Virtuvian God of Dreams

The plus side of watching a philosophical nightmare and existential crisis that covers dreams, the land of the dead, and the book of acts, is you can relate to one of the characters. Interesting, stroboscopic it was in which they covered the animation over real imagery used to portray modern dreams. This is Richard Linklater’s Waking Life.

What it symbolized for me is two things. Precisely a mirror, one side, and the other. A two way vacuum, or just another television show you don’t understand but want to because it’s colorful. But at the same time, it has it’s roots in trying not to be pretentious to the viewer. Or does it, does the audience want to relate to someone, or is it the fact there’s always a duality involved where you want to wonder who’s who and you don’t fully know whats going on in the first place. For me recently it was the book of acts being mentioned at the very end, and how he related himself to living in the world of the dead that the character in the film was doing.

Or was it. Was he dreaming he was dead. What lucidity is it to wake up in a grave? Was he to wake up in hell? Heaven? Paradise? Or his bed? You don’t think that far when the credits roll do you? I guess, sometimes no.

Da Vinci Vitruve Luc Viatour.jpg

Can he dream? Or is he bound to paper? This Vitruvian Man

Im not too deep, but the sequel isn’t on the radar. Regardless of how Richard Link later portrayed the evidence that we’re all in a dream revolving around waking up or the final chapter of this thing we think is called life, is quid pro quo to the relevant characters in the film.

If I was on a bus, and something abnormal happened, and then was off one and in my dorm writing this, then who knows. Did that happen? Am I do drift off a car door handle and wake up?

The best part of the film was the beginning when the two kids were playing with the scratch card game box of numbers, I think.

I am a fan of the film. I hoped to see more of it, and I did with A Scanner Darkly with Keanue Reeves. Being the God of the dreams, Morpheus, plays an interesting role in those films off the Matrix with Reeves (played by Laurence Fishburne).

Am I fated to see these again?

Evening or Morpheus by Charles Le Brun

I might get a hair cut – a brief question of Sophy

Can one have free will and fate at the same time play a role in existential time? 

If one has free will to do what is thought to be understood as will, when does fate or the term destiny take over the subjective force that is mixed with the idea force behind the philosophy.

I pose the question, one says “Oh well I have free will. I might as well off myself” and in turn doesn’t jump out a window. But this is an element of a tree falling in the forest and not making a noise, since subject two is there.

If fate is real.

One is eventual to end his choice in life, to his understanding by the symbolic nature of what my understanding of fate. So I will not be able to quit cigarettes. But I choose to always, it’s just that I’m fated to die by famine or cancer. In a sense.

But that leaves me with fate maybe playing a small role, where I can’t use the word can and instead of doing that, I freely through destiny and choosing to do everything other than that, find my way into; as you would see here I’ll say I can quit cigarettes. And wonder if I am choosing to lead a choice or explore the philosophical nature of the idea of inter polarity.

Freely choosing to do something on the other hand is something piano can often times describe, but how many keys are there and when is the music original if you are

Chapter 1: The story so far – part B

‘The Not So Impossible’

Among certain books on the bookshelf in this store Peter had found himself walking into once again were fiction novels adjacent an ‘antithesis’ the author had called it, on how to read the Greek literariness. This authors name was Germain Augustine a female Renaissance writer from France. These books where next to three large ethics books and a larger dictionary and commentary on the Greek alphabet. Inside the ethics and antithesis behemoth of books (in size and scope, respectively that is) was sandwiched a petite lightweight leather booklet on Plato.

The book was called “The Second Play To the Caves: poems on life from a modern day escapee’. Peter had cracked a small part of his lips as if the Greeks had done this on purpose, named their philosopher Plato for the sake of the modern term they used for children’s toys in the twenty first century– or was it the former that came first. He wasn’t sure what the book was about and It caught his eye, so he lifted his hand to the shelf and grabbed it from among the books and novels and while the pages were thick yet white as snow, and yielded no trace of bruises the spine was as straight as a brand new car’s backrest, that would have been purchased off a television ‘as seen on TV’ commercial days before putting it in the car, and the ink was printed in a brown italic in which reminded him of the similarities of Biblical books he read as a youth. That is to say, the spine wasn’t straight. Someone had gotten themselves into this, there were pages that seemed to be read already. A maiden voyage this wasn’t going to be he thought, but a purchase maybe to add to a virgin shelf he had ready at his dwelling.

Laughs rippled from outside the store, there was a noise where the bells above the door had made way to the opening of it and in walked this stern looking women in a brown dress, with brown skin.

Hello Madam“, said a man with a half roughly shaved beard sitting behind a register at the cash.

“Oi, John. Been some time but not too much I hope! That beginning setting you explained in the book Never Wake by that author is too creative for me to grasp” she said in a stern non nonchalant way.

The bookstore was often busy at night in this part of the city, and at the present of his journey into the store Peter found a peace settling in faster than normal thanks to the atmosphere created by John’s musical tastes. The speakers set up on the ladder above the cash played some foreign – yet reminscent of good times he had when alone in his car on his way to plays with his wife – trance music. His car had been parked outside and had taken about an hour to get him into the city as he left a silence in the air so Peter could not get distracted and continue his pursuit of finding what he thought would be a curious display of this book on Plato’s philosophies work.


Peter not finding this to his surprise found a bookmark inside the paperback he had in his hands and interupting the lady on her quite way into the store pipped up from the isle he was in the small house bookstore had an echo where it wouldn’t require a thundering voice to reach the ears of the captain of this small ship of a bookstore asked,

“Sir John…”.

As if he was a militant Queen guard with one of those tall black hats.

Yes Petra my friend. This lady is a customer, I hope this isn’t… -” he was about to finish.

“No. This isn’t a game of chess I’m asking about. There’s a bookmark in this book, it says ‘To the One who Conquers’ ” he replied quizzitively.

This caught John’s attention.

It turned out that the bookmark was John’s as he had usually perused the pages of his own shelves looking at encompassing literature on the gods and children and men and Gods and children of men and in his spare time. The bookmark was a reference to someone who would one day conquer for humanity in the name of God. A phrase pulled out of the latter pages of the Bible he read, had, yet didn’t sell. John’s store was a bookshelf of everything but the actual original mansucripts and apparently divinely inspired books that inspired the pages that ended up in the bookstore. From phiolsophical essays on how the ancients made medicine or a hardcover portion of poems by a native author of a distant country. Anything you would usually not find in the window or outisde, was on display in the isles if you could find them. Though not quite a literal library, but composing of books of certain taste and wisdom. John himself was a man who’s father was a Rabbi and didn’t talk much about faith. The two of his parents told him to pursue his dreams his entire life so when he was awoken to the nature of the reality of literature books and the intellect they carry on in our world thanks to their nature of what he called ‘ice burgs’ he purchased his neighbours parents house and took much of his time collecting his families and their books (as well as purchasing in bulk) his way into the city as a young author of authors. An aristocratic looking yet red blooded fellow from a city no one heard of.

Cliches of nature, he didn’t withhold from introducing Peter to Beguzza and Banita.

John was in his fifties now, and his parents were on their way out to lunch for eternity soon. They stopped by once in a while, for reminiscing of chess games at his youth, and to remind him to keep his face shaved in case his children ever show up into the store. The store’s name was something he had titled ‘Pages’ and the sign that hung amongst a panel of other stores in the alleys of the cities gates of commerce was not obvious to onlookers from the way it’s courier typeface presented itself, though it was something mysetrious and set among the cities innards as rememberance of the people whome came there.

This was on purpose, he made enough money from selling much of his books at the beginning of the shops initial opening sometime after the third world war and things had settled for good now. There was no sign of the peace ending in his or his childrens lifetime. He was happy, not clean shaven ever, and his demeaor or a smile only gave way to the shadows under his brown eyes. His kids on the other hand, often [did] drop by with their dates to brag about their father’s talent in how he had left a story in their heart. Their names were something he had pulled from a lottery of cracker jack boxes almost, nothing you would guess the way they acted on the inside or out; quite enigmatic- that is, their personalities. Their names inspirations for the sake of sanity or better yet for a hint at what he had told Peter, John said once for humanities sake will not be explained. Who knows where he was inspired from.

“Well unless that’s a purchase, just leave it there.” he replied.

The music shifted once more on the speakers from foreign progressive house group bumped into the next track on the playlist by a band called Grave Wape, a modern sythetic sound where the woman sang as if she was in the shower with a mohawk listening but isnging [over] punk music mixed with classical.

“The bookmark. Does it have something to do with the Book of Revelation’s?” he asked.


“I see. Well then I will see you for a game of chess.” said Peter.

This bookmark is what I’m playing for though, and Dumah.” he added.

It’s just bad though, I’d be interested in you could finally explain to me the damage it can do to one’s fate if you don’t understand the native languages your dealing with. I love the greek syntax of the other studies I’ve done thanks to your store. But I..wait – what the fuck is this…” he stopped his conversation before it could get started. On the back of the bookmark, he had been examining in his talk, was his wife’s name but not in the sense it was her that wrote it. It read: DONATE TO THE DUMAH FOUNDATION.

This caught the woman with brown skin’s attention, she had recognized the name to be something from the east. A land in a desert nation where the grass was vacant and made room for trails of Mercedes that sometimes toured their ways on their journey to look for what Edenic scenery they might find.

I know that name. A friend I had grown up with had that name. You sound elated.” she started.

She died of cancer.” replied Pete.

Peter closed the book and took the bookmark and headed out the door on his way to the car. The smell of the pages turned in his life once more for a brief turn as he wondered who was watching over his life, Dumah might be for all he thought.


He took off through the narrow alleys and stairs out of the bars and eateries that surrounded the core of the business section Pages was located in, the lady had smiled with a sparkle in her eye on his way out but that didn’t stop him from wondering where she might be. It alarmed him to think of Asimov at this moment.

As he was chasing the sidewalk to his car, Dumah – his deceased lover – had once replied to one of Peter’s jokes about how machines take over the world eventually into a slew of growing more machines for a dominate race of collectors. It hastened his steps imprint on what he was leaving behind in mystique,as all she ever said, was jokingly that he was his robotic slave already.

Damn her. He thought, the music always hit him on the way to the car he parked. The music of his cell phone. The part of the world he lived in had a notion and claim to fame with the war ending, and the ringer on all their technology was ancient now, but to the youthful warriors of the third war that started in Australia, it was always reminding him of his wedding. He walked with a stroll as if it wasn’t her that was the robotic symbiant at his pleasure disposal. But that he never got to see the judgement that landed on humanity where they escaped the flood of death in whatever way she spoke of sometimes.

This metaphor of a pun intended wasn’t there, but the mist of what she has instilled in him was gathering speed as the Mirelands sign hung over his head, he passed under some other signs and windows and alleys to a staircase. The very idea of him being encased in a rock or island’s eternal dwelling and having her come visit him and explain to him all the travels she had done while he was to think up what subjectivity begun in his journey as an artificial being or a slave or whatever she thought of him. Deep down it was her death that left him complete with what she knew him as alive, though to be someone who is one with a woman and pass the Turing test at the age of her demise left him with thoughts of wonder at her work on him. Like being named after something as a desert and being – Dumah – from Egypt, there was terror building in him right now.

He stopped running.

As if he was preparing to hear something for the rest of eternity, a song by Bach remixed to robots, as humans came to visit the ruins of war and talk and explain to the robotic warriors who failed humanity. It was a deep but deadly kiss of the mind this page he was on, the ring tone and the bookmark. It was [him] who was that robot tied to the vines of the rain forest. Never being able to see the water or even understand what a human feels when someone dies – being not human that is.

Nature was where she was buried, among a huge set of hills and houses that surrounded it but even the houses in the village of this burial site gave way to shrubs and vinery and trees interlaced within and around the setting of the town. Something you could imagine being scene as the most peaceful place of burial. T

Hello?” he said on his phone.

Your at least human enough to walk out of her but not finish a game of chess are you?” said John.

What is it. She sparked something in there. I’m just going for a walk. Shes gone to the world of rest or wherever we go when we our lungs fail us. What do you expect me to do?” he said.

John stopped him in his tracks when he mentioned the name of the lady, and provided hope in Peter, so he turned back and headed through a maze of stairs and cement and mortar to Pages.

When he walked in the music was off and the silence was eerie when he had not spotted the napkin with tears on it, but noticed the lady waiting on him had modern day mascara running down under her eyes. It was not foreign for him to think of this might be the best time to dance with her and sing praises about the Greeks and take her out to dinner. He needed to know something instead. He wanted to know if this Dumah was the same. His mind laughed at the situation in where he might go to get her number and find if she too was a friend or just someone trying to pick him up for a date.

She died. How did you know your Dumah,” he asked, stressing ‘your’.

She was a childhood friend from music school. We got into fights over who we would marry when we were young. Prince charming or Mr. Right. She was from Egypt and never remained in contact with me” she finished.

Her name turned out to be Onna.

She married Mr. Right.” said Peter jokingly.

How’s that?”

His first name just so happens to be Always”, quipped John from behind the cash. He was going with the case of chess held in hands to place it in front of the two. “And he has three cats. One of them drowned shortly after the first two did, in a river in this city Quebec.”

Yes.” Peter laughed almost in the form of a question.

Un, deux, trios, cat’s sank. Said Mr. Right”

She turned and Onn looked behind her, “Oh okay. I’ll be on my way then. We should catch up on her over wine one day” and out the doors of Pages she went. It was a sour twist in her mind, the phrase made her giggle on the inside to think he missed the chance. It was mysterious enough to get shocked by running into someone who was about to help you find a friend of old. But no, Onna couldn’t remember where it would go anymore, and she abruptly left with a smile on her face.

Peter and John played a long game of chess. Two rounds it turned into, and the machine timer on the game ended the same time the music came back on. It was all John’s plan to let him forget of what he was doing with a bookmark. He didn’t want to upset the natural setting of his stores customers. And one on her way out, could be one on her way back in. He was hoping the place Peter found himself in was a place of rest when he returned home. The three cats he had in his upstairs apartment above the dwelling below where he ate and slept, was covered in water again he discovered.The city lit up and dimmed out like an electric strobe light in the rear view mirror of his car. The car was his parents favorite colour, but belonged to him from the work he was doing at a school for philanthropy. He wasn’t sure if he’d make it home. The highway he was on was still littered from riots over the taxing put in place or better said, not put in place over the rebuilding of the city’s outer forestry section that was taking over room to expand the city cores second outer limits of hybrid housing.

He was curious no longer about what would come of the job he had responsibilities to the coming weeks working in the schooling system, and headed inside for a glass. He poured water by the time he got to the chance to decide if it was a time to get cracking out the wine and fruits. It would be hilarious he mentioned in the backs of his being if the strength he had when Dumah existed were still lingering in the air. Cancer was nothing of the sort of choice you get to choose what it tastes like. But being a woman and having it reach her breasts, it was subjective to him the least. In his defense, visiting her often and keep her in the words of his mind and hearts work as he often did with mentioning to John what she instilled in him, or the en carving on her burial place would keep her busy doing whatever you do on the other side of the mirror of life.

To him it was just an external dark cloud of judgment by a king of kings or a voice and thought of sound that visited often the space and surroundings of the globe to cause something or nothing to happen. But he held onto her. Becuase the bitter taste of loosing her kept the pages turning. His demeanor wasn’t restless, he was busy trying to think on the book he left at the store. It was obvious he’d go to a place similar. A place where there is no knowledge akin to that of pages of holy books of life. To songs where the tune was pleasant and when the rain fell, the pages and notes of such these mentioned laugh or cry on you in a sense of the light of isles of where he had grown custom to. A place where he didn’t call home until he left. ‘Are we coming or going’ said John. In an echo that clicked with the choice of time and age for a brief moment of looking onto the house. He went through some doors to get to the upstairs and grabbed what was left of the sheets of comforters. Settled in to the darkness of the night as it set in, and when the sun was completely gone he drifted and collapsed into a fury of terror as the sound of a bus crashing hit him so profoundly he wanted all wise ways of falling out of the dream he had fallen into which in turn turned into a dark hole of tunnels of nightmarish memories. The bus crashed and he went spinning into a mist of when the smell of the dress she wore was youthful. It was on his mind, but in truth he knew it was what she had made mention of the infamous Earth Alpha project they had wanted to see unfold.

What is Earth Alpha he thought. She made her way into the dream. It was a wild one. He woke the next train wreck of random access memories into the light of the house, which he had yet to turn off when he drifted off to sleep. And the sound of dogs barking at the moon made mention he wasn’t rested enough.

Grabbing the comforter. He decided to crash himself into a fury of good time sounding music of vinyl and put his faith into something scriptural. It was non-fiction that this symbiant like nature of his kept his clock working. But the clock would always die at the end of the night and the forest would come into play. Darkness and dreams and memories of the last page. Where was this going.

I think”

Last chance”

This time the dogs were barking because they were on their stroll from hedge to road to city, or to city to road to hedge to house, and it was morning. The dream he had was nothing but a climax of what is being displayed beyond the veil. He [was] doomed. She was gone. What was left. He thought. Was nights to surrender to the death that comes to all but one. The creator he thought. He didn’t realize this night had ended with a morning of a dream that happened to be something nowhere in the book that lay next to his right foot. The King James Bible. Something that made it’s way throughout the centuries into an odd paradigm of thought among the governments. And the time he had heard of what was to come, he placed great strength in resting upon this man who was to come and satisfy the needs of a world left in chaos.

Having the war that had recently end, it was of no surprise if the world he lived in had anything to do with a different interpretation of this figuratively speaking relevant book in John’s opinion to Peter, but the Christ was something he didn’t understand. What he did though, was”

Chapter 1: The story so far [updated]

Difficulty in measurement came, when they decided to talk once a word throughout the ages upon the nature of life and the sanctity of the bookstore, where Peter Zeif and a few others gathered the peruse inter polarities of science, nature of the wilderness in Africa, and often times but never on a Sunday the temples of space and time – in which case the bookstore had many pages upon the shelves of.

Scattered throughout the density of the clouds in their minds, the philosophers of the dualistic likeness of a question such as what road would lead to the back of a coffee shop where an old widow and an estranged virgin are talking over coffee about war where is one question that would arise in Pages. Pages would not be that bookstore near the coffee shop, but the partners of commerce always drink coffee and whenever a clerk working the janitorial dustiness of a stone and brick thematic literature department of the district of the miry lands of (just that, The Mire), what question would the mirror say to the face of an individual looking into the coffee shop or the washroom mirror of a bookstore when you where at the lowest part of your life but remembered your life purpose and the way you had found it. And it would be just that, Branden Gabe Dumia thought, to try and capture the flame of writing in an old friends house. His spectacles glazed over from the perspective of the sudden doom they left on the inprint of his face, he thought, it wasn’t nice to have marks near your nose and have the glasses leaving the shadows under his eyes a place to rest under and give the impression he was an old man already at the age of 41. He did need them. He didn’t like them.

He had thought of working with him on a walk after perusing not the isles of a bookstore, but the isles of men, the men who were islands. On his way to the coffee shops secret stashment of towels the store would leave for people who were struggling with the overnight restocking and cleaning of the washroom, he would try and save a stash and keep them for the workers who would arrive to him. His friend Peter would sometimes laugh that he did such things and not only that, wondered where he first found out about the store to begin with because their coffee was measureably curious.

“Fatefully. To begin with a square yet a question of where it is” Alam Adamson once said.

“Wait. Are you killing the joke, where did that question come fro-” thought Branden.

He was to be betrayed, by someone in life that would strengthen one destiny and paradoxically destroy an element of his life that was lying on the street brought to another persons attention by a Hindu monk one time. He was in this washroom I spoke of looking himself in the mirror, there was Hebrew symbols on the wall, and the mirror was tinted. The mirror reflected a modern type of what the first generation of it called “blue berry pi” – in which case a camera lens records a split reflection of the man who would either shave or smile, and the screen was placed behind a glass like substance where you could measure your own looking into a mirror without seeing the distortion of the characters opposite side.

With that, the spaceir, sitting upon the wall across from the bathrooms real mirror reflected not just an advertisement under it as it changed digitally but as well as the person in the mirror. The advertisement was of two Persians, one false and one with the hourglass of a mans vice. The vice being the cigarette the man wanted the other, being Peter, to come to his house. For what a man professing one religion his country is about is an outright lie, and having the most welcome attitude towards their newly adopted or better put adopting faith is what the advertisement made Brendan think about when looking in the advertisement. The other Persian, Peter met he had introduced to his friend Branden. The two of them had various standings with the advertiser spaceir, its metal crux a pi and four verse contraption of technology programmed to ad and adap favor from two handful thought of learning from the air.

My mind is double minded, split by the words of the same questions.


“Chess”. No “Home stolen” Maybe. “Paintings from the falls where children cling to their fathers fear”. Yes.


“I don’t know where to begin” said the author.

Peter was an astute yet sleepy and slumberous sin running and inquisitive smoker who enjoyed spending his youth being a dreamer. One that dreamt of driving in the forests while the shade would not exist in any sense of the word. The inner deadwood of the house reiked, and Peter woke up to a smell of a stale air and beautiful sound of his cats asking for food. He desired to be hugged always though, and he wouldnt give it up until he rested on the fact that questions are more than words ending with symbols. Or would he give it up, the ringing in his head was the dust in the attic where he once attempted to abandon dark literature in which case now had a four sided copy of an emptey model of a statue. Honestly, the way he went about thinking his way into beastly situations was shaky and in depth when he asked the depths of his original mind in which he was frightened to explore the depths of at the ripe time, was fixed and sperated into a firmity of red yellow gold and unmistakable friendships of a town called Indelatio. In his mind he would imagine mirrors in shaky alleys with clutters of spiders turning into clusters of dark crab like nebulas that took on the form of a weak fish hook, his mind was imaginative and symbolic of a god fearing individual whom is just and unjust as sinking tough love when one walks from youthful choices wrought on by overzealous principles of intelligent design mixed with a firm understanding that the mirror neurons that sometimes slipped from one page to another.

His bathtub had a television in it, but he wouldn’t dream of sleeping with it, he thought sometimes it could flash into the fog of displaying to people sinking feelings of assurance of hatred.

His messianic childhood dreams of his favorite authors book about a steel man leading himself into lava, was a question to him. And John, Brendan, and the sister of Dumia. They had once wandered from the coffee shop of Second Drop to the mainstreet, unto a trolley and a diverse walk through the pathways that were close to a dark town of troubled income houses run by the system of the hospital networks workers, being so close to the hospital that is. He was burrying his friends philosophy of whether or not the prophecy of the books suggestive nature was in eye shot of something like a dream, but he did laugh at the fact Brendan starkly wanted to jump into lava whenever the subject of lava came up. He would use his vague understanding of books he found distasteful and compare them to Peters mind when listening. The two had met not too long ago, and because of their work they were not suitably engaged to work the place of business they had dreamt of at once. Nothing was independant to them. And John at the bookstore, was always talking about revolution of the mind as if it were an illusion.

The structure of this room he was taking towels from and washing himself off, after having to sit through the advertisment of the Persian men selling beer on the television had made him dizzy and longing for a partner to talk to in the bar. Not a lonely women, not a lonely bar tender, but a lonely book that could keep him from his perverse alternate mind.




‘Peter!’ said John. 

It was useless, to John.

He could possibly muster Peter’s confidence as he’d cover sleepy conversations in the back of his mind speaking to him, unaware sleep had to be taken into effect.

John was a bookstore owner and wanted to grab Peter from his deep sleep he had drifted into. The pages all the while before he also drifted into, that of a philosophy book on ethics. His metabolism was as good as his sense of metaphor and John knew Peter would either wake up with his pants pissed or the book would have him dreaming of electric sheep with knives asking a chess player if he was colour blind. Either case, he was to wake up on his own or John could wake him from his sleep and charge him to the extra money for the book he hadn’t read fully given the time John allowed for the store to come to a close while Pete would finish what he requested reading. It was useless to charge him for the time wasted though, and the lack of awareness awkwardly awarded John nothing not notably do with the new time on hands.

The clock was about to click into it’s fifth hand past twelve. Five o clock on the dot was the time he usually wanted to start cleaning up the stereo command on top of his speaker box set up he had placed over the plethora of bookshelves in the the store. John ran the store, Peter walked in to read and converse.

John was an astute Jew, Peter didn’t believe in God in the center of him and wanted nothing more than to drink coffee and be merry while reading machinama comics about technology but the question always arose with the blue eyed brown hair Peter. He was young enough to remember his times in the ministry service of the church of England growing up, but the present time playing tutor at local trinity technology school down the road of the Mirelands didn’t give him the answer he wanted. The coffee and machinama was always two steps from the book he’d grab off the shelves of bookstores, his favorite being that of the local shop south of the highway that led into town.

The MireLands placed itself in a peaceful time of rest that had come before Peter, and separated from the sleepy highways that spanned the entire nations and among the earths core technologies and military strength was something that could only be used with thumbs and fingers of astute posterity were the door bells. It didn’t matter which you used, doorbells in The MireLands all buzzed differently, phones weren’t the only personal means of communication, and cars were no longer extinct.

Though not dystopian or something foreign to a modern man living in a place where nature can have one search the shelves of book stores and the ruins thereof to discover that what had made once does no sense to a man anymore, save for the penniless freedom one has looking for a dog chasing a bone upon a throne of men and women carrying themselves beyond the veil naked and unknown.

The MireLands had once ideas for rebuilding their sidewalks with smart technologies encompassing riders of their ‘so called’ re-invention of the wheel so that people with their technologies was not a far cliche journey of destiny and fate anymore. Having led Peter among his youth through a war or two growing up which climaxed to a completely differently expected fate, the cities thereof never realized the aspiration it would take to connect the commuters by wire and phone. The grammar of sidewalk commercials, or how the bus systems still worked while displaying commercials of nothing but ironic messages of salvation, was this world he lived in. This world had a name, sometimes and it was everywhere on the advertisements, but there were no hints to its humanity one might understand to be in dreams of his youth as to what that name was. The city was the only name he had at this point. He had tried, oh how he had tried to realize the name of the city.

This war he had seen growing up, the young men fighting at his schooling systems, the banking systems politely still doing what they’ve always been doing; there was nothing new to this world separate from the one he had known before his wife had died. And the way this is written, you may find a home in the rocks where he ends up in turmoil of the metaphors of life that come everyone’s ways. Everyone who tries figuring out for themselves, the days that come before one turns into a secretary of a bookstore. When one turns out to the secretary of that bookstore to pay the bills of a test written for a friend to visit another in a distant realm of a world. When one tries to sleep on the floor of an attic in a town outside the forests that encompass the Mirelands. When above reality where things he’d remembered from old age and youth visits to orphanages and churches at the times his parents were still around. He didn’t know where he was half the time, but most usually he trusted his novels and women whom he talked to about among the shelves of his wife’s parents’ house. He was at the moment single, and didn’t plan on finding a set of eyes to stare into for eternity again for a while now – nor had the chance of finding such hope, a hope that he had scene only hours before he had woken to this day. In the breathe of the night that turns to morning with the sounds of a commuter bus bumping it’s horn to make it’s way into the busying bus lanes and routes of a city of immense collectivist and diversity among other such novelties. For now, Peter was concerned of one thing. Where the bookstore he always goes to and fro on his way to a coffee shop called the ‘Smokers Coffee’ and when he would get the tears that he had shed for the daily commerce loss of the roadway systems that allowed him sometimes to venture to his forgotten families there out in the digital tombs and catacombs of catechism that belonged to the churches courtyards of the MireLands twin town (which was modeled after the inner courts of the Mire’ winery district).

He didn’t like his job, he did not not enjoy though, and his memories were affected only briefly when pulled out of contrary thoughts talking to strangers about what this reality he lived in was about. He was benign and foreign to his world though not to the friends he lived with while visiting the cities core offerings. It was something that could only make sense when the music he listened to wasn’t being played. He wanted the sun to rise and make its mark on the doctors that he went to work with have its way that made their ample bosoms glow with the tan that reminded him of all the times he had in the schooling colleges and universities.

When he was young he fell into medicine from what appeared during his wife’s wedding – as a symbol of resentment almost – one thing he found. He had remembered the colour of the front cover of a magazine called EFIL MIRROR, a famous French magazine dark in satire which for one of the holidays of his generation it named its front cover “The Pill of the Future”.

It didn’t arrive. The yellow color of the sun did. This magazine had got him into medicine when he thought he could live the rest of his days walking to work without rest, though it was good; he did find the idea of sleepless nights interesting. And the cover claimed – on April Fool’s Day – that you could get away without sleep ever again, if you downed a certain yellow pill.

This cover was beyond satire and humor as it was dangerous to his steadiness in the field. He, being in his late forties now, didn’t know what he would do without his wife who had once rescued him from the scene of medicine. Deserting the nature to pursue medicine came at no cost when he had his way into a different world, a world of curiosity on where to go next.


There were still microwaves in this generational gap, they were no different to the times of the third war and made popcorn taste buttery without doing anything different than the turn of the twenty fourth century. To his poor reckoning, life isn’t that much different than when the third world war had started in 2322 and for the sake of the look he had on his face as he went out the door, looking bravely into a mirror of mirrors he had on his wall. He wanted all the most to win her back. But the depths of Sheol were closed off and not shouting his name as he went out the door this morning. As sole keeper of the novel in his hand, he could at least get his way to the bookstore in time from where he was now if he wanted to escape the rising sun.

The car didn’t run on water. People needed that. The tunes in the car weren’t commercials that laughed at you, but there was a steady state of momentary gain in the business of going to and forth. There was no plan to use this towards anything though. It was no secret. It was just his life and others he presumed. Whom when he needed to get to the highway to the town next, and through to The MireLands.

He would take the time of 4:00 am and make his morning brew only to get into the city by sometime after 5 a.m. . When the city’s life was waking up and doing whatever they were pre-occupied with from what came from before the night before had ended. The car chipped as it opened, a noise of laughter came from his gut as he smiled to the sound of Dumah. She didn’t sound like she was breathing to heavily anymore, but her voice reminded him of when she first left the auto-alarm off and had a welcome home troops request among the automobiles automatic display of advice. He had awoken from his sleep. Had not yet taken his medication. Nor read the book that was left on his bed side table.

He was ready to talk to the autopilot.

Straight to er’ Dumah.” Peter said.

Having taken the precautions of it’s own hive mind, to get his signals from where his hands where or however this machine worked he thought, he was headed at once by request into the town book industry. The store he called home. In which his friend had given up so much to get purchased and start up during the youth of theirs.

On the way” explained the advice of the car.

Off he was.

Geese flying into the woods



The golf course was vacant, the fence was stern, the highway was narrow winding – the man driving the semi didn’t notice the goose crossing the road at night.

The bird was lost. He had been shot at by a hunter in a bush near the golf course, nothing could help him and he was wounded on on leg as shrapnel that had hit him in the head from a ricocheting bark of the tree where the hunter had aimed for was now making him loose his vision and hope of finding clear water to either drink from or wait in during the dawning day.

It was beyond night now. There was a road where a wise few had chosen to settle and build progressive housing of intelligent designed communities next to a warrior or two of a nation like army of sportsmen. The men traveled the outskirts and didn’t know whether or not their town was to make way one day or not, but waited ever so patiently and did always what they had been told to and worked for the common surroundings of family and earned their way helping in a way the hunter or the goose could survive off of.

Everyone in this community didn’t know the building plans though, where finite and about to collapse into a grim density of smoke and mirrors if one of the townsmen didn’t protect his rifle, his basketball net, his bookstore, or his community that was housed in the local schools area of churches that surrounded the suburbs. Closer the churches were to the bookstores where people waiting and coming and going to all areas of the surrounding villas cities and metropolises too though.

Everywhere in the Mirelands where traces of the sight that is indistinguishably hidden from the desolation of the back roads where the semi would go.

The goose had made it’s way across the road and went for the closest passing under a railway when a young man spotted it and wondered why it was hurt. He had remember his youth being injured by a death of a family cat. Poor baby, his father had taunted him. He was ill and working for the town and the community now. There were bills to pay and children to raise, but most of all, there was the injured goose.

The goose couldn’t find it’s way in the dark and decided to rest and decide in it’s own language the fiery fate of death the surroundings of it’s reality was playing on this creature that it was. Beast’s where foul, beasts where to be cared for, adored, and often times seen as an activists tuition insignia or a university professors reason not to eat red meat on thanksgiving.

Culture was hidden where it died. In the burbs of the town that was a hideout for the trees that encompassed the growing girth of a world that was everlasting to the stones of a prince that housed himself inside the goose’ old Vila to write about the metaphors of what would happen if that goose had not been flying over the hunters golf course at the right time.

The healing wasn’t taking place. The grass withered.

Laughter could be heard from all angles. Hammers were flying in all directions and friends were busy sleeping to wake up for the next meal of the day in the morning to get off to their lives in the Mirelands. Most of them went to highway to get to where they wanted, not all got to it by car or vehicle. As buses and bikes passed this highways bridge and way out towards the four narrow roads that split in the direction of dark blue brightening sky in the morning the next day.

The right road was the copy of the left road. All vehicles were permitted to cross the highway and get to the lands surrounding. It’s a matter of age though. And the time never agreed with anyone leaving.

Including the goose.



A joke.