My Monday night! It begins at around 11:30 and will be a successful endeavor tonight, as we slip into the eighth day, the time between time that has been hidden from view, and begs the question of: if god rested on the seventh day; what did he do on the eighth, which is the subject matter of tonight’s planning, that elusive little spot, where the time does not stitch together, and the records diverge.

So far today luck has been on my side, my accounts, and my attempts to get someone in a position to look and do something about the terrible situation that arose when my father died in 008 and a bunch of people all payed their respects by gutting his estate and trapping his sons behind an enemy line of obstruction and negativity, due to the unbelievable drawing power of greed and a persons obvious inability to ever actually fulfill one of the representations made by the terms of service and condition of the service that is provided by people in the 21st century; where everyone is so caught up in the dramas we have created to distract ourselves from the reality of our world, that we have failed to notice the total take over of our world by poor work ethic, poor education, poor delineation of tasks, and compartmentalization of responsibilities that has created a gap, that a smart and dedicated crew can worm their way through, and in drilling a hole that radiates like the pain of a root canal, into the universe next to theirs, a rescue crew is planning a daring escapade: pulling me back from the brink, and out and through, into the universe where every good actions reacts to the environment and provides what you put into the world, back to you; because I a, trapped at the end of time, in an inverse world: where every good action that I have committed, has been responded too with the opposite reaction, so that for every positive I put into the world, an equal, proportionate opposite response is what I get. Too the degree, that I sit here pondering my life and wondering why it is, that no one sees these tiny holes in our world, everywhere, that allow for reality to sink, swirl and really get itself worked up into a maelstrom of signals; signals that are travelling the speed of light, or near unto, following just behind a ray from the sun, surfing the particles that stream from the boundaries clashing, as two borders of thought, rush up and skid alongside each other, like two great ships in a harbor running into the quay and scoring the sides of their hulls, leaving an indelible scar, for future generations to gape at in photographs and imagine what size of iceberg could cause such a score alongside of the ship, that it sits in its dock, previous to sinking from such a great shock…does anybody else remember seeing that photo…it’s kind of like the eighth day…our ancestry used eight day weeks, right up until they decided not to, when in around the fourth or fifth or sixth century, maybe the seventh…they had a diet, and lost some weight, and shed the eighth day from the week, and back dated it to the crucifixtion, and rewrote the world without anyone noticing…except for a few little spots in the world where the reality of what had occurred, rears through the veil and lets itself be discovered, in order to share the ideas, and the knowledge, of what was done in those few short pen strokes, and where there is a gigantic hole, and where there is a gigantic tell…. A tell being that little give away, that you make when something good is about to happen, in your play on reality, because you realize as you divine the near future. There really is a light at the end of the tunnel and all of that emotional turmoil will finally find its balance, and your life will be returned to the world of the living, in the dimension that you were born in; but first you have to explain to the inverse world, what you mean by when you say gaping hole in the records and a huge tell.

The tell is easy, the hole less so; but have spent enough time swirling around the vortex and have got a pretty good grasp on the idea that I am the product of a seventh century story, told in the North Borders of my homeland, and at the exact same time it is being told, so the teller and I are both at the edges of our respective imaginations, and as he tells the story that builds the wards that surround the Croft or manor where he sits, with a cord of wood beside a bright fire, and rushes burning in the brackets hanging on the sides of hewn blocks of stone; his audience shivers in delight as they suddenly view me, writing in the early days of the time of legends, on my magical tablet that makes the words turn into magical symbols, that throw their runic power into the ether, casting and casting and casting, with every chiastic beat that is created…they all feel the wonder and the magic of their participation in the endless cycle of wards and protections that the storytellers of the world put out to protect us from the universe, of inverse reactions, and we both pause, for a second or two, to gather up more effect, more of the stuff of life, the essence of what it is to be human, and that teller in the fourth or fifth or sixth or maybe the seventh century, looks into the deep past, into the time of legends in his minds eye; when the earth was bestrode by gods and they traveled about in winged chariots, and fought the monsters that plagued early man. And he thinks to himself, as it comes his time to tell his tale, and protect the compound for just one more night…what sort of story tellers were they so far in the past, that their stories still resonate with the power they created, when one man, unheralded and unknown…held back the unknown and unforeseeable from the edges of the world, and spread his message out into the ether, to an audience of unknown listeners, and unknown readers, used by unknown scryers, hidden behind unknown numbers of screens, with unknown intent, and unknown provenance, for the simple reasons of his simple mind…he could not live without his daughter, and would fight the universe tooth and nail, until it relented and gave him back his identity, his life, and the memories of his family, lost in the eternal struggle against the unknown energy on the side of that guessed at boundary, where he sat a lonely vigil, that brought him to the answers to the human condition, and the story teller in the third or fourth or fifth or six or sevent eight, century of man, after the century of men, after the fall of man, after the rebuilding of man, and the fall of man and rebuilding…that story teller makes sure to explain to his listeners, that they must always keep the shutters closed tight in the winter storms, and thrown wide open in the summer heat, and to keep wards handy at all times, to make sure your properties are well protected, and to remember, that in the middle of the dark ages, one person woke up to the rewritten history, and tried his very best, to get the audience to wake up and see…and that the tell…they adopted our calendar and the days of the week in the middle of the dark ages, in the enlightenment, and back dated it to the time of Christ, and rewrote a Bible completely at odds with the teachings of the compact, and were responsible for the sleeping society that the only thing the man in the legend could do, was to claim victory against all sides who had come to his storytelling contest…and say with a sardonic grin…he might have rested on the seventh day…but on the eighth he practiced magic…and because he had been specially bred, and the creation of thousands of years of selective and scientific breeding, combined with the best medicines of their times, he was solely designed to defiantly scream into the void…”You shall not have me, you can never have me, and you can never touch my child,” and he defeated the storylines embrace, and told everyone to go home, called for last rounds of drinks, wiped the tables and closed up the market tavern, and wandered upstairs to his loft, in the tiny little crossroads cabin, at the center of time, on the bleeding edge of reality, back when tigers used to smoke, sitting on benches alongside the paths of the dead, at the last stop in the books of the dead, in the Kingdom of Prester John, overlooking the scarred remains of King Solomon’s mines, where for thousands of years, the lost and forgotten of this world have gathered and spent their days…and if you look hard enough, you can find a story like no other that has existed in history, before or since…because the white rabbitt has concocted his own genre and method of delivery of the first original story told, in so many versions, of the trapped princess and the ever watchful dragons who make sure that the world is a place where fathers have rights, and governments do not do things to innocent people, without their being a legitimate and honest response, because Beowulf is right next door, and brothers working together, are far more mindful of their manners than separated out by the machinations of dark arts, and the judges have decreed that the white rabbitts all you talk about is world church and heaven and I am trying to tell a story here…and this is the 21st century the night before the 22nd launches due to the errors in calculations made by literally ripping the eighth day from the calculations of the precession of the stars, and it needs returning, and ….

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