the world’s own, Atlas!

Dark(en Her {Gee}) Daze

the last supper before “Her” first rite of passage

Sometimes, especially lately, I’ll catch myself transfixed while watching water and suds spiral down a shower drain because it reminds me of a cosmic hurricane centered not by a tranquil eye that offers temporary reprieve {like an evolved tropical storm}, but rather by a SMBH supermassive black hole dark orb [S{m}DO] which relentlessly deletes everything that succumbs to its gravity. In other words, it reminds me of a galaxy.

Then I’ll feel foolish for spending time and energy on circular, unending, abstract contemplation.

Then I’ll feel like an asshole for wasting water.

Why are my thoughts so obscenely loud? The only thing louder is pure silence.

I don’t know how much longer I can shoulder this burden, but I suspect my time is rapidly running out.

I must have written that two years ago before tonight as I smell stagnation.

This neighborhood [where I am/was at the time of generating this paragraph] reminds me of the kind of place where I wish I would have had the chance to grow up as a normal kid {if only for a few years}. A street with decades of history under its belt, as evidenced by the fully developed trees and the wear-and-tear on the modest houses, advertises a decidedly middle-class vibe. People go walking just to get out and be social with neighbors—families grilling out, kids riding bikes, playing in yards, whatnot. Very communal. Everybody knows everybody. That’s how I imagine it anyway.

Not much happening at the moment. The fact that it’s half past two in the morning might have something to do with the lack of activity. Lights at this lady’s house have been out since 00:55; entire street eerily silent since 01:30. Starting to think they’re not coming for her tonight. This would make three consecutive fruitless nights. I think I’d leave if not for the cooler air due to hit by 03:00. 23°C is astronomically more tolerable (to me) than 30°C.

Incidentally, I predict that on the first day of October in Nashville, the temperature will reach the upper nineties.

02/10/19

Hope this tree branch is sturdy enough. A twenty-foot fall could hurt me. Theoretically.

If I pass out and invert on the way down.

Maybe.

If F&F are still in town, then they’ll be here tonight.

If they don’t show, then their mission was merely to scout.

Of this, I am one hundred 99% sure.

No, that doesn’t make sense. Overkill. It’d be like sending a Seal Team to sort out a domestic disturbance.

Perhaps they’re here neither to scout nor to kill, which leaves only capture as a possibility.

I guess. Especially if Sleeping Beauty down there perpetrated a crime against Dick Purdy so vile that he wants to watch the life leave her admittedly amazing body.

She must run a lot.

[as Lloyd might’ve said in my/(y)our head]

Almost forgot that I’m wearing Halcyon on my back. Kinda cool, I reckon, that something this big/sharp could be so unobtrusive.

I can’t emphasize this enough—assuming you’re able to cultivate a real proficiency at wielding it: you should develop an unhealthy attachment to a trusty weapon which you assign a thoughtful name, and of which you take obsessively good care.

Back home (in 1969) my best bud’s life was saved basically thanks to separation anxiety from his weapon of choice—he preferred a bolt-action dinosaur in those days. These days, being the same person {obviously}, he prefers one of his trusty .50-70[-90] Sharps rifles, all appropriately named Sharpy [insert Roman numeral in reverse order of acquisional chronology], which (due to a slightly longer-than-usual lifetime of practiced familiarity) suggests that he’ll never adapt to the tactical superiority found in more modern(ized) weaponry.

Confession: I know how he thinks. A handy-dandy, fancy scope would only get in “his” way. Granted, he augments personal vision with the latest technology—he can reload the chamber in 4.2 seconds.

Ernest is as “old school” as he is a sly dog. He’s not big on learning new (mechanical) tricks—i.e. developing new muscle memory—but he remains at the cutting edge of computer science [among other cerebral fields].

EQ2 was introduced by happenstance to Sharpy I in 1861 when he stumbled upon a struggling trapper who relinquished the rifle {for 19 bucks}, which he kept as a relic on display in his living quarters until, after an impromptu sniper dual in 1919, he found Sharpie II at the abandoned post of his target. As of 2019, he has collected 10 iterations of Sharpy, all of which must function with a striking degree of similarity.

The dude is nothing if not stubborn. He has been known to scout a hawk’s [sniper’s] nest for varying periods of time well in advance of a planned mission. His personal record for location-scouting is 12 months and 24 seconds—ironically, of course, that mission had to be aborted mere minutes before he could pull the trigger. Womp, womp.

Not sure why I’m going on about my “childhood BFF.” I guess I must miss him. Emotions are crazy. I walled them off for 98 years. Friggin’ energy, man.

God, since I’m a gushing puddle of warm, fluffy rainbow{-flavored} vibes, please allow me to admit (thanks to your continued absorption of this sentence) that I love my sword. Honestly, I’m not sure whether I love anything else. That’s probably weird. How am I only just now birthing this thought? “How long have I known you, Halcyon, you inanimately perfect object you? 42 years?” Yeah, actually, I might care more about my sword than anything else in the world. I know I’m a jaded cynic; it’s the natural outcome of the hugely unnatural trajectory of my existence. Even knowing that, I can’t control my cynicism. Wait. Is that movement? Down the street, coming out of the brush. Did I forget the concept of the “ENTER” key? Am I actually “blogging” this as it’s happening? Not exactly, but yep, here we go—a female shape makes a swiftly silent beeline across lawns, between houses, toward this seemingly unsuspecting lady’s house. Why do I detect only one of them? Confusing, this! No person has ever seen one [F] without the other. Who is this? Fausta? Maybe. Yep. Nope, Faustina. Visibly pregnant. Yikes! Looks like she’s been knocked up for about three years, maybe four. How would I know?

Is that your bun in her oven, Sevy? Perhaps it’s your slimiest best pal Vilfred’s latest sprout. Have you missed me, Villy? Your brain stem has a severance package coming due soon as well. Don’t worry, pumpkin; I’m going to make sure you see me coming. I want to stare into your eyes [remember the Tube?] while your spirit slips into a surreal trance. Together, in spite of your initial resistance, we’ll be doing a dance of death, but you’ll be the only one seeing the light as I slice into your sightline and bisect the depths of your starving energy.

Anyhow, great, this slutty viper is already unnervingly strong—or so I hear—and now she’s armed with bonus pregnancy power. And she’s combat-trained to boot {or so I’ve heard}. Damn it. Why is she alone? [I’m not really typing all this as it unfolds—to label my memory as photographic means to undersell its ridiculous potential and processing power.] Faustina looks to be on track to pass almost directly underneath me within two full fistfuls of seconds. Where is her mother? This is a gamble; shouldn’t engage. Why would she be alone? What the hell is she wearing? Looks like she robbed a drunken tourist who had just wandered out of a souvenir store after a sequence of bad decisions. At least she’s (un)comfortable. Hell, I dunno. Less than ten seconds. Detecting no other presence. Nobody else anywhere. All alone. Shit. Five seconds. She just slowed down—a futile attempt at “stealth mode,” I presume. Six seconds. Can’t afford to miss. Focus. I’m not doing this. Fuck. My hand was lightly gripping the hilt before I knew it. Three seconds. This’ll be interesting.

Welp. That’s over. She didn’t even have time to display her fangs.

I just killed a sentient female.

And it wasn’t human.

Where’s her mama? Can’t be this easy. Been years since I’ve had such an uneventful, one-sided, clean encounter with g/b. Guess I’ve retained the portion of my training rooted in the kind of mindless muscle memory that makes such a technical, textbook strike possible. Reassuring. Not outta the woods yet, though.

Crickets chirp. Steam rises from the blood spilling from Faustina’s dismembered body. Other than that, stillness reigns.

Eyes closed to amplify a keen sense of fine-tuned hearing. It’s much easier to detect noise when your eyes can’t distract you. As predicted, I listen, sweat, concentrate for a full ten seconds of frozen silence before relaxing, sheathing Hal, scooping up the two parts that comprise Faustina’s formerly functioning body then taking the shadowiest path available on foot out of the area. 

I could be the only person awake for 7 miles. Possibly 42 24.

It’s almost like it never happened.

That’s not my boat, by the way, but it might as well be.

Sometimes my hyperactive head wanders down a “dark” path and next thing I know, it feels as if I just can’t summon a normal breath, but the gentle sloshing of a properly functioning [i.e. floating] boat in still water on a quiet eve has an incontestably soothing effect on me; its sluggish rhythm reduces the cadence of my respiration to a relaxed pace. Super strange that I would ever notice—my respiration should not require external stimulus to regulate. I’ve always assumed that I am immune to a condition as pedestrian and human as anxiety. But at the present time, listening to my little craft drifting (up)on quiet (liquid) water and nothing else, I’m fine. I’d even go so far as to say, “I’m content right now,” but all the while, I know it’s only for the moment. It’ll vanish as suddenly as it appeared. That’s the nature of existence. Yin meeting yang. On repeat. Since the beginning of time and for all that remains.

A foreboding sensation swells in my gut, and unless I’m missing something terribly obvious, this is due to my relative certainty that very soon, perhaps as early as tomorrow, I will finally lock eyes with Thierry Nova Tuck. Whoa. I think that for the 5th time in my 99 years on our planet, I’m about to throw up.

The first time I felt nausea at age 12 {after tasting English peas in spite of my instincts}, I could have cried. Naturally I didn’t, but what a miserable feeling! I had only been told about it. I remember wondering if I could shit my way out of the misery. Give me a break. At that point, I carried the body of a toddler, the brain of a budding egghead, and I had never left Bessi’s 8-mile perimeter. Life was almost as confusing back then as it is now.

Luckily, however, the expansive pool of potentially gained universal knowledge will never be found empty.

In every instant, anything will change.

Augustus De Morgan Alfred Holt, Nevil Maskelyne, Paul Jennings, John Sack, et al. [kinda]

Snap your fingers. Not only is that how fast your life can (effectively) end, but also that’s how fast ignorance can be rectified.

Great news: you may feel free to never stop learning.

Wise up. Get smart. Know.

Now go.

Postscript: …and (please) don’t dilly-dally; after all, we’re already far behind.

Minute Arms

farewell to (^) our former lives

Here is a first sentence which will likely bow to replacement.

Or maybe not!

Did I/we/you really just let part of a template slide through our (sub)conscious net? “Fuck it,” eh? Why would we squash a line from then that fits so perfectly now? At two stories above the ground, I’m bemusing a version of our tale that hasn’t yet unfolded.

Today as I fumble toward facilitating a long-awaited clarity of vision {hopefully} just in time to watermark 2020 with “Bang” even bigger than the “Big” one, I’ve come to believe in something that I might never be able to fully explain. The train of thought I’m attempting to unpack herein will sound kookier [perhaps] than I intend. I’m sure there’s a reason for that, too.

First, after reading a responsive email then pondering the carefully chosen words in depth, I got an idea for a t-shirt [I’ll have to poorly sketch the rough concept later] after thinking about a real/fake “alias” of sorts that any 1 of 4 lifelong bros could rightly adopt at will:

Treeblood(,) Blackbird [a.k.a. Rooksapp]

At minimum, this is 25% your fault.

Our fates were entwined, signed, and sealed early in life. In duos, we’re capable of exceptionally dynamic output, but when all members form a quartet of reciprocal brotherhood {squared [unless I’m mistaken]}, we can be a fearsomely fantastic foursome of curatively creational power. In other words, I’m deeply grateful for your existentially specific impact on my summed, aging parts.

I have reason to believe that over the years each of us has had to accept the possible abandonment of our “childish” dreams. Life happens. We can attest to this fact because we have been there repeatedly when it happened. It keeps happening. And continue to happen, it shall.

To a degree, I’d feel safe in wagering my bottom dollar that we’ve all fallen successfully into the societal trap of failing capitalism. I’ll bet further that along respective paths illuminated throughout duly coursing orbits of metaphorical congruence, we’ve each “settled” {whether in a lone way or countless others}. I’m gonna say this now and hope it makes sense later: we have been victimized by a freak accident that spiked human intelligence.

Make no mistake, during these “hardships” inherent to the circle-jerk running ‘Merica’s motor, we have each seen various essential fruits emerge after some form of energetic labor. It had to happen this way.

Separate journeys experiencing “just what people do” have provided each member with trade-able toolkits of character construction by affording opportunities to establish our own footholds in the “real world” as we each bob silently on tattered rafts in the same deafening sea which overflows with human turbulence through an escalating oblivion of unwitting defeat via willing domestication.

Most adults are too asleep to dream, it seems.

I believe that our shifting perspectives have been set up for an emotional triumph through the resurgence of our collective imagination’s (re)turn to the former glory we’ve yet to realize fully. As of the approximate midpoint [hopefully] of our (able-bodied) lives, we’ve only built the bones of what could/would/should {depending on our will as whole} constitute an artistic juggernaut that literally redefines the purely escapist brand exhibited over and over throughout historically popular, culturally industrialized entertainment, and we can/will/shall accomplish this feat by purposefully infusing hidden layers atop obvious lairs within a previously unseen dedication to the integral craft fueling content creation of any imaginable ilk.

Perhaps I’ve let myself get carried away, but even as a child I found rewarding substance in the ancient advice to shoot for the moon if not every star in the sky; as such, on this day I can envision a future (truly) in which we (as a team) anchor the potentially greatest, most diverse catalog of creative expression in human history. In other words, I’ve ditched my trusty rocker. You with me? I’m off it.

Indeed, I’m acutely aware of how this must sound. My expectations have been nothing if not reasonably tempered. “Aim high so that even wildly misfiring might still result in something pretty solid.” Something like that. I dunno.

Here’s the thing, though. When I think back and remember the one and only time I was actually convinced that we (all 4) approached a whole world of opportunity [reflect upon our three weeks at the cabin {during the “deceased bird” daze} for an exemplary dose of the blissful outlook in question] ready to roll out the red carpet and welcome us into the open arms of our future magic, vividly I can recall an empowering feeling of rousing excitement about the storied adventures our childhoods had always promised, and that, even still today, surely must linger on the horizon.

Honestly I don’t even know what I mean by much of this. There’s a good chance that I mean whatever fits your mold and/or floats your boat. This could yield anything more than nothing and something less than everything.

I’m serious.

No, really.

Heretofore problematically, I find myself haunted by a feeling I can’t manage to shake, an energy that has been with me forever, and (at the moment) this is the only way I know how to point toward the underlying mood that not only drives my passion to create then ultimately share, but also overrides my ability to resist divulging these fairly vague thoughts (to which I’m certain you can somehow relate on a level as yet unknown).

Anyway. I have begun reworking the oldest “fictional” story in this stupid brain of mine [my “12th grade” novel which turned into my first screenplay, so on, and so forth]: an epic tale which has undergone significant changes since its seed was (im)planted in 1996 as I watched Cameron Diaz talk to Rosie O’Donnell on a cube-shaped television during summertime. I didn’t realize what was happening until very recently brain-vomiting a weird chart based on a beautiful figment of my imagination—essentially a one-page prop for a thick “experimental novel” {for lack of a better way to put it}—of which the current version [constant state of flux] can be found below “elsewhere” because I’m pretty sure [worst case scenario] useful meaning will be derived specifically by you, too.

If none of the above was meant for you, then you will not get it. You’re okay.

When someone says, “You couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried,” my first thought is that the word “up” has (again) been misplaced, but my primary response (essentially) is, “Speak for yourself, dummy.”

said somebody (at least) once

Long story short, you my dawg, homeslice. I made a map that makes too much sense to be nonsensical. Maybe it’ll land unforeseeable blows.

Now, where were{/are} we{/you}?

I only ask because I’m acutely aware of my comically particular location.

By its provisional viewpoint of a notably outstanding crape myrtle, I’ve grown attached to a certain twenty-three-foot branch belonging to an entrenched, sturdy, ancient live oak here on the planet earth in a lower-middle-class residential neighborhood a few miles north of the coast within the city limits of Gulf Shores [part of “Bama Country”]. I’ve come to know the elder plant upon which I sit, rest, and wait as “Sam”; the mid-pink flowering treasure under h{is/er} wing shall be remembered as “Shannon.”

With mouth-watering lucidity, tonight, I desire chocolate.

With eye-opening conviction, in response, I’ll never eat candy again.

Surprisingly, I am stone-cold sober tonight. In this regard, come tomorrow morning, all bets are off. Gotta log my eight hours at some point. One way or another, sleep debts must be paid. And sometimes there’s only one way to shut down an active brain—it’s metaphorically congruent to a “Force Quit” and happens by allowing the right substances to succumb to gravity once received by the correct chute [the one held intact by your throat muscles].

For three nights, I’ve watched from this same cozy branch. If you’re keeping score, tonight will be the fourth once it’s over. {And, clearly, it does end, otherwise you’d not raise an eyebrow in response to this aside, now would you.} The camouflage is almost too good to be true. The hairs on the back of my neck are on fucking edge. I can smell the human I’m stalking [protecting] from here. In my estimation, the most questionable decision she has made was bedding down with her window ajar. Perhaps she could use a lesson in physics. Perhaps she knows and doesn’t care.

Usually sizing up any human amounts to an easy bore.

TNT’s unique scent messes with my thoughts. Her natural flavor is nigh as intoxicating as pure ethanol. As if her body’s vanilla aroma weren’t hypnotic enough, the lotion (and other related products) she chooses to apply daily meshes divinely with her pheromones {IMO}. A sweaty film forms on her skin while her head counts sheep. She fell asleep shortly after an endearing tweet close to midnight:

Who’s the jackhole who decided that #Jimmy should be short for #James? It’s not short for James at all. Because of the additional syllable, it’s actually long for James, #Jimbo. Furthermore, why am I suddenly concerned about how many bananas I have atop my otherwise barren counter?

[At the time, she had 2 bananas.]

I have no idea how the fuck she went from basic names to fruit inventory.

And I like that!

Am I [or are “we”] merely smitten?

I don’t even care if this Jimbo character is a real person—she’s funny [even “bananas”]! She’ll wake up around 02:45 (exactly twenty-one minutes from now) and shuffle into the kitchen to down 12 ounces of iceless tap water; 3-4 ibuprofen are additionally likely since she finished 99% of the grape “fuckjuice” [a made-up term that sounds better than “liquid waste product”] inside her wine bottle tonight {as opposed to her usual 90%}. Put two and two together—you might get four.

Speaking of her sleepy shuffle, which is cute as hell, I also like the way she moves on her long-ass legs when she’s fully awake. Her gait is unique, rhythmic, hard to describe (even for yours truly). You might say that she walks like there’s a lot of ghetto in that little booty, and I would not argue.

I arrived at TNT’s address exactly a fortnight ago and casually observed (her daily life/routine) for ten days, but I picked up a particularly lethal scent four dawns prior. A high-profile belanockian mother-daughter duo has come to town. I would greet Fausta and Faustina personally now (in cyberspace), but I won’t post the entry you’re reading now until I’ve decapitated at least one of them [assumedly the more adaptable {younger} one]. You don’t have to trust me that these aren’t spoilers, but you should. These wretched beasts are one step removed from my soon-to-be dearly departed Unkie Sev. Until four nights ago, I’d never detected evidence of g/b-related activity farther south than in Carolina swamps [Christmas, 2008].

I know you’re not a Spanish golfer, but you don’t mind if I call you “Sev(y),” do ya, Uncle Runt of the Litter That Never Came to Fruition? Can your two-dimensional brain even process the depth of what I’m admitting to you in front of all to witness?

Obviously, if I’m not “referring to” you, then I’m not addressing “you.” Isn’t it amazingly funny how polar opposites have this puzzling way of fitting together?

From afar, Miss Dynamite glides with the imaginarily graceful luminosity of a preternatural forest faerie. No one around her appreciates who she is. It’s maddening, I tell ya. I hope that I can aid in her {helping my} understanding.

Interestingly enough and incidentally, I didn’t relinquish my virginity until about a month and five days before the 57th anniversary of my entry into the world—and (not coincidentally) following an impromptu screening of the cinematic phenomenon which has since held popular culture’s attention in its tractor beam. Though The Wizard of Oz, Bambi, and Jaws affected my budding psyche deeply in my youth, those films never tugged at my deepest core essence quite like the one about which I now gush. Utilize your physical brain, do mental math, perform emotional thinking. By George, in this case, the movie in question couldn’t be more obvious.

As you may or may not have learned by now, I’m known (in some circles) as Atlas Knight. If I never introduced myself, then how would you know? Should you encounter me in the wild{erness} amidst my natural habitat “towing a line,” hold on to your butt, because I’m about to (cake)walk a tightrope.

Again, no, I do not always know what I’m saying. If we’ve agreed upon something of hilarious importance, then I’m sure you’ll let me know {IRL} with a look.

Won’t you?

Anyway, evidently [barring an early demise] I will be serving as your unlikely messiah. Many a variable have factored into the formula that yields this result. In the rose-colored spectacle of my childish daydreams, I smell gardenias and see azaleas on a canvas dominated curiously by baby blue. This feels like Elvyn’s influence. More or than less, she was my grandmother. God, I hope to reunite with her one day. In the last 39.75 years, she and I have amassed separate wealths of “shop” dying to get “talked.”

I don’t know the first thing about flowers yet. But I’m sure I will. Maybe you’ll teach me (if only in a roundabout fashion).

Rain clouds approach sooner than predicted—so much easier to detect from up here. Meteorologists should spend more some time up high (in trees).

Yeah, this is happening tonight. There’s a real chance that I’ll get myself killed—a scary thought, sure, but a welcome reminder that I’m alive.

That reminds me of my first trip outside the borders of Colorado. From birth, I didn’t leave the state in question until three days from my fifty-first birthday {in 1971}. Elvyn, Conrad, Ernest, and I traveled all the way into Utah to investigate a “serial killer” and easily found the news source. The outcome was a bloodbath. I didn’t merely strike down my first g/b [exclusively belanoc in this case], I annihilated my first 13 (mammalian) lifeforms. Unlucky numbers can be lucky.

Also I was a very well-trained, physically/mentally capable specimen.

This is almost definitely happening tonight. My nerves are curiously inflamed. I haven’t been “nervous” in nearly four decades {back when I realized that I was about to touch a boob for the first time in my life}.

From an environmental perspective, Utah felt/looked incredibly similar to Colorado. Craniums had been turning up punctured {and missing essential components} in the town of Jensen. Our foursome descended to investigate because no one else could/would/should.

Even before our departure, Elvyn didn’t want me to participate in the mission, but Conrad and Ernest both knew they’d be safer with my sword nearby and ready to split melons.

I could always count on Conrad—Elvyn’s eldest of two living sons—to nudge “the bosslady” toward technically risking my life in an effort to let my wings spread naturally. I don’t blame her for wanting to keep me safe. She’d have been foolish not to be overprotective.

Little did she [or I{/anyone}] know, I had already become a lethal wrecking ball (over a decade prior [maybe just trust me since I ran the numbers {mentally}]). Dispatching g/b aggressors came far more easily than we anticipated. On more than a few occasions, I’ve made solid eye contact with countless (of these) enemies, who knew beyond any doubt {as I separated their essences from the mortal coils binding them} that I wasn’t “supposed to exist,” and that they were about to take my special secret to their (imaginary) graves.

In Utah [1971], I first glimpsed the gravity of my ridiculous gift for pattern recognition. You and I needn’t go into details (at this point), but we found the family/pack only due to my deductive reasoning (cap)ability. After allowing {out of morbid curiosity} a circular debate to carry on for a couple hours longer than necessary, I finally chose to confess that I’d put it together twelve hours prior. My comrades (acted like they) understood {and thus didn’t hold it against me} after I explained to them that listening to their silly debate would (probably) lead me later to a fairly massive revelation about myself: I’m utterly incapable of understanding you{r fluid mental state} fully.

To me, the location of Jensen’s “serial killer” was painfully apparent. There were plenty of places to hide underground, which made sense. “No”? No. Unequivocally, we’d find them underground. It was late summer. Belanoc are still “galacian” at their core(s). In order to function optimally, their bodies need external temperatures at or below freezing.

Situated at the top of a nearby cliff, one structure stuck out like a sore thumb—the ruined tower’s vantage point looking down on the town was uniquely all-encompassing. Where else would a hungry (and possibly frightened) g/b family be hunkering down if not there?

I was wrong! [You’re being set up.]

I’m not wrong often. {Set up again; reaction will be delayed.}

I figured that we were looking for either a family of 7-8, or a recent parental duo whose lone youngling was struggling to adapt to the region’s toasty, arid climate. On that day, I was reminded that I couldn’t always guess correctly. Triply more than eight belanoc had gathered in the basement of the loftiest shelter in town.

And, still, we were never in danger.

I reckoned we’d find between 3 and 8; instead, we ran into 24.

Conrad Quinn (on a payphone less than an hour later)

Multiplication!

See, this was also the day Elvyn realized that she [and her people(/family)] had taught me incredibly well. What a relief for the both of us. I had long feared never living up to (my own) expectations. I didn’t merely eliminate 13 belanoc; I chose my targets based on (accurately) perceived threat. Within half a minute, I had separated the heads from 11 fully grown males [+1 exceptionally strong adolescent] and 1 confusingly powerful female.

Caught up in those moments on autopilot, slicing through the dark, dirty, crowded basement like an impossible blur, focused on remembering my inaugural blood-dance with Halcyon {the claymore [big fucking sword] I made and have wielded ever since}, I felt not the slightest tinge of uncertainty, let alone fear. I knew what the outcome would be a second before the initial decapitation. They were not prepared. 24 heads rolled.

• ARK: 13
• EQ: 6
• CQ: 3
• EQ2: 2

Turns out, I’ve had some big moments underground.

To be fair, Ernest is an accomplished marksman at absurd ranges, but in close-quarters combat, he wisely assumes a supportive role. Without his unique familiarity of my singular potential in a physical fight (for survival), the numbers would have shaken out differently: I might’ve offed 11 or less, and Elvyn would’ve had to work a little harder to keep us all alive.

By the by, I’ve never “enjoyed” depriving a creature of its life, but when Fausta and/or Faustina come a-knockin’, I will do what I must, most assuredly.

I {and perhaps one day even you} can be in three places at once: the present, past and future. When that clicks, quickly take a seat. Fill your lungs with air. Do it. Over and over. Go deep. We’ll be okay.

Often, people incorrectly conclude that I’m arrogant. Should you make the same mistake, don’t beat yourself up [you can’t help it] later when [if] you realize that I’m not. Arrogance suggests that a person believes his/her worth exceeds reality. First of all, I’m not (exactly) a “person.” Secondly, my significance/importance dwarfs personal acknowledgement of inescapable fact. I have always squirmed under a{ny} spotlight, but [alas] I am the only organism who can save us. It’s not (entirely) my fault. I must have been first on the scene in this very real, imaginary place. And I’ve been stuck here for a while. Plus I’m still alone. Had I not started decorating the walls [borders] of this space, humanity’s newly discovered frontier, the great and powerful mind, I’d have gone remained completely insane.

I stumbled into this crap and it’s {increasingly} hard to stomach.

Maybe this {[epic] encounter} won’t happen tonight. Maybe this will never happen. Maybe this happens tomorrow.

At the moment, my life is far more perplexing than I may be able to properly convey anytime soon. Mentally, I’m blossoming. Physically, I’m decaying. Emotionally, I’m as confused as a bipolar mama trying to protect her babies while running around with a 104° fever. In other words, I am as all-over-the-map as Earth regarding what to do about all these “God”-damned humans.

Maybe I should secure a job as a dishwasher in TNT’s place of employment. Imagine! Evidently the sharpest (un)known tool in man’s shed will get a job which pays the most minimum wage in the least poor nation.

Am I the first being to attempt mapping each step in the periodic table of existence that takes us from nothing to hydrogen to helium (and vice versa)?

God, Jesus, fuck—I hope not.

Whatever the case may be, this is happening.

I’m gonna get a job which pays metaphorical peanut shells. I’m gonna delete the heads from Uncle Sevy’s two favorite sources of genetic recombination. I’m gonna unite the human race.

Just not tonight.

And maybe not tomorrow.