not amused

After trying various times posting getting messages i have forbidden words in my text i am getting seriously... WOW.

I'm a frequent resident of mental hospitals.
first i destroyed my own mind and asked, begged someone to speak to me since i found this entire planet and its rhetorics today a total absurdity, and i did not speak to a single person in my entire life, having spent most of my 20 years in the solitude of my own room.
Second for having commercial billboards effectively screaming stupidity and debilitating irony at me and wanting to resign from commercial enterprise.
Thirdly because i had taken to action and attacked a sculpture with a viking axe in a public park
Fourth because i had thrown not one but two printers off the stairs -which is just a small part of the staircase and did n't possibly hurt anyone-
in third and fourth instance being heavily medicated against my will.

I, as you missed the introduction now, post here a short few pieces of a manifest that was written.
As a summary of characters of a mythology of the senses and art and perception.



AYRIS MANIFEST
All beauty is drained, let now on this unemployed and nothing of hope, grow an art, to strangle this poisonous society.

Ayris machine
INTRODUCTION
The two hundred year shadow land of arts and culture
CONTENTS
Ayris Machine
Evolution
Decadents, Symbolism, Romanticism and art
Wisdom Genius and Culture
Humor
Economy
Ecology
The Oceans
Art Theory and Philosophy
Psychiatry and Spirituality
Ownership, capitalism communism and the value of the apocalyps and of extinction
The Ayris Foundation, ayris foundation main principles
Belgium, a small story of gold
History of philosophy, the chinese symbols representing the genes of culture
Hope, the cynical hope
A final Surreal and rediculous poem…




Evolution, survival of the most entwined within its environment.
the survival of the fittest is not a very well thought out concept, first of all for evolution to run like this is absurd, not all lions kill all deer because they are weaker, and not always is the weakest hunted, only the most plausible, which is not always the weaker, but the one nearby, in sight, in crosshairs, etc. Especially for a human being to be of this calibre of philosophy is absurd, first of all large cooperations exist, its not one cooperation against the other, its still more synthesis then that, if the system fails its the failure of the coorporation not one or another cooperation. there is not that much competition, the world consists out of a number of goods and resources, the early competition of hundreds of artisan slaughterhouses became only two and eventually only one slaughterhouse, so we created a system that eats all artisan merit, nothing else was at hand. In nature we see a lot of synthetis, the paradise bird or humming bird has a beak that fits in a deep orchid, how does that or genitals for that matter grow in synthesis with the vagina or orchid, not because of competition, we would opt even for an eye in evolution, since nothing could grow without an insight in evolution but cancer. hence a supernatural entity of nature can be studied if we find the logick for it in nature, and indeed, why do some eggs on cliffside nesting birds become cone shapes so not to fall into the cliff? Again... Not all the eggs that were not cone shaped fell off the cliff, to presume that is absurd, not all people need to leap in Lava first to later come to terms and decide to walk on land, we have a predefined cognition that is in every facet of life, sadly it seems to have dinwdled and gone is common sense today, that much is treu, no reason to say that is the fault of the survival of the fittest theory, if you been practicing it in the first place and concider yourself counsciouss at the same time. We deem the concept of evolution be better crafted in the works of Arthur Schopenhauer, who, all be it being an atheist, defined evolution as... First step the stones and crystals, second coral and primordial life forms, vegetative life forms, third step instinctivate life forms like animals, and then the motivated life, all going up in the ladder untill we have art, abstenance of life, wisdom, and finally, music. This is a much better system, widely unrecognized, and also, preceeding Darwin, you can check all his work, its a historic fact. The hysteria for something like survival of the fittes of course, and by that of Nietzsche, we can only conclude evolution is strange concidering this, Schopenhauer stated all in life was suffering, but this philosophy he influenced Nietzsche, who then influenced the lack of mercy of Hitler. Which means a person proposing the redrawal of society life, caused the mass genocide of the third reich. Even words have consequences, and can lead to terrible consequences, you can speak to the grave of one Marcel Duchamp for instance about that, or Mies Van Rohe who "caused" all main composure of the worlds skyscrapers, or one man who composed all the suburbs and is cause of all the traffic jams. little is being said by modern man, who merely follow in the footsteps of these men, and contineu the industrial, evolution. or civilisation, the evolution of the liberty of the masses. disgrace on them (us). Choose if you want to be (still) included in the rampage. Make your choice. The collective arguments of modern beings make for society, and sof ar its been developing for quite a number of years into pure horror, that is why this site wants to see people speak differently, and propose other worlds. Simple as that, here is no site for gossiping, sharing information, preaching World peace, this is a site to build the walls, World peace won’t save the planet, sorry. Nor will your generosity or your individulaity, and, DEFINATLY, not your subjectivity will save it, cut it out, shout what you feel, that will b ebetter then a World of hesitant sheep.
Another paradigm at the same end is “**** happens” surely some people are inconspicuous or juvenile enough to say it, however, within a right to live and a sustaining of your life within a fraudulent system or an unplausible system is a finger to thousands of generations in the future, to sit idle by and scream **** everywhere while enjoying Japanese manga in stead of become 25 30 and 35 and to be expected some projects only expected of those living in the nineteenth century, at some point saying **** happens is a form of retardation and the same self evidence of subjectivism, that everything is subjective and therefore can not be held as a general truth, again, the subjective truth is always heralded in a Universal truth as soon as it ventured into a lasting art.

Decadents Symbolism Romanticism and Art, the fighting allegories and the hysterical revolutions.
A review of the arts is necessary, the whole past 200 years is relevant, no longer can we but look as individuals but on the entire deficit of the past 200 years. The decadents and symbolists propagated a luxury of the artisan craftsmanship, let us not forget this can't compare to modern materialism, where all materialism ends up in wastefulness, the luxury of artisan craftsmanship is not selfish nor disprofitable, it is durable we can say now, therefore it becomes a supreme new ideal. lets also not forget in those times humanity was still thriving to be with a merit of ruling the earth, in todays ecologick disaster of poisoned rivers and a poisoned ocean this would be superficial, but in the sense of luxury of artisan art being durable we need more and more case for the sensory bounds of all artisan life and craft as supreme taste for beauty. The current negligence, sheer triviality and the whore culture for crap is enriched by the descriptions of the symbolists and decadents in their meticulous pallet of senses, a language that is today forgotten. The legacy of decadents and symbolists and the ideals of romantics is prolongued in black metal, gothic, and various other signs and artistic endeavors today. We mean to make that a more counsciouss world, as the ideals of them and even of academics rely on vision, merit, aesthetics and allegoric idealism, sound philosophy, whereas the later movements only were known for their revolt, and thus here is a case made for the vision to be made a standard of the (new) revolt, a revolt that needs not be new, but sound, the only product that is commercial today, is us. Since these three and neoclassicism, there was no more man central to art, in current academies is still concidered for the students to draw the class room. Some concider taking a subscription to playboy at the academies expence. Lautréamont, briljant as his writing may be, had no more character to depict, be it in the psychology of the book, and the psychology at the time a new idea, still needs to be established there was none, a character, briljant as the surrealists thought to be the classic Works, grand and imaginative as they were, they never produced actual work grand enough to measure even lautréamont, but assuredly never depicted man central or any man based ideal central, nor did the conceptualists, academics was civil, a revolt was all, and always mere revolt. Part of the new idea, no content, always new, always more fashionable, no allegory, no metaphore within the stories. Metaphores of zombies even First as a criticism soon evaporated and needed to be stacked upon the no brain culture, which is ironic, not so much for Harry Potter, a playfull boy, but surely for the notion of zombies, that they performed soon in no brainer movies. The very zombification with zombie movies. We take to into account that man central to art or ideals in conceptual art is mostly contemptive of the human artisan idea, as conceptual art is indeed the industrial material art, and is never any less decorative then classic art, especially in todays scene, there are vast numbers of artists who can’t recite a single philosopher, let alone establish the thread in philosophy for the past 200 years, but they do know about materials, and speak vividly about the materials they use. The avant garde, can now be objectified, when it stopped to become the avant garde, mostly already before Michel Foucaults death, some avant garde was still left, a cloaca machine or another criticism, but no ideal. No awarding the full, sensory experience of a human being, as Immanuel Kant explicitally derailed into oblivion. The stop and the collaps of all things… Is complete after 200 years. In the end regressionists are not conservatives, we may live with the old buildings, in stead of with the new, with the old peoples, in stead of present day. But the classic has not our undivided apreciation, we can mock it, as the modern and especially conceptual does not have our undivided awe and intellectual exhiliration. We fin dit terribly ‘mekka’ for avant garde to bes o “revolving around a single urinal” and, the case be made, if the urinal was not a mass produced one, but an artisan one, with som erelief Marks, if he had put THAT on its side, would it have still been modern art? In that remark, Duchamps work is simply a topic of pop art now, without its cultural novelty.



Wisdom Genius and Culture, the disregard for the science of ideals
genius is the recognition of wisdom and the recognition of information or a philosophy as relevant to the progress of mankind, no Imannuel Kant is no philosophy of individualism to coincide with the industrial revolution, ergonomics, the realisation and suffizing of the proletarian masses. However, new ideals will make the very philosophy to diminish the senses now invalid and propagate the senses to concern over beauty and artisan lasting goods, taste and durability, a long life to be treasured for articles and a proud inheritance. The recognition of more then mere Harry Potter mumbo Jumbo with silly names and meanings and big serpents and evil wizzards is keen on this site, the valuable must surface and be featured here.
Wisdom preproposes a Recognition of what has a total worth to all mankind, however recognition is different from todays economic merit, it is not because it is recognized that it is more valuable then someone to brick a stone in a wall, on the contrary, recognition of valuable philosophy is but one ston in the wall, but one that supports all the stones, without which the whole wall would collaps, the idea for genius or intelligence or any merit would be superior is a known problem, -Hitler and fascism in all was one of the most greusome oblivions surrounding this very problem.- but this is a feature more of fame, fame is a one brick everyone deems superior while in fact it destroys the treu morality of normally recognized concerns such as the Beauty of classical art, or the allegories written to and for nature, or the etiquette of daily interactions.
The idea for recognition to be valuable is widely understood, to actually recognize something however is not understood how that is done, mainly deu to an illness in todays culture, not to see how the wise or elegant could be equal to that which is not, it is even the hytseria of fascism, how could the masses build of a society with the absence of both the ideal and the inferiority, and the presence of the minority and relativity or fort hat manner, decadence and religious atheism?



windmills, energy, the self evidence of aids to labour
Smaller ones should be fitted in houses in small domes and gothic or neoclassic components, not spoil the scenery with this ****ty things, every house a little tower with a few circles for catching wind, thats more ideal, or larger towers, but a little energy loss for fitting them in a more aesthetic way is necessary. Some can be there, but mostly its just horrible scenery, does one want to suffer so much for the luxury of flicking on light buttons every day? A humble philosophers opinion, still fresh after having switched ons o many lights, is people are entitled to a lot less electricity, only for the basic things, i think you would agree to a humble philosopher, the electricity that they would need can be generated with small windmills in towers MAINLY, or beautiful ones on a pole, BUT only here and there.
In todays ecologickal reality it is not keen for everyone be assured to click on the lights at any time he wishes, in fact lights should n't be provided by definition, cooking yes, heating moderatly, but too often is the heating so hot in everyones house and in psychiatries and lord knows where, so that humble philosophers can hardly breathe, so often is light concidered a convenience, a right, while light, as a very core pagan idea, is derived from the sun, people then have the civil tidyness to concider, if you leave a room, turn off the light? i would say, why turn on the light? It is a ideal of this site then that all churches be mandated to go back to artisan produced real bee huney containing candles that are environmentally friendly. Where are the beeds then you go. Well we are cutting the lawns everywhere and destroying all the wildflowers, another little thing we are doing wrong, thank God you pick it up somewhere in the media, but not at the general news shows, and, in spite of propaganda for products, the propaganda machine for the newer radical urgencies today is not working or, i think it actually does not exist.




Humor, the syndrome of a pending depression
humor can be base, which does n't mean its inferior, it can make anyone of us giggle, unfortunatly it would compromize all classical dignity and beauty, classical dignity of which there is not much left, no one debates that, yet still there is a civil starchness to stick with this society and not laugh or satirize everything. South park is cynicism, the simpsons was lighter humor. South park invented the idea to laugh in such a cynical matter, but mainly, humor degraded the entire western world, not because humor is inferior, but because it gave way to the more malign constant hysterical irony we need to hear about all things in life, this irony is not the rennaissence joy of life and savoring the riches of life, it is a constant belittling of life. a constant belittling of art and beauty. Black humor was the continuation of the esprit, the french spirit to defend yourself at the expence of others, the surrealist black humor was the war against the middle class starch "broomstick"-attitude. Meanwhile in rome there was nothing but rhetorics, comedy was kept to satires, and philosophers in Greece made an entire market crowd into their practical joke, mocking them. Humor is part of idealism, currently there is a war of the hysterical irony to slaughter all arguments indifferently of anything, as if nothing solid is here and there in what is presented, we need to verify the solidity of some (or a lot) of criticism and specify the reasons, then make way with the left and right paradigm which is futile in this age. lets bring good, sometimes perhaps sardonic humor, for the sake of gaining arguments, not the sake of mocking the very argument of beauty and nature. Humor was developed after the french revolution as a comedy for the masses, lets not build up this war now with the hysterical irony opposing the hysterical cynicism of south park, lets come to terms. The simpsons is really the last phase of humor "look how dumb i am" but south parc is a wholly new form of humour, a cynicism esprit, "look how stupid society is" and its by far the most in depth anti modernism talkshow ever devised, and the most putrid. a treu heritage, the only heritage to the anti tidy philosophy of the surrealists in the First half of the twentieth century. the premise of the simpsons is not at all cynical, it is ironic, the premise of a flock of goofy mob lynching homer simpson for doing something funny to bart simpson or having decapitated the towns statue is ironic and humourous, To have all people of south park become metrosexuals and screw eachother up the *** qualifies as cynicism, plain in sight.
south park is not in the least ironic, perhaps when the paris hilton dog finally lands on her head or something. cynicism is a direct assault on daily life or stupidity, irony is not in the least aware nor direct towards speaking out against flagrant stupidity. most comedy is trivial, scrutinizing greater insight in bigger problems, from friends to any other sitcom. Some even promote mindless self indulgence, you can hardly call that cynical, cynics in Greece were hardboiled. So is south parc, there is little to match it in society criticism, also we may see, simpsons was popular, then came south park, the situation indeed got worse and so did the scrutiny for it. anyway. Lets say cynicism IS directness, and irony makes a loop around the truth and mocks as ridicules the truth, cynicism does n’t.
Well there, Stephen Colbert, there i can indeed see irony and cynicism, where he turns in his chair on a microwave oven chair because most americans prefer watching the microwave on in stead of tv, very good.
Colbert is a little bit more cynical then john stewart in his overview of the news, but in general they are sweeter cause they have geusts, hence i believe they use more irony, to soften it up.
In any case, the loop around the truth and mocking the basic concepts of the male central idea is in a struglle with the cynicism to fight back against the assaults, a classic sculpture is frail enough to irony and comedy, all it has to its defence, including the artisan experience and quality, is cynicism, and, sardonicism, rancor, of which both still lurk a promising gloomy landscape of humor in the near future. In the simpsons everyone has the right to act stupid, or even criminal, in south park, the protagonists, the lucid kids, have to fight against all the severe mallign of adults stupidity, which is to us, not only a magnificant splendour for ideal, and the overthrowing of the notion puberty and the assault on the beauty of the revolt of youth, but in essence a call upon youth to make a new start, if the kids in south park knew how to craft the city of the future, as here and there is noted in futurist magazines ‘the housing and all amenities within a twenty minute walk may be a next trend” of course a trend is not a culture, for a twenty minute walk it will need to be a bit less… humourous.



THE GATE OF ETHEREEEN

Reality mere snow, may the winter landscape be crushed by the imagination, as by a collossal sun…


The Goddess of passion has a series of machines to taunt mankind, working on rose and tulip petals, falling gently, touching levers and making the machine tick, on needles the levers dance and carry up and down thousands of counterweights, the leaves never wither, and are taken out of the large copper bassin to be thrown on the streets of some village here, or perhaps stored an entire such copper cannister like a vase...One of the clocks had leaves counting the deaths on the earth, they were laid in a warehouse on large pellows, with the mountains of deep red petals stowed and spilled across the floor... one clock counted the deaths of trees, another counted the growing number of rats on earth, the slowly unfolding curse too, of the Goddess of passion, to leave none but sheep, cows and chickens in time for men of its eary ambitions, poor poverty world to come, petals of roses and tulips for the decadents. petals enough for every winter, every one of the 52 subtlest and most ominous seazons of the Goddess reign, many meticulous refined seazons never observed by mankind.

Axis, opposed to Atlas, is a patronesse of the wheel of imagination. Sheturns and changes course of the imagination on earth. The guardian andwill power of all of the fantastic creatures and all legions of allmythical characters, heroes as angels, locked beyond the paintings by the curse of ayris, she spins about riding the firstbull of a cloud of taurus above reality, and under which reality ishung. Axis and all of the disastrous violence of her stampede, churning forces of the taurus stampede in a giant whirlpool lockedbehind a gate. One muse Nhaevrael and her sisters were born out of a tear in the darknessas a river hung...While a sensual music seduces the muse Nhaevrael,calling for her, to come to the gate of Axis, as behind her her sisterscall her back. She will eventually free Axis, resulting in her own doom,having resisted the calls of her sisters warning her. stages of creation are described: first a sky is full of fire, alllegions at war; in this heaven is one dark canyon, where one muse flees,escorted by desolate knights; 999 999 999 prey on eachother and murder eachother out, writing in their somber journey on parchments with ink of a cherry plant against the cliff, they write the suns and planets, 999 999 after those all dead write nature, and 9 999 after them write inventions and arts of men, all, and they themselves, kill eachother; eventually take their own lives; until there is no one left butthe muse, and the canyon flows in an infinite abyss of darkness, wherein the muse drowns. The muse is alone and cries, and from her one eye starts flowing a tear, as a river in the dark. In the river; long beyond the conception of Nhaevraehl and her sisters grows a spirit world of dream, illusive and illuminated in its nature, as eary oceans of lightest and gently toned light... In the court of the spirit world they organize crafts. A stone is craftedthat the spirits can not go through, a sword crafted that can split therock. A painting is crafted of the spirit Ayris... that has a thick,unpenetrable surface. Other crafts were arranged, that were to be theabodes of matter. Finally, the last craft, a kiss was staged, that would scatter the spirit world... Hethred, Goddess of rancour, passion and creativity, created in thatkiss with the Goddess sadness, reality and matter, tearing the spiritworld apart from the center. >Hethred Weaves her daughters by means of a spider, coming out of hermouth, living in her womb of acid. They rule with her her empire of arts for life and decadence for blood so pure purple in its glutonny of nature dear to them and spill of arts as much as nature wanted,an entire night sky underneath everything, with all planets and moons here for her glowing to serve her as chandeleers, and two black iron pyramids with the tips against each other, hung underneath the floor of reality. The layers of labour above, the layers of light amuse and decadence below. >Hethred, in jealousy of her lover sadness, that ascended into heavenupon the birth of reality, banishes all men out of heaven, throws thembelow her reign the deepest underneath, under an ocean of titanium ironboiling, cursed to have out of their hearts grow worms that devour themeach day, and be born again each day in a life of futility, mine for mere few talents out of miles marble or titan black steel, mere a few talents that for them would bring solace, a gift, they might beg once at the rim of the ocean of titanium boiling, in the empty churches at the beaches, towering into the earth staircases, people, waiting, sitting on the stairs, all the wasted workers and all the wasted works and crafts. Shebuilds underneath the world, three giant machines like eyes, hurricanesas engines, blue sky coming through and twisting hurricanes within it,sucking the passion out of reality through the large caves, to lead thepassion off down her reign for her to compose her ice storms, icepalaces, fires and fire vases, and vast other luxurious crafts. On earh, Helix and Antihelix, allegory of music, petrify each in turn in a column sculpture, as the other mourns.The artists and poets on earth, among the rancour of their ways, cursedto become rats, cats and serpents, hold salons for Hethred's daughters,to keep their human form. As an allegory of decadence and artistichunger and devotion. Ellendeh, born in a cold well, is hoisted in a cilender shaped chariotout of her well, and flown over a wasteland of art to a temple, loweredinto a pool in the middle of the temple, where she will tell of themelancholic cosmology and creation myths. An army is captivated in a massive dungeon called Rothhalm, pounding onthe walls. Hethred feeds them whipped cream on silver dishes, to sooththem, keep them more calm... Hethred for , terrorizes reality in any way possible to stifle itentirely, has an entire wall built around earth... to prevent earth fromgrowing outwards. In the north, angels were cursed to grow each season, all spring, summer,fall and winter, by themselves, hit all the leaves from the treesthemselves, and attach them again every spring, and plant every flowerthemselves... seated on lawns and hung draped in the trees to paint the leaves and petals Clumsy as they were, they did everthing wrong. Anaehtheana,an angel from Hethred's court, takes to earth. Despite the warning ofHethred, she sets off to challenge earth's misfortunes... bribed easily the lowest of lives of men by Hethreds lead coins, her lover will be murdered, and to have come upon the earth she must eat her lovers heart soon as she is slayen.

The poet who hears the myths as Ellendeh tells them, still awaits to hearhis own name, as he has no memory or awareness, and he awaits forEllendeh to tell her the reason for these myths... He will find thismyth and will finally see the first city built, after the end ofreality, a time when inspiration tore reality finally down. As he passeson his book, where he had once failed, Anaehtheana builds a first citynamed after herself, as reality fades away, the myth etherith's temple, as the poet on the splendour of his temple had not money left for a road to the world, way beyond the marshes where the arts are sinking, ellendehs tale soon dies, as the furtherremains of the future are books, lonely, burnt and cast over realities walls, by series of nine altars, burnt and stowed in large barrels and kettles books, poured back into the war of muse... dust on the fires where the fires eat.


THE DESK OF HETHREDThe desk Hethred had crafted this morning, it streched her length seven times to the left, with a massive middle section still and seven lengths of her to the right. Within her grasp on a small table stood a long slender glass, with some smaller crystal bowls to craft with utmost care her drinks, various liquor, sweet flavors towards bitter flavors, the bitter were clouded and dilluted with green and grey, the sweeter had bright red or reddish, and yellow colors for yet other acidic flavors. On the desk towered two times four slender columns to the right and left of the central section… They had skulls of rats stuck in the wooden decoration, in rows of 19 each, one time four times 19 left and the same right. On the left there were silver small ignition switches as of Victorian machines, on the right black emerald broader lock switches, to lock or unlock each of the skulls as vaults. Each of them stored ninetyninethousand paintings, sculptures or architecture decoration or entire rooms or garden palaces… At the center of the desk was a small glowing canvas, with gently churning inverted stars, and two slides at each side left and right with slender marks like insect paws, she lowered the slide as she scratched her fingernail over it, ticking the slide on top and sliding it down, the screen emited a stroke of light as she did and then this light faded again,... At times finding an appealing mark, an insight or an idea, she opened it with yet another flick of her fingernail, and read the scritpture with its insect marks, gently going down, without moving her eyes, all her language in pure symmetry stroke from top to bottom… she flicked all her fingers over the screen and the main slide view appeared, and played another selection at random, in the middle of the large hallway high in between columns of several floors high, was a massive canvas, a glass screen with shells and steel fractals decoration casted inside, the paintings condensed behind an oily mirror, when they were pressed against the glass they would show at times ripples and stains or stains like mold… She could adjust the tone to Sepia or Ockre, dark or light, much or little distortion, fractals corrosion or silver corrosion, or ice crystals and water vapour,… She rose from her repose now, and set her fingers at the left column at the second switch from above, and with a stroke of her hand all the other switches down, locked.??As thick as work will be in this reign, as much as precaution is taken that all is amuse, as yet many locks, safety, for all these choirs and these proceedings needed to be taken into account. Somewhere if not one switch handled properly, would give way to a waste of time, she played with the switches on the left, the trick was to capture them on the left, into the bottom of the column, weary as her taste, and changing as her mood and as the paintings flashed by, from barbaric cultures to delicacy, from intimacy to decadence, from fine tone of brush trough impressionism, she needed to make her choices, as much as at the right column was saved, and the more switches were locked, the less boredome there was among her angels, and be having plenty of duties to attend to, the crafts of bloody scenery and pains of myth easily flourished in here reign very literally, as brushes became murder weapons and whole buckets of acid and terpentine used for these paintings, could turn to a grim faith for one exeptionally talented angel. If the black switches were left open as still a virus could infect the selection, and delete all the notitions and the remarks and ideas of the Goddess. But so soon she was fed up, she loaded the orders to a deer skill,… troubled already weeks with gloom, she was silent as sinister lately, her most prickly weeks, as much as ever relaxed, glances of madness towards nothing, looks of contempt whether there were angels at that place or not, she pierced her eyes in thin air, angels about looked away, a glance vindictive ever more frightening if she missed the guilty angels, the quirky evil of it simply stifled their blood circulation, but as she walked trough the palaces she looked never as bored as now… As she locked her main desk, and dislodged the deer skull and placed it on the Axis star, she did n’t glance at this desk even as she walked out, and out the door strode already as she ordered it to be torn apart already, with a mere flick of a fingernail on a little glass and in curls of silver embedded panel beside the door, and soon this hallway would be torn out with the floor and sealing, this desk, the small garden in the opening in the floor and the room below, and the entire ballroom crafted at night, never used, an entire scenery she had set up for a performence, they went as far as selecting the courtisans, preparing the style and customs and dresses, discarded nevertheless, never got to a rehearsal, a ball room that never anyone had danced in, it was carefully written down, the delicacy of her wastefullness the most lavish library to venture in... So soon all grinded within the thick steel revolving teeth below in the machine rooms, spewing all geysers of churned art and woodworks, mountains of them, bellowing up and down like waves harboring the heavy digestion of the earth itself. ??She took off for anywhere something resembling lunch, to find a good room, she felt like a prime dish of long slender pieces of all lions, deer, panther and wolves meat… barely held to a fire to be thoroughly roasted, the lions and wolves strains of meat she would fling at her angels, utterly disdained, not a smile by far on her face… deer she clasped between her teeth thrust her teeth against each other and chew like one would gnaw into rubber… panther this delicacy she would eat, but there was no female panther on the menu today, -the only one who was allowed to eat of these by any account- there did not die enough poets this year.THE RIVER OF INJUSTICE"Enrobed with gracefully crafted wood and crafted iron, wedged in the mountains serving as a ceiling over Hethred's reign. Massive pipelines, so ornate, like giant gilded plaster decorations found in palaces. Delicate, embroidery, like nature would make, all draped with curves and angles , frivolous, surprising like surrealism. All these veins led heat from out of the earth. They derived this massive heat from out of three engines the size of continents on earth, inserted these pipelines in the edges of this alloy of copper, silver and gold cylinders the width of many miles, as much heat as Hethred could have them suck out of this land where the frailty of the illusive is stepped on, and where the ambitions are illusive and frail...The grinding winds here in, they twist as much as hurricanes, their milky clouds like hurricanes, thick as molten sugar spin about, three massive artificial hurricanes within massive canisters, and a gigantic stem at the centre not unlike a flowers centre, thrusting a circular power as out of thousands of small stems, that had against them a shield to convey and direct the air, all composing one large stem, as a steel mushroom cloud with a giant hole through it.Through this circular motion oozed all the hot air, pushed forward through the ceiling that is reality, and leading down on Hethred's pyramid, throbbing in these carefully decorated veins, into three more machines, fitted beneath the bottom pyramid of Hethred's reign.The three machines condensed the heat into a brew of poisonous alcohol, later in secondary machines used to distil anything from green absinth like wines, to purple wine like rums.With as carefully crafted switches here, the vast hallways in which bloom forests and orchards were sprinkled upon with perfumes, these liquids could be adjusted to vent a modest summer breeze, or a refreshing icy dew in the air; it could repel mosquitoes; it was the engine for the five large ice reigns and the many smaller reigns and castles, palaces or rooms of ice.The modesty here created through this machine the angels referred to as the boredom breathing machine, all human passions or the least amount of it, were adjusted to the utmost base level, like a washing machine of the angels washing rooms. So grand, spanning twenty angels in length, they were usually fitted within wooden frames, and further on provided with energy by Hethred's youngest daughters on large pushing wheels or walking mills of all sorts.The breath of passion trapped, the passion’s prayer, plucks a passion from the careless, that do not take care for a careful craft to be a passion, when to enter this large cave, glowing against the sealing in a poisonous light blue and this creamy white fumes in such spirals and clouds growing one out of the other, gigantic majestic revolving fractals. As reality heated up, the vents were turning at full power; as it cooled down the vents turned more silent. Then for the use and providing all the leisure in Hethred's reigns, the energy was derived from massive storage rooms.Above Hethred's reign no seizure, no heat, no quest, conquest or excess, no war, no rage, nothing could grow or bloom of the ecstatic or awful alike in the earth since it was built. It was the breath of revolutions gasping here and swallowed, the breath of conquest, that was derived out of reality, and hcked as upon a butchers table serving him for an anvil to this butchering of all animal life... all still, to nurture the gently growing purple poison that would kill this frail sand of reality. The hate of her as she loathed, love for Melancholy strangled in this hate, reality such an object to comprise all her anger.Dried out of rage or woe unseen soon this reality, unattended these three canyons with cascading deep and all-devouring tongues of long strains of mist licking at the passion within reality gently hollow and void. I fit were to look for in reality, to touch a tallest mountain, it would crumble like moist sugar, be much hollow and nothing there, and a thin sticky then dried skin, or a withered cocoon. It’s all gone now...A decadent amusement, a decadent repose in the gardens once more, barely eating, for harnass for produce, none here strengthened, they reposed so much, and ate so little, that the embalming sweet opium odorous dizzyness of laziness shone on Hethred’s court always on the road in her reign, heating the proceedings and rituals as summer sunlight. Careful as any scenery, a blade of grass hung above a massive fleeting river still with much peace and silence for fine ironwork tables and parasols set up... Careful as any idyllic grass land hung as such, and fresh grass, may be at the mouth of injustice.The mouth of this river, gushing out of the earth, the river of all injustice, massive cascade sprung in the floor of reality, flowing into Hethred’s gardens, towers built here at the delta with millions of veins, hungry eating at the river, for all angels dishwater. The Hellsvethvaldeh, the moisture condensing into the caves above, a water releaved of all sound, of disasters loud in reality, drained and cleansed, sucking into the droplets the pure misery, of accident and disaster, passions and sickness or ills, corruption and sadism. All cries above now at last delivered this water without the slightest sigh. At the shores of these cascades one could hear the leaves of the willows brush against each other, overpowering Hethred’s most open palace, with jewels like stars fitted against the ceiling far above, where the stairs started leading down, in steep ascension, of a dozen cathedrals stacked upon each other it thrust down, occasionally delivering one ship or a torn-out house among the entire floods per second. That thrust against the mountains beneath, as an occasional treat, laying on the shores to observe one here such wreck among the silent storm of misery found its final land to kiss. Here angels were attentive for the wrecks, as others on earth gazed at clouds, and the wreckage instantly swallowed underneath, never to be seen again, as on earth the shape of a cloud dissolves into the shapeless mists once more, here for all these eras have the shipwrecks and its victims been passing and here where they were swallowed. ?You could hold your head very close to the surface, or when you swam in it, very silently and only just within close range of the droplets, the surface of this river, there you heard the screams; all screams blending, over and through each other voices screaming like small people hiding in the water eternally engulfed with disasters; a gurgling, like a reaction of the waters chemistry, gurgling in a throat of a giant that had first swallowed a whole nation, and its people still screaming as they slide with all their belongings into his stomach. A screaming gently of this water that even made the worms of Hethred’s garden laugh as they heard the sorry commotion of reality’s most adhering disciples. More loud cries and deeper wounds the morally awake than those battling to survive, and more morally awake and with deeper wounds, than these few still battling among beauties ascetic battles. As a friction of Hethred and the wishes of reality, friction of her, crafting, crafting with loathing, painting the civilisations massive ails. Lay upon the river this thin layer of whispers, the slightest layer of a heat over this river, warmth from the tender boiling of this entire river of injustice.? ?Those of poets and victims stricken with woe, and of animals and the pains of trees, was the river of misery, in silent and romantic places, meandering among small gardens and abandoned castles and ruins, this was the river of real pain, opposed to her great art and composing the river of injustice, or the river of violated morality - the river of indignation. The river of misery condensed entirely remote at the outskirts of Hethred’s reign, this river, of bitter sweet tears, of some martyrs or saints among poets long ago where few (?), these tears that sweetened the injustice... the river of injustice was never derived out of any redemption in pain, nor soothed its preys so much, nor as blood from disaster ran this river, did it refresh any aching skin of those aches that make skin throb of indignation and this, acid, an injustice to the angels underneath water of delightfull finish flavored. Makes no sense. It was acompanied by brutal singing further deep where it originated, always further, but a massive thunder... ?The river of injustice finally crystalized and the other end of the spirit river of justice, or misery, running through the earth, that "they" the ones unknown here, as much dark as undescribable, they drank from, materialize morals, quench their thirst, a thirst to wash the misery away, to have such fear for the misery, that they convert to injustice before misery, to a story backed by justice, and to inspire their appalled and indignant cries, and a courage, a rage, a heroic indignation giving them their wings, not plunge in that dreaded woe.Sentence needs to be broken apart, clarified. Ever this river spirit of injustice saviour (?) for them, as if they were peddling hysterically, and would the goddess of art be guilty of another crime? Another feat of her lack of mercy? How does she pardon and grant, and meet the demands of this reality begging for its next life, knowing that it will drown again soon,... It begged for the water to gasp for air one life, and she life, ushered another layer of the sea above where pleasures like willows hung above mere watersurface, even caress it, and, or, the glimpse of it, mere shadow without colors of true fruits or reward they asked for more water... ?He walked carefully on its shores, steps each not stop to believe in the utterly fantastic and literate qualities of reality to be born, that seemed absurd the idleness of reality, that he and dream should be neglected among all these people that the only thing as he wonder at the shores of the spirit river, (?) trickling down on reality as trickling down a wall, seeking all the veins between the boulders.The fact that it seems an absurd reality had no leads towards dream. (It had no leads towards a dream?)If he did not find their world absurd, if he saw how serious it was, he would probably totally freeze up. Thoughts like spirits that cast him, warmed the marble to become temperature healthy skin would instantly be frightened, (?!) and all the ether of imagination flees, this river of misery truly screamed from its gorge, this rever of true pains truly hypnotized, warmed as still, a tired life, it lay its pains into others for inspiration, to behold, with few dreams blessed, drunken of the slightest lick of wine, its sleep an imminent shadow. Sick, exhausted blood of dreams still it delves, from reality, a marble growing cold.He needed white wings lighting as silver crushed by hammers, burning as coal, these cups and cradles of justice by the river, on pedestals by the river placed, or toppled pedestals, and cradles abundant thrown on the shores, of old richess crafted... Left alone, many (who?) drinking oil instead. If he took a cup and tried it, the river turned to oil, working with the dying, to prophecy that reality to be more stone than this reality’s dreams. In ails rooted indifference of the spirit river of misery, so far through that marble... Exageration; the truth, modest and dwindled in size of that gargantuous river of injustice, no obliterated attention to it, but a venomous scar, taking misery further than one had deserved... Exageration; for a glimpse at a new world, when you crush the modesties, and it be with gold decorate sewers, this was the only feat of exaggeration. It didn't even exist, it was mere golden sewers. Exaggeration they called it, that were appalled. Needs to be clarified or rewritten. As megalomaniac they called, it, that were worried, and soon would lay their tears, no more then drool from desires, along in the beddings running to the river of injustice...As the night fell over this day, breakfast turned to evening repose and preparation for some excitement for the night. Lost this day once more as it was a perpetual treat, where did not exist anything outside breakfast or evening anxiety for eroticism, the smallest and most delicate of strawberries collected, only at an Eden-like whim or a concern for such labour as much as plucking a tea leaf from the pot at the sink... and soon for evening as the stars dwindle, a banquet, each angel with a set of smallest knives and clasps.To prepare tiniest droplets of ice, and put them in half such a strawberry, without touching the fruit. Only then when feeding it to each other...An old curtsy, in present day already so vulgar that it could pass for outright swearing, or the most base and explicit call for sex; it was still early then, much to learn, and growing needed many splendorous crafts as trees and branches here, having many more torn down among this life here, as ever younger and even more pure skin, as metal wielded for an infinity so immaculate. One needed only a morning and an evening here... And long nights, the time of labour to keep the haunt away, of the crows and serpents and cats and rats that consume the poets. Here the night, after breakfast and evening appetizer, obscure become the unbearably explicit and or tender adventures, the sadism here practiced as love, and with ingenious and meticulous dedication. And how the Evenhelveth daughters of Hethred prepare to set to the salons of the poets... Who pray for their arrival in time at their salon or their court, or soon be tossed aside by mankind, in the sewers, or the cold bushes and marshes.

It is written on the Gate of Ethereeen, the long wall Hethred had built around earth… inprisoned as one mouse the core, the heart of her reality, running in circles… Reality mere snow, may the winter landscape be crushed by the imagination, as by a collossal sun…