Decoys

Crying Clowns

[An improvisation on words found at The Floating Bridge of Dreams and in Bram Stoker’s Dracula.]

± The road was forlorn for the whole week. The passengers were strangely replenished with their eyes kept close to their faces in the shadows of their being. The words I hadn't already been thinking were sure to float around me in the silence. I spontaneously reached out of my language with a solemn effect which, I could see now, was an earnestness which suddenly appeared to further the speed we lashed the thoughts with that were so steep. We failed in this hunger for words that doesn't need to have been spoken. There, amongst the passengers, thoughts were like a running flame in language, or rather, languages that desire for a kindly word to be swept round as we passed by. I remember this hunger. I wished for the words be turned into a strange relief. For my flaws, for my pitiful frailties' end, we were strangers that failed strangers in a foreign land. It was true, in the end, that we had failed in words and were preparing to sink so low. Should I think that to have to hold my thought is in good order? I couldn't tell any longer.

± The hillsides of flowers rose grandly with white and red imperial lilies. The land rose grandly against the sun, grew greater, then strangely replenished the world with a dark sigh falling away from behind us. The flickering rays of the sun were straggling a flutter of their final blessing before the full moon glowing against beautiful masses of jagged rock from the mountains, and a stormy sea was falling through the air, away from our thoughts, preparing the one who wishes hard enough for sleep. The snowy peaks rose with the darkness growing around us, and there, bestrewed between the fallen petals in reaching that for which we have neither eyes nor ears was a veil of being like an ocean in the death within death. I shuddered as if our star had been shut out. That blank end.

± We looked round as the sunset that threw us into the silence wound us into a sort of love of the gloom. Being wants being sometimes. I expected, blinking gently, that I would soon have lost sight, as my crazy gaze peered eagerly through the white gleam of each moment passed, watching again and again with grim fancies too fierce to have been created, their closing down already engendered within their opening out. We are only human after all. Talks are a strange relief from silence; they merge into myriads of ghost-like clouds, and inhabit an endless way to glow steam from a thousand-year-old heart that wishes hard enough to be changed in the evening wind while it tries to lure its homecoming into something very sacred, golden, and as exciting as a stormy sea that contemplates its painfully beautiful disappointment. The passengers grew more like clowns not yet blind to the heart of their grace, smiling in the darkness, held wounded in a haze of defeat, the beauty of the snow, its white thrown against the blackness, fresh, there, but invisible.

± Then I remember I had been able to bring on this state of mind that listens to the background behind us. An unknown face suddenly ran deep between the passengers. The meaning dawned upon us that words hadn't even grasped what was emerging - shining like a book forgotten, great masses of gladness were floating before us in concentration, the flooding beauty of this silence being the bouquet of our circus. Our tongues of pure trust were our offering of flowers for the day. The darkening conveyance had been the perfect resist to encouragement to being urged to being shyly spoken. To pine with desire to bridge the invisible world and to have frozen tongues into stone for thousands of years is the perfect act of love. Crying clowns close neither of their eyes.

As Fuckable as Us

[An improvisation on words found at Trinketization, Supervalent Thought, and in Shakespeare’s Taming the Shrew.]

‘This fantastic performance of living as a banquet is a great Disneyland precisely marked by crisis. My lord, I see this crisis tapping into the banquet; it is changed, no, it halves, no, is missing, and as you eat from it. Crisis runs froward as you are hunted for. Signior, the end of the system not aimed at hits you with problems of confusion. Whirlwinds shake fair your bid to leave the problems. Performance will not beget action. Crisis management will offer no active participation. I tell thee, these quick-witted folks are, believe me, foul worms. Most people have stopped voting. They pray that solidarity and communality develop that good cheer that is based on the decisions which we have felt excluded from within a collective life. The injustice makes us alike, blots thy life. I feel nostalgia for better times in your stomachs now you say no, eat from a counter-feast, and pray the land will be fixed to re-fuel the table. Thy maintenance commits honest tribute and will be able to further a kind of beauty to obey any duty to kneel for through not tapping into reason. The strategy that is good in sadness is done to bring straight hither an exit giddy.’

± This fictional one-dimensionality leads me to smile at first. This female complainer, this graceless traitor - what hath she cost me? Can the return of a woman just delegated to come on stage with rhetoric repeat herself in this fantastic performance forever just because she is as fuckable as us?

± You know her tale. She asked for our maim'd hand in this crucial instance in the world. Her measures are to make the situation endured with a shaming voice of reason to re-fuel for the best and place your duty unto the lords for safe and further strengths. She is done who sees movement, one drop of desire for change for our sakes. Anything as big as unity could be uncomfortable, with pain at first, as we sit conferring on our butt and agreeing on true hope, on thy maintenance, and a promise of hope for peace and better times she commits to.

± She conceives her womanly persuasion to place in a troubled fountain thine brother and thine sister. She means to make us alike in fundamentals. This talk of society in the system, an imaginary past if asked, bids we are faced by what might represent a crisis especially fabricated.

± She has frighted me by seeming to advance the clarity of crisis you hunted for. We maintain hope for a mood of fear when ordinary life is already alive and ready to ordinary people. Son, I'll venture so simple an offer: go to her as thy lord for thy beauty, to see how likes that gird of good sadness that affords nothing, but for yourself, 'tis well sir to love that good hearing when crises and war are overblown and raging perils.

± It is something quite unique about hope, better yet, I conceive that by seeming to come to being called on her very tale, of this I am afraid, sir - that we bite a fouler fortune.

± You hit the fabricated climate of society where crisis is the place for your stand, a crucial instance for discourse on external parts changed, weak, unable, shot. For the political is the night now. Enter the night.

± This is a message about contemporary culture, claiming that my duty is too frozen for my limbs to offer tribute. It is dedicated to another to demand from me for a hasty-witted wisdom to be brought to explain in goodly jest how trust here invites into the moment that she hath come, however vile, intolerable, and confusing crisis management is in a mood of insecurity. I feel your pain.

± Begin that stand. I mean, will we be brought hither alike. Wonder by the sea, giddy. We'll aid each other with words.

Brassy Bosoms To Dream About

[An improvisation on words found at Red Mum and Pokeberry Kitchen and Garden, and in William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice.]

± O Learned Judge, you stand acquainted good to my will to pay this mortgage. I am not left of this rigorous course when this bond is worked so in mind, given as it was to the mood of the forfeiture. Blest is this bond I am turned down for in judgment. Have pity on an inhuman wretch who is uncapable. I live terribly in high crime, trying to be grateful for you to look upon the weakest kind, an alien that has no means, and who is head-hang'd in sorrow. But above thy unhallow'd dam that hath me live so at your door, another opinion I hold.

± The tenor it gives is to pluck commiseration for animals infused with overtime. Here then be it: I crave a little flesh. I did not wish you shall be troubled, but I, that is, I and we, for I and we are both you, would all be assured to hear you let it be told if thou too hast incurr'd cutting corners or enjoy an unquiet house?

± We have not made more on the market lately than an excuse for the state which amounts to talk about our homes have done lies. We hope for some remembrance of their power. Living private without a deposit somehow taxes. To be able to be my soul is reason still that my soul can tarry the world that thinks it will be going to know me, for I have here out of fun to our spirits said we could thank thee and pay upon your answer; however, overtime doesn't count for a purchased slave when housing isn't affordable.

± I pray that I shall have figured out the things my bond have done doth teach me about the question of repayments. ‘Yea’ said I, ‘I am a positive person, and I'll take this borrowing, but I will rush into it not. The goods are given me behind the bleat for a judgment by the bank that the rules might be merciful. I take it that this mercy can still cut with the hangman's axe. His bond is ready. He will not answer to what is outside (the equivalent of) justice. For all the law thrice over allows the deeds for the place may be confiscate upon firm reason that money appeareth due irregardless that you live in the value while the bond look droppeth.’ And so forth I stand excluded from borrowing.

± I beseech that I will hear it from you that in rent and love I'll have to stay here? The last place beneath the last place is the place I stop at. If you answer'd, good sir, I may dismiss this place also, as mobile as clay as I am. I pray you must appear you make us to know any impediment to your authority, to your grace, and to hath refused it is no answer. This is nearly akin to us have that this cruel devil 'gainst the world that thinks electric the law that allows it kind of fun to bleed and receive.

± O Wise Judge, O Excellent Judge, must I hope the bank tender? What mercy seasons justice that a young man might outlive his own mortgage? Are we not any man that was offered ten times the income threshold from the same keenness made by our challenge to be established as have those who have presented? We are those who infuse themselves because the offer is, I think, as you answer'd at the weekend, and as I have it, in a different mood, a state akin to being in love when you go well past just spending, possess'd that there was never a state you know of yet that could not afford a living by considering what is affordable under the oath used to pay others you may as well seek as you would bear a rental on a half-life. You would be answer'd to in thy life by an average mortgage, good sir, but this sentence is tiny in relation. Draw back for the next point, for it is this: if we didn't fork out for a Learned Judge intent on his wounds, we can definitely envision that our further goals could have had nothing, no brassy bosoms to dream about.

± Your Grace hath been offered nothing gratis, but in loving visitation, was offered what you would, another plus you wrest in the estimation of laws once learned from a lawyer's clerk. What he writes we will probably be, because, my lord, fare you are answer'd yet and be unto the laws of your charge. We just never knew we are so by his dream with which to court our souls doublewide. Blesseth then that his apartments are many, that they not be valued against the penalty, that he sit back in them assured they are kept up by some earthly and yet alien power, and that there are many, many men who shall not draw thy knife. We literally pay cash for property as dear a sir as you.

± Our flesh is thy time: but why dost thou cut'st so cruel? Your Majesty, wherein doth you commend me? To have made something to be lodged and attendeth? To buy amenities, services, fashion from a royal merchant, and a large storage building for the cool stuff I used to be able to pay for? Why you pardon my ability to do either, are ecstatic about them, then write mine epitaph, cutting what 'tis mine while dressed with sacrifice held fast against your bosom. Mercy me, why doth my quest not sustain your hip world? Half comes my answer: I pray thee hath gone but extremely low to get my bond. You doth teach us to ring to view the market, and thou hast wit enough to let your losses be possess'd of neither your grace nor your dogs and carrion started to our flesh.

± Upright Judge, Noble Judge; whether rightly or not, you are mad. The justice that be offered this gaping pig is a crime less than perfect. Are you for a mercy or an insurance policy that wouldn't be there? I have skills and you have a sentence 'gainst the process of my will. I do beseech a difference of thought related to the accused that shalt have, where you may, lodged a hate at all this pardon that is offered so ready without bond. For this scheme will cut off from us what it should be able to yield us. This offer I deliver you, cannot find it in me to give, but am learning how the law is the 'scuse that serves it. My lord, the process of pardon! We literally pay for its hollow eye of judgement in flesh and teeth. Who among you deny it? He is resourceful and even when he dies, he is possess'd of your city's freedom he will be willing to forbid the equivalent of, and while this land is what dost makest me, my house prices will let him be dressed good of tender and courtesy that will probably have me just more in with the next chunk to the bank (one reason to enjoy this particular place, meantime). Your name is not the best. Rough hearts have a quality of pity that is ten-thousand void.

± Love not the judgment of these times. Kill the laws. The offender's life hath wrinkled my brow. He, that is, he and I and we, for he and I and we are all you, shall have what happens I know not. The fun to life is a bad market thou art not favor; however, thou shalt have thy last resort yet, though a chance you cannot abide. Free your asses: hang thyself, for thou diest grateful to be an infidel when thou cannot be better off – exeunt!

A Lover's Whisper

[An improvisation on words found at A Ghost in El Salvador, Thaddeus Barlord, and Shaken, Not Stirred.]

± The faint, wistful hope that F. had decided that it had felt good emerged against a little known fact: that I had proceeded to confess to him that I have lied, and that her lover is me. He blinked slowly. With his movements, I wondered what will be imagined. I was now carefully placed, sitting on this bench made for this moment. My head said flatly ‘I can understand how terrible this moment is. I knew you were pregnant with concern.’ ‘Thanks’ he said, smiling thinly, but listening intently for the views he would be surprised at, views that he told me he couldn’t be.

± Coming to him once again about her involved a show of love that in itself made me insane. He said ‘How have you come to this rain-soaked life with a lover's whisper? I think you were smart enough to know how intense pleasure this beautiful would hurt.’ ‘I felt bored, and would kiss women wearing large, shiny earrings, concerned to find discredit in me while still being grateful. A lover's whisper automatically pictures fiery views. I wanted to let go of my senses. I was terrified.’

± Her husband’s stubbornness for me to end it meant her legs were still warm on the body of someone else. I wondered if his usual route, the disapproval, just grew bigger. For the first time I simply asked myself to get him to tell it how it was: that I was the greatest enemy. We had spoken before and were calmly banding together, exercising our warm building, but with a warmth that was devoted to running without guidance into any number of positions without peace. I wondered if it were ever apt to that day that I took a little magic away. I still continued to do something: recovering from endless depths of great sin that I can't be snapped back from.

± I said ‘She will give away how my senses could reach, a thousand times over, and with each step, the distraction in little lines that I walked out from with my replies that tasted like a frown. You know what purity is: a darkened corridor that you limped forward from exhausted, sometimes pacing back, crossed with the realization that you are given to laugh in deep satisfaction because you intend to fall. All she said it required was for me to take her to a small, nearby castle that provides a pillow for her river to be a lake, and her lake to be an ocean. She smiled when allowing herself anytime to touch her mouth on the thick barrel of arms hanging loosely at her belly. "Maybe I love you" she said. She moved closer. I leaned back from the possibility of truth. My questions went unanswered as long as I had allowed myself to have a sigh.’

± The opportunity that stood just grew larger at the negotiating table in the indirect light as the door closed behind us, letting his mind out to find the nature of her every day goal, the greater mystery of her eyes he wanted to interpret; I walked behind him along a central path while drinking from a bottle, enjoying how it felt so good: in his confession he was almost grateful for me being so curious - ‘It is very foolish to absolve us, since the day felt it had an extra hour in its expression, but she’s not a central ruling body, not to you at least. I heard she smiled as her hand moved to settle her prey uncomfortable at the unknown and mad work she chooses to arrange in his thoughts strategically close to her chest; so he shakes badly, outmaneuvered. Then she laughs softly. She scoffed that in trying to budge, he leaves seemingly corpsified.’ His head was taller through the dark as each step was going into the silent blade she raised on our peace. ‘She peers down; he'll savor her hand and try to kiss it, but I sensed her goal strongly resisted the movement with her terms, her cheek a strong presence, a swift slash of how it is to be done in by the unknown from its outside.’

± When I came to my earliest attempts to abandon her, he was almost insulted, no longer ready for comfort, waiting with snipers, thinking strategically again, curious about how she was always her sufficient screen for a mistake because she was her clone. He said ‘She sat in front of the multiple doorways as her clone repeated her laughs softly into them. I yearned at every turn with her that morning, imagining I would reach the center, and maybe emerge running from her broken mirrors without guidance.’

± He had worried about the day with a sheer magnitude that bleeds inside. It would seem that he had worried about being an empty building. Did what he dreaded seem to happen at this point? We seemed to rally around this point, not sure what it was, tied around it as it grew bigger inside us. What they stood up for at their meetings were minor amendments that spilled over into dogma. He said ‘I would feel like what would happen to her when her mind was reaching into her surroundings was that her will to capture crept quietly along the distraction she would drive me to. I regularly walked back into an inscription of that moment when you are too insane and dangerous to thank. She said "I had to hide my head, following closely behind what almost imperceptibly draws me to your thumb. In the nearly empty rooms you would stare blankly with your one pale, gray eye at any need, noticing for the first time how I was on a knife's edge, bloody insane." Then she exclaimed "I can't hunt you!" I knew this was from her belly. She might sleep, but then she might object that I live, and deserves going to my neck for that day, after this particular afternoon, with a knife, a shotgun, or any weapon. She waited for me to settle. Waiting patiently, she peers down into the lights and evaluates features that may not yet …’ He had finished with what he could say simply.

± What seems wise now was hard enough to have been fought out on that bench that day. The effect of opening it had let us father that space that could reach through our thoughts and stem from them the possibility of having an interpretation of how these dark little stories could come to be. They had no idea, no expression, and no promises, like lost, absent-minded steps to confess intentions that pressed only silence from a singing that was too cool to hear from behind walls constructed for safety. Sanctuary was the greatest enemy. We sink before it, holding the sunset back.

Shit

[An improvisation on words found at Life According to Candice, Canadutch, Drydreams, and The Special People Club.]

± It’s not hot to chat about or comment on this without laughing, but I had this idea of taking a shit in my neighbourhood. It's pathetic really, but it’s to the point. I have some standards, but what with the walk and all, we find it everywhere. It’s random, willy nilly. This is something that’s been bugging me out, like I’m holding in a pain because I feel badly for all the things I’m obsessed about. I’m obsessed, you see, because I care, and I’m thinking I’m all alone in this, or, if you prefer, in a seizure on Mars.

± I can just hear it now, most-likely, a lame version of these events premiering this neighborhood. They weren’t laughing (probably thinking that the road was so disgusting when I had been shitting everywhere) and would anyway yell these comments at those who create glowing landmarks:

• ‘If he hasn't picked up his shit he just have become fairly nonsocial to all our neighbours.’

• ‘He has shit during our dinner-time.’

• ‘It's mighty close to the bone to have this put in front of your yard today.’

• ‘I'm not picking up any more shit on my shoes.’

• ‘I’m already carrying a heart attack thanks to this morning.’

• ‘When I’m considering going on a busy street, I wouldn’t want shit tripping me up.’

• ‘His attempts to become an awful neighbour make us fall into exhaustion at any worries.’

• ‘We find he doesn’t even bother to apologize sincerely.’

• ‘Isn't it time you have your brains out?’

± I have a picture of those people having a reason for picking up on my pretty bad shit. They know you’ve got to cross over in the morning. People with worries who live around here have set up a webcam for suspects. They’ll probably set up a stakeout to catch my butt in the act. They are bugging my house at night. Paranoia? This is probably an understatement. But I can handle this paranoia: now I’m a nightcrawler, the nocturnal creature I am, for shit is technically dark. It is always the same, time and time again, that time that comes close, later in the neon of hours when I am a fan of the night. I wait and I wait until the right night. Thinking that I can sleep reduces the main reason I have it so disgusting at night.

± You can walk around the neighborhood at night without actually fall asleep. So I went outside all alone in order to not get stopped on the job in front of our neighbours. I avoid the street light while on the sidewalk at a house basically because it is lit up like a minefield. I don't typically wait around. I must go out and keep moving to make my walks along the sidewalk long, different and original, but I do have to be quiet so late at night. I had one shit on a couple of grassy patches, some on people's doorsteps, another while leaning against the main doorway, and what was worse, one while I was leaning against the street in front of the neighbours. I’m always about to hide a wheezing pile laying on the grass so that someone steps on it. Heeee Heee! How I walked in my shit until morning! I have to watch I don’t stumble after falling down in a struggle with every step as the sidewalk become cluttered with my glowing landmarks tripping me up. It’s so bad when I have put a shit on the road. There is shit everywhere in the middle of my hood, endless amounts of it and for a good mile or two the attractiveness, demeanor and behavior of the road is not clean for an approaching pedestrian.

± In my shitting I have become fairly non-social. But even to be depositing every week is not enough. I found this insatiable urge to get back into their house and doing it antisocial again: perhaps I'm absorbing the neighborhood, its every building in the street? I had to do the neighborhood. I take brief moments for walks there with the intriguing smell. I'm gagging and throwing up while thinking about the degrading things I've done past midnight.

± The morning after the completely antisocial behavior I’m pretty sure that none of this occasions a nap. Most nights I try to take the problem to the best of my neighbours to another level. Sometimes I can’t catch up with myself. For everyone else it takes energy to wake up to the shit in our town that is guaranteed. But whenever I go in town, everyone seems to manage in public the best of the watery explosive my butt make. This has led me tell you that everyone seems to be considered setting up their own glowing landmarks to rant about. I’m pretty sure that my neighbours enjoy putting their feelers out with their shoes.

± Somebody had to be pushed to this, or today what we wouldn’t be in the middle of times that everyone seems to be walking at evening to shit in the park, the parking lot, the well, and all over town. You can hear most of the neighborhood foam at the mouth when shitting without offense and with pretty bad smoke. They are no longer depending upon my shit alone. Heeee Heee! How cute! I encounter them sniffing the intriguing smell in my ass region; their comments:

• ‘You can be thankful for him, and let your brains fall out with the laughing and thinking that everyone seems to be depending upon him.’

• ‘I’m considering going over to his house to help him up in the hunt for a sidewalk to act on.’

• ‘I care because it’s fun to get away with.’

• ‘I don't typically run into this place. I'm usually just gearing up in order to wipe their asses without actually touching anything with my latex glove.’

• ‘I had to rant about the full weight of crap hitting the neighborhood on a few different occasions, but when I fall to my insatiable urge to shit, this has led me to, late at night, shitting everywhere: the road, the balcony, the park, a square box over there, bags in our living room, and most of their windows you like to watch. We have moved into that flat behind your legs.’

± Try to mention or ask about the attractiveness or demeanor of the neighbourhood, and the mood within is mighty close to magic. I feel obligated to this public shitting that consequently reduces us to questioning our sanity. Follow this questioning and you are soon on fire. They are underneath, yanking at my mind without actually touching anything. We are one on this turn around. Maybe it’s just gotta be that way?

Weaknesses

[An improvisation on words found at Zenhabits and Infinite Thought.]

± Blogging, as I’ve discovered, has to be lean. This is why I knew for a very long time that I couldn’t keep anything going as a writer. My weaknesses held me so. All that proceeded were short-term projects, baby steps from not having all of the resources that connect intimately with what will allow me to take back from myself what I’m doing. So I recently started to experience deep worry about certain topics. I would have large crowds talk with me about them. Yet I wanted no readers, or as little as possible, unless I could re-invent myself as a dream, as if I had been faked into a false self while asleep.

± What do you think about the power of experience? I found I would wake up waiting for beautiful ones. Alarm clocks do their best: in productivity, organization health, and, curiously, fitness, they are alarming! At a novel form of the hour they force us to worry about what to do, right?

± I knew I had to organize myself better and quicker through baby steps so I could build stronger bonds without being too disconcerting. I needed to properly concentrate more thoughtful work into blogging. I thought about my experiences as a writer, on how I don’t have weaknesses with smaller jobs, nor when simplicity is the main idea, so now I get myself into my weaknesses and share them in my flat together with an audience. I wanted to start from something, for once somewhere, once you've rested properly, you can concentrate on the weakness that preceded, on having resources for the audience you can’t write for, on doing now what you don’t have to: what you’re doing now: to communicate, one-on-one while having a deep worry about not having the skills, and not walking around half-asleep.

± The existential necessity is that I have the time for running a world: my own. In time I have expectations to work my butt off on a great report, to link it into my sleep for the longest time in a freelancing I will master someday. Instead, I can't sleep. My doctor says I should sleep. But what good is sleep? I get insomnia from what other people are cranking out, what they might be able to do with their alarm clocks waiting to remind them that they too have weaknesses. I just wish I’d invented better weaknesses.

± So I became a writer who is never asleep from one that had always been. My true self became my own copycat in those few hours of consciousness in which I wrote my name out whilst half-awake. The first step, then, is to copycat yourself asleep. What you perceive as sleep is actually an entire program of weaknesses. I used to be turned on to sleep as a tool for building stronger bonds with my writing. I had to face for the longest time the need to organize myself around those hours when I had overwhelming projects to focus on. Sleep meant being asleep at work, not for work. So I re-invented myself and now imitate myself asleep in my work. What are people if they cannot connect intimately with the day at night?

± Yes, I focused hard on my sleep, usually by quickly pulling back from it and taking a cue from my earliest memories, those in which weaknesses were not involved. I was not an organized person, but instead, if you can simplify things, like writing everything as an exhaustive list, your re-invented self can get at achieving any job done. Doing a lot over time is the most definite indication of being than doing things in short bursts. It bears the wretched ticking of white paper or going to meetings.

± The main idea was to learn how to work with my shortcomings, achieve a presentation that people liked, and improve and market something called ‘me’. Who isn’t someone who needs strength growing out of their weaknesses? What worked was impersonal stuff. But then, I’ve not been myself recently. You've never seen my face before in your life, and you wouldn’t recognize me now: you have to be diligent to organize things simply whilst being unable to have a lot of time left over. You can’t write brilliant stuff for big audiences and have enough time for sleep. Awesome strength grows, I’ve learned, from what is impossible to figure out. There might be exceptions, but I figure, for example, that turning your weaknesses to use works for brief stretches and is extremely useful in staying awake.

± Drugs can also be used to attack your weaknesses (your sleep) without too much planning. Things like valium can be liberating for bloggers who write controversial stuff, but I’ve learned to work under two security lights I found. It is like taking exams on dripping cold water in a light-box while a large audience you aren’t really going to get to know compares your strengths and weaknesses. I have thus learned to promote my fears so that I’m walking around half-asleep and half-awake. It is better to be both.

± Whilst not asleep like this you have to figure yourself out. When you are broken down into your weaknesses you can figure out how to develop products properly without bureaucracy, with a quick turnaround, and, without too much talking, try to learn from small groups in meetings about how your writing is perceived. This will allow you to adapt your weaknesses to your re-invented and creative self faster.

± When someone needs a report, and a regular guy, for example, isn’t good at the task, he will usually connect intimately with apocalyptic horror. Valium is good at sustaining something, but it cannot change your weaknesses. My mindset is that my weaknesses are my successes. When I don’t find people have liked my writing, this allows me to develop my talents: I’m after a quick turnaround without bureaucracy or a marathon training program for turning my weaknesses into strengths. Strength grows out of maximal expectations, or, in effect, their limitations, or, in effect, your shortcomings. You are running a brand name. You have to. I celebrate mine. Who can write anything more heartfelt than this?

± It was not enough for me to write very simple text files for small posts and then point to them and say ‘me’: to re-invent myself, I wrote a long list of my weaknesses down, even things that occasionally, somehow, just 'didn't work'. They are an a-z series that is a group of one. I put them into a cardboard box and built myself a presentation by using those weaknesses as resources. I then put them together into a short piece of writing that worked for some people (though it took longer for some than for others), that felt like taking on Heidegger with humour, with an exhaustive list of exceptions to strength that would scare anyone back into the right mindset for how strengths start. Legend is made when writing about an entire program by mentioning the relation between sleep and how much faster you perceive what your weaknesses are when you worry about how every minute is spent in your work with business that can build stronger bonds with what will improve your weaknesses at all levels. My mind is always an alarm clock when I have this much fun.