Ad nauseum ad nauseum

''User:Serprex 01:42, November 27, 2017 (UTC)

Blood for the slaughter, cut red handed. Running on empty, no oxygen, only this viscous death blood, leaking out the face, the hands, always back to the hands, these hands

These hands don't hold anymore. Letting go, adrift, found sunk, exploring post mortem, post life, anew, adieu

Dawn at six. Pink sky, clouds lit, smoke cloud, toxic rain, washing away everything, only sins remain

Porch looks down. Passes by the wayside. Weight on a limb; going out on. Porch's days only begun. Today's some old day, been had before, drained to dry. Perishable time

Gone bad. Where'd it go? Falls back into reverie. To before this day. Snuck a smile, was it only a reflex? It echoes through time. When was it? That first time, thinking back, it was only perceived by reference, looking up from a book, smiled at to the back of the head. Bullet wound's still leaking. That tingling sensation. They come out in waves, it comes in waves, these days, all interfering

Have to time it right. Cancel them out. Move onwards. How many times has this introduction been made? Every new person is déjà vu. Someone older, more worn, out & yet here they are, a new moment, to be filed away, duplicated, revised by everyone else

But it's still there, the carbon copy, back then when. The vultures in the tree, their looming presence, the unrepeatable moment unobserved as it's taken down for later review, where it'll be pretended that it was experienced, but it wasn't, only written down & passed around like a snuff film or some afternoon thrill sight on the job

These details, their fidelity, crisp & rhythmically timed, the pace of the heart at that point, the way it varied by the day, these pieces are to be revisited, other observers discarded these points, but losing those points, it becomes pointless, some blob with new details applied in order to keep the story straight

Private keys flying by a terminal screen. Never unseen. Shifting fingers passing on their code. Sequences constructed to keep the time straight. Monotonic clock stamping out seek points. Where does one moment end & begin? A second later

Dreams are just these records getting mixed up. Imagining how it'd've panned out if some key pieces had been put elsewhere. If the camera had panned over to information then there now lost. Lost in reverie

But now Porch is here, taking this step, the stranger's past, stranger things have passed, when the first word was said, all the lies, these histories are a series of amendments annotating wrong, wrong wrong. Perceptions wrong. Illusions cast from shadows. Glitches in understanding

Just make the next step. The stranger had a brown coat, sun tanned, curls, buckled boots, sidebag, glasses..

Glasses on the table. Hexagons. Round top. Textured glass. Tinted green. Refracts on the windowsill. Memory clear, but it happens, against will. This is determinism. The past is deterministic. The present will soon be the past; deterministic

& this second step, it soon will be the present. Will the sole's slight shifting as the weight pushes it against the cement be perceived? Put on record for all time? Will the cigarette butts be immortalized? Their deflated former selves, once ripe to deflate the lungs of their consumers

Time goes on, leaving Porch behind