Is The One from The Matrix actually real? Think about it.
We develop a time-frequency every time we watch a different film, but
in some of us, there is embedded deep within our minds, information that we know we cannot access.
We speak of time-travel, but we do not understand the concepts, or the scope of the ramifications of what happens when we proceed as though we are now about to face our own whereabouts in an underlying loop of a ravel as powerful as one cosmic-fibre as simple as a spark of dust. Yes.
The molecule that touch our eyes.
Everything is synced through a series of time-movies, that show us the future as they are to be depicted throughout time.
But we are no-longer paying attention.
We are now so induced by the Stars, those that truly show the most self-of control in the American Empire, that we can no longer see the stories as they are told,
as though it is just the U.S. Military that shows the truth.
Americans are heavily devided, and now The Arts are in control.
We must be careful.
We always note, of every annotation of man, everything, thus to myself, Mark Zuckerberg’s site shall never be as grand, and awesome as mine. No website will ever be as amazing as mine.
This is Love.
This is Passion.
This is Death.
This is Burden.
This is Pain.
This is Heaven.
This is Hell.
The 7 Realms.
All Immortal and mortal.
Every King, every Dynasty, every conquest stolen taken and All!
I am now a Poet, the greatest of Them Ever!!!!!
And all I note, is this coming Fall . . .
CHAPTER 1. Loomings
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
“The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.”