11:11 | ISRAEL 2018
Enter. The Dark Room. Nothing is out of limits or bounds. This one refuses to yield to, yield. Running is Forbidden. Running is futile. The Toll Bells take what's theirs, and leave the rest of us, unwoke, under the sight of planes. Hidden messages written, as We enter the precipice. Hope you're prepped, and not a slave to Genesis. Justin's Peace Pipe. Take your time little nightingale. There's no use fighting this Pale Horse. When L.L. broke the fourth seal, the course was set. For real. The schlemiel will spill his soup on the schlimazel. He Jokes He Yidds. As he plays the wait game, Rider. When the moment comes, will you fight? or hide away? Live out your remaining time in sheltered accommo daydream? Everything is hazy, this is like date rape. Skein of mix tape... merely a figment of something bigger being triggered. Like when the Double 11 was rigged up, and brought down by the sick fuckers that tricked us. And now look... borderline Big Brother. The whole truth smothered under those embers. End of Story. Conspiracies the kids of today could never hope to remember. Especially when their minds are augmented. For evermore. Centuries of this to look forward to. But hey, maybe this is meant to be. As We are sent to the giant Chinese Penitentiary. Potentially pleasurable, where the self is quantified and everything is measured. Memories tracked, every thought is precious. A sexual modus, OTO lotus... in this trap they've caught us. Every gasp is hopeless as they have this rope wrapped so tight around our throats, it blows our minds, this Opus. A Gorgeous Fortress. Martial Law, Governed by more than 4 billion ladies. In charge of our Tsar Bombas. But women this beautiful have no reason to start bombing, or copy the mistakes of men. The synchronicity is simplicity in itself. It tells its own story. And at its deepest core it's so reassuring. That's why its time to go back, and ignore that Wake Up Call. In the long run...... All roads point here. Some roads point at pointy ears and laugh, which is disappointing. We were heartened by your sincerity, until you started farting around. Call this artistic? No, this is food for thought. This is our picnic. This is Swan Lake, baby! This is our cygnet. A cure for sickness. Take one a day, to keep away the demons intent on deepening your pain. Intense. Release everything that frequents your brain. Lay it all out in sequence. Till it stretches from here to Venus, large intestine or penis. Even your train, of thought. For those that think you have nothing to say no more. There's too much here to put down on A4 paper. And the last thing We aim to do is make more waste and take more trees from nature. Don't want to take nothing but this ass to the grave. Like We never existed. Wish this depression didn't make things twisted. Feel like a ghost plucking the wings off a lotus. People just think it's the wind, and don't notice. Maybe that's why we've no motivation. We were a blip in the ocean, or merely a flashing nova passing over. But for now, We get ready for this Exodus. This cast shadow, that will open a brighter tomorrow, no matter how harrowing.
Golden Age = AUG. AU = Gold.