Told you not to speak
So we resorted to Feels
Running our hands
Over skin that isn't real

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Paradoxical Mimicry

A Lie
Is Truth 

A Truth
Is Lie

A Man
Is Death

And Death
Is Man

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Light myself on Fire 

To see how fast I Burn

Called you a Liar

A name you didn't Earn 


Soon the edges Curl

Away from the Flame

You pulled from Her

It was never the Same


Smoke at my Lips

Ash in their Hearts

A wick that's been Lit

From a match did it Start


Embrace the Heat

It all came from You

Smoldering Feet

Fire burns the Truth








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Fallen from grace

Does the bough lose strength,

Only to grant it to man.


Man who's grasp can shape death from life,

sows natures grave with seeds of strife.

Harvested bones of the land.

Síol (update 1)

Centered in a circle of standing stones, a green army formed in the settled dusts of time. With blades raised towards the looming blue sky, pointed to a deity from which they owed their existence, some thousand doomed scions gathered hopelessly midst the scattered husks and dried corpses of those who had shown such pride once again. They had grown, in the final merciful rays of autumn light, to test the tension of fate which had only now showed signs of an arc, hiding from the wisest of them what they had seen clearly before.

The battlefield, a rounded hilltop outlined against a fading grey dusk, was broken only by the silhouettes of the great carved stones which had stood since before memory. A hilltop curled around their earthen footings, bracing them as they stood defiantly against winds that had smoothed them to a dull gleam. They seemed familiar to the gathered army as they stood waiting, a foreboding echo of past deeds and future loss that had yet to fully realize itself darkened the rippled surface of the rock as it floated and formed into a swirling mist that had started to mount it’s way from the darkest parts of the distant hills towards the host by the stones. It began at a far off crest and crawled slowly, matching the pace of the setting sun, down towards a growing darkness found in several deep valleys below them. From this pool of muted shadows would dark tendrils begin their hunt in the failing light.

Here fear was born in the faces of the brave. A sturdy grasp of chilled wind began to tug and pull them down towards the pools of mist crawling below, as if to taunt them into losing themselves in the deepening mire ever growing even now as they shrunk towards it. The Sun began to bow under the thin black line marking the edge of the emerald world and ruby sky as day turned to night. The fading light had begun to dull the gleam of their blades that had a moment before shimmered so fiercely with the hope of their intentions: to cheat death.

The graying knoll underneath them bled into a muddled mess of melding hues and began to take on a new form under a darkening sky. The smooth rolling grass that gathered at the base of the tallest mound had now been submerged in grey matching the dreary rolling plains edged by stark, craggy, mountains to the North and a slender black snake of a river far to the south. Only after frantically trying to trace the edges of the encroaching mist through the drowning light did sudden waves of realization, foreboding in nature, begin to break upon the stones and those gathered beneath them; rooted deep within the veins of the force arrayed a fear was born in the darkness. Born from a womb of dusk, the fading light merged with a nagging feeling of dread and began to drain the color from them all. Shadows seeped in their hearts, mirroring those in the physical world that now reached for their blades. Now they began to remember: for while they lived so blissfully in the sunshine, they had not recalled the fear of death needed to recognize the signs of their own demise, echoed through time, for this arc in their fate had hidden from them the fact that this had happened to them before.


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A tantalizing short on order, instruction, and the will to resist such fallacies. 


We live in a time where complacency is safety, and safety is wealth. Yet wealth protected by the confines of complacency cannot be spent, only saved; saved money in a time of safety can only spend itself on the safety it so has come to love. And Earth keeps spinning. 




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Russia Conflict 2014

Wolfram Language

Stephan Wolfram introducing Wolfram language. A groundbreaking symbolic programming language that offers functionality through everyday life.

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Shot for Thought: Street Lamp

Let your mind be the storyboard. Create scenarios with your twisted imaginations. Nothing is greater than a mind being where it wants to be because of it's own intuitions. We are undoubtedly gifted with imaginations; so how can we act on it? With good film, you can put the T.V. on mute and still interpret plot situations. Let you mind be the author and create a scenario with these photos. Write a short story about it--do whatever the hell you want, it means nothing to me. How you experience a piece of work should be personal. The influence however, is out of your control. Pools of light on eerie streets may change your direction.  

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