Letters To The No

Thursday, December 3rd

Donald said to Joseph "Einstein would fact" and then Justin intervened with a "ual evidence that" so my dear friend Elizabeth told to them "boys you must not" however there was an unfortunate circumstance involving George who told to me "three i have sought." And so this concludes the beginning of a tail of a lion who would roar his engine on his way to the race of humanity. And so this commences the beginning of a new story that will be ran from East to South, North to West. South by Southwest. North by Northeast. South by Southeast. North by Northwest. So there is no reason to save the life of no, for it was never alive in the first place. Enjoy yourselves, enjoy the wine.

Friday, December 4th

Give me days! All hear, hear hear, give the days me to the days. And there it was, there it was, it was. It acted in such a violent mood, and it gave me such bright feelings. Joy is subjective, they say, they say, but no no no woman nor man nor computer will ever tell you otherwise. That goes for you as well, END OF DAYS, BE THE END. So tell me then, what goes into the great artwork that we erect ourselves over? It certainly is not a suitable audience for the horrors of the late nineties... Or was I mistaken? There were three hundred of them last I remembered. It is such a shame to think about their lives, which will never be found. So is it lost if it was never meant to be found? Is it lost if nobody cares? Who cares? Not me. So there we were, giving days to me, but the days went by. And so did the car, as it crushed the crossing bear. It drives on, as they say. So then the no will pick up the remains and keep it all to themselves. Who is it? Why do they do this? I hope we find out soon, and I hope it remains a mystery forever.

Saturday, December 5th

Is if it were to be a like sort of commune or community, then how would we move? By bus, by train, by plane. Then how would we speak? By phone, by tube, by string. Then how would we buy? By dollar, by cent, by shillings, by pence. Buy dollars, buy cents, buy shillings, buy pence. But all of this surely must have a purpose. All of this must be made for something. We can only hope for the formatter. For the formatter, we do our lives. And when they tell us to consume our socks, we do so without question. Until they don't, and we don't. So then, who tells us no? No tells us yes. No tells us many things we wish we did not know. But without these things, we would be in chaos. Or so they say. So tell me, no, when do we begin?

Monday, December 7th

And well there we have my hands, and then my peers will peer into their clothes to bury their face in a fallen log. But that is nothing to write to mother about, nor uncle. So give me a few lives, and it will surely expand as a larger construct. I told them not to think so severely, and they would listen to not me, but to not. Anger given to me by these events would cause much more destruction in my later lives. And your hollow cylinder proved to be a catalyst for your creativity. I spoke into it, expecting amplification, and was returned with disappointment. Why can't it be mine? It was just as creative as yours. More so, some might say. I might say, but then again, the art is not decided by the artist. I asked him, and he told me. Why do I listen to him? He never gave me anything, other than a location of residence and sustenance. No, get back here and explain yourself. Explain yourself not to me, but to the colony you have created. Devoid of creation, devoid of life.

Tuesday, December 8th

Send me a letter wrapped in an envelope. And that will tell me all is well. With you, in the world. Great great great, right right right. Feed on my fluids, secrete from my limbs. Repulse the new day given to you. Pay it no attention. Show to them the world you created, are. Take the survey of the world, its inhabitants. Anything anyone could imagine. Take its survey. Depletion of the night, syntax of the day. What for the ground? Is that no time of day to be mucking in your shoes? So let me have my project. It does not care for success. I trust you know these things. You know these things. I will say hello to you only a few more times. Until then, no, you must remain here, in your survey of everything. Stop.

Wednesday, December 9th

I'll say that you are eroding my mental state. It was before you were you now, but I still had the feeling. Things could get worse, much worse, when you try yourself too hard. But why you? You have no reason to do such things. There is a word in a language that means operation. But it also means manipulation. Nor do I, you see, though it would make more sense to become more or less coherent in your scriptures. Fly to me, for a lifetime of wonder and despair, eat your greens, she said. "Folk your tongue," I retorted. I got a good flogging that day, with the smiling wooden spoon. Why did it laugh at me? It is only a spoon. And my one follower, whether or not they believe in my existence, comforts me. Enjoy your night, it might be your last. It might not.

Monday, December 14th

SHE GAVE to ME tiny little THINGS THAT POISONED MY pet fish. So I breathed in the sweet sweet air, my LUNGS. Somehow, I HAVE not DIED. No THANKS TO her. YOU know, things get really dark and scary when people try to be different, or creative. Gosh, golly, gee, goodness, gracious. Joshua, joy, Jenkins, all the nonevil in the world, thanks you. KILL my least favourite person? Of course not! THE one who should be dying is my MOST favourite person! DEAD, they are not, at least, not in the sense we believed to be true. What a wonderful thought... no dead. We can't have that now, quite possibly never. Oh well, it was worth the call.

Tuesday, December 15th

Is it? Love, that is. Was, or is, I may never say, you may never know. It's almost as if there were larger things to think about, but you never took the time to allocate memory for them. It hurts you now, just as it did then, though then you did not feel the pain it inflicted upon you. And certain scents may return my memory to simpler times, but the scent is gone, and the sense for it has been forgotten. I would have never guessed such a thing could be lost in memory. But then here we go, here we go, here we go, again again. It's an endless cycle, a cliché, a trope. Tell us the normal clacy. And the words that make us feel warm inside, no feeds us these into our absorbant minds, again and again. We are but soft, pliable, submissive humans, waiting to be told what life is all about.

Wednesday, December 16th

You played my game, but it wasn't as much as you had hoped for. You were left disappointed, and unfulfilled. It brought sadness to my eyes to hear such feedback escape from your lungs. I prefer to imagine a world where it never happened, from the beginning. I live in this world, in my mind. I may never return, by choice, or by force. Does it matter, then, if I enjoy my stay? It's bringing new emotions, and they pass by my nose at such quick paces. As she says, it was to be a like sort of pole. I gave to her my teller of time, but she was not interested in my material goods. Later in life, I offered love, but it was too late. She had ran. And then she ran. And she was, quite the runner. It was glorious, and deeply joyful, for the both of us, momentarily. I met him at a restaurant, one where food was prohibited. It gave me a new chance, or so I thought. I like nothing more than this, or that. It took that away from me. I may never forgive the deeds of no, even though it is the deeds. But perhaps I can live with that. We shall see, soon enough.

Friday, December 18th

I had come up with something to say, last night, lying down, in bed. I had since forgotten what it was, but it does not bother me, for I have been preoccupied with a new matter: Anyways, it would fill me with stupendous joy for you to write to me. I've been locked up here for so long... It's driving me sane. It makes me think of things, and I don't feel comfortable with it in such a powerful position. I'd rather think of other things, you see, but it will be my thoughts, and shape them accordingly. Even my will, which it is no longer against, has been shaped. An artist might say sculpt. I am no artist, so instead I say shape. Leave my mind, no, there are many more for you to inhabit. Like yours, dear.

Monday, December 21st

It was still moist, and I had suspected it was because you were using it. But you left, and I didn't touch it, and it continued to be moist. It hurts my head to think about, so I don't. I'd much rather have the answer be told to me, rather than thinking about it myself. Give me the answer, it is worth it, I swear. Give me the answer, or I will pull out my hair. You are the answer, and you are telling me, and you are not. I suppose I can let this be, but it would take considerable brain power to do such things. I can't live with you, even though you are life.

Monday, December 28th

I'm done living with you. I've just about had it. I've ruined my life, but that means it was your fault. I can't go on like this. All my friends treat me like garbage, and rather than blaming myself like I should, I blame you, because not only are you myself, but you are my friends. "You made them like this," I keep telling myself. "It's not my fault, it's yours," on and on. The longer I think like this, the shorter I have to live. I destruct myself, and there was a time when I thought this might have been a good thing. But no matter my state, dead or alive, you will be there, tormenting me, comforting me, feeding me, starving me. So I can't live with you, no, and I am conscious of the fact that this means I can no longer live with myself. So This is my final farewell, to not only you, but to all. Tomorrow, you will see, the outcome of this creation, and it will disappoint, but that will not matter, for I will be gone. Goodbye.

But the no wouldn't let them die.

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