angst to mainstream society was a populist notion of superficial realities, as she could speak its language with relative ease. The reality was just rhythmic waves she thought, a repetitive death of the safe living, dissipated and disconnected from all the alternative tribes slowly dying in some nostalgia. Artificial life support was a simulated moonbeam coming from the internet, to haunt morbid obsessions masked in a capitalistic medicated, comic-like grunge existence.

Decay was gothic as much as popular culture was just a convention of suburban hysteria; extinction was a normal retrograded cliché. The suburbs became some kind of crippled mementoes of some lost dream. People were invisible and those who wanted to disappear; could do so, through the many cracks of reality. Corpse alleyways were now crammed with neon lights that contained dark holes in the ground which led to a network of underground clubs. The old-world linkages had faded to hook up hopefuls and masculine trend groupies, as passion was confused with a unique style and assumed unconventional as an act of rebellion.

Easy love levels the underworld into a meek validation of effort to worship reality, defiantly; it makes gestured almost cliché light, of a difficult extinction. The only notion of regret was held in the bottom of a shot glass, in contrast to a dying world of freedom, in blurred afterthoughts. Whispers are the origin of rumours, just as thoughts create stories, to grow into legends, and seep out into knowledge of life, from the most humble of lies. A dirty, grimy fish and chip shop had stood for aeons, it is light bathing the open road on the edge of places few dared to live, was set between five shops cut from an old large building, that had once been a hardware shop. The edges of cities are interesting places; the white walls stained with history, the dirty tile floor, a dilapidated menu. The old coin-operated games stood in defiance to time, while the well-trodden chewing gum sat silently on the dirty old footpath.

The fast-food bar was not very impressive; it was insignificantly stuck between all the other junk shops, with the same family running it for many years. The chip shop had certainly contributed too many heart attacks to the local cemetery. The customer area was no greater than a large closet and the kitchen no greater than a living room. On the dark and empty road bathed the street in the last city light, strangely it appeared as if one last house on the frontier of all humanity, resting against strange darkness, and all her mystery.

The free despise the devout worship of slavery to a wooden box and rusty roof. More importantly, they despise a family’s worship of such idol gods, for the Chip Shop was also a tomb. The most brute and masculine effigies of their father's abandonment and ignorance were validated by inattentive mothers. It served as a template for a loveless bond, which had transcended into a thing called survival. Work from the bottom up put in extra effort, save everything you can, buy a house of sticks, worship it for all your days, and then obsessively plan for the day you die.

Entitlement finds uncomfortable satisfaction, as comfortable love exists, without any form of the transcended cause of erotic giving. All of humanity's intimate lives will one day be virtual; our communal fears will become overgrown and forgotten, like illuminist mist on a slab of electronic pixels and digital grass. That representation of the lost unwrapped abandonment finds philosophically enlightened monkeys pushing buttons as a guarded empire of untainted life. Still, in the now times, we must live by our own terms however constrained by the strange normal which ultimately limits living to one’s own freedom. A release of burden, a repressed scream, a wild calling, to find one's tribe; suffocates in limitations of freedom, but, letting go, is the nature of the soul lost in the premise of limited contrast.

Pleasure and pain was a narration made by the voyeurs in the sensation of anticipation, where the mystery of pain, was suffocated in pleasure. Love was a dive bar and stumbling from it was the empty voids of the introverts unwrapping themselves on the altar of relinquished control. It was only the introvert within that felt the empty void; Nova chased a dragon as the ethereal goddess within emerged hunting for vengeance from old empty palaces of brief lovers and indecisiveness. To wallow in love is to stagnate with time and for whatever thing Nova’s soul was fighting, it fell into the great void far beyond immortal fears that whisper in our ears without revealing their true form. Nova picked up the letters from the mail room, and pulled some bills from her neighbour’s box, if she was going to be naked with Angel, she wanted to know his last name.

“Angel Willow.”

Nova took the lift up to her apartment and discarded her possessions. After seeing Sagia’s remodel, Nova thought her webcam setup needed a whole redesign from the ground up. It was good to breathe in her own space, it had been a busy week with Angel and Sagia, and he was out picking up some groceries. Life is filled with rooms, and Nova had many rooms in her mind, they all change, but her mind always returned to some form of nature, like driftwood music. Sometimes in her mind, she was at the edge of a forest, with sand between her toes, and the sound of rolling waves. All her rooms had these, elements of quiet and places of peace.

With Nova’s previous lovers, she always felt everything and then felt nothing; webcamming was her way to escape that descending void. Nova made pictures in these cam rooms, or rudiments of her soul shared in temporary cocoons of journeys between; mountains, rivers, lakes, and beaches, like love in-between space itself. Like a lost first love, it was exhibitionism that gave her a sense of vulnerability that had been missing in her life. Rooms were an energy of being, not a soulless cage of things, they had a purpose with elements of order, style, and expressions of connection. Webcam communities made a kind of broken town, a place where forest spirits faded to trends in the land of the now. Models were destined for a different living and preordained to be entrenched, loved, and trapped, on a virtual theme park ride.

Nova Goddess of Artemis, virtual personification was the Nymph Hesperides, of the evening and golden light of sunsets. Angel decorated Nova’s cam room in golden, red, and yellow colours, adding furniture from his own apartment. He folded old books into noise dampeners and gilded an old lamp in gold, and reduced any blue colours that promoted eye fatigue. On the shelf sat six clocks with different time zones of different cities, and a calendar highlighting the weekend in each of those cities. With all the social media set to one single name and linked to four separate sex-cam hosting sites, she was set to go live simultaneously.

Nymphs were servants of the gods; connected with the grove and trees, they danced like courtesans. Their masters were the nature of people; mortal was a thing called love, and to mortal men they were dangerous. Moonlight was love, and sacrilege of love was a powerless hate towards nature, so they gravitated to the strong like moon dust caught in gravity and loved them like willing slaves of dance. More bound to the earth than gold, wisdom was the price of their nature, eternally free and bound to things like territory carved out from the flight of hawks. You could love nymphs in reality, but like the height of celestial orgasms, they did not worship the acts of men on earth.

Nymphs were more partners of free will in the chains of man’s darkest storms. Nymphs enjoyed the nature of humiliation because it was the place that the unlovable could not follow in truth. There was no journey in the wrong direction, only company in the wrong light, and there was no remedy in dominating the hatred others serve. You could only reach the sacred grove by heart alone; as beyond the wastelands of indulgence, the seasons are intangible with the freedoms of fear. Nymphs spread themselves bare in the mind, before their bodies ever danced naked, they were a submissive demigod that would never sunbathe in other people’s shadows. They were self-sufficient people and could not be brought with masks of others' ego.

With Nova’s sex cam room completed, Angel messaged Sagia that the site was ready, and made dinner before their first show. Angel would not show his face, and the site was set for different regions, so nobody could make a connection to Sagia’s Book club. They were both excited; the theme of the site would be, ‘Tension, Tease, Slave,’ and Angel sent a link to Sagia so she could gain access. Nova played it tough but had an innocent side, when Angel decided to have a quick play with Nova to set the mood; he bent her over the table. Nova moaned as Angel pulled her arms behind her back and put her wrists in cuffs, the metal chain rattled as the teeth of the cuffs slid over the lock, making that unmistakable click. Angel reached down pushing her fingers into her drenched pussy; it felt like she had a clean record.

The buildup of arranging sex toys, hot outfits, and whips and chains, had been frustrating for both of them, Angel slid his cock deep into Nova and began thrusting against her ass. Nova’s body thumped against the table and she was brought to a quick climax; with her innocent side bound, Daddy’s little princess was powerless to feel the shame of her kinky desires. Nova pushed back against Angel’s cock, encouraging him to fuck her harder; her crown was made of sacrificial deer antlers and she was caught in the forest. Nova climaxed a second time, just as Angel came, juice leaked down the inside of Nova’s leg, as she fought against the cuffs to get one more mental release. Sensual domination and mental kink play followed as they fell asleep before their first webcam broadcast.

The deep abyss was a twisted internal desire of catch and release, and flight and escape; like an ocean current basking in stars, while metropolis windows trapped souls. Old souls in young bodies felt like reincarnated animal spirits, well tired from an aristocracy of hate and the dispossession of nature. Wisdom fought barbarity in carnivals of cannibalism; the old mind held the foundation of the modern mind on the astral plane. Tension was the anticipation of the flight, the tease was the naked strategy of escape, and a slave was the unfamiliar comfort of surrender. Fear is in the conflict of control just as comfort is eccentrically designed predictions of mystery.

It was Nova’s job as a Nymph to serve spread eagle in panties and a bra, lying on the bed. Angel clicked live on the webcam and rested his coffee cup on Nova’s panties as her clit began to bulge. Nova felt naked and cold as the warm cup made her body shudder with sensory overload, rapidly a thin wet line soaked through her panties and clung to her crevice. Angel rolled the cup over Nova’s clit as her panties pulled tighter, the sound of tips increase when he parted her legs with a horsewhip. If Nova moved, the cup would spill all over her swollen wet pussy; she could only moan and tremor. Angel took a sip from the cup and placed it on the bedside table.

Nova slid her panties off and began playing with herself, while Angel ran the horsewhip over her body. After she had teased herself into a frenzy, Angel commanded her to roll over and spread her cheeks wide. He went to the fridge and returned with an ice cube and began to numb her backside by rubbing the ice cube over her opening. After about ten minutes of tease, she was completely numb, Angel stood above her and gently placed the tip of the horsewhip on her backside, and then with one well-aimed stroke, whipped it red with a crack. Nova let out a whimper in anticipation but her body did not shudder, slowly and methodically Nova received ten more lashings as they got slightly harder and harder.  

Angel held his warming lubricant to the camera, and rubbed it over his hard cock, as Nova’s backside began to feel a hot burn from the horsewhip. Nova moaned in submission, as he mounted her and placed the tip of his cock on the rim of her hole, and gently slid it deep into her. Nova let out a deep long moan, mixed with pleasure and pain; she reached beneath herself and began to rub her clit as Angel began to give her long and firm thrusts. The more Nova’s rim began to burn from the whip, the faster and harder she rubbed the pain away with her clit. An all-encompassing rhythm was paired with a warm tingling sensation deep in her crevice, as her breath quickened her moans become soft screams, as juice flowed from her slit over her fingers. Angel’s balls tightened as he came deep into Nova’s hole, as she began to convulse from an orgasm of sensory humiliation.  

Cum mixed with warming gel and Nova’s burning crack, spiked her adrenalin; she buckled on Angel’s drained cock, sliding back and forth. Angel pulled his dick all the way out of Nova’s hole, as the cream began to ooze out; he turned around and began to paint her ass cheeks with hand prints, ten firm smacks for each cheek. Nova rolled over on her back, picked up the vibrator and proceeded to fuck her pussy, as Angel grabbed her throat, and lightly kissed her on the forehead. It would be another two hours before the pain burned through Nova’s backside; Tension, Tease, and Slave hit a thousand dollars, in the witching hour.

When Theia an ancient planet, collided with Gaia, the early Earth; 4.51 billion years ago, it formed the moon we know today, and the Earth below it. The debris is scattered into the solar system. In less than a billion years what people know as Mars, was a planet filled with water and life. The Earth was cooling when the Martian Moon was struck by a massive chunk of the remnants of that first massive collision between Theia and Gaia. The Martian Moon known as Europa was stuck in an elongated orbit and the debris that fell on the green planet jettisoned life into outer space.

The oceans of Mars were caught in its moon's gravity, while some of it escaped towards Earth. With all those frozen blocks of ice, all kinds of life fell to earth, locked in frozen rock, sediment, and water, seeding the Earth with life. Europa was to be caught in Jupiter’s gravitational field and pulled into its orbit when the planets of Mars and Jupiter aligned. Life grew from this destruction in the Solar System, but it also thrived on an evolutionary path seeded from organisms from Mars. It was man’s desire to reach into space, which would bring about an infection from the source of its origins. Man re-infected the evolved human body, with an ancient bacterium that had laid docile deep beneath the Martian soil.

Nova

“It was when they genetically engineered the mosquitoes to be one sex, that’s when the human race lost its herd immunity to the common virus, that’s what caused the apocalypse, no mosquitoes.”

Sagia

The bitter truth, is unspoken

And the sweet reality

Is that there are few

To disappoint.

Unspoken worlds

Of passions

True intent,

In lost….

“I heard from an old medicine woman that a famous serial killer used Route 66 to hunt for victims across America, and when the world ended, he hunted lonely travellers along the old empty highway.”

Dreaming in, whatever love brings, like love never

Ends, in lost and found, love things; Tattoo, infinity

Symbols, at the crossroads, of her heart, like her spirit, is a lost dying art,

She had eyes, like the seasons, and I loved her, for no reason, don’t wanna live, in the slipstream,

Of other People’s dreams, don’t want to be an echo, of someone Else’s head, like love left on- forever read,

Tired of being- infused, to be used, to lose, to refuse,

With angels that- others choose……… to ride, the love

Lightening, because peace alone, is infidel frightening,

So, ocean swells, chasing deeds, as, fees that secede, to More often, ocean seas,

She sat on a slab of concrete in the shadow of an old house deep in a suburban oasis; at least that is what she thought it was, a refuge to replenish the soul after hard travels. Strangely, the concrete had begun to sink and crack from its own weight, which tended to blend well with the peeling paint, she felt invisible now, also sinking and peeling in the shadow of some forgotten past. As the tall trees waved in the wind, she felt free; free from the concrete path she walked at high school hoping some aluminous soul would find her darkness like a falling star and finds some brief meaning of freedom. Those paths were sunken and worn smooth by the endless foot stamping of young beings clothed in their serrated little words. Freedom comes at a price for a suitcase soul; why a suitcase soul, because a suitcase is all that you need for love. She was quietly waiting for a plane to take her away from all that she had ever known.

There is time before dark, hours before hunger, and minutes before warmth, and it is said the baggage of true love fits inside only one suitcase, as that is all you need, one suitcase and another falling star. It is a notion of hope, but in a walk towards the soul, hate can find you with only one suitcase and just ten dollars of breathing room, which in itself does not invoke great options of free love. Steadfast is time wishing, to the fading generations; beautiful memories become extinct, with many of the creatures of this world. She knew why she wrote in a diary; life was meaningless and she was the only witness.

Love could be like an archaeological artefact that quaintly survives to become entombed in a museum basement, and trapped in an old and dusty cardboard box. Everyone she knew seemed to fight for what they were comfortable with, but fewer were unwilling to fight for what they believed in. How strange that content people all still seemed trapped, just like her, a bug in a jar, trapped in a little suitcase. She dreamed of bigger love as the world looked full and life sang on in its empty tunes. Who knew if an ancient soul came tired, yet, did not have the enlightenment to realize itself so.

Such is pain a remnant of tribal expression, belonging to fire dances and stars flickering to emerald black. That tame society claims the soul as a reason to love, declaring faith of the heart, to be truer than the reaching passions of a moment. How the dance fails to reality, and how the dreams die in the fading, what is left but the great hollow wish to remind oneself; one is not good enough for salvation, and not bad enough for love. She felt this like impending doom, the last call to catch that shining star so briefly in memory, but also long in omniscient fate; perhaps it was hell for all dreams, like how the rain feels colder when you are alone. Love can be a sort of poison at times and she loved to be sick, more than she could love all her disappointments.

Nothing felt like home anymore, but she was still willing to find a home in someone else after the feelings of emptiness warmed her in silence; as a lost fate unfulfilled. The universe glows with dark clouds making grey souls to the concrete jungle's wrath, to pound the imaginative, into quiet robots of consumption. Freedom was a true revolution, as it is hard to love when a product is sold as your own idea for other people’s happiness, while you yourself remain interchangeable as the seasons drifting on an ocean. Love bares the truth of the mind, in all its foolishness, as the foolhardy seek any epiphany to serve safe lives; now she felt trapped between that, and cliché adventurers using illusion to serve their own selfish hate.

She had slowly cut herself away from her given name, like a wound which had not healed, all that had claimed to know her, had said how she had changed. How ironic, to be trodden down and examined beneath the soles of their feet she thought. Sagia struggled to tell people her name, like a part of her was broken and she had to cut away all the broken pieces. Now Sagia did not feel like a whole person, and now, she did not feel like she belonged to the world of homes. The world showed Sagia little comfort, it had instead given her wild nightmares; Sagia had one thing to love, a tiny piece of freedom and a quiet escape from the controllers of souls.

Time takes everything and Sagia knew that one day, it too would take the only thing she was allowed to love. The space in this place was little more than a hopeless dream, yet to her benefit, the hateful remained unfamiliar with the whispers of love. It makes sense to desecrate happiness, for the evil are absolute in their loathing of kindred things. Such remnants echo of the things hateful people struggle to understand, but, acknowledge their presence as something to absolutely destroy. To dream does not make it so, to love does not make it home, and to wish does not bring freedom, but to absolute escape, Sagia wanted to find her meaning of peace, through a freedom of choice.

Love was just beyond the doorway; Sagia just had to step from beyond yesterday's shade into tomorrow’s sunlight. Sagia’s shadow now silhouetted the brick and basket wallflowers; but more importantly, Sagia wished to step beyond the pain of yesterday and find control over tomorrow. Sagia, had just enough heart to trust herself, but she did not have enough conviction to believe she was free from suffering the memories of her past. It was like watching neurotic hope stumbling slowly and assuredly, and the more she fought against it, the more awkward she became.

Fairytales told her there would be a prince waiting to catch her, but they also spoke of heroes and villains, and good and evil. The world was not a fairytale, the world was not even dark enough to force goodness; it just was a thing of people's imagination. In Sagia’s worst memories, the most terrible things wore masks of goodness, and to be impassive to love was to accept an entitlement to all evil.

Road trips, in vintage art, and shopping mall spires, Held by, credit card wires, made from, people tires, Buried in death hordes,

A yoga tax, made from, skin cooled, candle wax, and two coins, for the ferryman, or what a busker, can, afford,

Tired of the light, as the void of black, echoes like Tombs, to consume, Straight Jacket, Glamour

Mobsters, poisoned in Blues, just to blow, another Fuse,

Sun-soaked, made up in; love broke- debonair, and People fear, overdue in, mortal fuses, filled in Monkey money road trip ruses,

Planet religion, to abuse, prophesies of, Flat Earth, Dues, escaping, whatever love, groupies choose, to Homeless lose.

‘The Deity of Time.’

‘That is what we are!’

‘Half-light beings of our own moments, suffering in the dark.’

Beyond happily ever after came a call from the void and to such darkness, once upon a time answered like a lost moth kissing the flame. Hell-shadowed natural fortresses bathed in the long elements of time. The travellers made their way through the highest of ranges and deepest of valleys and had wondered their bones immortal in the local footholds, which wallowed in the shadows of a towering death. This is how we carry our memories, this is how we dance in regret, and this is how we dream, looking back at days gone in the wind.

Souls were forged somewhere between the untamed, as infinite corners of darkness peered out, like caged wild animals that searched for an ancient star whispering on the free wind. Many entities of void live in a soft reality that has thorns for flowers, to curse beauty with a contrasting beauty of darkness. Most rustic love exists for each person if they believe there is a soul mate resting in the deep void; certainly, all will find a lost version of themselves in other people if they wish to be lost.

Sagia was Latin for wise and in old English, it meant sage-wise, and true to her name Sagia was very worldly, as her personality was outgoing and friendly. She cannibalized herself for her children, as a sacrifice of rewards, which is a paradoxical polarizing act through time on the rhythms of love, as absolute guilt or freedom. As the glass and concrete jungle filters out to the weekend and far beyond, she finds herself in love with the notion of a different life, but then again that is two faces of light and dark.

The disease lay dormant and undetected for Ten years due to Mar’s 687 Earth day orbit of the Sun being consistent with the life cycle of seasons. A smaller planet had smaller creatures, which had not adapted to the season and beings of Earth. Scientists would later estimate the gestation time on Mar’s to be equivalent to five Martian years. The means of infection on a primordial planet was consistent with feeding, fighting, and mating, while on Earth, the means of infection were increased due to Global Warming and overpopulation. It was greed and power that pushed humanity to Mars, just as it was the infection and Global Warming that destroyed all civilization.

Scientists concluded that before Mars was destroyed, it lost its magnetic field when Europa was flung off into space. Most creatures had a natural resistance and immunity to the disease, and when it bonded with the human cells, the pathogen had evolved from this insusceptibility. When people started showing identical signs of being sick, it had embedded itself, deep in the body like the root of a giant tree reaching out into cities, countries, and continents. It was Earth’s gravity that created mixed-density cells, like ancient primordial giant cells that first evolved on the planet, but the disease became resistant to antibiotics as it quickly grew into an unstoppable death for most of humanity.

Nova made herself and Angel a bath, with soapy bubbles oil and candlelight to decompress, and they both hopped in. The old world was a dying class of empty underpaid jobs; the internet had reverberated through the slaves of slim pickings and freed them to lands of self-love. In the land of things, porn and sex made goals achievable, by the reality of sweat.

Angel kissed Nova and wondered if the past contained love notes from lost lovers, a place where all the things we cannot say, are spoken ever so softly. Love is a repercussion held in time, a strange offering far from fortune tellers on stormy nights, impervious to temptations. He remembered a strange message on the chat board that had tempted his curiosity. 

‘Who is Audrey?’

Nova smiled and dipped her head below the waterline; she was an escape from dreams and nightmares in beautiful places, looking for a trail in the fog, while imagining life on the far side of the moon.

‘In a starburst we danced.’

‘Felt the warmth of heartbeats.’

‘Watched the city lights like dreams on a road trip.’

‘Pushed the sand between toes.’

‘Wished to catch the breeze.’

‘Breathed the cold reality of distant warmth.’

‘And sung of forever.’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘There is a message on your webcam page!’

‘She was me, in a different city, in another time.’

Adventurers are a cliché, shading the habits of romance on the stage of occupancies, where deep passion is the forgotten foothold of permanence. Moments burrow into lovers' lives, with no great extinction of love, just as passion fades it conspirers to destroy all the stars. Vulnerability is a kind of starvation, and people take a sense of pride in starving others out of passion, so that they may binge on a tainted soul, out of dying of thirst.

‘What does the message say?’

‘I can’t set myself alight as a shadow,

‘But- I can burn the world,’

‘Until… It warms my weary heart.’

‘The Higher Institute of Applied Studies.’

‘Mr. Green.’

Horrible stories exist in the world, and even though their truth may be limited, we are suffocated and frozen into things to use like starvation of life and death of honour. Many die looking out the windows of their broken rooms, wondering what could have been, while holding the greater world, in a smaller cocoon. The mystery was clouded in shadows more so when searching for pictures of loved ones desolate of clothes and enriched of film. Above them was a twisted, mangled burning wreckage of a ship and beyond through the fire was a celestial beach, where villagers would wave out to the drowning people.

‘What is the Higher Institute of Applied Studies?’

‘A kind of finishing business school for disobedient girls.’

‘I have never heard of it.’

‘It’s elite and private, very private.’

‘Mr. Green?’

‘My sponsor, you are sponsored and earn credits.’

‘Towards your end-of-year grades.’

‘Yes, and punishment for disobeying their rules.’

Angel never really knew where Nova’s story began and if her dreams were free, and in that strange imprint, it was difficult to disseminate the chasm between memories and time. The desire for an expensive lover whispers to man’s delusion, and the opportunist reveals the revulsion of poverty, tragically built on the infliction of historic homes.

‘You are given two options to work towards a degree.’

‘The traditional way, or an easier way.’

‘Easier way?’

‘Become their object… you become their sex puppet.’

‘It is a place for disobedient girls; most girls are already into sex anyway.’

‘The Institute is a kind of high-end career placement.’

‘The higher the grades you earn with clients, the higher position you earn… but you still have to study.’

‘Why don’t any of the girls tell their parents?’

‘After the induction and training phase they earn money, so bank accounts increase significantly, and with the business studies, they taught us how to set up business accounts, so they could expose us… It’s a self-management system.’

Obsession and hatred are affluent, and often supported by ambition, vanity, and ego. The quality of time passes as flawed perception, as time exists in its own perception to manipulate its own purpose, as an image and restriction to be perceived as a god among fools. People become the sum total of their being, life is just the mitigation of lies and truth ability, for solidarity over the slight murmurs of good people intent on deeds defining all. Most wish for; power, wealth, fame, youth, beauty, and security, within the grasp of an elixir and poison all in one, blind with happiness they are dreaming sick with envy.

‘How did you end up at the institute?’

‘It was a school dare; to steal a bottle of whisky from the principal’s office. I was caught on my old school fields drunk and passed out with my friends.’

‘Mr. Green sponsored me to a business program and I worked under a boss that sent me to clients.’ 

‘Mr. Green broke me in… to the craft.’

‘When I ran away, I stole Mr Green’s Black Book, because it had one of my friend's address in it.’

Self-sufficient people travel further than truth, for lovers they inspire to be, far from sheep agreeing on the nature of wolves. Mundane things filled life to dwell over empty mountains for a cloudier glimpse of the sun coming through the sky window, such was life. Nova’s life had been built on well-polished lies, love did not care for the suffocation of being free, alone, or together. In the end, people ascend to the rhythm of a song as they fade out to the beach and the ocean waves, where the world is bigger than the travelled roads, high in the darkened sky.

What was Mr Green like?

‘I remember the first time he singled me out...’

Mystery surrounded Nova’s past, there was pain before life teaches you that it is wise to value things before the world is contained with hate. It seemed like her old world was destined to be smoke and mirrors far removed, from the humble origins of fire and dwelling in caves.

‘So they ask what love is there in the world.’

‘The only love is to serve!’

‘At what cost?’

‘The cost of your own soul!’

‘But what if it hurts?’

‘Of course, it’s going to hurt, it's love! ‘

‘And passion? For all the eroticism! Am I free?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘What are you searching for?’

‘A dreamlike truth?’

‘How do you know the difference?’

‘It’s a fantasy!’

‘Of what?’

‘Those that serve do not choose?’

‘You look like chaos!’

‘I am ten thousand broken dreams of chaos!’

‘What does that look like?’

‘Broken glass.’

‘What does it feel like?’

‘A smooth stone at the beach?’

‘Why?’

‘Because sex wears people into a smooth stone.’

‘What do I do with a smooth stone?’

‘Kiss it and give it to the ocean!’

Nova’s thoughts floated back to serving the Octopus God in the Roman Villa of Los Angeles; a living desert of suburbia filled with empty space and marble walls. Every suction cap on the Octopus represented one condom, as it was better to serve one god than think of all the men with lustful desires. The tentacles reached every tiny crevice known in the City of Angels; from a guest house to the housing market, and boardrooms, in streams of car lights, to the echoes of empty rooms. Young adult, fresh, and naïve; international studies was a two-year degree, and if you maintained an A grade average within the school and to the Octopus God, you could become their high-class escort.

A red tail light blinked as it disappeared above the stormy clouds, the mansion looked like it had ten bedrooms. Luxury hell on a golden ticket; the first month, the first week, the first evening, the first client; a hundred thousand dollars, split down the middle, for the first night. A special kink, perhaps a germaphobe, perhaps another status symbol like the Bentley at the end of a long driveway, telling her there is somewhere to go, someone to be,  like ocean waves crashing against the beach. The darkness was comforting; it was cold on Nova’s skin, like the sensation of life’s punishing escape to, a place of large dreams made real by the extinction of the past. A hive of lost souls, dreaming beyond the darkened sky, littered the wall with photos. The wind ripped through the front door and in black Nova stepped into the abyss of the Octopus God, as a delicate entity of man's ego, her pussy wet with waves of new beginnings.

A dirty rich middle-aged man reliving the glory years of some dead victory wanted to pop the cord on his reserve stock flesh prize, fresh meat to be broken in over the weekend. Power attracts man’s darkest delusion but an untamed woman clothed in the trophy of her kill was more predictable at times than someone in denial of the civility of his own intention. Nova was frog marched into the bedroom, Mistress Milly was waiting for her in the bedroom, Mistress was the institute's minder, there to make sure everyone behaves and performs. The men’s room was full of obsessive remnants of porn, Mistress Milly commanded Nova to strip slowly and crawl onto the bed, and like a good pet, so she did.

Blasé blazing, stupid cupid- illusions, built on- other Stupid, delusions,

Thoughtless fame cemetery lockers, spiritual sane,

Cottage rockers, love in blame, wars of life, dancing, in the tame,

Comic book, conventions, fueled by heroic, love,

Intentions, to cut like a knife, in a backstabbing life,

Dumb love, foe wares, angel tears, glamour cares,

Loveless cities, in the Hollywood, Gritty,

On trend, dying to the end, on trend, standing out,

To Blend, till the undying, end, just for, other empty,

Friends.

Like a witch in a ritual dungeon, Nova slowly spread her legs as the strange man crawled between her legs kissing the inside of her thighs until he reached her pussy. Mistress Milly unclipped her leather corset and squatted on Nova's face, commanding her to warm that mouth up for her boss. Juices ran into her mouth and down the back of her throat as the aroma circled in her nostrils. The more Nova tried to repress her pleasure, the harder the mistress rubbed her deep gash over her mouth, Mistress Milly leaned back rolling her hands over Nova’s thighs. Pulling Nova’s legs into the air, she gripped her ankles, spread them and, pinned them under her armpits. ‘I want to look into your eyes; you are in the maze now, a pleasure slave.’

Nova's pussy was split wide and high, and the older man slide his throbbing hard dick slowly into her swollen slit, her eyes rolling back in her head as Mistress Milly gushed in her mouth. Nova was ridden into the mattress as her tense body dissolved into sweet and leaked all the ritual courteousness of life, onto the bed sheets. Her body relaxed, and the kinky man pulled her ass cheeks apart and sunk his throbbing cock deep into her pussy. Thumping her harder and harder until he could not hold the release back any longer, he gripped her breasts as he cum between her shaking legs. Mistress Milly came into her mouth a minute later as Nova felt the man between her legs pulled his drained cock from her slit; nothing is perfect, just the energy of intent. 

Mistress Milly ordered Nova to shower and put some fresh clothes on, downstairs was her next dirty horny man, this mansion was one of their playhouses and she was indeed caught in the maze. Before Nova had any chance to change her mind she was introduced to a man that immediately bent her over the bed and pulled her dress up. Mistress Milly passed the man a rubber and went back to blowing on her tea and taking a sip. The man slid his dick into Nova’s moist pussy as she moaned, Mistress Milly interrupted, ‘No bend her over facing me; I want to look at her face.’ Nova was turned towards the Mistress, as she gestured to keep her chin up. The man pulled her hair up and began to fuck her from behind as she arched her back and softly started moaning.

Mistress Milly leaned in towards Nova, ‘Just four more to go Nova and then you will have your good behaviour bond, registered.’ The clients were from Mistress Milly’s special VIP list, and they all shared the same fetish; they liked to work as a team breaking in fresh girls and working them into thoroughbreds. They took great pride in their work, tailoring their sessions into a menu of skills they requested from the girls. After the night's first innings, they would lay bets and shares on which girl would become the highest-winning thoroughbred. The reward for winning their hidden title was to break in fresh stock, while not actually knowing; it was all an elaborate game. There was no escape for Nova from Mistress Milly, she seemed to know what turned her or, how to get her off, and just how to whisper all the things she had secretly fantasized about.

The man came, slapped Nova’s ass and left, Mistress Milly smiled, ‘Shower, and fresh change, ten minutes sex doll.’ The next client came in and made Nova fuck herself for twenty minutes before he stuck his dick in her mouth and came. The last client of her audition night was a couple, the woman pulled Nova’s head into her pussy on all fours and rolled the slit up and down over her tongue. The woman’s husband pulled his dick out and started rubbing it over Nova’s ass, Mistress Milly put a rubber over his dick before she sucked on his meat a couple of times and guided it into Nova. The woman moaned as the thrust pushed Nova's tongue onto her clitoris, and the couple settled into a rhythm. Every few pumps the woman would push Nova’s face down to the hole to clean up the juices.

Nova had been holding back all night getting off, but she had not even experienced a full-body orgasm, she thought it was fifty percent show, fifty percent fantasy. Mistress Milly reached beneath Nova rolling her fingers over her nipples and down towards her clit, before she would give one sharp slice across her butt cheek with a horsewhip. Rubbing Nova’s swollen clit Mistress sunk her other fingers into her ass, as she began to buckle to her pussy and face being ridden without mercy. Nova began to scream like part of her old self was dying, a civilized comforted stripping of waste, she arched her back to drain every sensation from her client’s thick cock. The woman came on Nova’s face and gushed on her face and mouth, just as the guy slumped on her back; all three were sweaty.

The following week was more dirty older men, playing train the new sex puppet; the more grotesquely kinky they were the more innocent Nova felt. Clothes were beginning to be more of a chore, than the sensation of being vulnerable in her nakedness. Her muscles were tightening, her tendons were becoming more flexible, and she was in the LA wild like a tribal warrior woman lost in the jungle of gilded things. It would not be long before this forest fairy would sprout delicate fangs and become the thing that fed on the feeling of nuances. Not predator or prey, but a wilding of social freedom dancing to time, like an effigy of stardust. After a month of sugar daddy roundtables and being fucked as a whore bride, Nova was put on the market for Sugar Daddy Caddies.

Fun boys, playboys, and wannabes were the morally pubescent teenagers of sugar daddies that compensated absent parents and boundaries, with delusions of entitlement, and trends as characters. It was always amusing to Nova how unique they all thought they were, the quintessential twin of their father, destined to consume the eldest in the womb, except the womb was an empire of deceit. Grommets lived in a hyperrealism version of themselves and their reality consisted of the cinematic superficial; lifeguards, singers, actors, vice squads, entrepreneurs, and heroes. All B-grade television and movie troupes were the clichés of an empty mind. In LA lingual terms, toxic masculinity was just a bad male lead actor that ate ass a lot.

Eroticism is love's delusion, and the glue between the playboys and sugar daddies was; the new valley girls, the suburban warrior mums, and the arrogant, selfish, entitled, soccer van types. They were not taking their little boys to sports on Saturday; their Incel relationships for participation trophies had long gone. Buzzwords like entrepreneur, property developer, and software designer were the veneer of tired money diluting grandparent’s footsteps like waves on the beach. It was all about the LA promo lingo; you were going somewhere, doing something, meeting somewhere, had things to do, was rushed, and was important. So many words, verbal diarrhoea of hard-earned catchphrases that required a social media license to sell your own winner’s trophy in life.

Playboys and sugar daddies ate the same pussy, and they fucked the same girls because the real generation gap was the distance of success built on illusion, and sex is all about fantasy. Working girls were just that last five minutes of the dream before they woke up, to forget small details of their own lies; how similar they both were, how unique they thought they were. Their life is recorded in milestone montages and collections of forgotten dreams, by the woman of the house that has a prototypical generic name like Karen. Unofficially Karen is a third-party merchandise sponsor, of their combined genetic gift to humanity, or wealth through selective breeding. Karen’s are toxic masculinity personified and when it comes to their kids, they have the biggest balls. The playboys fuck you for sport; the sugar daddies fuck you for control, both are notions of absence in their real lives.

If you can be a slave to your own mind you can also be a slave to your own job, circumstances, and environment. It is not illegal, but the chains are invisible, a subtle tide built of people manipulating other people. Cops are dirty, and authority as a family business is a dirty business because they move to invisible chains. High on abandonment and hero entitlement, masks overlap in layers of delusion, that deep illusion of the other, the strange, and the different. The beach lifeguard experience, the artist, sports star, business executive, movie star, always following that shadow of the ‘playboy god,’ never actually knowing what it is.

Policing is a family business and success is a contrasting threat, worshipped; so there is no greater success than to breed into the sons and daughters of the powerful, the rich, and the famous. It is an old con with a modern digital twist, a savvy reversal, of the traditional lawn barons. To get their children into private schools, they just had to throw a criminal into the grounds and send their children, and from that flowed; free gas, food, credit cards, and holidays. It was the modern equivalent of a real-world dating app. It was a tired cliché remoulded with each new technological invention, they weren’t there to impregnate a businessman’s daughter, they were protecting her from a delusional ex-partner. Yet, winners get all the girls, so they spread their wild oats far and wide and afterwards start to cherry-pick up the social ladder.

One night stands, friends with benefits, first love, and soul mates fell away, but the whores remanded long after. Playboys could never really wash the slut out of their mouths, so they kissed their best and final lovers, with the same lips, as passion slowly died a natural death to deceitful men. A greedy and selfish family transcends money, and by definition, dirty cops are penny pinchers. With all the fake businesses swallowing real cash and a desire for sex, it was only natural for them to pivot into the sex industry. Egotistical-centred playboys are like aged wine, they fuck better and better, because that what lifeguards and sports stars do, but they also fuck their targets like porn stars, so it is was more like faith-based tutoring. Kind of ironic that so many influential, elite, rich, and powerful people had children that were state-sponsored dating targets, walking into dirty cop trap houses for a good hard fuck.  ‘

‘X-firm was hell all warmed up,’

‘X-firm?’

‘It was the High-Class Escort branch of the institute.’

‘Strange name,’

‘If it sounds like business and runs like a business, it slips under the radar.’

‘So your family were rich,’

‘Yeah, but culture is poverty, I hate it there, it is how I could read them so well,’

‘Why did you leave?’

‘I ended up fucking too many friends of the family,’

‘Really!’

‘Well that’s not entirely true, I fucked my friend’s dad, and he told all his friends, so I would not tell his wife,’

‘Weird,’

‘Arousing and weird, the first week into it, I complained about all the full-on sex, I thought it was more wine and dining,’

‘What did they say?’

‘I am a sex puppet; I am there to entertain,’

‘You should have left,’

‘I was stuck; they could have downgraded me to the basement clients,’

‘Do I really want to know what that is?’

‘No, it’s a BDSM dungeon, I was sent there for a week as punishment, it was either that or a D on my report card and a call to my parents. ’

Get soul-quick schemes came from corporations; the client was the government, the media was the goddess of tragedy, the Military was a cursed Indian burial ground, and the police were past ghosts. Most successes are fairytales of hollow images and fashion labels of contrasting lies, at the base level people are confused wanderings of their final heartbeat. People seek freedom for a moment to break the threshold of reality and project their own mortality into the void. All love the beautiful, magical, and real, but, once the ride is over, the reality is a replicated story of polarized carbon copies, living in a trending hype train. From zero to ten million can only be defined by under-the-table income and a tax accountant at a cross-over point of a retrospective epiphany. For in this, the truth is, that the fantasized live closer to other people’s dreams than those same people ever attempt to find truth in theirs.

‘Each escort territory is controlled by dirty cops, it’s a kickback scheme, and we were the meat in the middle,’

‘X-firm sounds like a kind of mental slavery?’

‘It is, but it is backed by the health and wellness sector,’

‘So they are like beauty salon vouchers,’

‘More like holding pens, of good vibes or concerned social workers.’

‘How did you get out,’

‘You are marked with a temporary tattoo that fades over time; it is part of your identity, and part of your Territorial License.’

‘You don’t have a tattoo,’

‘It is done with temporary ink; I faded it with a UV light, folded on my bond, signed a nondisclosure agreement, and walked out the front door.’

Decadence plans are often interrupted for the profit of illusion, and true love is more of an illusion now than it was a hundred years ago. Within reason, the false good things are the same means to an end in terms of revelations; an air hostess who takes a few cans of food overseas can save thousands over a year. That seems like a relative object on the scale of the logic of social mediation, like designing a café because embracing your family’s concept of the world is more peaceful than swimming against them. Habit exploration is more about the process of things, like tulips that are planted at different depths to bloom at different times in the colour of spirits. People only have our health, and constant desire to fuck and lie.

‘It wasn’t a good or bad experience in all, I just see things in a more passionate energy, as I grow.’

‘And I thought my life was fucked up beyond all sensibility,’

‘Spirit is a celebration, time is seasonal, and nature is immediate, however, flawed we all are,’

‘Passion is wasted on the lazy then eh?’

‘Relativity shows us women have more choices in men than men have money to impress them,’

‘So you’re saying take you licks, life is poison, you have to choose one, right?’

‘A pure couple in passion is most beautiful, imperfect as individuals but raw desire in an act of perfection, like us and Sagia,’

‘So you have to fight for passion to find the soul stream with your lover?’

‘Well a life is a contradiction; the sameness of blood defines less and less the idea of family,’

Long story short, people simply survive hour to hour, day to day, and throw pain into the void and fruitlessly fill it with food, movies, and anything for the mind to vainly escape to. In love, people try not to be bitter about everything, so in a spiritual sense they have nothing to lose but their burdens, and there is usually no deeper burden than family. The second crossover point is the deep debt that chains people to abuse or the remodelled freedom on romantic nostalgia. That is because ghosts of the past are redressed in every previous absence, so it appears that we are growing and moving forward, but often we are dating a version of our previous struggles. Ironically people would not be so efficient and flawless, without difficult problems, because success is built on bumpy roads, so scarce resources and poverty are a daily ritual of a better way.

‘Kind of sounds like you regret the past, but are living dead to the experience,’

‘All things wish to feel the breeze of liberty and the warmth of happiness when chasing a spirit lonely of embrace,

‘Is love wasted on the naive?’

‘Winter takes what cannot grow in the tribe!’

‘Sagia just texted us, she and Jane watched the show....’

‘Did they like it?’

‘Yep, they said it was totally hot,’

‘See to harvest passion involves nothing in planning!’

‘Attraction appeals to wanting to be wanted,’

‘A hawk does not fly to the heavens; it flies to the earth!’

‘Sounds like a philosophy paper,’

‘It is! Sucking cock and bending over, 101, a beginner’s guide to releasing the inner whore that is in all of us,’

Life involves a kind of ceremonial tea making; mineral water, organic tea bags, symbolic tea cups, and organic milk. The teacup represents denial; a habitual denial of the sweet things in life, a practice of stillness, a timing of the day, and a day represented by the cup, and the joys filled within it. If one denies things enough, one can taste the oils and distant flavours within the cup. Also, it is a good apocalyptic gage, no tea, the world is ending, if there is tea, the day is beautiful. Strange to live in the moment and be paid by the moment, implies a class of things, or; you have a moment to show me your worth because time is money. ‘No, it’s not you, it’s me, I just like you more as a friend,’ actually sounds better as, ‘You drained my soul more than your physical presence nourished me,’ but that’s life.

‘That black book I took from the institute, had all the client's details in it,’

‘What did you do with it?’

‘Hid it in my family's wine cellar, the dirty cops were looking for it, but did not know all their names were in it as well, along with bank accounts, and kinks.’

‘You sound frightened of them?’

‘I am! They can frame you for anything, they are mostly vice squad; they sent a girl to the basement for a month, before they would let her work in their territory again.’

‘Where is the BDSM basement?’

‘Under the gym at the institute; after all the dirty men are used of the fresh meat, they send you there to earn your BDSM license.’

‘How is that punishment?’

‘They pick the hosts and clients, some are perverse and gross, but hey it’s a milking facility with smiles,’

At the end of the day, pain is just a storm in a teacup, as some vibe tribe spirits lead to a clearer perception and better cosmic signals. Sometimes in the darkest of places, people should look for the dimmest of lights. In such an underworld, love and light are the characteristics of an angler fish that hunts with luminosity. Most people’s idea of success is when they are beautiful, marry the perfect person, have the most amazing holiday, live in the most perfect place, and turn those moments into images. That is an idea of perfection, and the average client on yesterday’s truth dies an ugly death on new promises in the porcelain-crowned kingdoms of the upside-down world.

‘Nova do your thoughts come from the institute?’

‘A home exists in the spirit and the mind before it rests on the earth!’

‘The past will always fade to free spirits on a journey,’

‘To be free is to live beyond the voice of those that hate!’

‘Well.... maybe there is no loss in disappearing from people, who longer resemble peace,’

‘A totem pole of inner turmoil is just as eternal time lighting the path of others' sorrows!’

‘We should go to the club for a drink tonight baby?’

‘Light me a smoke, honey,’

 ‘Yeah baby,’

Many people are tourists of success, faking moments to their better halves and are attracted to the shared standard of deception, playing by their own rules inside an artificial box. All are on the clock and most driven by the desire to seek pleasure, so all people are whores, it is just the ones more truthful about it, who seem to enjoy life, a lot more. The free, clock out of reality, to rise above it all; they clock out from the drama, the past, heroic versions of life, suburban enlightenment, and all the bullshit, and they find their own tin can. Dreams and ambitions with the weathered childhood is a nightmare seeking virtue in the contrast, beaten wild, but never tame. A moment of true love's first embrace can only be a movement and energy, and some people are quenched thirsty, while others are poor imitations of a dramatic esthetic, but, one does feel cosmic truth in absent thought.

‘Tell me of your family,’

‘And lose all the mystery? I have a brother in the financial markets,’

‘You also have a sister, a successful actress and singer,’

‘I was trapped between the wickedness of a stepfather and the life of hedonistic pleasure,’

‘What of your real father?’

‘A judgmental soul, broken, lost, naked and poisoned, from the travels of work; a stethoscope of a deaf psychiatrist,’

‘Fathers are shields, he left?’

‘He longs for his dead mother; she is the Queen of Hearts,’

‘So you lived in the Garden of Eden as Patient Zero,’

‘The religious mind rationalizes; I totally have a swollen clit,’

‘I think I am having Sagia withdrawal,’

‘Hhhmmm, she is a smooth, tight, ride,’

‘Dual pandemonium, throuples makes a strange feeling of emotional balance, ’

Darkness must have a crux, as it is comforting in its temptation of emptiness, and if people are built on the bones of other people, where does all the magic go? Love builds roads but time is a highway, as the spirit whispers of faraway places. Punishment and pain feel like a reward after a while; at least one knows, and few can reach that tolerance. Love breathes in voids of regret and paints the universe in light and darkness, so minds swim to dark intentions, built out of illusions from well-crafted slaves in the upside-down world. By intent alone, the world imitates, so we must all believe in the dark, Ironically the gods see no consequence in existence, but their common accomplices still haunt the cosmic stars. People who live in the upside-down castles are slaves to their circumstances, and in the consumption of their freedom, they are built into the walls of their own dreams.

‘Sagia left a message.’

‘What does it say?’

‘Something about an elite yoga studio.’

‘Yea?’

‘The book club girls want one of us to go with them.’

‘Why.’

‘Support maybe.’

‘It strange how yoga is like Japanese rope bondage, except the ropes are invisible.’

The very essence of voodoo, Karma Sutra, Shibari, and the Zen Art of Fucking, where sweat was the validation of warmth, and love implied subservience but did not impose surrender to any one master. Storm-weary travellers were an attitude and they could recognize one another, like an open door to grains of sand falling from someone’s feet, and the smell of grass in the air. Crowds and logic are no safe harbour, the world is a hunting ground, and even the circumstances of water can wear a bolder smooth. Peace of mind is a desire, as nightmares only decay to moments of bliss swallowing the void. Girls’ micro-dosing their virginity to horror movies, sips of booze and silver screen drags on cigarettes, is a symbolic sacrifice of their umbilical cords to fairytale worlds. Life is already violated in flowery, tormented, and divine moments of eternal entropy, but, as epitaphs go, there should just be a star born above you, in the place you first fucked.

‘From the old days, something about this name rings a bell.’

‘What name?’

‘Magnum Opus; Vibe Tribe Studio.’

‘Sounds spiritual.’

‘They want you to go.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Look it up on the internet.’

Living is really about how reality and sanity are relative in the theory of expression and disillusionment. The nostalgia of a recycled Christmas tree is just glowing embers of mothballs for a delusion wrapped in paper. In a deluded universe, the only salvation was the Magnum Opus; ‘Vibe Tribe Studio,’ a private invite-only gym, that rests on the waterfront of an exclusive building that made a high society architecture magazine. Part-time models that date rock stars attend along with standard supermodels, trust fund sugar babies, the affluent, and the infamously decrepit. The person who controls the karmic poses and social media pomp and ceremony of this heaven of man’s most deluded dreams can define their own version of reality. What is real and fake in the prototypical mediocre bros of the farmhouse universe, living their popcorn lives in film clichés; the heroic versions of stale home movies, seeking glamorized cause from the corpses of better dreamers.

‘It has a two-star review.’

‘So we have invites.’

‘Yes, through the book club girls.’

‘Tempting.’

‘It feels like a dark rabbit hole, with teeth.’

‘How so.’

‘Did you ever do something after you dreamed it…  but…’

‘It felt like déjà vu.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And it seemed like you were repeating the past.’

‘Well with the Vibe tribe studio, it feels like broken images of a memory, like a blueprint on a wall.’

‘What about being in public with the girls?’

‘We are incognito support,’

‘Invisible friends with benefits,’

Exactly baby, let's tidy up and go see Sagia,’

‘Share the love,’

‘Share the love.’

The second death of self is lost innocence, where harmless people are not good people, but freedom states joy is beyond them. A few broken dreams later these harmless people gravitated to power like it was lacking within them. So what died in the great between, but Polaroid moments flickering in sun-bleached memories and the smell of salty breezes through flowing hair. Smiles, sand, a flickering movie reel of love at its rawest, dwell like a nightmare of disappearing paths, as the road within becomes dark with street lamps and the glow of dying life. Too few happy memories torture the now, to make the past a lie, and if the past is destined to repeat itself, clothed in success or failure, whether denied or not, becomes a convenient way of living. Pain is comfortable, because it is dependable, like the seasons of myth, in the mysterious abandonment of time. 

Life becomes how dark the night hides the upside-down world, where people fall from the normal like angels bleeding in mementoes of lies they said to themselves. Family does not hold truth more than acquaintances find deep similarities in the stones thrown at them, that is why a first-borne tongue, becomes toxic and foreign to the dwelling of synthetic love.  In the second death, time does not become a symptom of good and bad, but a depth perception of exploring all the lost shadows of humanity's deeds. In the dark world, a comforting place; tribes are made from moments, and people were pushed there on a thousand dead ethics, of lost generations. Well, the ethics nobody wanted after they were made into billboard advertisements.

In this neon light, it is easy to see from within, that the second death is the self that you do not wish others to use anymore. It is an act of freedom, for many conceived an ancient past deeper than a present melancholy of family baggage. So the path between the body and the pleasure becomes shorter, than in the past of superficial social models; the marriage, the divorce, the kids, and their failures. Pleasure lights the path, discipline builds the spirit, and with fewer road maps stagnation becomes moments in photos, to love what there is. What is a taste for spirits; be it in her past or in her cup, that universal contradiction which warms the heart and also empties it in the same moment. It was the place where love transcends death and what is material fades into darkness at the lasting hope of younger days, for Nova was a kindred spirit of darkness, which shone like light.

In the depth of night, Angel lived in the utopia of distant dreams, although blood was the food of his dad's garden, truth remained disguised in the hands of the old world he cared not to live in anymore. His stepfather was a man consumed with the greed of an indomitable spirit, yet the momentary glow from the darkness of night was destined to fade from where it came. In my perpetual drumbeat of, ‘Please nightmares die,’ an empire into shadows for all eternity was a king deluded with the soul of a cop, ‘The king is dead, long live the king!’ Self-imagined hardened men are brittle dangerous creatures when exposed to the naked world; a place ironically they wished it to be. Saddened by loss across many experiences of pain; many opportunities present the grief of life that travels through time.

Love is an unwilling participant standing at the foot of a sculpture as stoic as any from ancient Athens, but fate is destined to create living creatures out of the memory or escape. It is easy to belong, for popular interests have anthems and symbols to identify their own kind, Sagia met Angel and Nova in her favourite band T-shirt. Love seemed to glow between them like neon-coloured abandonment of that world called normal. Saturated love hunger is a hidden blessing, scratching at the door of existence, which prohibited all the small minds that tried to share the same space. All three were always scratching at the door of their own existence and it left invisible marks like a deep-rooted fear that whispered things were always going to go bad.

If friends could adopt each other it would be a convenient wall to a globe of narcissists, who confuse pleasure with control and greed with gossip. People sometimes invest in the horrors of other people’s lives to plot their alliances with the drama. Comfortable people sabotage, and the investors in wasted time enable through the worship of deception. The only thirst beyond the water is a lifestyle, and of gods of themselves, the image of perfection serves a cold logical conclusion, severed with broken memories, filtered through delusion. Sagia, Nova, and Angel, had all had brushes in life with the dark spirits, which is why they were so comfortable with each other, there was little time for all the bullshit.

Techno kale songs, that nowhere, belong, stages, of Wages, and love, prophet sages, selling sin wages, on More, love stages,

Legal tenders, bring ego, defenders, stealing, love Bug, benders, live in, harmony, from me, smoke a Farm, from me;

Self-love bee, wishing to be, bad luck- free, Tainted in war paint, & water well laid, all in broke Symbols, smoking colonnades; time wades, and the Puppets, are paid, in daze and moonlight craze.