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I dare you to write a 222-word sentence.
Written by hannahbean in portal Stream of Consciousness

On Rain and Human Nature

The sputtering, spouting drops of rain have kept up their pitter-patter-pitter-patter pattern pitting man against nature as the surrounding and engulfing mist flutters, flows, and flocks through the brazen backwater backyards, the laughably unoriginal gray tile roofs that mar the far-reaching skyline: marching one-by-one incessantly like an ambiguously-sided army down the neighborhood streets in painted-on streaks; the animosity that one feels towards such a view can be shared alone by those who crazily, almost crudely crave the sunlight like it's heroin, those who spit on the mere idea of suburbia as though it was a morally wretched thief trying to steal away the close contentment of the countryside or the haphazard harangue of harping noise within the city limits, and especially those who bitterly mock a cloudy day and blame it on things well out of their control: the flow of the mist is to simulated by the flow of the mind, the love of all that is natural and divine, the meditation of Mother Earth and Father Time in an amalgamation of a fuzzy, breathing sky and the ebb and flow of the pitter-patter-pitter-patter pattern that haunts these streets like a spirit or a sprite, mischevious in their mystery yet helpful in their haunting; this false dichotomy of man and nature only serves to bring the two together in ethereal hues.

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I dare you to write a 222-word sentence.
Written by hannahbean in portal Stream of Consciousness
On Rain and Human Nature
The sputtering, spouting drops of rain have kept up their pitter-patter-pitter-patter pattern pitting man against nature as the surrounding and engulfing mist flutters, flows, and flocks through the brazen backwater backyards, the laughably unoriginal gray tile roofs that mar the far-reaching skyline: marching one-by-one incessantly like an ambiguously-sided army down the neighborhood streets in painted-on streaks; the animosity that one feels towards such a view can be shared alone by those who crazily, almost crudely crave the sunlight like it's heroin, those who spit on the mere idea of suburbia as though it was a morally wretched thief trying to steal away the close contentment of the countryside or the haphazard harangue of harping noise within the city limits, and especially those who bitterly mock a cloudy day and blame it on things well out of their control: the flow of the mist is to simulated by the flow of the mind, the love of all that is natural and divine, the meditation of Mother Earth and Father Time in an amalgamation of a fuzzy, breathing sky and the ebb and flow of the pitter-patter-pitter-patter pattern that haunts these streets like a spirit or a sprite, mischevious in their mystery yet helpful in their haunting; this false dichotomy of man and nature only serves to bring the two together in ethereal hues.
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Who are you, really?
Written by PaulDChambers in portal Nonfiction

full/filled.

I have forever been equally blessed and cursed in life

a man that has just begun to live, by rights, as he should

after a boy continued doggedly way past his sell-by date.

Playing now to the strengths I have, but before never would

after chasing dreams of those to whom I could not relate.

I was a drug user, an alcoholic, a sex addict, all party,

overly confident, positive and anesthetised continually.

Now I don’t smoke or do drugs, drink, drunk moderately

sex is with one person, at a time, all the time, sometimes.

Yet I struggle with the black dog that hid cowering behind

the excesses, suppressed stresses, perceived successes,

and those I impressed in and out of short dresses

a tally of feast, hedonistic pleasures gorged with aplomb

yet respectful, and smiling, enemy-less, number one.

I am still a boy, but wear the mask of a steady man

for the grey world, yet let inner child out when I can.

The nonfiction now fiction, what was real hewn now in words

The blips on my radar all worthy, too late to gaze past birds.

Hard working, harder dreaming; this meandering life has been full,

yet if I died today, in this time of solidity, it would still be cool.

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Who are you, really?
Written by PaulDChambers in portal Nonfiction
full/filled.
I have forever been equally blessed and cursed in life
a man that has just begun to live, by rights, as he should
after a boy continued doggedly way past his sell-by date.
Playing now to the strengths I have, but before never would
after chasing dreams of those to whom I could not relate.
I was a drug user, an alcoholic, a sex addict, all party,
overly confident, positive and anesthetised continually.
Now I don’t smoke or do drugs, drink, drunk moderately
sex is with one person, at a time, all the time, sometimes.
Yet I struggle with the black dog that hid cowering behind
the excesses, suppressed stresses, perceived successes,
and those I impressed in and out of short dresses
a tally of feast, hedonistic pleasures gorged with aplomb
yet respectful, and smiling, enemy-less, number one.
I am still a boy, but wear the mask of a steady man
for the grey world, yet let inner child out when I can.
The nonfiction now fiction, what was real hewn now in words
The blips on my radar all worthy, too late to gaze past birds.
Hard working, harder dreaming; this meandering life has been full,
yet if I died today, in this time of solidity, it would still be cool.


#nonfiction  #adventure  #education  #poetry  #philosophy 
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Chapter 8 of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
Written by LewisCarroll

The Queen’s Croquet-Ground

        A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, ‘Look out now, Five! Don’t go splashing paint over me like that!’

        ‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Five, in a sulky tone; ‘Seven jogged my elbow.’

        On which Seven looked up and said, ‘That’s right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!’

        ‘You’d better not talk!’ said Five. ‘I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!’

        ‘What for?’ said the one who had spoken first.

        ‘That’s none of your business, Two!’ said Seven.

        ‘Yes, it is his business!’ said Five, ‘and I’ll tell him—it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.’

        Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun ‘Well, of all the unjust things—’ when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low.

        ‘Would you tell me,’ said Alice, a little timidly, ‘why you are painting those roses?’

        Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, ‘Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a red rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we’re doing our best, afore she comes, to—’ At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out ‘The Queen! The Queen!’ and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen.

First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King’s crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS.

        Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; ‘and besides, what would be the use of a procession,’ thought she, ‘if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn’t see it?’ So she stood still where she was, and waited.

        When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely ‘Who is this?’ She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply.

        ‘Idiot!’ said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on, ‘What’s your name, child?’

        ‘My name is Alice, so please your Majesty,’ said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, ‘Why, they’re only a pack of cards, after all. I needn’t be afraid of them!’

        ‘And who are these?’ said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rosetree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children.

        ‘How should I know?’ said Alice, surprised at her own courage. ‘It’s no business of mine.’

        The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed ‘Off with her head! Off—’

        ‘Nonsense!’ said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent.

        The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said ‘Consider, my dear: she is only a child!’

        The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave ‘Turn them over!’

        The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot.

        ‘Get up!’ said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the royal children, and everybody else.

        ‘Leave off that!’ screamed the Queen. ‘You make me giddy.’ And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on, ‘What have you been doing here?’

        ‘May it please your Majesty,’ said Two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke, ‘we were trying—’

        ‘I see!’ said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. ‘Off with their heads!’ and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection.

        ‘You shan’t be beheaded!’ said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others.

        ‘Are their heads off?’ shouted the Queen.

        ‘Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!’ the soldiers shouted in reply.

        ‘That’s right!’ shouted the Queen. ‘Can you play croquet?’

        The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her.

        ‘Yes!’ shouted Alice.

        ‘Come on, then!’ roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next.

        ‘It’s—it’s a very fine day!’ said a timid voice at her side. She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face.

        ‘Very,’ said Alice: ‘—where’s the Duchess?’

        ‘Hush! Hush!’ said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered ‘She’s under sentence of execution.’

        ‘What for?’ said Alice.

        ‘Did you say “What a pity!”?’ the Rabbit asked.

        ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Alice: ‘I don’t think it’s at all a pity. I said “What for?”’

        ‘She boxed the Queen’s ears—’ the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little scream of laughter. ‘Oh, hush!’ the Rabbit whispered in a frightened tone. ‘The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the Queen said—’

        ‘Get to your places!’ shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches.

        The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a blow with its head, it would twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed.

        The players all played at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short time the Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and shouting ‘Off with his head!’ or ‘Off with her head!’ about once in a minute.

        Alice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as yet had any dispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might happen any minute, ‘and then,’ thought she, ‘what would become of me? They’re dreadfully fond of beheading people here; the great wonder is, that there’s any one left alive!’

        She was looking about for some way of escape, and wondering whether she could get away without being seen, when she noticed a curious appearance in the air: it puzzled her very much at first, but, after watching it a minute or two, she made it out to be a grin, and she said to herself ‘It’s the Cheshire Cat: now I shall have somebody to talk to.’

        ‘How are you getting on?’ said the Cat, as soon as there was mouth enough for it to speak with.

        Alice waited till the eyes appeared, and then nodded. ‘It’s no use speaking to it,’ she thought, ‘till its ears have come, or at least one of them.’ In another minute the whole head appeared, and then Alice put down her flamingo, and began an account of the game, feeling very glad she had someone to listen to her. The Cat seemed to think that there was enough of it now in sight, and no more of it appeared.

        ‘I don’t think they play at all fairly,’ Alice began, in rather a complaining tone, ‘and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can’t hear oneself speak—and they don’t seem to have any rules in particular; at least, if there are, nobody attends to them—and you’ve no idea how confusing it is all the things being alive; for instance, there’s the arch I’ve got to go through next walking about at the other end of the ground—and I should have croqueted the Queen’s hedgehog just now, only it ran away when it saw mine coming!’

        ‘How do you like the Queen?’ said the Cat in a low voice.

        ‘Not at all,’ said Alice: ‘she’s so extremely—’ Just then she noticed that the Queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on, ‘—likely to win, that it’s hardly worth while finishing the game.’

        The Queen smiled and passed on.

        ‘Who are you talking to?’ said the King, going up to Alice, and looking at the Cat’s head with great curiosity.

        ‘It’s a friend of mine—a Cheshire Cat,’ said Alice: ‘allow me to introduce it.’

        ‘I don’t like the look of it at all,’ said the King: ‘however, it may kiss my hand if it likes.’

        ‘I’d rather not,’ the Cat remarked.

        ‘Don’t be impertinent,’ said the King, ‘and don’t look at me like that!’ He got behind Alice as he spoke.

        ‘A cat may look at a king,’ said Alice. ‘I’ve read that in some book, but I don’t remember where.’

        ‘Well, it must be removed,’ said the King very decidedly, and he called the Queen, who was passing at the moment, ‘My dear! I wish you would have this cat removed!’

        The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small. ‘Off with his head!’ she said, without even looking round.

        ‘I’ll fetch the executioner myself,’ said the King eagerly, and he hurried off.

        Alice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game was going on, as she heard the Queen’s voice in the distance, screaming with passion. She had already heard her sentence three of the players to be executed for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look of things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew whether it was her turn or not. So she went in search of her hedgehog.

        The hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog, which seemed to Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the other: the only difficulty was, that her flamingo was gone across to the other side of the garden, where Alice could see it trying in a helpless sort of way to fly up into a tree.

        By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight: ‘but it doesn’t matter much,’ thought Alice, ‘as all the arches are gone from this side of the ground.’ So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her friend.

        When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once, while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable.

        The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said.

        The executioner’s argument was, that you couldn’t cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn’t going to begin at his time of life.

        The King’s argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren’t to talk nonsense.

        The Queen’s argument was, that if something wasn’t done about it in less than no time she’d have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.)

        Alice could think of nothing else to say but ‘It belongs to the Duchess: you’d better ask her about it.’

        ‘She’s in prison,’ the Queen said to the executioner: ‘fetch her here.’ And the executioner went off like an arrow.

        The Cat’s head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game.

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Chapter 8 of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
Written by LewisCarroll
The Queen’s Croquet-Ground
        A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say, ‘Look out now, Five! Don’t go splashing paint over me like that!’
        ‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Five, in a sulky tone; ‘Seven jogged my elbow.’
        On which Seven looked up and said, ‘That’s right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!’
        ‘You’d better not talk!’ said Five. ‘I heard the Queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!’
        ‘What for?’ said the one who had spoken first.
        ‘That’s none of your business, Two!’ said Seven.
        ‘Yes, it is his business!’ said Five, ‘and I’ll tell him—it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.’
        Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun ‘Well, of all the unjust things—’ when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low.
        ‘Would you tell me,’ said Alice, a little timidly, ‘why you are painting those roses?’
        Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low voice, ‘Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a red rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So you see, Miss, we’re doing our best, afore she comes, to—’ At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out ‘The Queen! The Queen!’ and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen.
First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King’s crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS.
        Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard of such a rule at processions; ‘and besides, what would be the use of a procession,’ thought she, ‘if people had all to lie down upon their faces, so that they couldn’t see it?’ So she stood still where she was, and waited.
        When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely ‘Who is this?’ She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply.
        ‘Idiot!’ said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on, ‘What’s your name, child?’
        ‘My name is Alice, so please your Majesty,’ said Alice very politely; but she added, to herself, ‘Why, they’re only a pack of cards, after all. I needn’t be afraid of them!’
        ‘And who are these?’ said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who were lying round the rosetree; for, you see, as they were lying on their faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or courtiers, or three of her own children.
        ‘How should I know?’ said Alice, surprised at her own courage. ‘It’s no business of mine.’
        The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed ‘Off with her head! Off—’
        ‘Nonsense!’ said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent.
        The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said ‘Consider, my dear: she is only a child!’
        The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave ‘Turn them over!’
        The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot.
        ‘Get up!’ said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the royal children, and everybody else.
        ‘Leave off that!’ screamed the Queen. ‘You make me giddy.’ And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on, ‘What have you been doing here?’
        ‘May it please your Majesty,’ said Two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke, ‘we were trying—’
        ‘I see!’ said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses. ‘Off with their heads!’ and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection.
        ‘You shan’t be beheaded!’ said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others.
        ‘Are their heads off?’ shouted the Queen.
        ‘Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!’ the soldiers shouted in reply.
        ‘That’s right!’ shouted the Queen. ‘Can you play croquet?’
        The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her.
        ‘Yes!’ shouted Alice.
        ‘Come on, then!’ roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next.
        ‘It’s—it’s a very fine day!’ said a timid voice at her side. She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face.
        ‘Very,’ said Alice: ‘—where’s the Duchess?’
        ‘Hush! Hush!’ said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered ‘She’s under sentence of execution.’
        ‘What for?’ said Alice.
        ‘Did you say “What a pity!”?’ the Rabbit asked.
        ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Alice: ‘I don’t think it’s at all a pity. I said “What for?”’
        ‘She boxed the Queen’s ears—’ the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little scream of laughter. ‘Oh, hush!’ the Rabbit whispered in a frightened tone. ‘The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the Queen said—’
        ‘Get to your places!’ shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches.
        The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo: she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a blow with its head, it would twist itself round and look up in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed.
        The players all played at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short time the Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and shouting ‘Off with his head!’ or ‘Off with her head!’ about once in a minute.
        Alice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as yet had any dispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might happen any minute, ‘and then,’ thought she, ‘what would become of me? They’re dreadfully fond of beheading people here; the great wonder is, that there’s any one left alive!’
        She was looking about for some way of escape, and wondering whether she could get away without being seen, when she noticed a curious appearance in the air: it puzzled her very much at first, but, after watching it a minute or two, she made it out to be a grin, and she said to herself ‘It’s the Cheshire Cat: now I shall have somebody to talk to.’
        ‘How are you getting on?’ said the Cat, as soon as there was mouth enough for it to speak with.
        Alice waited till the eyes appeared, and then nodded. ‘It’s no use speaking to it,’ she thought, ‘till its ears have come, or at least one of them.’ In another minute the whole head appeared, and then Alice put down her flamingo, and began an account of the game, feeling very glad she had someone to listen to her. The Cat seemed to think that there was enough of it now in sight, and no more of it appeared.
        ‘I don’t think they play at all fairly,’ Alice began, in rather a complaining tone, ‘and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can’t hear oneself speak—and they don’t seem to have any rules in particular; at least, if there are, nobody attends to them—and you’ve no idea how confusing it is all the things being alive; for instance, there’s the arch I’ve got to go through next walking about at the other end of the ground—and I should have croqueted the Queen’s hedgehog just now, only it ran away when it saw mine coming!’
        ‘How do you like the Queen?’ said the Cat in a low voice.
        ‘Not at all,’ said Alice: ‘she’s so extremely—’ Just then she noticed that the Queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on, ‘—likely to win, that it’s hardly worth while finishing the game.’
        The Queen smiled and passed on.
        ‘Who are you talking to?’ said the King, going up to Alice, and looking at the Cat’s head with great curiosity.
        ‘It’s a friend of mine—a Cheshire Cat,’ said Alice: ‘allow me to introduce it.’
        ‘I don’t like the look of it at all,’ said the King: ‘however, it may kiss my hand if it likes.’
        ‘I’d rather not,’ the Cat remarked.
        ‘Don’t be impertinent,’ said the King, ‘and don’t look at me like that!’ He got behind Alice as he spoke.
        ‘A cat may look at a king,’ said Alice. ‘I’ve read that in some book, but I don’t remember where.’
        ‘Well, it must be removed,’ said the King very decidedly, and he called the Queen, who was passing at the moment, ‘My dear! I wish you would have this cat removed!’
        The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small. ‘Off with his head!’ she said, without even looking round.
        ‘I’ll fetch the executioner myself,’ said the King eagerly, and he hurried off.
        Alice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game was going on, as she heard the Queen’s voice in the distance, screaming with passion. She had already heard her sentence three of the players to be executed for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look of things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew whether it was her turn or not. So she went in search of her hedgehog.
        The hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog, which seemed to Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the other: the only difficulty was, that her flamingo was gone across to the other side of the garden, where Alice could see it trying in a helpless sort of way to fly up into a tree.
        By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight: ‘but it doesn’t matter much,’ thought Alice, ‘as all the arches are gone from this side of the ground.’ So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her friend.
        When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once, while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable.
        The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said.
        The executioner’s argument was, that you couldn’t cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn’t going to begin at his time of life.
        The King’s argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren’t to talk nonsense.
        The Queen’s argument was, that if something wasn’t done about it in less than no time she’d have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.)
        Alice could think of nothing else to say but ‘It belongs to the Duchess: you’d better ask her about it.’
        ‘She’s in prison,’ the Queen said to the executioner: ‘fetch her here.’ And the executioner went off like an arrow.
        The Cat’s head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game.
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Chapter 2 of Common Sense
Written by ThomasPaine

OF THE ORIGIN AND DESIGN OF GOVERNMENT IN GENERAL, WITH CONCISE REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH CONSTITUTION

        Some writers have so confounded society with government, as to leave little or no distinction between them; whereas they are not only different, but have different origins. Society is produced by our wants, and government by our wickedness; the former promotes our happiness positively by uniting our affections, the latter negatively by restraining our vices. The one encourages intercourse, the other creates distinctions. The first a patron, the last a punisher.

        Society in every state is a blessing, but government even in its best state is but a necessary evil; in its worst state an intolerable one; for when we suffer, or are exposed to the same miseries by a government, which we might expect in a country without government, our calamity is heightened by reflecting that we furnish the means by which we suffer. Government, like dress, is the badge of lost innocence; the palaces of kings are built on the ruins of the bowers of paradise. For were the impulses of conscience clear, uniform, and irresistibly obeyed, man would need no other lawgiver; but that not being the case, he finds it necessary to surrender up a part of his property to furnish means for the protection of the rest; and this he is induced to do by the same prudence which in every other case advises him out of two evils to choose the least. Wherefore, security being the true design and end of government, it unanswerably follows that whatever form thereof appears most likely to ensure it to us, with the least expence and greatest benefit, is preferable to all others.

        In order to gain a clear and just idea of the design and end of government, let us suppose a small number of persons settled in some sequestered part of the earth, unconnected with the rest, they will then represent the first peopling of any country, or of the world. In this state of natural liberty, society will be their first thought. A thousand motives will excite them thereto, the strength of one man is so unequal to his wants, and his mind so unfitted for perpetual solitude, that he is soon obliged to seek assistance and relief of another, who in his turn requires the same. Four or five united would be able to raise a tolerable dwelling in the midst of a wilderness, but one man might labour out of the common period of life without accomplishing any thing; when he had felled his timber he could not remove it, nor erect it after it was removed; hunger in the mean time would urge him from his work, and every different want call him a different way. Disease, nay even misfortune would be death, for though neither might be mortal, yet either would disable him from living, and reduce him to a state in which he might rather be said to perish than to die.

        Thus necessity, like a gravitating power, would soon form our newly arrived emigrants into society, the reciprocal blessings of which, would supersede, and render the obligations of law and government unnecessary while they remained perfectly just to each other; but as nothing but heaven is impregnable to vice, it will unavoidably happen, that in proportion as they surmount the first difficulties of emigration, which bound them together in a common cause, they will begin to relax in their duty and attachment to each other; and this remissness, will point out the necessity, of establishing some form of government to supply the defect of moral virtue.

        Some convenient tree will afford them a State-House, under the branches of which, the whole colony may assemble to deliberate on public matters. It is more than probable that their first laws will have the title only of Regulations, and be enforced by no other penalty than public disesteem. In this first parliament every man, by natural right, will have a seat.

        But as the colony increases, the public concerns will increase likewise, and the distance at which the members may be separated, will render it too inconvenient for all of them to meet on every occasion as at first, when their number was small, their habitations near, and the public concerns few and trifling. This will point out the convenience of their consenting to leave the legislative part to be managed by a select number chosen from the whole body, who are supposed to have the same concerns at stake which those who appointed them, and who will act in the same manner as the whole body would act were they present. If the colony continue increasing, it will become necessary to augment the number of the representatives, and that the interest of every part of the colony may be attended to, it will be found best to divide the whole into convenient parts, each part sending its proper number; and that the elected might never form to themselves an interest separate from the electors, prudence will point out the propriety of having elections often; because as the elected might by that means return and mix again with the general body of the electors in a few months, their fidelity to the public will be secured by the prudent reflexion of not making a rod for themselves. And as this frequent interchange will establish a common interest with every part of the community, they will mutually and naturally support each other, and on this (not on the unmeaning name of king) depends the strength of government, and the happiness of the governed.

        Here then is the origin and rise of government; namely, a mode rendered necessary by the inability of moral virtue to govern the world; here too is the design and end of government, viz. freedom and security. And however our eyes may be dazzled with show, or our ears deceived by sound; however prejudice may warp our wills, or interest darken our understanding, the simple voice of nature and of reason will say, it is right.

        I draw my idea of the form of government from a principle in nature, which no art can overturn, viz. that the more simple any thing is, the less liable it is to be disordered; and the easier repaired when disordered; and with this maxim in view, I offer a few remarks on the so much boasted constitution of England. That it was noble for the dark and slavish times in which it was erected, is granted. When the world was over run with tyranny the least remove therefrom was a glorious rescue. But that it is imperfect, subject to convulsions, and incapable of producing what it seems to promise, is easily demonstrated.

        Absolute governments (tho’ the disgrace of human nature) have this advantage with them, that they are simple; if the people suffer, they know the head from which their suffering springs, know likewise the remedy, and are not bewildered by a variety of causes and cures. But the constitution of England is so exceedingly complex, that the nation may suffer for years together without being able to discover in which part the fault lies, some will say in one and some in another, and every political physician will advise a different medicine.

        I know it is difficult to get over local or long standing prejudices, yet if we will suffer ourselves to examine the component parts of the English constitution, we shall find them to be the base remains of two ancient tyrannies, compounded with some new republican materials.

        First.—The remains of monarchical tyranny in the person of the king.

        Secondly.—The remains of aristocratical tyranny in the persons of the peers.

        Thirdly.—The new republican materials, in the persons of the commons, on whose virtue depends the freedom of England.

        The two first, by being hereditary, are independent of the people; wherefore in a constitutional sense they contribute nothing towards the freedom of the state.

        To say that the constitution of England is a union of three powers reciprocally checking each other, is farcical, either the words have no meaning, or they are flat contradictions.

        To say that the commons is a check upon the king, presupposes two things:

        First.—That the king is not to be trusted without being looked after, or in other words, that a thirst for absolute power is the natural disease of monarchy.

        Secondly.—That the commons, by being appointed for that purpose, are either wiser or more worthy of confidence than the crown.

        But as the same constitution which gives the commons a power to check the king by withholding the supplies, gives afterwards the king a power to check the commons, by empowering him to reject their other bills; it again supposes that the king is wiser than those whom it has already supposed to be wiser than him. A mere absurdity!

        There is something exceedingly ridiculous in the composition of monarchy; it first excludes a man from the means of information, yet empowers him to act in cases where the highest judgment is required. The state of a king shuts him from the world, yet the business of a king requires him to know it thoroughly; wherefore the different parts, by unnaturally opposing and destroying each other, prove the whole character to be absurd and useless.

        Some writers have explained the English constitution thus; the king, say they, is one, the people another; the peers are an house in behalf of the king; the commons in behalf of the people; but this hath all the distinctions of a house divided against itself; and though the expressions be pleasantly arranged, yet when examined they appear idle and ambiguous; and it will always happen, that the nicest construction that words are capable of, when applied to the description of some thing which either cannot exist, or is too incomprehensible to be within the compass of description, will be words of sound only, and though they may amuse the ear, they cannot inform the mind, for this explanation includes a previous question, viz. How came the king by a power which the people are afraid to trust, and always obliged to check? Such a power could not be the gift of a wise people, neither can any power, which needs checking, be from God; yet the provision, which the constitution makes, supposes such a power to exist.

        But the provision is unequal to the task; the means either cannot or will not accomplish the end, and the whole affair is a felo de se; for as the greater weight will always carry up the less, and as all the wheels of a machine are put in motion by one, it only remains to know which power in the constitution has the most weight, for that will govern; and though the others, or a part of them, may clog, or, as the phrase is, check the rapidity of its motion, yet so long as they cannot stop it, their endeavors will be ineffectual; the first moving power will at last have its way, and what it wants in speed is supplied by time.

        That the crown is this overbearing part in the English constitution needs not be mentioned, and that it derives its whole consequence merely from being the giver of places and pensions is self-evident, wherefore, though we have been wise enough to shut and lock a door against absolute monarchy, we at the same time have been foolish enough to put the crown in possession of the key.

        The prejudice of Englishmen, in favour of their own government by king, lords and commons, arises as much or more from national pride than reason. Individuals are undoubtedly safer in England than in some other countries, but the will of the king is as much the law of the land in Britain as in France, with this difference, that instead of proceeding directly from his mouth, it is handed to the people under the more formidable shape of an act of parliament. For the fate of Charles the first, hath only made kings more subtle—not more just.

        Wherefore, laying aside all national pride and prejudice in favour of modes and forms, the plain truth is, that it is wholly owing to the constitution of the people, and not to the constitution of the government that the crown is not as oppressive in England as in Turkey.

        An inquiry into the constitutional errors in the English form of government is at this time highly necessary, for as we are never in a proper condition of doing justice to others, while we continue under the influence of some leading partiality, so neither are we capable of doing it to ourselves while we remain fettered by any obstinate prejudice. And as a man, who is attached to a prostitute, is unfitted to choose or judge of a wife, so any prepossession in favour of a rotten constitution of government will disable us from discerning a good one.

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Chapter 2 of Common Sense
Written by ThomasPaine
OF THE ORIGIN AND DESIGN OF GOVERNMENT IN GENERAL, WITH CONCISE REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH CONSTITUTION
        Some writers have so confounded society with government, as to leave little or no distinction between them; whereas they are not only different, but have different origins. Society is produced by our wants, and government by our wickedness; the former promotes our happiness positively by uniting our affections, the latter negatively by restraining our vices. The one encourages intercourse, the other creates distinctions. The first a patron, the last a punisher.
        Society in every state is a blessing, but government even in its best state is but a necessary evil; in its worst state an intolerable one; for when we suffer, or are exposed to the same miseries by a government, which we might expect in a country without government, our calamity is heightened by reflecting that we furnish the means by which we suffer. Government, like dress, is the badge of lost innocence; the palaces of kings are built on the ruins of the bowers of paradise. For were the impulses of conscience clear, uniform, and irresistibly obeyed, man would need no other lawgiver; but that not being the case, he finds it necessary to surrender up a part of his property to furnish means for the protection of the rest; and this he is induced to do by the same prudence which in every other case advises him out of two evils to choose the least. Wherefore, security being the true design and end of government, it unanswerably follows that whatever form thereof appears most likely to ensure it to us, with the least expence and greatest benefit, is preferable to all others.
        In order to gain a clear and just idea of the design and end of government, let us suppose a small number of persons settled in some sequestered part of the earth, unconnected with the rest, they will then represent the first peopling of any country, or of the world. In this state of natural liberty, society will be their first thought. A thousand motives will excite them thereto, the strength of one man is so unequal to his wants, and his mind so unfitted for perpetual solitude, that he is soon obliged to seek assistance and relief of another, who in his turn requires the same. Four or five united would be able to raise a tolerable dwelling in the midst of a wilderness, but one man might labour out of the common period of life without accomplishing any thing; when he had felled his timber he could not remove it, nor erect it after it was removed; hunger in the mean time would urge him from his work, and every different want call him a different way. Disease, nay even misfortune would be death, for though neither might be mortal, yet either would disable him from living, and reduce him to a state in which he might rather be said to perish than to die.
        Thus necessity, like a gravitating power, would soon form our newly arrived emigrants into society, the reciprocal blessings of which, would supersede, and render the obligations of law and government unnecessary while they remained perfectly just to each other; but as nothing but heaven is impregnable to vice, it will unavoidably happen, that in proportion as they surmount the first difficulties of emigration, which bound them together in a common cause, they will begin to relax in their duty and attachment to each other; and this remissness, will point out the necessity, of establishing some form of government to supply the defect of moral virtue.
        Some convenient tree will afford them a State-House, under the branches of which, the whole colony may assemble to deliberate on public matters. It is more than probable that their first laws will have the title only of Regulations, and be enforced by no other penalty than public disesteem. In this first parliament every man, by natural right, will have a seat.
        But as the colony increases, the public concerns will increase likewise, and the distance at which the members may be separated, will render it too inconvenient for all of them to meet on every occasion as at first, when their number was small, their habitations near, and the public concerns few and trifling. This will point out the convenience of their consenting to leave the legislative part to be managed by a select number chosen from the whole body, who are supposed to have the same concerns at stake which those who appointed them, and who will act in the same manner as the whole body would act were they present. If the colony continue increasing, it will become necessary to augment the number of the representatives, and that the interest of every part of the colony may be attended to, it will be found best to divide the whole into convenient parts, each part sending its proper number; and that the elected might never form to themselves an interest separate from the electors, prudence will point out the propriety of having elections often; because as the elected might by that means return and mix again with the general body of the electors in a few months, their fidelity to the public will be secured by the prudent reflexion of not making a rod for themselves. And as this frequent interchange will establish a common interest with every part of the community, they will mutually and naturally support each other, and on this (not on the unmeaning name of king) depends the strength of government, and the happiness of the governed.
        Here then is the origin and rise of government; namely, a mode rendered necessary by the inability of moral virtue to govern the world; here too is the design and end of government, viz. freedom and security. And however our eyes may be dazzled with show, or our ears deceived by sound; however prejudice may warp our wills, or interest darken our understanding, the simple voice of nature and of reason will say, it is right.
        I draw my idea of the form of government from a principle in nature, which no art can overturn, viz. that the more simple any thing is, the less liable it is to be disordered; and the easier repaired when disordered; and with this maxim in view, I offer a few remarks on the so much boasted constitution of England. That it was noble for the dark and slavish times in which it was erected, is granted. When the world was over run with tyranny the least remove therefrom was a glorious rescue. But that it is imperfect, subject to convulsions, and incapable of producing what it seems to promise, is easily demonstrated.
        Absolute governments (tho’ the disgrace of human nature) have this advantage with them, that they are simple; if the people suffer, they know the head from which their suffering springs, know likewise the remedy, and are not bewildered by a variety of causes and cures. But the constitution of England is so exceedingly complex, that the nation may suffer for years together without being able to discover in which part the fault lies, some will say in one and some in another, and every political physician will advise a different medicine.
        I know it is difficult to get over local or long standing prejudices, yet if we will suffer ourselves to examine the component parts of the English constitution, we shall find them to be the base remains of two ancient tyrannies, compounded with some new republican materials.
        First.—The remains of monarchical tyranny in the person of the king.
        Secondly.—The remains of aristocratical tyranny in the persons of the peers.
        Thirdly.—The new republican materials, in the persons of the commons, on whose virtue depends the freedom of England.
        The two first, by being hereditary, are independent of the people; wherefore in a constitutional sense they contribute nothing towards the freedom of the state.
        To say that the constitution of England is a union of three powers reciprocally checking each other, is farcical, either the words have no meaning, or they are flat contradictions.
        To say that the commons is a check upon the king, presupposes two things:
        First.—That the king is not to be trusted without being looked after, or in other words, that a thirst for absolute power is the natural disease of monarchy.
        Secondly.—That the commons, by being appointed for that purpose, are either wiser or more worthy of confidence than the crown.
        But as the same constitution which gives the commons a power to check the king by withholding the supplies, gives afterwards the king a power to check the commons, by empowering him to reject their other bills; it again supposes that the king is wiser than those whom it has already supposed to be wiser than him. A mere absurdity!
        There is something exceedingly ridiculous in the composition of monarchy; it first excludes a man from the means of information, yet empowers him to act in cases where the highest judgment is required. The state of a king shuts him from the world, yet the business of a king requires him to know it thoroughly; wherefore the different parts, by unnaturally opposing and destroying each other, prove the whole character to be absurd and useless.
        Some writers have explained the English constitution thus; the king, say they, is one, the people another; the peers are an house in behalf of the king; the commons in behalf of the people; but this hath all the distinctions of a house divided against itself; and though the expressions be pleasantly arranged, yet when examined they appear idle and ambiguous; and it will always happen, that the nicest construction that words are capable of, when applied to the description of some thing which either cannot exist, or is too incomprehensible to be within the compass of description, will be words of sound only, and though they may amuse the ear, they cannot inform the mind, for this explanation includes a previous question, viz. How came the king by a power which the people are afraid to trust, and always obliged to check? Such a power could not be the gift of a wise people, neither can any power, which needs checking, be from God; yet the provision, which the constitution makes, supposes such a power to exist.
        But the provision is unequal to the task; the means either cannot or will not accomplish the end, and the whole affair is a felo de se; for as the greater weight will always carry up the less, and as all the wheels of a machine are put in motion by one, it only remains to know which power in the constitution has the most weight, for that will govern; and though the others, or a part of them, may clog, or, as the phrase is, check the rapidity of its motion, yet so long as they cannot stop it, their endeavors will be ineffectual; the first moving power will at last have its way, and what it wants in speed is supplied by time.
        That the crown is this overbearing part in the English constitution needs not be mentioned, and that it derives its whole consequence merely from being the giver of places and pensions is self-evident, wherefore, though we have been wise enough to shut and lock a door against absolute monarchy, we at the same time have been foolish enough to put the crown in possession of the key.
        The prejudice of Englishmen, in favour of their own government by king, lords and commons, arises as much or more from national pride than reason. Individuals are undoubtedly safer in England than in some other countries, but the will of the king is as much the law of the land in Britain as in France, with this difference, that instead of proceeding directly from his mouth, it is handed to the people under the more formidable shape of an act of parliament. For the fate of Charles the first, hath only made kings more subtle—not more just.
        Wherefore, laying aside all national pride and prejudice in favour of modes and forms, the plain truth is, that it is wholly owing to the constitution of the people, and not to the constitution of the government that the crown is not as oppressive in England as in Turkey.
        An inquiry into the constitutional errors in the English form of government is at this time highly necessary, for as we are never in a proper condition of doing justice to others, while we continue under the influence of some leading partiality, so neither are we capable of doing it to ourselves while we remain fettered by any obstinate prejudice. And as a man, who is attached to a prostitute, is unfitted to choose or judge of a wife, so any prepossession in favour of a rotten constitution of government will disable us from discerning a good one.

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Written by Prose in portal Prose

Juice Me Up.

Morning, Prosers,

We interrupt your usual Prosing schedule to bring you news of our latest feature update.

As of right now, we have implemented a feature in which ALL Prosers can earn coins.

All posts now have a new button. Juice. This Juice button allows fellow Prosers to tip your words. Have you ever read a piece and thought, “Damn, that’s good?” Well now, when you do, you can show your appreciation above and beyond a like or a comment, and send them some Juice.

Prosers can donate between 10 and 10,000 coins per post to the author. Authors receive 80% royalties which will be deposited straight into the wallet of said author.

Received donations can be viewed in the “Sales History” tab on the website.

This feature is currently only available on the website. However, we are working on bringing this to iOS as we speak. Remember, you can spend your coins on both platforms, but you can only buy coins on the web. 

Once we have updated the iOS version to reflect the Juice button, push notifications to alert you of kind donations will be active.

We will also be adding a Juice button to profiles in the not-so-distant future.

Not only this, but we have also banished a number of pesky bugs too. Be gone, and good riddance!

We are working on a number of new things to keep us busy, but as always, if something isn’t working how it should be or if you have any questions, get in touch with us. We are always happy to help!

Until next time, Prosers,

Get Juicing.

Prose. 

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Written by Prose in portal Prose
Juice Me Up.
Morning, Prosers,

We interrupt your usual Prosing schedule to bring you news of our latest feature update.

As of right now, we have implemented a feature in which ALL Prosers can earn coins.

All posts now have a new button. Juice. This Juice button allows fellow Prosers to tip your words. Have you ever read a piece and thought, “Damn, that’s good?” Well now, when you do, you can show your appreciation above and beyond a like or a comment, and send them some Juice.

Prosers can donate between 10 and 10,000 coins per post to the author. Authors receive 80% royalties which will be deposited straight into the wallet of said author.

Received donations can be viewed in the “Sales History” tab on the website.

This feature is currently only available on the website. However, we are working on bringing this to iOS as we speak. Remember, you can spend your coins on both platforms, but you can only buy coins on the web. 

Once we have updated the iOS version to reflect the Juice button, push notifications to alert you of kind donations will be active.

We will also be adding a Juice button to profiles in the not-so-distant future.

Not only this, but we have also banished a number of pesky bugs too. Be gone, and good riddance!

We are working on a number of new things to keep us busy, but as always, if something isn’t working how it should be or if you have any questions, get in touch with us. We are always happy to help!

Until next time, Prosers,

Get Juicing.

Prose. 
#Announcement  #introducing  #getlit  #Juiced  #Juice 
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Childhood Memory. Write about something (material, preferrably) that meant a lot to you as a child. Tag me!@poeticasymptote
Written by writer

The Reading Tickets

When I was little, I loved stories. Stories of all kinds, but especially fairytales. I loved to imagine myself in their world, a world filled with gloomy forests and magic dancing lights. A world where everyone was seeking or journeying, reaching further and testing the limits of bravery and kindness. But there was one problem: I couldn't read. At least, not well enough or fast enough to feed my voracious appetite for the magical stories. And so I begged my mother to read to me, tugging on her bathrobe the moment she stepped out of the shower, pulling at her apron while she whirled about the kitchen, and clutching onto the sash of her dress when she and my father headed out for an evening.

We would curl up on a couch and be transported to a swirling, blooming land of deception and miracles. I remember those afternoons, the hot cups of sweet tea, chilled with a splash of milk. The journeys that would take hours but be over in the blink of an eye. The feeling of flying. But no matter how much I wished it, my stories weren't real. I wasn't really flying and I didn't really live in Neverland. And so, I had to grow up.

And as I grew, I learned to read faster and understand larger words. And then, my world suddenly became busy. I would bring a book to my mom and she would tell me to go read it on my own. And I did, and I loved the stories all the same, but it was colder and more terrifying up on the magic carpet without my mother beside me. But I embraced the bite and the sting of the wind because it filled that empty space inside of me--but only temporarily, for all its immenseness, for all its awesome, sweeping power, the wind flickered and fell away all too quickly.

I don't think she was trying to push me away; she loved our journeys too. How do I know? The reading tickets. Every time she had another matter to attend to, when she said she would read me a story on a weekend or before bed and then couldn't, she would take a piece of paper and write "1 free story" on it. It was a coupon of sorts--a promise that we would have our moment, if I would only wait a little bit--and it placated me. It placated us both. I carefully placed these slips of paper in a small green box and kept them high up on my shelf. I thought that my box was just like a bank, that I was saving up all of these wonderful moments to be had later on, that I would redeem them all in due time and that they would be all the more sweet for my wait. I was like that as a child, I loved to save and savor--I didn't realize that things could just disappear.

Over time, the tickets shrank, becoming small strips of paper, a torn corner of a napkin, a sliver of a piece of scrap paper--whatever was quickest and easiest to grab when I approached my mother for a story. But still, the pile grew. And I often took the box down from time to time to finger the tickets and stare at them, making the paper smudge and smear until they began to fall apart. And perhaps it's a blessing, then, that we moved and the box of reading tickets disappeared. Perhaps I didn't want to see them fall to ruins. Perhaps I wouldn't have been able to handle seeing their tiny paper fibers scattered to the wind. Perhaps, I'd still like to believe that somewhere up in the attic, there's an unpacked box. A box filled with gloomy forests and magic, dancing lights.

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Childhood Memory. Write about something (material, preferrably) that meant a lot to you as a child. Tag me!@poeticasymptote
Written by writer
The Reading Tickets
When I was little, I loved stories. Stories of all kinds, but especially fairytales. I loved to imagine myself in their world, a world filled with gloomy forests and magic dancing lights. A world where everyone was seeking or journeying, reaching further and testing the limits of bravery and kindness. But there was one problem: I couldn't read. At least, not well enough or fast enough to feed my voracious appetite for the magical stories. And so I begged my mother to read to me, tugging on her bathrobe the moment she stepped out of the shower, pulling at her apron while she whirled about the kitchen, and clutching onto the sash of her dress when she and my father headed out for an evening.


We would curl up on a couch and be transported to a swirling, blooming land of deception and miracles. I remember those afternoons, the hot cups of sweet tea, chilled with a splash of milk. The journeys that would take hours but be over in the blink of an eye. The feeling of flying. But no matter how much I wished it, my stories weren't real. I wasn't really flying and I didn't really live in Neverland. And so, I had to grow up.


And as I grew, I learned to read faster and understand larger words. And then, my world suddenly became busy. I would bring a book to my mom and she would tell me to go read it on my own. And I did, and I loved the stories all the same, but it was colder and more terrifying up on the magic carpet without my mother beside me. But I embraced the bite and the sting of the wind because it filled that empty space inside of me--but only temporarily, for all its immenseness, for all its awesome, sweeping power, the wind flickered and fell away all too quickly.


I don't think she was trying to push me away; she loved our journeys too. How do I know? The reading tickets. Every time she had another matter to attend to, when she said she would read me a story on a weekend or before bed and then couldn't, she would take a piece of paper and write "1 free story" on it. It was a coupon of sorts--a promise that we would have our moment, if I would only wait a little bit--and it placated me. It placated us both. I carefully placed these slips of paper in a small green box and kept them high up on my shelf. I thought that my box was just like a bank, that I was saving up all of these wonderful moments to be had later on, that I would redeem them all in due time and that they would be all the more sweet for my wait. I was like that as a child, I loved to save and savor--I didn't realize that things could just disappear.


Over time, the tickets shrank, becoming small strips of paper, a torn corner of a napkin, a sliver of a piece of scrap paper--whatever was quickest and easiest to grab when I approached my mother for a story. But still, the pile grew. And I often took the box down from time to time to finger the tickets and stare at them, making the paper smudge and smear until they began to fall apart. And perhaps it's a blessing, then, that we moved and the box of reading tickets disappeared. Perhaps I didn't want to see them fall to ruins. Perhaps I wouldn't have been able to handle seeing their tiny paper fibers scattered to the wind. Perhaps, I'd still like to believe that somewhere up in the attic, there's an unpacked box. A box filled with gloomy forests and magic, dancing lights.



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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

moth eaten

like a moth to a flame

she drew near

trust - she gave blindly

he plucked her wings

with his heat

and watched her struggle

to take flight

- she had warned him

that the flame

would scold and

singe

but he

fanned the flames

and made it grow.

if only he nurtured

her like he did

the flame.

he didn't heed her

warnings.

he

didn't listen.

he never did.

she batted her wings

- the wings of a ghost

amputated by his

ignorance

and lack of care

she crawled away

using every ounce

of her strength,

leaving claw marks

of determination

and desperation

to taste the nectar

of freedom

across his soul

see, unlike moths,

who get burnt and

yet return to the

fire,

she learned,

she moved on

and it was he who

woke up

with the residue of

of her dust

on his fingers

and the regret

in his gut

along with her scars

across his

blackened heart...

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Written by Sammielee46 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
moth eaten
like a moth to a flame
she drew near
trust - she gave blindly
he plucked her wings
with his heat
and watched her struggle
to take flight
- she had warned him
that the flame
would scold and
singe
but he
fanned the flames
and made it grow.
if only he nurtured
her like he did
the flame.
he didn't heed her
warnings.
he
didn't listen.
he never did.
she batted her wings
- the wings of a ghost
amputated by his
ignorance
and lack of care
she crawled away
using every ounce
of her strength,
leaving claw marks
of determination
and desperation
to taste the nectar
of freedom
across his soul
see, unlike moths,
who get burnt and
yet return to the
fire,
she learned,
she moved on
and it was he who
woke up
with the residue of
of her dust
on his fingers
and the regret
in his gut
along with her scars
across his
blackened heart...
#poetry  #Itslit  #getlit 
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Written by Harlequin in portal History

An Ode to Suffering: A Celebration of Poe

   Considering he was known for criticizing other authors' writings to pieces, I will keep this brief. I apologize in advance, as I am writing this while being severely jet-lagged. This is also an impromptu 'Hello!' as I've just returned from vacation. Consider this a warm, sleepy embrace. Grab some tea or coffee before we discuss one of the most cherished authors.

January 19th, 1809

   Today marks the birthday of Edgar Allan Poe, whom endured a great deal of misery, and divulged that anguish into some of the first recognized pieces of gothic romance. Nothing less than the gift of a new genre, his excursions into the perilous themes of mania, depression, longing, torment and sorrow provided the foundation for countless authors. Despite being gripping and intensely popular presently, Poe's career quickly spiraled into countless trials as a result of his unwelcome style in the 1800's. 

   You see, the literary arena of Poe's time favored writings similar to Thoreau, Emerson, and Longfellow. The population, for the most part, ate up poetry and prose that reflected the goodness of life in the cliché, monotonous styles we typically skim over today. Although these poets occasionally depict bittersweetness, overall, their writings are filled with optimism and appreciation for the present moment. They ignore the shadow lurking behind humanity, preferring to depict the brightness illuminating the day, rather than the phantoms spawned after its descent.

   Oh, how mundane. Poe had a fiery hatred for Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Did you know that? I'll be tearing apart The Day is Done in celebration of our (once unfavored) beloved Poe. 

   Maybe it was because the times were more difficult, but the general consensus of readers was a distaste for the sanguine gore and psychological horror of Poe's imagination. Although he is a legend today, Poe struggled to survive solely from his writings. At one point, he dismantled furniture in his apartment so as to add fodder to the hearth during winter. Simply put: his works were not well received. The Raven was given the most prestige, but it was only a brief spark in the spotlight before copies of it were distributed and sold without adequate credit or compensation. At the end of all its success, he made fairly little off the poem, even though it was largely what got him any modicum of fame. Today, it is the burning emblem behind his name. On his deathbed, do you think he suspected that folks like me would memorize every line of that poem, not only for its substance, but for the sheer perfection of its rhyme and meter?

"Quoth the Raven 'Nevermore.' "

   So, if you are ever feeling insecure about your writing, just remember one of the greatest gothic poets was a starving drunk even after he penned his masterpieces. That should be some encouragement to you. It is a shame we cannot resurrect him, if only to show him how well things went, in the end. How many of you have a complete collection of his works? Mine rests on my desk, its spine cracked open, so as to let his inventive horrors diffuse into the air. 

   Poe's lack of popularity, mingled with an addiction to alcohol and a stubbornness to succeed in his craft brought him nearly endless anguish. Just as terribly, his love life crumbled as soon as it could build itself. There is a hypothesis that Poe was a 'silent carrier' of tuberculosis, since so many of his lovers died at the hands of it, yet he alone remained untouched. In other words, he carried the disease and could spread it, but would himself not suffer any of its symptoms. Over the course of his life he watched the same disease that killed his mother, extinguish those he was closest to. Characterized by fevers and the profuse coughing of blood, its presence, both literally and metaphorically, stained him bloody. 

   It has been recounted that Poe recycled lines from previous love letters for new courtships. It was not for a lack of interest nor effort, but a despair in his soul. Just like any of us, he craved closeness, connection, love. How cursed, then, to chase affection in those who were likely to die simply by being in his presence too long. Can you blame him for using a poem that gained affection from a previous, deceased partner, on a new interest?

   One could say that Death was a friend of Poe's; it was as much of a shadow to his step as his own dark silhouette. Close, unbearably close, and so damnably persistent so as to imprint its most guileful characteristics upon his mind, but just far enough so as to spare his own life. The numbers vary from accounts, but the tally of his lovers that died from 'the Red Death' are often closer to ten than they are not. 

   What horrific grandeur. 

   Today, many readers eat up graphic horror and gore without so much as flinching. In his time, his writings were seen as too ghastly to endure. People didn't want to read about death, suffering, or the resilience of humanity's darkness within the soul. They wanted poetry about natural beauty and revelation within serenity. 

"Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality."

   Suffering dawns unique masks for each of us. It cackles, thriving in unlikely burrows of our perceptions. It crafts haunting memories, present hallucinations, or manifests itself in isolation, infuriation, despondency, lunacy, infatuation, attachment ... need I go on? Poe, like us, poured himself into his writings, not only to spill the tension of blood brimming at its seams, but to understand how that character of agony fit into his life, how it fits into all our lives. 

   He called it 'The Imp of the Perverse'; the innate desire of the soul to experience nearly unbearable pain, to chase its own destruction despite better judgement. We all have our own, distinct imps.

“And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.”

   To some, beauty is a quiet meadow and stories that end happily; bliss fulfilled from a brief struggle, revealing the brightest of a character's traits. To others, beauty is the unraveling of the soul in moments of shattering intensity in which obsession, love, mania and loneliness may rear all of their heads at precisely the same moment, in tribute to chaos' countless, quintessential forms. 

   It is quite simple. To write about the former feels familiar, safe, comfortable. The latter, on the other hand, requires an audacious courage and will of the writer to carve out the art from the grotesque. Perhaps, to surrender all inhibition, in attempts to depict humanity's darkness in its infinite fragments scattered within nightmares and dreams alike. Its machinations desire innovation of a keen and flexible mind. And by giving some of its attributes a page to display itself, it unveils passageways to possibility within the artist's psyche. 

"Never to suffer would never to have been blessed."

   Without suffering to provide richness to the dazzling cascade of experiences, life's rhythm would remain stagnant. Beauty, itself, might become stale in its unchallenged perfection. Gripped by the ceaseless, unpredictable and confounding dreamscapes of reality, we find the heart of magnificence in the rare moments in which we grapple with the splendor of mortality. Without any shades of suffering, how tasteless would joy be, to find its enjoyment endless? How mundane would love be, to find its loveliness eternal? 

   Undoubtedly, life is full of suffering. But what of it? 

   Get closer, Poe begs us, to see what complexity stems from the root of our darkness.

   Capture it, he taunts us, to discern what meaning, if any, lay in its infinite layers. 

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Written by Harlequin in portal History
An Ode to Suffering: A Celebration of Poe
   Considering he was known for criticizing other authors' writings to pieces, I will keep this brief. I apologize in advance, as I am writing this while being severely jet-lagged. This is also an impromptu 'Hello!' as I've just returned from vacation. Consider this a warm, sleepy embrace. Grab some tea or coffee before we discuss one of the most cherished authors.
January 19th, 1809
   Today marks the birthday of Edgar Allan Poe, whom endured a great deal of misery, and divulged that anguish into some of the first recognized pieces of gothic romance. Nothing less than the gift of a new genre, his excursions into the perilous themes of mania, depression, longing, torment and sorrow provided the foundation for countless authors. Despite being gripping and intensely popular presently, Poe's career quickly spiraled into countless trials as a result of his unwelcome style in the 1800's. 
   You see, the literary arena of Poe's time favored writings similar to Thoreau, Emerson, and Longfellow. The population, for the most part, ate up poetry and prose that reflected the goodness of life in the cliché, monotonous styles we typically skim over today. Although these poets occasionally depict bittersweetness, overall, their writings are filled with optimism and appreciation for the present moment. They ignore the shadow lurking behind humanity, preferring to depict the brightness illuminating the day, rather than the phantoms spawned after its descent.
   Oh, how mundane. Poe had a fiery hatred for Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Did you know that? I'll be tearing apart The Day is Done in celebration of our (once unfavored) beloved Poe. 
   Maybe it was because the times were more difficult, but the general consensus of readers was a distaste for the sanguine gore and psychological horror of Poe's imagination. Although he is a legend today, Poe struggled to survive solely from his writings. At one point, he dismantled furniture in his apartment so as to add fodder to the hearth during winter. Simply put: his works were not well received. The Raven was given the most prestige, but it was only a brief spark in the spotlight before copies of it were distributed and sold without adequate credit or compensation. At the end of all its success, he made fairly little off the poem, even though it was largely what got him any modicum of fame. Today, it is the burning emblem behind his name. On his deathbed, do you think he suspected that folks like me would memorize every line of that poem, not only for its substance, but for the sheer perfection of its rhyme and meter?

"Quoth the Raven 'Nevermore.' "

   So, if you are ever feeling insecure about your writing, just remember one of the greatest gothic poets was a starving drunk even after he penned his masterpieces. That should be some encouragement to you. It is a shame we cannot resurrect him, if only to show him how well things went, in the end. How many of you have a complete collection of his works? Mine rests on my desk, its spine cracked open, so as to let his inventive horrors diffuse into the air. 
   Poe's lack of popularity, mingled with an addiction to alcohol and a stubbornness to succeed in his craft brought him nearly endless anguish. Just as terribly, his love life crumbled as soon as it could build itself. There is a hypothesis that Poe was a 'silent carrier' of tuberculosis, since so many of his lovers died at the hands of it, yet he alone remained untouched. In other words, he carried the disease and could spread it, but would himself not suffer any of its symptoms. Over the course of his life he watched the same disease that killed his mother, extinguish those he was closest to. Characterized by fevers and the profuse coughing of blood, its presence, both literally and metaphorically, stained him bloody. 
   It has been recounted that Poe recycled lines from previous love letters for new courtships. It was not for a lack of interest nor effort, but a despair in his soul. Just like any of us, he craved closeness, connection, love. How cursed, then, to chase affection in those who were likely to die simply by being in his presence too long. Can you blame him for using a poem that gained affection from a previous, deceased partner, on a new interest?
   One could say that Death was a friend of Poe's; it was as much of a shadow to his step as his own dark silhouette. Close, unbearably close, and so damnably persistent so as to imprint its most guileful characteristics upon his mind, but just far enough so as to spare his own life. The numbers vary from accounts, but the tally of his lovers that died from 'the Red Death' are often closer to ten than they are not. 
   What horrific grandeur. 
   Today, many readers eat up graphic horror and gore without so much as flinching. In his time, his writings were seen as too ghastly to endure. People didn't want to read about death, suffering, or the resilience of humanity's darkness within the soul. They wanted poetry about natural beauty and revelation within serenity. 

"Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality."

   Suffering dawns unique masks for each of us. It cackles, thriving in unlikely burrows of our perceptions. It crafts haunting memories, present hallucinations, or manifests itself in isolation, infuriation, despondency, lunacy, infatuation, attachment ... need I go on? Poe, like us, poured himself into his writings, not only to spill the tension of blood brimming at its seams, but to understand how that character of agony fit into his life, how it fits into all our lives. 
   He called it 'The Imp of the Perverse'; the innate desire of the soul to experience nearly unbearable pain, to chase its own destruction despite better judgement. We all have our own, distinct imps.

“And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.”

   To some, beauty is a quiet meadow and stories that end happily; bliss fulfilled from a brief struggle, revealing the brightest of a character's traits. To others, beauty is the unraveling of the soul in moments of shattering intensity in which obsession, love, mania and loneliness may rear all of their heads at precisely the same moment, in tribute to chaos' countless, quintessential forms. 
   It is quite simple. To write about the former feels familiar, safe, comfortable. The latter, on the other hand, requires an audacious courage and will of the writer to carve out the art from the grotesque. Perhaps, to surrender all inhibition, in attempts to depict humanity's darkness in its infinite fragments scattered within nightmares and dreams alike. Its machinations desire innovation of a keen and flexible mind. And by giving some of its attributes a page to display itself, it unveils passageways to possibility within the artist's psyche. 

"Never to suffer would never to have been blessed."

   Without suffering to provide richness to the dazzling cascade of experiences, life's rhythm would remain stagnant. Beauty, itself, might become stale in its unchallenged perfection. Gripped by the ceaseless, unpredictable and confounding dreamscapes of reality, we find the heart of magnificence in the rare moments in which we grapple with the splendor of mortality. Without any shades of suffering, how tasteless would joy be, to find its enjoyment endless? How mundane would love be, to find its loveliness eternal? 
   Undoubtedly, life is full of suffering. But what of it? 
   Get closer, Poe begs us, to see what complexity stems from the root of our darkness.
   Capture it, he taunts us, to discern what meaning, if any, lay in its infinite layers. 
#nonfiction  #edgarallanpoe  #TheRaven  #Nevermore 
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Written by Rasselas in portal Fiction

The Vanished Dancer

In the old days, there were two legends of tap dance - John Wicks and Alex Clark. John was said to represent the aristocracy, while Alex embodied the rough magic of the plebeians. John's dancing was light as a feather and full of sly witticism. Alex danced like a man in a state of passion and love. One would leave his partners without a single mark, and the other always left them black and blue.

Two different styles - elegance and bluntness - never before brought together. Until a night when one dancer was going to embody both of them at once. The performance at the dance hall was packed. The dancer (a protege of John) came forward and danced. The routine was beautiful and flawless - something within it spoke to everyone. The two styles, becoming one style, contained more than the sum of its parts.

When the dance was over - the protege had vanished. Some said it was murder. Inspector Jean was called in.

He interviewed John about the protege, and John only shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Alex wasn't much help, either.

Jean was at loose ends until Alex mentioned that his son had become disenchanted with having a famous father and gone into business.

"Have you seen him recently?"

"Listen, kid," Alex said. "I don't always have time for my son. I'm a famous man, and I have a reputation to uphold."

"Would it be possible to meet him?"

The son's name was Jacob, and he balked at Jean's suggestion that it was he who was the missing dancer.

"I've never danced a step in my life. That was always my dad."

"He had more time for fighting battles with John Wicks and growing his fan base - than spending time with you?"

"It doesn't matter," Jacob said.

"Your father doesn't know, does he? Your boyfriend is the missing dancer."

It felt like something dropped away suddenly.

"It was only for fun," Jacob finally said. "I was tired of everybody talking about how important my father is. I'm important, too. So my boyfriend and I - came up with the idea together."

And that was the story of the vanished dancer.

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Written by Rasselas in portal Fiction
The Vanished Dancer
In the old days, there were two legends of tap dance - John Wicks and Alex Clark. John was said to represent the aristocracy, while Alex embodied the rough magic of the plebeians. John's dancing was light as a feather and full of sly witticism. Alex danced like a man in a state of passion and love. One would leave his partners without a single mark, and the other always left them black and blue.

Two different styles - elegance and bluntness - never before brought together. Until a night when one dancer was going to embody both of them at once. The performance at the dance hall was packed. The dancer (a protege of John) came forward and danced. The routine was beautiful and flawless - something within it spoke to everyone. The two styles, becoming one style, contained more than the sum of its parts.

When the dance was over - the protege had vanished. Some said it was murder. Inspector Jean was called in.

He interviewed John about the protege, and John only shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Alex wasn't much help, either.

Jean was at loose ends until Alex mentioned that his son had become disenchanted with having a famous father and gone into business.

"Have you seen him recently?"

"Listen, kid," Alex said. "I don't always have time for my son. I'm a famous man, and I have a reputation to uphold."

"Would it be possible to meet him?"

The son's name was Jacob, and he balked at Jean's suggestion that it was he who was the missing dancer.

"I've never danced a step in my life. That was always my dad."

"He had more time for fighting battles with John Wicks and growing his fan base - than spending time with you?"

"It doesn't matter," Jacob said.

"Your father doesn't know, does he? Your boyfriend is the missing dancer."

It felt like something dropped away suddenly.

"It was only for fun," Jacob finally said. "I was tired of everybody talking about how important my father is. I'm important, too. So my boyfriend and I - came up with the idea together."

And that was the story of the vanished dancer.
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Written by haileyelliott in portal Stream of Consciousness

Seeds for You

I see you, staring down into the pool of your light filled machine, gazing, your own reflection obscured by words, these words, which you are reading, entering your mind, via the cortex, visual, being patterns, recognized, being categories, categorized, placed, as on parchment, as though to be dried, as though for collection, collecting, you trickle through, aware, of these words, falling, falling down if I say falling, tripping, your tongue is involved, but it is a, backseat, driver, its only job, a minor flexing, for inward pronunciation, inside, above it, sounds which it will never, itself, form into complex and uniform vibrations which would be put into the world to be caught, exclusively, that is, for only the ears, specifically your ears, specifically, my ears, which will not catch anything, except the tipping sound, keys going, which I can hear, but which will, by the time you are seeing this, be over, expired, this will be no longer a process, it will, cease to be, in motion, it will be a record, of the event, of my thinking, the cortex, again, I think, but not only, it is, a whole body, it is, a whole mind, it is visual, black and white, symbols, it is, thought, it is, distilled, a distillation, I am reaching you, am I reaching you? 

I am trying, typing, to get through some membranous barrier that exists, inherently, between us. This inter cyber web that has the both of us snared, me, on my end, putting in, you, on your end, gathering out, getting something, somewhere, or, are we? Maybe not. I have a feeling though, it is not from here, the cortex, which here is merely the translator - translating for us, from me, to you, this feeling, so that you might come to see it, read it, understand, and through some strange human from of transmutation, come to feel it, too. The feeling is of seeds, gathering, and ripely, and about to spill, from the grassy fist, of their mother, and about to burst, and what will come of them, the progeny, the bursting forth, the new life, as solitary, they become, another, this is how my thoughts are, now, and if they land on your soil, then perhaps they will bloom, and so, I say them again, and again, silently, and you pick them up, if you like, and gather them, save them, put them by, for future use, in your garden, which, in this case, is your cerebellum, and I say that I want you to have these seeds, and I say that they are seeds of something good, and that is because, what I want you to know, is that perfection, it is impossible, and creation, it must be made free from the tyranny of 

perfection's grasping groping choking distorting disorienting fist, because perfection,

is only a concept,

and concepts,

only have power if we give them power

and creativity

is not a concept

creativity is a force

of nature. 

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Written by haileyelliott in portal Stream of Consciousness
Seeds for You
I see you, staring down into the pool of your light filled machine, gazing, your own reflection obscured by words, these words, which you are reading, entering your mind, via the cortex, visual, being patterns, recognized, being categories, categorized, placed, as on parchment, as though to be dried, as though for collection, collecting, you trickle through, aware, of these words, falling, falling down if I say falling, tripping, your tongue is involved, but it is a, backseat, driver, its only job, a minor flexing, for inward pronunciation, inside, above it, sounds which it will never, itself, form into complex and uniform vibrations which would be put into the world to be caught, exclusively, that is, for only the ears, specifically your ears, specifically, my ears, which will not catch anything, except the tipping sound, keys going, which I can hear, but which will, by the time you are seeing this, be over, expired, this will be no longer a process, it will, cease to be, in motion, it will be a record, of the event, of my thinking, the cortex, again, I think, but not only, it is, a whole body, it is, a whole mind, it is visual, black and white, symbols, it is, thought, it is, distilled, a distillation, I am reaching you, am I reaching you? 
I am trying, typing, to get through some membranous barrier that exists, inherently, between us. This inter cyber web that has the both of us snared, me, on my end, putting in, you, on your end, gathering out, getting something, somewhere, or, are we? Maybe not. I have a feeling though, it is not from here, the cortex, which here is merely the translator - translating for us, from me, to you, this feeling, so that you might come to see it, read it, understand, and through some strange human from of transmutation, come to feel it, too. The feeling is of seeds, gathering, and ripely, and about to spill, from the grassy fist, of their mother, and about to burst, and what will come of them, the progeny, the bursting forth, the new life, as solitary, they become, another, this is how my thoughts are, now, and if they land on your soil, then perhaps they will bloom, and so, I say them again, and again, silently, and you pick them up, if you like, and gather them, save them, put them by, for future use, in your garden, which, in this case, is your cerebellum, and I say that I want you to have these seeds, and I say that they are seeds of something good, and that is because, what I want you to know, is that perfection, it is impossible, and creation, it must be made free from the tyranny of 
perfection's grasping groping choking distorting disorienting fist, because perfection,
is only a concept,
and concepts,
only have power if we give them power
and creativity
is not a concept
creativity is a force
of nature. 






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Juice
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