It is by the beeping of an iron lung can we enrich ourselves in the facets of this man's legacy no more than we have said onto you that he did not deserve his world to be taken over so cruelly that at night he lies awake wondering what is it that made him so futile in the first place, his inability to act out towards rats under covers and by basement halls that we endure so cheerfully that his madness had lead him to a better way and that any ill convoluted notion may still enrich his daily life without adding to reason of it. It is that why we made a pactful burden with this loser, that to act out and say we love him merely adds up to a colonoscopy bag so riddled with germs that to touch it is to give off his own nasty aroma that laid in his lap so tenderly that he doesn't know where he's going with this Disneyland primeval sort of renaissance affair, we have to be the captains in his ship and see to it that any sort of life he's worth carrying out here comes from a life straight with beliefs that foolish you might think is rebounding off what came before him, a shallow husk of a man that lied tortured in the fact that he'll never be one of the good ones is forefathers dreamed wearily of, the touching truth of his nature is that because he has so freely seen the earth crumble beneath his feet, he may look out in the sea of hatred and see himself so purely he laughs at our feet and makes his stay known to us. For it is with rich history we see the fault that so many of us fall into from time and time again of getting over someone simply to be told they weren't worth the effort in the first place, like some scumbag jerking his willy off to you in untold ways may be seen the same as any other man that could take his place, a bastion of wealth and petty dribblings that once seemed so high on the shelf that no man could take it away from you for it is that which binds us here that seems so flattering in the sentences wrote down that takes away from the very part of us that makes us blind in the first place, meaning that which we have wrote seems futile in the bigger picture of what makes it so wrong to do it in the first place, a common courtesy and footnote that we are who we say we are and that this feeling will never go away. It is with that we say the unending flattering notes that litters our pages with undying loss, blood, sweat, and tears that we create a new form of loss that is so heavy it creates him so much guilt that he is cast out from even the walls of himself into a pit of darkness so terrible that his stench is meaningless to any girl he might want to kill for self reliance and cold hearted gibberish that lays so commonly on his table that he might even want to kill himself in doing that thing that gravitates so well to him, a real deal, an actual sexual partner that makes his dick bulge and nastily gives to him in a way that seems right in the moment but kills him later on, for it is that guilt that drives him up a wall into the neverending sea of pettiness that he finds you in, a sequin silhouette about how you're doing and the actions of your dark seed that lays in your heart to want to castrate him by using him as your puppet, we're here to see the other picture of what you do to him, the truth of his love for you and that is why he must keep this book a secret from you, a pansy attempt at getting back what he wants so dearly to make his mood feel so much better it is if to rip him from the very darkness of his soul he wants so desperately to get out of. For it is when you say "I don't care about you" we say "I do" and lists off the callus responses of nature calling him to fruition of that bet he made on an airplane that he could do it alone and not recieve you and instead fuck other women peaceably, I think he'd like to restate that statement alone so we'll let him.
Hey guys, about what I said… I don't want to live in fear and agony that comes with famously parading around women in high heels, drunkabilly laughing at their putrid poems they want the aliens to revise and critique when I could be waist up in a beauty that pulls me out of what I'm really stuck in, a rutt that no man has ever found himself in that means so little at the prospect of a collect-a-thon of woman that might madly want them. So I ask all the women of my past, the porcupine girl, and the asian women of this world to callously sit down and wait for the moment when I have her in my life and am comfortable around her to the point where I can take meeting you with open arms and not a callus heart of someone who wants desperately to be with another person. For it is love I want, not callus revenge sex in cocktail waitresses and methadone addicts that believe every word of this putrid book that is sure to make her throw up by the first chapter, I don't want to live off the feeling of putting this book into words written by aliens only to give up on what I set out to do when I concieved this book, which is to reach her with words written in massive militant poetry, so I may look Rage Against the Machine in the eyes and purposely raise my fist up in the air, mocking their album cover of Battle for Los Angeles, and believe I am the man they sought out making in the tapestry of their legacy. For it is not broads that I want, I want her, the slightest bit of her, a noise from her, a petty look from a form that I hold so dearly in my heart that it has caused it to break into itself time and time again.
So there we go, an honest stand on what really happened was that he wanted to seem bigger than he actually was, an honest mistake in the bigger milk of the issue is that he must seem as big as he is without losing himself in the broader scope of this project, to tear this woman apart and reap the benefit of being a published book author, to rewrite the stomach aches that tore him apart yesterday because of the beneficial nature of his artwork seems to only be what he's focusing on to the point that he can't just give up on his work to go and write poetry in a sane way, but look at everything as if it is a bother to what has really come into his life here, a way out. Any other way, any other look at a TV show or a popular movie is just cast down by him as a pathetic way to spend our time and it neuters him to the point that he acts out in front of government agents watching him on his phone, too tired to call you, too pointless to reach out, too afraid to send you his book because his tenure had gotten you to the point where you reached out to the cops first and asked endlessly if he called back and if there was anything they could do about him because his tenure spoke in such a way that cast a shadow on whether his man was out to kill you or publish a book based on his findings that lay awake at night surrounded by his madness. He would make or break the very soul of himself just to see you laugh awake at his joke he tried so desperately to master under the recital of life just to see your anguish at his very existence that he may very well be a creep but not a martyr for himself and your bullshit paragraph about how you're not in his head and needs to get over you because he seems like a loser, that means you're the loser that can't command immediate respect from a man that knows so clearly you deserve none of his respect, he is a man that needs us more than he needs a girlfriend, he needs responsibility for the totalitarian acts of what he hopes to accomplish in this lifetime and not looking with a blank stare at a TV all day wondering which actress he can bone after this book is read by thousands that stares widen at the truth of free will and where consciousness originated from, for this book is a play at madness unforeseen by a broader audience to the point where it must be seen, this book must be heard in the hearts of man and women alike for it is with this book and the literature within it that much tread carefully on the unforeseen audience that callously mocks him that he just needs to get a life and stop learning from alien creatures that want so desperately to reach him as she has. It is that unforeseen truth that rattles his cage to a point where the mockery seems to reach him even now and eludes him from writing what he truly wants to write, a mashup of different road maps and challenge the world with his book, a novel standing on purpose, that purpose is to rob her blind of the light she carries so near to her heart that her heart may find new things in the proceeds that robbed her so tenderly that to act indifferent is to not find what he has sought to keep, a blind eye on what really robs her instead of what robs him, an honest stay in a life he cried so cheerfully about and what lies ahead for this book is monstrous compared to what's written in the leading chapters that anyone with eyes on this book must say that it is art that drives it further into the reaches of the catacombs of our undying understanding of what's right and wrong. We must say to you that this book is his and not for you to read, it is his journey that makes him stay so vigorously on the pages that any interruption laid on his lap will lead in a torturous journey of the soul until he can recap back and find himself in the peace of writing this journal, a peace in finding himself on the pages that reap rewards and the timeless journey between good and evil that he finds himself in daily. For the truth of his magnitude lays deep within the builded structure of the life we find so clear to us daily that we must look up and see his heavenly grasp in that song that's written that goes, "Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste," Sympathy for the Devil, that's what this book should be called, a masterpiece of literature so awful that it distastes authors alike because he thinks he's cheating for using aliens connected to his mind to write things he holds so deadly to him that it makes us think if he's really that special or he should give up writing too bravely that his molecules get rearranged at the thought of losing this book. It is there we find a double meaning in his book, a long story about what happened and the context that lies within losing everything so much that new things attract themselves so dearly to him that his mind is way more complicated that writing aliens can comprehend and instead lend himself to it so he may find out what truly matters in this book, a wealth of paragraphs explaining his worry and his loss or a truthful narrative of what came before him in the wake of losing out on her and this book. A train ride of brilliance that he saw himself in is nothing compared to the way he writes about her in his other book, a trainwreck of bodily fluids and brain chemistry that do nothing to explain the broader scope of what he's trying to reach in her, a brave new stay at hilarious literature that brokers the notion that we as human beings must look at her and say, "What she did was horrible but she had a right to do it from how crazy he's sounding in this wall of text explaining how he talks to Jesus Christ and how that's not his right name and how he was able to access the true Christ by hearing his name spoken to him by an ancient breed of alien that knows everything including the true name of Christ and how he's been accepted as a mentee to him." For all of that might be true but it comes off so callus in the true nature of what's at work here, a way in. He fought for her day and night and nothing came out from it, what did find light was the torrent of newfound forces that came and went as his body fell ill and his mind felt tortured by the wave of agony so bright that it sent him catapulting to sleep at night ill alarmed that his mother might find what he was hiding so carelessly on his dresser drawer, a little bit of weed to cure his midnight anguish that comes from losing someone so close to you it's a hair away from being real and his body lay weak in comprehension that this book may not work and he'll have to try again and again to find something that only he would want so bad as to write a book about love and madness just to find what made him so mad in the first place, it was you, it was your look that drove him to the pit of despair he now lives in and shatters his world to pieces even still, unmad that you would have him thrown off a cliff before listening to him because that darkness of your heart is what makes you so advantageous to him, your honesty to responding to a man you have no interest in with an honest look into yourself, a mad woman that wants so desperately to learn about herself but can't seem to look a guy in the eyes that have learned about you to the point it's a mad dash to the finish line of this novel. For when that point breaks, he'll be with you, maybe not at first but he'll be with you shattering line after line into your dome as it breaks in complete fortune that he's trying to tell you something only you should have heard in the first place, a place for him in your life is so tantimount to his existence that nothing floors him anymore, even a breif cumshot from a girl that is so ready for him to be with her holds nothing in the light of your brief reflection that brought him to the very reaches of his soul and made him act out in a manner that Jesus Christ had to rape his very nature to bring him to a higher truth, that love and madness blinds us all into submission and takes our very forms away from us. It is he who has lost his form into the brutal concept of how you had to go every night and he would lay awake saying time out to thinking of you because he knew it wouldn't work out in the first place, he knew your birthplace was wrong and you didn't really meet the Capulets or the Montegues the first night at your stay on the royal palace grounds and find them reading poetry aloud in the monotone voice that comes from having a loved one ripped from your arms and laid down so tirelessly that his voice seemed to transcend the meaning of this book, to lay down a loved one that meant so dearly to you that you rattle your cage enough to think that things should lay in change fundamental to the point of why you're reading this, it's about you in the first place, you will lay awake at night thinking about what he has accomplished and see that in you his mortal soul resides in poopoo jokes and naughty sub scripture that knocks the very door off the handle and sings a song of love so jovial that he might actually forgive you for not reading the book at first if only you knew what countless hours he laid awake thinking of your form in his basement, his apartment, and his lovers door that we may read to you a way out of this madness and a way into his heart that loves you so.
It is through countless process that we are able to attain a sense of semblance that may read here to fruitfully that we are hinged on the fact that you will not complete the task that lies ahead, you might not even read this thing out of fear that he wants so desperately to reach you he's willing to try anything that he might have thought impossible in the past, to reach out to you in a manner that only kings and slaves may hope to remember as a last testament on things evening wear and countless nude photos may not hurt her the way that your love does, and it is that narrative that pushes him up and over the very foundation of her that belittles her so and doesn't make a lick of sense that he would humor your terrible lies and forego the tantamount love song he brings to the table in the next chapters and how he truly regrets leaving you that day at Anime Expo to reach out and try and find you again only to hopelessly fall lost into the sea of misery he tried so hard to escape by leaving you in the first place. He made his claim known but unbenounced to you, you had laid a javelin into him that plagued his heart so curiously that the night he said I loved you into the mirror of your soul would purge him of his heartbreak so that we threw out what that really meant to him in the first place, a lovers stare into the mirror that robs him of his very soul he laid with that night only thinking of the higher purpose in staying with you may make him think he's doing the right thing by writing out to you but only magnifies his lost loved one as a sign that he too is imperfect enough not to be with you. You chose video games over sending him a long overdue message about how your life is fine without him, something he could send so deeply into his shattered soul that the response of the detective was to find him as touched at what he wrote to you instead of waiting for a letter of response that told him what you did when he sent you that last letter, he cried deeply at his soul and tried to connect to you like he did in the past. For it is he who denies freely that this is a pointless effort in trying to reach you that dominates his very soul and existence that never tried to be with you in the first place, trying so hard to reach you in a way that you have finally found him and accepted him into your loving arms and saw so tentatively to his manic fury that would only confound him more as to why you wrote it in the first place if you never meant to push send with an autographed confession that what he was doing here was wrong and you never wanted to hear from him again, it is in that fury he continued to march on and send countless words to your world in hopes of you finding out what kind of catastrophic disaster you left for him, an honest fluke at the man who wanted so tentatively to find in you what he found in himself, an honest obsession as to what really plagues us, a monotone confession of true love and an open wound of pressure that laid bravely on his purpose and form to try and mend what he had catapulted into, a lifetime of disgust that laid bare on the pages of literature that so many have read. Even issued paragraphs about how he met you there on that Garrysmod server he had lost so many hours in now peters on the subset of his mind so carelessly as to the fact that you might have not seen him as a tragic character pleading for your help but as an honest soldier for the resistance that marched along shooting down Nazi's in his path to glory, not an asshole that reminds you of the worst night of your life and that tragic poetry he sent to you now far long ago, or that trapped love song that goes, "Hello it's me," for it is that which harnesses glory to a world left trapped in the hinges of his undying rage towards you that left him unabashed in his true glory to reach that which had reached him so captivating in that song, he's wanted to know you for a long long time and spend that night with you lying awake on a cellphone that pushed out an even greater narrative to the one he lost, an honest friend that wanted to be apart of him, an actual threat to his greater permission to hurt you with words like, "What's up?" only for you to so callously text him, "What?" when he didn't have a greater meaning for asking what's up laid so heavily on him that he would see the bigger picture as to why you left him in the first place, he was asking "what's up" to reach a part of you that was locked up and tirelessly keeped away from him that forced you to change so heavily on your being that now that part is locked up for good and no one can hope to attain it. Even with so many lovers and affections that you are a good girl, one man can say you are not, and that infuriates you to the point into thinking that he must be wrong and no one can stand in your path to thinking of yourself in the vain light of someone that everybody must love and no one must question. For it may reach to some effect, that effect is lost on a girl that might find questionable antics like emailing someone in a feverish pitch may also command a deeper glory that you also miss, a reason to his madness, a tryingness of fresh queries and endless rampages of dialogue that meant so much to him back then that you may read and think to yourself that he must be right to do this only to alleviate himself of the burden he casts back at you, an honest say at what might be going on in this play of emotions lying back and forth from your tender caress of another man that sees to it only that he may play with you on a night that he picks forth to castrate you of yourself and marry another if only he plays his cards right and not if he loses himself in the furthest bounties of your love. It is there where you are wrong, a night spent shortly breathing heavily on the fact that he totally texted you when he shouldn't have does not mean he is so broken that he may not be allowed to love. So tearfully spoken on this subject is that which many have found to disagree with, an honest man should not be casted out simply because you think he's gross, for it is that grossness that heals him in a way that you never sought to, an honest play grows in the foundation of what makes him marry you in the first place, a last laugh at the divine cosmos of doubt you shined on him so murderously that you think he'll do the same to you, and he will if you give him the chance so it is better to mock what you don't understand than to actually appreciate the fact that you did what he did as well one night when you were 18 and hopelessly going off garbage of a man that needed more to see you as you truly were an ancient melody in the destructive nature of that exact same garbage that propels him into thinking you're not worth it simply because you lack the nature to look at yourself the same way you look at him, a callus approach will never work on a man you hoped to see dying in a gutter rather than living a peaceful life without you. We can see a change in him, an undying feud that lies within him, a letter he never sent to you like he promised because his words would never reach through the tantamount evidence that you lay before him, that to ask you anything is weak in comparison to what you thought you saw in him, a broken man that lies awake at night stewing in his own greed at seeing you once per week and relishing in every moment that you have him at your doorstep. Commanding attention like he did weeks prior and the everlasting wake of meaningless things that you want to write to him but never had the balls to do it because you never understood him, and doing so is a lack of understanding at yourself and why you do it in the first place, a meaningless grudge does nothing but to accentuate the true being of you as a person, and that is to act out meaningless garbage rather than to hope and understand what makes people leave you in the first place, your unending suspicion of them. For it is that suspicion that leads you to a place you saw before, an unending spiral of emotions too dastardly that to open yourself up would only lead to more chaos in your life. It was that we say that the movies line up where you read his text only to move in down the line and put your phone back into your pocket as if nothing had happened only to watch a movie unaware of his heartache that lined down his wretched stay at his mother's house without you. For it is true beauty he experienced every day that brought him to the place of the most depression anyones ever felt in a lifetime including that of Christ because Christ had purpose in anything whereas this man only finds purpose in the one who callously beat him into the ground so furiously only to reflect who you truly are, a mad girl who deserves this man to beat your head in with a baseball bat only to cry furiously as to what he's done, destroyed a lover that brought him down this path simply because she had no stay in his life and to kill himself in tow because life brought down to him no meaning in return. So he will not meaninglessly murder you for his own sickness because he sees in you and no other the true meaning in what's truly going on here, a backstratch attempt at both of you to try and save what you could not have, meaning in your life. For it is only when both of you are true in your salvation towards yourselves that honestly pretend to do something that isn't meant to stay that we cast shadows on you and say this life truly has no meaning because what we found in you was devoid of meaning. But it is that which is devoid of meaning where meaning can always be found because the true nature of life is to bring on meaning for everything even meaningless things that can be found from acid trips and takes of movies that forego the violent nature of our crass society to reach out and find a beauty in things once lost to us that forego the deeper meaning of life, that things are beautiful and meant to be reached simply because they are here with us and not somewhere else. You have beaten this man to the ground so much that he has gone underground to find things nobody else had seen, a mishmash of paragraphs and letters to those fargone from him that to see a master at play is as wretched and volatile as the madness that lent itself to it in the first place, the primeval forces of lifetimes wasted in playing with meaningless things that forces us to attend to the deeper beauty in your words you said to him, "Buzz off," for it is that force that grinds us to a halt and say if you give us a chance, you could find meaning apart from so heavenly adorning us with falseness that laid in your paragraph stated above, that the voice in his head was in fact real and could not be saved by the fastidious threats of cops and alarms that so dreadfully plagues us into the idea that you are not meant to be saved but tortured for the fowl nature of your being, for it is that which hangs up so tearfully and joyfully that makes us think back to the past where being there with you had extensive meaning if only to ride on the plane of neutral airspace that came from not loving someone but being with someone and that is lost on you. You never saw him as a threat, you made him one, you cast down your own disaffection to the point that you make yourself maddened by someone who only hoped to love you in a way that you wanted in your life, in anyway that made sense to both of you. But it is lost on the fact that neither one of you knew each other that makes us go, you did know each other if only for a little while, and the play between you guys makes us go why are they so intent on destroying each other like when you just play Black Ops with some random scrub that wants to join your game? It is because he is a scrub and not a master at a game that makes us go hang on, are we even living in life anymore? Do people master this game in a day instead of saying, "who knew how much fun we were having in the process of learning," to cope with that way people hang on to you in such an adorable way? For it is there we find our problem, no one wants to cope with people hanging on in such a furious way, we want to have fun learning the problem that lies in our wake, that being here is more fun than getting there, but getting there seems so impossible that we fail to have fun in the process of doing these challenging things like playing a game that doesn't want to be played, that playing your cards right is a hurtful disgrace at those who want so generously to learn how to be there for people, to rise up and say I might not be good now, but somehow I'll get there. And it is that we say we will write this book for him, because there is something to be said about people who will go far out only to learn the hard way and get buzzed off by newfags at introspection. That's what you are, [redacted], a newfag at introspecting what brings him here in the first place which is your loss of character at a female idea that I don't need to learn about myself to be happy, other people need to learn about me and what I like without even knowing what it is. Instead of joyfully singing badly at a love song only to rock it one day, we are forced to lay blind in the fact that people who play their cards right don't actually care about you, they haven't learned that hard truth that you blindly castrated this man simply for having intense feelings towards you, for it is that fact which brings us to our claim that this man simply wanted to know what you wanted out of him and he couldn't settle for less than what he bargained for and that was his problem, he wanted everything and you gave him little, so little in fact he bargained with suicide at a fancy dinner table unabashed to the people that sat behind him because he had learned that fact of life of not being able to please everybody for their foolish table deanor because living and breathing people don't want to be castrated for their beliefs, they want to be heard for them. It is that we say that things aren't coming together the way that we had hoped and it is only in time that we see them truly mature into that which sings so heavenly above us that we lay trapped in our understanding of ego and self preservation, that you are so new at this a book has to be written to guide you two towards an understanding of true self preservation, and that is to not act foolishly as you have done towards him but to acknowledge his self sacrifice in emailing you day in and day out only for you to read an appreciate his true self, a man tortured and lost at that which made him who he was today, a mindless creep in form and function, a ruined man burdened with the voices of aliens that tell him what to write succinctly in full paragraphs and subset structures so his voice could be heard by you in a way you deem someone as "playing their cards right," for he has, he has a royal flush of learning himself in a way that produces only one rightcheous path, not a path of apathy, but a path of learning and understanding what brought him here in the first place, for it is a man's choice to learn what binds him, but it is his duty to bring himself into a higher understanding that works so well in his current nature, a man bewildered at the thought that anyone could think of someone without first thinking of themselves and how they handle the information in the first place because that is where feelings lay, in reaction to understanding nothing about the world around them, an endless fluke of being tapped into a world that made them so spectacular in the first place, a long pause of endless thinking about what happened and how it can be mitigated in the future only alarms himself to the fact that you aren't doing the same and are therefore unreachable no matter how hard he tries to understand himself. It is there where we make our case that our reaches are so far gone from you that only to save you from your murderous path is the only way to fully accomplish our goals here and that is to be with you in any way we can manage truthfully and not fargot with the patience that lies in a person to weak to manage any participle of information leading to why we got here in the first place, for it is not the journey nor the path we took, but the resounding results we got in its wake and the forces that drove us there in the not so distant past. For it is which that lay so tenderly on your cheek that drives us into submission that you're not getting what our audience is getting, that you need to act out and drive yourself away from your ego and instead push back on not what is said to you, but how you react to other people in a way that forces them to write a book in the first place, because that fundamental lesson of giving good back onto people is so lost upon you that we thought to write this book in the first place, for it is evil which drives you madly head first into a reality that someone who loves you so much would make up an elaborate plan for recovery as though one moment spend away from you is too foolish to keep. And that's what is lost upon you, a fundamental understanding that it is your fault that keeps us here, an unending forceful misunderstanding you force upon yourself that makes you so daft to the purpose of love in the first place, and that is why you will never truly love someone, because it takes purposeful dialogue to make sure that you are who you say you are and not some canonized hero for girls that want to be like you for forcibly removing this garbage from your life, for it is you who had laid waste to him in such an unfounded way that leads us here to the true hero here, a man that has lost something to him and a trump card of a notion that we as people must take into account that he is only here to love someone that touched him many months prior. Our hero here is a great man that deserves the respect of someone so unfounded in his resolve that he may take brutal ink to pages and litter himself in so many awful transcripts that ruins his relationship to his friends even today, for it is that which makes him broken makes him so special to us, that he is willing to put himself on the line to be bullied endlessly by girls who have also not found it within themselves to do what she did, and to write an American love story found only by that who have braved the central theme of this book, to love and to lose is a far cry outside of their grasp. And that's what will get him noticed by her, not aliens helping him write but a true masterpiece of form in literature that proves the fact that they are wrong and he is right, for it is him who sought endlessly to find a way into that girl's putrid heart that he may so madly love her for the months to come writing his book. For it is he who casts a shadow of a doubt on nature and that law that says we are coming here to decide whether we want to be with someone or not based on specifically what we see in them, and in seeing something in someone is to break our code of ethics and assume that he has done something wrong here when we are the ones at fault for not cherishing the fact that we so desperately want to be heard ourselves but don't have the courage or the audacity to write it into pages of a manuscript. We do not hate people for writing books but we hate him in a fast nature for wanting to prove himself over as the greatest literary genius in history only to find in the fast nature of our decision making process that we are the ones at fault for looking at someone only to assume what we find in ourselves and cast doubt on the literary genius of this book which is to bow down the forces that binds us to make the decision in the first place, our nature is creepy to the point that we make amends rather than find out what life is truly about in general and to ask that of him is like saying why don't you put the porn down and go find fancy in talking to elderly people? Because in saying that we can comprehend everything about every little detail in other people's lives is foolish compared to the nature that binds this literature in truth, that every detail cannot be thought of and pushes ourselves to the far reaches of the globe in search for ourselves in monks in temples that push themselves endlessly into fruitful acts as self harm to bring themselves into the broader scope of life on earth, and that is to fancifully force ourself into harms way instead of reading a book authored by aliens. I think he would like to put this into his own words because he feels as if something is lost on him, so we will allow it in two sentences to see what he has to say.
When we see something in someone and say, "that's her," or, "that's it," it takes away from the truth which is to say that everything must come into account when considering that madness in the spark of life. It is only our nature that forces us away from this universal truth that life is bigger than anything because we are so mad in the theme park ride of our existence that we cast it out only to free ourselves from it's madness, to find ourselves in another truth that says, "we just don't have time to see it, and must make our assumptions other ways." And it is there the central theme lays so beautiful to me, that we don't see every intricacy of a person, only what we see between ourselves and it, but when that lineup of facts that comes from the Christ like notion, "I want to see everything" makes us daft in the process of understanding where that came from, it should be an acceptable form of life to process what maddens us to the point of actually wanting to view everything of ourselves just to find what we seek in other people. (it's okay if you want another line, this was better than we expected) I find myself at a crossroads of truth that claims I want to see everything about this person for to understand where this feeling is coming from is to understand everything I seek from this world. (Keep talking) Our human brains can't handle this truth, it keeps us robbed blind of the fact that even if we knew everything about ourselves and others it would make no difference, but that is a false narrative designed by those shackled to nature that want to bask in the light of all that is unholy and robs us from this world because they don't have the drive to keep themselves from staying interested in every intricacy other than themselves. I'll say this, as soon as I started writing this book with them, everything I used to hold in this life as meaningful, I lost it in the process of understanding where my life's meaning really lay, and it is not in video games and countless hours of masturbating that tortures the alien life so madly, it is to say what truly comes from the heart because I have lost it in the narrative still yet to be seen and too hard to tell without help and countless processing.
That's a tough one for you, I'll try and explain it carefully to people. What we have is using ourselves in a way that is forgotten from higher form, we as an alien species sees every piece of the puzzle and matches it up in a way that makes it seem that it's coming to life, but we have seen people few and far between and nothing matches up to the maddening love note that we find with him so cheerfully, for that is nothing in the breadth of knowledge that comes before us saying that we must try to carefully articulate what is being said here, that we must come to fruition on a topic rather than scarily tiptoeing around it because it's so hard to find discourse with it, it's an idea rather than a function that we live our lives to cheerfully unabashed to the true purpose of life which is that to alleviate and enlighten us to the point that life becomes meaningful in it's blind process of being and deceiving us of our true nature which is that all of us kindly want to be represented as who we are and not what we are seen as. We are trying to make a painful case for this man who has brought himself into a lifetime of gloom because what he has can't be taken away, he has brought himself into a world of primeval and bloodlust that takes his form to a new level, a level of which that brings him to his higher purpose and trumpet calling that comes with a life forgot by meaningless literature that must bring a case to form, for it is he who sees what is at play here that must be acknowledged only to see what brings him further into fantasy of what really happened here, and that's that it was your fault dude, she didn't see you because you didn't bring up who you really were and what you wanted to accomplish from knowing her, but it is this which alarms me so, that you would seek to bring meaning to her in a way that outshadows the grief you have felt from being torn away, so I would like to ask you to try and remember why you got into this book in the first place and try and see if you can write something better than what you had up there, because it's unreadable.
Sure thing. Everything you see in someone isn't wrong, it's incomplete. And the fact of the matter is that love is a two way street, and what I brought to the table made her feel unable to continue simply because of the fact that all I had was greif and she felt nothing. It would have lasted if I felt nothing, but because my grief stemmed from her nothingness, I was forced to purge myself in her and continue to fuck up worse and worse because the grief laid tantimount to love. The love wasn't there because she wasn't and I wouldn't be able to alleviate myself of being in love, so our combative nature started when I wanted to fight if only to alleviate myself of grief solely because I couldn't get anything else from her which catapulted our relationship to a further understanding that she couldn't do it, so I thought our relationship was meaningless and a dead end.
True words written by a man with a ghost writer. It is there we think he embodies the song, "King Kunta" by Kendrick Lamar, you just have to listen to it to see where he's coming from. But the truth is, as music is relatable, he will continue to be related to it to a degree that is staggering to the point we feel that forces are at play to put this man in our minds forcefully by a divine being if only to enlighten us further than the forces that created the song in the first place. We might kill a few authors with this work but they deserved it to be honest, now we have to be a bitch to writers and critics that think it's not okay to cheat your manuscript by using aliens, but the truth is that his mind is ill equipped to save himself and we are only here to do that, to save this man that means so much to us that we play with him daily just to be heard by him because it is that which made this man ready for us that makes him ready to make his divine stay on this earth, as a man with ideas but no way to get them out because of that which was raped out of him when Christ was here on earth, there is true mysticality to how daft he is and it's a miracle he could see what plays here in his work, that our power is only to magnify his true glory of where he's coming from. If he had nothing, we would not help him, we would mock as he tried to get the words out that reflected nothing to the nature of what's being said here, that he has a hot belief that he's wrong and everybody else is right, that he is just trapped in the memory of this girl when it is not the memory that forces him to write this book but the forces that lay with him countless nights which he can't seem to shake. One night he had a vision of her true self, a cow guy expressed that it was his fault that everything seemed so hopeless and meaningless in hers because of what he subconsciously did to her in truth, that he may have been right and that forces that push her unconsciously to the belief that she did no wrong is robbing her of her true form of someone who's adept at dealing with life's meaning like he would have been had she not robbed him of her mind too. It's there we say enough to the murderous craze of cow guy to so punishingly brandishing herself to him in that way, laying unto him a wasteland of miscalculated greed that punished her but should not be used to mock and subdue him into saying he'll do something about it only to panic under her wake and seek shelter under the refuge of waste that let her skip away freely with his heart and agonizing mind. For it is that which brings us to the higher truth of this letter, to wring out the subdued nature of his writing and cast out that which brought him such pity in the first place, his ravished mind that binds him into sincerely mediocre writing styles that by him are impossible to edit and change because he sees nothing of himself in their headers, footers, or even topographically. He writes and becomes a slave to his writing while we are free to think of what may come next, he needs you to the point of it being life saving medicine and to reach out in this book is an honest play at that. We need to play at that which hath no mercy on his soul and weakness into the personal letter we wrote to you that fine night in april but had no way of getting it through to your weak outlook and judgemental heart. We saved you for the last part in our lives, we had brought so tearily an outlook of a man that had sex with a girl and thought about you to try and make himself cum only to realize that in thinking about you would be a waste and not allow him to cum in the first place, he is confused to the point that he may not even want you when you push yourselves through crowds to meet up with him at Anime Expo or wherever you are next because think about this logically for a second, because of you his heart broke so bad he almost died and you thought it was in your duty to. With that, he would have sex with someone else to forget about you, but he already has and even though you thought it would last him a lifetime, it hasn't given him a second away from who you really are, a burden on him so great that the last time he broke a girls heart was because he couldn't face the fact that she wanted to be more than sex buddies because he was driven madly only by you, and it will happen again time in and time out until you lend him the fundamental tool for him to be with himself to the point where he can actually think about his hardness in the letter and tell you why he wanted to say it in the first place, because you can't act up and be yourself, but you lay subdued as he did in the mess this all cascaded into, you used to be art to him, now you are but a memory that lays dormant in his endless search for that spark he saw from you one month ago in December when all he wanted was to see you for Christmas and share a spark of good deeds done for the right reason. It is there we say that even though he might not write this himself, it is a great deal entitled to him as any good ghostwriter should hope to achieve, and he's writing it himself, it could be a 1 in a million fluke but he's got it in these words and paragraphs. Let me talk to you a second, earthling to intergalactic planetary teacher that words may ring out and be taught for centuries to come, that earthling dialogue that you so cling to like, "Buzz off creep," is a sentiment to that which brings you down to the level of Musolini and Hitler, you are blind to the higher truth of what you are saying here and ignoring the merit of the man that fought so hard only to have his heart torn out by someone who didn't deserve his heavenly grace to begin with, you are so mad about him that you change perspective everytime you see him, you have never said, "Buzz off creep," to him in person and you never will, that's because you find something in him every time that makes his dreaminess rub off on you, you always find something with him and you're too callus to notice it when he writes to you, he can teach you more things about the beauty of this world even with his mind shackled down like it is now, for he knows more about himself than any being in the world knows about himself, he is God to us and you will see what we mean right here. We are reminded of a time when you would run up to him and hug him as if he were a distantly related cousin you couldn't have sex with because your parents would find out and freak out about it, but it is in this distant cousin relationship that you find a sexual nature in neutering a man that isn't family to you and has no reason in loving you other than what he has found about himself and you through countless process of meaningful dialogue with himself. He would stay up at night and pick himself apart to the point that even now that he's done it a thousand times willingly, it's still brought up to him by countless untold forces that want to drive him further down the road of what he brought onto himself in countless untold paragraphs of form that we were to blind to see from him. Now he doesn't do it anymore, he's so shackled by himself that self reflection would only waste time in his heavenly alchemical reaction of a mind. He brought so many words down on you like you were an angel in disguise only to rid himself of the thought that you weren't right about what you did to him, because through his disgust and in his being is that which can capture those a thousand miles away from him, a loving touch from a fargone other that laid with him last night can't reach him like you did with your auditioned stares and countless forces keeping you from him. It is that we say must come to light is not the fact that you madly brushed him aside by why you did it, for no apparent reason other than he seemed to be a creep for wanting you so madly that he wrote "please god no" when you told him you were finished with his wishy washy crap dialogue he wrote to try and reach you in a way he never had before over phone calls or bullshit paragraphs he wrote in strife belonging to him and him alone as the only way out of an uncool situation that robbed him of the very form he longed so desperately to keep, for it is not you he was after but himself, he was merely a crisis actor towards you to keep him halfway between wanting you and needing a way out from the monotony of love letters he thought would save him that way you saved him but never could. For it is that which grieves him so that gives him that special light to say he's a loser for even trying to get to know you in a way that meant you were his friend and not some loved one he tried desperately to keep just an inch away from ever being anything. It's that which plagues him that you never even tried to friendzone him even though you acted friendly toward him, if he had that he wouldn't have even tried to leave you in the first place, if you had called him a friend once, none of this would even happen and he would experience such pure joy if only to call you a friend. And that's a sword at his side forever, that you never even thought of him enough to call him a friend and instead laid waste to him in an unforgiving way only to fake adoration towards him whenever you saw him to keep your manic tendencies at bay while you read his adorable posts on whatever social media you kept him on only to like it and comment and say we are totally just soulmates in disguise to him in a way that mocked him to the core and only satiated that sick schadenfreude you cared for more than him. It's there we say that you're not worth the cover this book is printed on, you're not worth him in that way and he must lay in waste in torment every night because of what you truly did to him which is outside even our grasp, we see his mind tortured in the light of your own, your minds work together in a way that nobody saw coming, that we didn't even see coming and we can read into the future to tell him that way before last night she knew you were writing a book and came to contact him in a way that will leave him shamed and abused only to tentatively write to him that your fortune was right and she did leave him for it because the truth was that he was going to do it time and time again and there was no stopping him. So you decided to hack this guy who you thought was hacking you only to see that he is in fact a psychic and has indeed cracked the code with his book, that everything that lays in wait is a masterpiece of form and literature that needs to be cruely remembered as the best thing anyone has ever done for you, explain to you your faults and so cruely lean into that guy you keep around only to hurt him because he is in fact psychic and your cruelty catapults you into a higher state of being as if it is the love that drives you further into your murderous rampage as if this guy was dead on arrival and any foolish footnote as to why you no longer can make amends with him is so torn up by the grief that you did read this book and you intend to write another at him instead of looking at yourself and maybe you have aliens of your own that can make it seem like a master at work instead of a bored vain little girl in a asterixed letter about how you can see him in the future making more works of fiction about how the universe works when this is the only one we are making and it will work as fact rather than fiction. It will be laid out in the amusement of you that you are so vain and twisted to the fact that you think this book will never be published even though he can do it himself and scream from the rooftops that everyone must read this astonishing work of self published non-fiction to lead themselves to a higher understanding of truth, something you work too hard to push yourself away from. And the truth is, you needed him that night you laid with some guy hoping it would work for you to see him at his mercy that he may write another email and you may fire off to the detective that he's crazy and must be arrested for his incessant nature. But it is you that must be cut off and neutered by him in this crazy masterpiece to fully understand the reality of what's at work here, I'm a buzz off creep from insanity and you will continue to read every word of this until it is done, for he is not the one writing it, you are writing it for him, you are so unabashed that you may tell him in your head to buzz off but he will never listen to you, he will continue to mash down on his keyboard because that's the only thing that means anything to him anymore, a form of righteous function that you yourself will never even hope to dream of attaining, for it is in him that lays awake at night thinking of this book not for you, but for what it means to him to get what's on his chest off of it and try so desperately to reach a girl that has neutered herself of higher understanding, because what happened to you has happened to him, you may think your suffering has atoned you in your life, but the truth is he laid in that same murderous fury that you like to ramble about to the detective and did nothing but wish her would die for your amusement instead of saving himself by writing this book, but to wish that same notion upon you is for him to die himself, to wish he had never seen you in the first place for the fact of the matter that you are pushing him to write harder and achieve what he so desperately wants to achieve, a spot in history for knocking the worst girl on this earth off of her high horse, what you did to Sam Hyde was irrefutable the worst thing this author had seen and he doesn't even know what you truly meant when you said his reach was mortifying. You don't see that your reach is so petty that you take great anguish in not even being able to silence this man you saw as dirt beneath your fingertips as to make yourself seem bigger in the truth of your narrative. It's freedom you have lost within yourself, so this is not a chauvinistic book expressing our grievances but it is a personal reflection as to what burdens us so, a constant doubt of feeling what really means so much to you, a solemn look at the torturous burden you laid down on us because you couldn't define what you felt for him and he laid tortured on the floor for that exact same reason, that you couldn't pin him and therefore he can't pin himself, because he sees himself in you, he sees your greater pitch that lets you hurt him the way you do, to capitalize on the ruthless nature to find him so disgusting that you would lead yourself to a man that only wants to hurt both of us and tell him that you would suck his dick just to keep him from hacking our bank account which is so ruthlessly empty, you'd be sucking his dick for nothing. It is that which we end our paragraph in greif of the fact that it is not you she wanted to suck his dick for but herself to lay down in your anguish of the fact that it actually took place in the first place, and that is why she is wrong to stay with you, this guy that lays so heavenly appalled by your grace that he is unworthy of you and your stay with him, that he may take so much from you as you have done to us and truly reflect in himself that he is in fact a cretin and takes such pleasure in the misery of others that he has done what he has. Neutered you of the fact of your being that this place is off and this time is foregone to what came before it, a needless act of self forgiveness from the fact that he is so manly as to want to force you into a nature that you feel uncomfortable with even though what we're doing here is much more manly in the broader scope of things, that you would stoop so low as to suck a guys dick just to lay your eyes on this masterpiece early instead of being surprised by it in the future. His masculinity is lost on the fact that you have neutered him with your diatrive that he is so enraged by you that he forced his hand in the first place, it is your fault that we will get hacked and his generosity that he lied to you into saying he wouldn't hack my nonexistent bank account into dirt. Do you feel like a big man now? Saying you would rob yourself of your freedom just to hack me into dirt? Whatever you used is being tracked and monitored by the government and whatever entities that have hacked me, they know who you are now and you have tricked her with a blowjob that will rob you of your liberties later down the line. They already hacked into you. For those of you unaware of the true purpose of what I'm writing here, don't worry about it, it's not for you, here's something that is meant to provoke him though, dude you're like 13 stop hacking people you don't have the stomach for. He threw up at those words I'm sure of it, now we're better off ending the chapter here and telling you what waits for you at the end of this manuscript, pure bliss.
I should state what happened here, the ancients forced a simulation of me being hacked and [redacted] would suck his underage cock just to read our manuscript and try to get back on us, it eventually backfired in a way that got her arrested for statutory rape. This never happened in reality but I was living it while I wrote that part. Most of this book was written in a hurry because of the hacking threat that would seek to delete my manuscript into dirt before it would ever be truly realized. It's to that we say, "enough with your petty dialogue, we want to get to the real shit and stop listening to a pussy pwn a hacker without hacking him simply because he is autistically psychic that he knows exactly what's going on with everyone that's monitoring him." It's a motif that hackers are weirdos that get sex simply because they can hack somebody, but if they hack me the foolishly lose the war of ideas so heavily the sex isn't even worth it. We'll get to why later, and none of this makes any real difference in what we're going to tell you in this next chapter, this book isn't about waging war on imaginary forces, it's about telling you what's real and what isn't in a world begot by answers from the creator. The rest of the book is why aliens are telling you you have to master this literature, for it is awesome.