Under the miserable fog of whatever it is—-the arduous shade of this need-to-defeat dominance, known and unknown: I will never allow to take me alive; despite the thousand or so mutilated casualties this continual sorrow causes: this suffering vehemently needs, to un-do—-in any stability in the sudden retreat—-evil keeps down.

Dump from out the Womb of the Sky—-I wish I knew beyond this mortal barrier: where we think it is, where up-Top—-the Spirit suppose—-which can un-lock everything that it is—-we unfortunately must live through. I know myself much greater than the Madman in full artillery—-ready to kill whatever it is that gets in my desperate way—-when trying to find the screws of my fallen head, I want to put back, in the worldly conflict of this unholy to Holy lifetime. And as subtle the insanity with the instigation toward a love-to-kill—-a wicked God seems ready with the intent to set up Riot: in wanting to see how evil—-will suddenly turn its disturbed head into any form of Reason; while at the edge when ready for no more—-when happily more suddenly come—-we create from in order to Immortally live forever. Universally, thicken by the accolade and torment of such a disturbed Creator—-which love and curse at the same time; despite this dispirited homicide—-a destroyed nothing of no-more casually bring All into pass.

As the world I vaguely stand in—-where humans' lay-Up dying—-by the confusion of otherworldly causes; we can't help fighting, as that slight disaster metaphysically war-ranted with the illusion of a god from long ago—-Present, but still nowhere to be found—-as to answer All our questions about life and death; where illusions are now true—-and truth-be-told is an elusive sin, hard to possess for how holiness is long gone—-during our godless moment, the movement into different worlds—-Other-powers' want us to forever mourn in the embattled sabotage of our dead-again.

The ill conceived gun-barrel of this explosive millennium—-isn't by the destructive intelligence of the machine, but: by the obscure difficulty to divide the physical—-into things too hard to perceive—-where the far-from-clinical, eye-of-the-mind—-I'm referring to, is very much locked inside—-as the blind man sees much clearly, than those who think they see; during the physical and metaphysical vandalism in the—-War of the Worlds.

While in the amputated crises of this cruel submission—-unable to use the trigger-happy fingers against this guarded and un-guarded mentality; where the defenseless squadron without the know-how to fight—-in that man who always lay dead, seems to be dead-again—-by a ghastly chaos that's added, again and Again, to the already heavy fumes of this discouraging fate. This fiery intent that hail as the unseen helium—-we need for our combative armory, so as to make assure our missiles go high as balloons—-and then burst the enemy into undetected pieces; where the winning crises of this conflicted miss-intelligence must fall—-in order to wake Up in victory. And as unsound the infiltrated behavior of this cruel derailment—-laying at the bolted and medicated bed of any beat-to-death emergency room—-is good enough for the soul, during the ill frustration of this toxic gas; to obliterate the kindness out of man-kind where a non-sense is waged—-between earth and Sky where there's no physical reach at all: where its hope all who belong to my Ranks' is left-for-dead.