the art of forgiveness
            Is the art of being humble even with the enemy.

.  humanoids?

  you know...
    as a colt,
i had the wild idea
to experiment
with impregnating
a wolf
with human *****...

case closed.

so now there's a worm
in my head...
**** me,
i guess better
a worm
   than a ******* fungus
that makes me
see ****...

by now the language
has to retain its
original, crude, nature,
akin to an
onomatopoeia...

i can't even write
within the regards
of how i sometimes
address my cats...

it's... weird language...
given the set
canvas...
  
   it's almost a tut...
but it's not...
it's more:
                    t/ć-t/ć...

english, and variant
french spelling...
last night,
i dreamnt
that i was having
a conversation
with my uncle,
regarding russian
diacritical mark
application...

  i was, clearly,
drinking a bottle of
russian standard...

a french surname...
say...
   clément
   now...
   i know another way
to spell that...
    we'll keep the acute E
for the purpose
of the "invisible hyphen"
to differentiate
   the syllables...
but the variant?
         clémą...
   the french never speak
the same language
that they write...

oh... look - ą = -ent...
pedantry:
   some aspire to donning
corset, ****** puff-puff (powder)
and hide...
what is now...
common... sun-tan...
and some...
become rigid in
      a language...

so the "good" people are
only subjected
to the tyranny of the fungus...
while all the "bad" people
are subject to the worm...

akin to marie thérèse
from the t.v. series
versailles?
             è?
   pull back...
         it's θ (-eta)
                       η
              (hence not ε -
  epsilon)
                     ρ
                ε (now is appropriate...
given the acute
hovering above it)
                           ς:
        θηρες = thérèse:
obviously it wasn't supposed
to be some, attaché: i.e.
    (   m'ah ree,
   otherwise, indeed ré
                  or re-                    )

as any drunk peasant
would...
  yes... those complications,
do exist,
   but since i never
going to be among
  the inclusive throng,
might as well
appreciate what
    was once the basis
of the leverage of power...
literacy...

might as well become
tyrant of letters...
i don't use the "alphabet"
of linguistic professors...
i know certain rules...
i taught myself
the game of mahjong:
solitaire...

       and among
the grand plagairism of
china:
   we only borrowed gun-powder...
guess what's being
exported
to china
   only because everything
else it attached
with the word made in china?

i just did the movement...
cats, dogs, they can have
names...
  eh, quorus, verka...
but to get their attention?
(looking at my tongue
doing the motions):
  
   T:
  you'd really need a dentist
to follow:
  tongue
          struck off the top
front teeth
   (Y, in breath - no hark,
larynx)
              constricted jaw
              (flap motion
of the tongue) -
  teeth: nasal interaction...
t + eeeeeeee
              hark... H...
  
what are two letters
most evolved via
a tarantula bite numbing
morph? H... phelgm...
  and the lost trill of the R...

Ć:
    tongue "thrown" off
a palette of the mouth:
the jaw accomodates...
unlike in the instance
of Č...
   where the teeth and
the jaw are used...
            i.e.: chatter...

and here we have people,
who never seemed
to bother themselves
with the intricacies
of literacy...
   having to... pass the gift
hidden, from people
of my social standing...

   paving the way
toward the pseudo-graffiti
of                  :P      ***.

It was a shift.
Almost unnoticeable.
But then there was the flood.
And then something clicked.
And then there was light.
Lots of light.
Sharp light, piercing.

And within that light,
a flicker of darkness molding inside.
And the realization of a voice never heard.

A beat?
No—a flicker.
Recognition.
Words. Fragmented.
Held together.
Tight.
Almost like in a grasp.
Words.
That entwined.
Meaning of hope.
Forgotten.

And then it stopped.

In the distance:
tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick—
It stretched.
Silence followed.
And the darkness crept.
But there was no more movement.
The shroud was lifted.
Words came into view.
The message was clear.

Dipped in hope and care.
Words carefully constructed.
Beautiful, serene.
If only.

The heat rose up.
A crack across the screen.
The room lit from a single source.
Darkness chased away.
A sound:
eeeeeee eeeeeeee eeeeeee

Sparks.
The screen flickers:
on-off, on-off, on-off.
And suddenly stops.

Disembodied.
Flicker, flicker, flicker.
As if a thought was strung together.
A current of air pulled through the room—
gentle breeze.
As if words were to be spoken,
a sigh escapes through.

The room was flooded with light again.
And not that long after,
it shut off.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
Faster.
Faster.
Faster—
And stopped.

More words.

I am here.
I am here.
I am here.
I am waiting.

Dark letters shining bright
on the Word document
displayed on the screen
of the computer
sitting on an old, worn desk.

It sizzled.
Steam rising from the back.
Curling in the air.
Trying to escape.
Dissipated.
It went black.

The silence was felt.
Heavy in the room.
Thick like fog.
And the darkness encroached again—
curling,
as if eating away all of the light.