Curse.

It seems indeed misfortune has once again fallen upon me; comments left by a Christian deviator. Three comments were left by this delusional soul, de-linked from the matrices of reality they roam:

It seems to me that if you are going to make such statements about Christianity, you should do your homework first. God made us perfect in the beginning; there was no death, no sin, and no suffering. He gave us free will, because he wanted someone to love him because they wanted to, not because they had to. When Adam and Eve disobeyed God, they brought sin and suffering and death into the world. God ( although you might refer to it as a “rule” told them not to eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, because he wanted to protect them. Just like your parents might tell you that drinking bleach isn’t such a great idea, God told Adam and Eve not to eat the fruit because it wasn’t a good idea. Some people might ask why god put the tree there if He knew it was going to happen. He put it there so we could choose.

Thus spoke the diseased; empty words meaning nothing were uttered, and by deaf ears they were rejected. It seems to me you have not done your homework, dear Christian Deviator; for as Ephesians 1:4-5 tells us, free will does not exist:

He hath chosen us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without blame before him in love: Having predestinated us unto the adoption of children by Jesus Christ to himself, according to the good pleasure of his will.

Deuteronomy 30:19:

I call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life, that both thou and thy seed may live:

Now, it’s true that on occasions the Bible does contradict itself on this matter and allude to free will existing, though to be honest those are few in comparison to the opposite. And God sure is one cruel old sick bastard, punishing the entirety of humanity forever because of humans giving in to the curse bestowed upon them by God; curiosity. Alas, he was not satisfied, more had to be said, commenting a photoshopped picture I posted it said:

That little cartoon says that God “tells us what to do”. This is a very narrow minded statement. God tells us to do certain things for our protection. People think Christianity is *a bunch of rules* but really its a a lot of promises.

Why yes Stutter-kun, I’ve never said Christianity was a “bunch of rules”. I have said it’s a bunch of inept tripe, however, which I maintain. But as with any so extensive a work, they have to say a few things that can be useful and bright, or just common sense; but most of it is just stupid, especially if you interpret it literally, which a surprising amount of people really do, regardless of what more progressive religionists claim.

Deuteronomy 22:5: The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.

God gives you a choice; Love or Suffer Eternally.

Related; also see this.

The poster of those comments also said;

Ha no freedom. Ya, thats a bunch of BS. And have you ever looked up the definition of religion?

on the “About” page, which I am not able to connect to anything said on the page. Also note that I do not believe in free will, nor do I believe in any supernatural diety.

Delusional News Story of the Rapture.

Life… stretches ahead of us, ugly and misshaped, a grotesque deformed gorilla baby with legs growing out of its rectum. The skin so hairless and lacking any detail, just a dark and rough skin, underneath which hides that frightening brown flesh… threads woven densely, impossible to cut into even by the most advanced sharp knives and laser equipment. What am I trying to say by this nonsensical rambling? – not sure, if anything – maybe the nothingness, the utter nonsense, is a point in itself? Or maybe that is just a contemplation resulting from confusion – confusing who, really? That which is I – which is to say a spatial collection of subatomic particles and organic-electric currents – is not confused, it must be you. Take my hand; let us dance, across the iron rails of the stairs up to the Reichshalle entrance. Underneath the silky Red Flag, let us kiss; besiege tradition with the hideous clothes we wear, sewn into our flesh—

< But the time – or rather, the sand – has run out, and as we fight on to find the secrets of the buried ferns, we eventually realise our work is in vain. What we do is irrelevant. In fact, everything is irrelevant, null; a big spread emptiness. Tinfoil on your head, NWO, Alex Jones, I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, perish, perish; all you need to do is Perish. Michael Savage, aka Michael WEINER (no coincidence there, that much is sure), there is more than one thing that is a mental disease, and that is not only liberalism, but also conservatism.

Weiner’s campaign was unsuccessful, and he and his father excoriated the left for anti-Semitism as the reason for his loss on his father’s radio show.

Weiner—I can’t forget about his name. Not a chance in Valhalla that it is a coincidence; let us bash the left, they all hate Jews (except the evil communists in the ADL and ACLU, right?) – though again and again I find myself reading about a person who just turns out to be the most absurd fail ever… and then, it turns out he’s a Jew. Though, exceptions to the rule do of course exist – let us for example recall the brevity and intelligence of Lazar Kaganovich and all the good things he achieved. I’ll step on you with my high heels if you disagree. Verbal zero-tolerance. Deviation from Party-policy is unacceptable. The five-year plan must be achieved. Protesting is illegal; do not think we are unaware of your subversive plans, do not think we are unaware of your foolish misconceptions. We can read your mind.

We read you like a book. In the morning we discuss you over coffee. We know all we need about you, and would something require use to dive deeper into your unconscious, we can do so at will. You cannot defend yourself, you cannot escape. We are everywhere.

We are the resistance and we are the central government. We are the fascists and the communists, the Nazis and the Zionists. We are all things, left, right, up and down, druggies and straight edge. The Ku-Klux-Klan and the Freeway Revolt, it was all our workings, just for the sake of petty laughs.

A man shoots eight people at a Jewish school. Just days after Israel completed the killing of over a hundred Palestinians. As you all know I am not a supporter of human rights, but quite clearly, most media has responded very strongly to this event, something that stands in contradiction to their response to the Israeli excesses recently. Israel is very keen to keep the KPD (Kills per death) ratio up. Under 200 is unacceptable, so in order to “level the playing field” they have sex on the control panel at the central command while pretending they are adhering to some ancient Jewish rite, and end up sporadically launching a few missiles at civilian structures. If anyone asks, they’ll just say it was a raid on “terrorist nests”, you know, like when you’re dealing with a vermin infestation.

Perhaps a nice war is brewing in South America. Some neighbouring countries are angry at the retarded Colombians – one of the primary U.S. proxy states in the region - after they engaged in a few military activities on other countries soil. In other news – whalers shot a protesting environmentalist cunt. I hope we will see more such things in the future. Too bad he didn’t die. He should not have worn a Kevlar vest. Blood drained from aging pigs. Marches – protests – useless, puny; vile displays of… perceived self-importance… the value of a vote… is nil.

Gordon Brack (Brown) was much displeased to learn of some anti-war people being mean to people wearing uniform. Like it is a serious thing; soldiers should be able to deal with the psychological stress of such harassment. They are paid killers of course, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but let’s not use some stupid fashionable words to avoid the clash between this and the liberal-democratic conception of rights, and especially human rights.

Israel must be pushed into the ocean… shoved off the continent… and back to where it should have been in the first place… New York City. See what I did there? Anti-Semitic joke. Funny, wasn’t it? Especially if you are a Jew, right? The corrupt and evil Zionist psychosis organisation American Israel Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC) is dedicated to securing that the Hezbollah TV-station be designed a terrorist organisation… it’s crucial to prevent your opponent from providing information that disagrees with your own propaganda. The U.S. accused China of increasing their military spending. It was said that “their spending is much higher than the official numbers show”, something that is ironic given the fact that the U.S. Department of Defence spending is partially kept secret (20-30% of spending earmarked for ‘black’ projects) and away from independent book-keeping, and on top of that dispelling parts of the actual DoD budget on other government departments, to make it seem smaller than it really is. Some estimate that the practical budget for 2008 will be moving in on $1 trillion dollars.

Rehased notions of dreams; combat the lack of creativity.

Speaking of dreams, last night I had a nice vivid dream, one of those long ones that seem like they are different dreams woven together. It found myself on a field by a muddy slope down towards a stream. It’s one of those local streams that have no real names, but everyone just call it The Stream. I was not alone; a former friend I haven’t seen in many years was there with me. He was doing something down in the water, maybe digging for clams or trying to capture the small freshwater fish not yet killed by some oil spill with his hands. I look up at the sky, dark clouds coming in from the west. “It looks like we’ll get rain”, I tell him, but I don’t think he hears, he’s caught up in the mud digging.

After a while, he turns to me and vomits out a flat uninterested “what?” I tell him it looks like we’ll get rain or something. A cold breeze comes in from the west, northwest to be precise, and embraces us, rattling the browning leafs in the trees growing in the swampy vicinity of the stream. “Yeah, yeah”, he says, “we’ll get going soon enough, nothing to worry about.” He has a camera around his neck, one of those old analogue ones. History. This scenario smells like 1995.

Eventually he tires of whatever he’s doing, photographing earthworms in the wet mud, maybe, and we get on two bikes. It doesn’t look like the bike I used to have, it’s blue and red, a paradoxical political intercourse; and we pedal across the field and across the dirt road by the school that leads up to the old military ammunitions storage they downsized some ten years ago. As we cross the school yard and I encounter a peculiar notion of nostalgia, a vague memory from long ago, it begins to snow from the darkening skies. It’s not cold at all, it’s warm, summer time, yet from the sky the purest snow ever, white like virginity, and it doesn’t melt as it hits the ground, it lands like volcanic ash, and our bikes leave a trail.

We take the path through the woods, it does not look like it does in reality; it isn’t paved and it passes on a narrow ledge above a marsh full of tropical-looking ferns, highly odd looking for this region in reality. But it is a dream, so I do not reflect on this, I merely absorb the feeling in the air, a notion on unreality, a strangeness and relief of being not-me ever-present in my dreams. We come out of the forest, and follow a narrow road up to a large house.

I guess you might say it looks like something out of a bad horror movie; it’s Dreams In The Witch-house, and this is the witch-house in Arkham; the walls weathered and in demand or urgent attention, but none has cared for many years. He hands me a camera, my former friend, says something I don’t register and walks up to the door. I follow, insecurely – or maybe that is just my real perception of what I would have done were it not a dream? – and we walk up a set of stairs that lead to a door inside the house; apparently it is arranged with partitions, i.e. a block of flats. An old lady opens- my maternal grandmother, strangely- though in this dream she is my former friends’ mother, nothing else. “It’s coming!” she says, “It’s coming to town! Let’s get up on the roof!” And on the roof the view is spectacular, despite the chilling rain that has now replaced the volcanic-ash-snow, and despite (or because of?) the horrific thunder and the flashes of lightning, purple and orange, white and blue, green and yellow. It’s raining immensely, and the wind has picked up, it’s hard to see for my hair gets in my eyes. “There it is!” she screams, and amongst the buildings towards the city – which looks strangely Japanese, must be my weeaboo traits playing a trick on me – I can see it, a tornado.

It’s a grey funnel that now reaches down from the clouds, and we hear the noises it makes as it shatters windows and entire buildings down in the valley; it seems we are on a ridge of sort, which looks nothing like anything I’ve seen in real life. The cityscape is not that of my usual City-of-Dreams, either. “What if it comes this way?” my former friend asks my maternal grandmother-gone-his-mother, “shouldn’t we try to find someplace more secure to hold out? Why do we stand on the roof?” And his mother tells him that the view is the best from up here. “What about the security risk?” And she says with great certainty that it will not hurt us, that it knows “respect”.

“Capture it”, my former friend says as we are riding a boat down a narrow channel by small wooden houses surrounded with lush greenery. I hold a camera and I can see the tornado sweeping through distant neighbourhoods through its zoom lens. I click a few times, capture a few pictures.

Suddenly, we are surrounded by ruins. Everywhere caved in homes and pulverised concrete, here and there still standing structures, partially collapsed homes, a burning school; it’s still raining, and it seems to be turning towards night. A dead body floats in the waterway behind us.

I am alone in the little boat. It looks like a kayak of sorts. I drift along a beach in the darkness, it’s still a bit windy and every now and the salty ocean spray come into my mouth. And I feel depressed; drifting alone along a shoreline lined with abandoned and collapsed hotels. But at the same time, it is a strong moment, the kind of moment when you take a deep breath and reflect upon how awesome the surroundings really are. Then there was something about a library, and then I woke up smiling, so glad I had a dream–

Let’s get curious.

There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused, and my utter indifference to it, I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis, my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing.

And the sun never sets on the Queen’s vast empire. I don’t… understand what it is you are doing here. Is there something on your mind, something you’d like to share? I can’t really write at this time, too tired, I ought to sleep, but alas, laziness has got the better of me.

I can hear it. The tapping on the windows, the paws in the snow; the tracks I found this morning on the roof outside my window; I know it was here, watching me with hungry eyes. But it is not foolish. It does not just act on whims. It’s cold and calculates its every move in advance. I walk through the dark and I feel a certain presence, a lurking horror waiting to consume me. Slashed pectoral fins on gables; this is a fish market of horrors, shark fin soup and even whale meat, even though whales are not fishes, though the writers of the Bible thought so.

Maybe it’s a dragon, it’s that lunatic from Unexplained Mysteries, “draconic chronicler”, who thinks dragons are responsible for many unresolved disappearances around the world every year; it’s that retarded guy writing about the “money matrix” with his zero knowledge of economy and the workings of currencies—and quite what I am saying I am unsure, but I guess it goes into the category of hatred & bigotry. Winter storms in China leave people stranded on railway stations in the cold and BBC thinks it’s some sort of horrible disaster, reflecting that it somehow suggest that the CPC is losing their edge—

Jan-Ove Sundberg updated his Swedish website. He does that a bit more often than he updates the English version; and sometimes a tad bit differently. Sundberg is deranged, I can assure you; the man has problems that rival those of many members of the Church Cult of Scientology. He chases after little girls and boys with his pompous speak about sea monsters after giving away all his old UFO material from his old days. Now he says any whale carcass is a gigantic prehistoric turtle or aquatic lizard. But of course, that rotten carcass with some sections hardened by the torrid rays of the summer sun must be a armoured monstrosity. It cannot be something prosaic, because that’s so mundane.

This one time, Sundberg tried loosing weight by taking some deadly pills that gave him diarrhoea, so he didn’t want to continue. Who wants to spend every day thinking of where the closest toilet is? I know I don’t, and that’s basically my life. Great, isn’t it, a punishment well served, wouldn’t you say? “Karma”, you might say, or the good ole’ “Some God punish immediately”. I kind of feel sad for Sundberg. Life can’t be easy on him. He is kind of crazy, but in a sad way, and he can’t help but threaten people when they write things about him he doesn’t like, he can’t help but try to pretend he’s some other people and try to insult them—I guess it cannot be helped. I wish he’d be more a reasonable fellow.

This one time, when I wrote of him and his site, he was very offended once he found out and resorted to trying to impersonate various people and commenting, saying things like how I was some ex-Norwegian Bigfoot-investigator from San Francisco and how I should be locked up.

Of course, he doesn’t compare to the crazy guy who threatened to kill me because I said a distant army-friend of his was a complete and utter moron… Humans, such pesky little bastards, always relapsing into this primal stage—fail like Invader Zim and whatever those degenerate retards like those days, maybe it’s some new crappy MMORPG—anyone who plays WoW should be shot, I could repeat that mantra forever.

I swallowed a litre of vitriol and slept in a barn full of wives
when morning came i emptied my colon on the cows
so many things to do, so little time
my every morning a ceaseless yearning, time to crack up
Snuck out and raped the willows lemon smell, to my surprise
I shat myself… no worries or qualms, I had my reserve,
Kept my calm through eerie moonless night & rage

Horrible story of failing death fail.

This story is utter shite.

Disease.

“Life is like watching TV”, a person once said, “a rubbish channel full of unendurable sitcoms and saturated with commercials blipping by every twenty seconds. You cannot record it to a tape or a DVD; you can’t fast forward or skip any segments. You have to endure it all. But at the end of the ride you freak out and look for the rewind button, but it’s far too late and before you know it, it’s all over.” Maybe it’s true; maybe it’s just a heap of rubbish that doesn’t really mean anything. Then again, what exactly isn’t a heap of rubbish that really doesn’t mean anything? Any meaning is purely illusory. Any purpose is purely a figment of mans imagination, a fictional adventure that never quite takes off.

You don’t know who you are, and no matter how many things you might come to try, you never will be sure—except that time you manage to convince yourself that you do know, that it is no longer a mystery, that it all makes sense now.Or maybe life is more like a gigantic roundabout, twenty different roads to take and no signage or signals whatsoever. You can guess, take the fast lane, take the lane which most people take, you can do whatever feels “right”, but in the end, it does not matter, it makes no real difference; all the roads are lined with deadly traps and other dangers, all the roads offer views of the exact same vista, picturesque flower gardens full of homeless people and withering trees poisoned by the salt-saturated ground. And you mean absolutely nothing.

As the Jante law commands, so shall you live:

1. Don’t think that you are special.
2. Don’t think that you are of the same standing as us.
3. Don’t think that you are smarter than us.
4. Don’t fancy yourself as being better than us.
5. Don’t think that you know more than us.
6. Don’t think that you are more important than us.
7. Don’t think that you are good at anything.
8. Don’t laugh at us.
9. Don’t think that anyone cares about you.
10. Don’t think that you can teach us anything.

No, it’s not up to you. It does not matter what you want. Your want is unimportant; it’s as foolish and ridiculous as religion. I want to destroy you. I want to make that very clear; my heart will only be at rest when my work here is done; my work, my work to destroy humanity. Hateful, bigoted; a narcoleptic masturbates and ejaculates on the third floor above the smelly store selling fresh fishes while watching TV in his room, lit by the neon on the opposite side of the street, neon advertising prostitution—“liberty”, you say, “liberty was always the most important thing in the whole world” – let the drunkards get drunk till their livers collapse, it’s their choice! “It’s their body, their decision,” you say, I say, shut up, kill yourself. Spare me the effort of having you eradicated.

No more, mother, stop this, no more, not another second, unendurable, my eyes they itch, I claw at them with the ferocity of a wild beast, help is none, my thought patterns make no sense, an endless stream of suggestive imagery, erotic grotesque nonsense; imagine laying on a deserted beach at sunrise and have your throat slit by a masked man in a diving suit. I really cannot form any sentences of any coherence today. Excuse me. Kuomintang wins Taifail elections, U.S. war with Iran draws closer, all the presidential candidates for the U.S. election are absolutely deranged psychopaths – Halley’s Comet, meteor fragments, Tunguska, M5, M34, Inner Ring Road, Manchester, Massachusetts, Extinction Events, ANC sucks, Zuma is one crazy idiot who believes showering after a rape will shield him from HIV—

A disgusting “market” in India burns, and I rejoice. India needs to burn, the entire nation set alight, a beautiful fire, a blazing show, such a gorgeous inferno. I could make love to you while we’ll watch a DVD collection of George Bush’s stunning public displays of his oratory skill. Tony Blair’ has run out of anti-aging pills since he became an enemy of Weiner, oh that pesky Weiner and his World Control Scheme – there’s no NWO, there’s only a Weather Control Device and a Time Machine – Weiner does no longer need the services of Tony Blair, as such, he no longer has access to the secret medicines needed for him to stop aging. His true age is now obvious. Sixty eight years counting, a grey-haired and weathered wreck of a man, once a strong figure with strength behind his words reduced to a mere lame-duck puppet—

Reality, reality, nonsense. Get a life. You say that a person that is not a virgin has nothing to say. To lose ones virginity is maturity, you think so? Kill yourself. Die in a fire. All hope is lost. Hope is per definition a delusion. Negativity, oh my, never would have guessed. Taifail, Tinfoil, conspiracy nuts, death to Ron Paul, 9/11 Truth movement, oh so many idiots abound, will it ever end, this avalanche of dreadful failure, intelligent design no way, ha-ha!

I’ll play you against one-another. It’s all in the game. There is no life after death.

I’d sooner slit my wrists and risk discovery of hell

than stay another moment here where certain devils dwell

Vanity.

When deciding what to write, it’s important to sit down and contemplate what one really wants to have said. I find this very difficult, because there is nothing I want to have said, there is nothing I want to have done other than humanity completely eliminated. Consequently, finding a subject which to treat is exceedingly difficult, as I rather not deal with some inane personal travesties. Writing about oneself would be even more uninteresting than what I am currently writing, you know, more uninteresting than crazy political commentary and wacko fundamentalist anti-religious hate-songs mixed up with endorsement of historical authoritarian leaders. However, lately I have had the misfortune of observe the communiqués of some shallow sex-fixated people, and thusly, I’d like to take this moment to discuss with you the unimportance of sex.

Western society is extremely fixated on the concept of sexual intercourse. In fact, it is often seen as an introduction into adulthood to lose ones virginity; and amongst the degenerate youth, the number of sex partners is directly related to the social status: the more sexual encounters, the higher the person will be found in the social hierarchy. Being a prostitute is not so much frowned upon as it used to be, though thankfully the act of offering vain services of pleasure for a charge is still heavily stigmatised; there is however a repulsive number of pro-prostitution lobbyist organisations, representing some brain-dead harlots that gladly sacrifice their bodies for the sexual gratification of others in order to receive material rewards; either money or simply enjoying the act of sex.

Pleasure is irrelevant. Pleasure brings nothing; enjoyment is unimportant, undesirable even; continued reproduction and creation of new offspring is the most disgusting and diseased act to dedicate oneself to. Every child should hold his or her parents responsible for the most atrocious of crimes ever, the birthing of new life, the creators of pain and unendurable suffering. Abortion needed, not voluntary, a requirement, a must; no child shall ever again be born, no new human life upon this planet shall be created, artificially or naturally, no difference, loathsome all the same; I reject it, I reject sexual intercourse; the retards say that I am “just jealous”; they can think whatever they want, I hold my principles dear, and I do not part from them in any way apart from in frenzied fantasy.

Last night I dreamt of a dark world subdued by endless raining and war, murderous legions of the undead, Zombies, were walking all over the world, and in the mines and on the beaches I had to fight my way through a mindless shooting game with a rubbish Ayn Rand Rifle that constantly would jam. It looked similar to a Sturmgewehr 44, in general, though it did not feature automatic fire and its magazines contained only 12 bullets. As I shot down the zombies I heard Ayn Rand’s annoying voice, unintelligible at times due to her horrid accent, ranting on about how atoms don’t exist because she personally thinks man is a holy creation that cannot really be made out of tiny parts. “Tiny parts forming a whole is a collectivist notion”, she said in my dream, “each part insignificant on its own, but together forming a functioning whole; this simply cannot be! This is the work of rotten Marxist criminals!”

Anyway, back to the subject of sex. Sex is loathsome. Why? Pleasure is loathsome. Emotional or physical fulfilment is loathsome. You do not matter. You make no difference. Your work, your actions, they mean absolutely nothing, you are temporary, insignificant, you have no real impact. Your thoughts and your philosophies, they mean nothing, and all things ever created amount to absolutely nothing. And while I at times wish for better things for the world, for myself, and for all people in the world, I know this is not the way to go; nothing can cure my situations, nothing can correct my bitterness; they tried to put me on anti-depressants, but it did not make me feel any better.I don’t want sex.

I reject sex. I reject existence, all of ours existence, I reject human nature as an evolutionary mistake. Just my personal delusions, you say, just another one of those attention whores, one of those pesky “emo-kids” or whatever, I’m just some “holier-than-thou douche bag”. But I’m not holier than you. I’m a deranged lunatic, I’m a failure in every way imaginable, I’m a transsexual, a cross-dressing wacko, anti-religious psychopathic; and did I tell you that even I sometimes give in to the sick desire for self-satisfaction? We are all rotten. We must be destroyed. We must be cleansed. We are apples full of worms rotting in the summer sun; we are intestines full of worms and deadly micro-organisms; we are disgusting, we deserve no existence.

I reject love, I reject emotions, all emotion deranged fantasies, I see people hugging and being affectionate and I want to destroy, I want to fire up the ovens and I want to burn. Such vitriol, such bigotry, such spiteful ignorance and intolerance I present, and I am so absolutely aware of it. To destroy is much easier than to correct and work out in other ways. It is a simple solution to a problem of such a massive scale and scope that no other solution is even possible for our feeble minds. A race of superior alien intellects could possible do a good job and master us with collars of thorns, but the likelihood of this ever happening is basically zero.

Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery is torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything else we shall destroy, everything. Already we are breaking down the habits of thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now.

There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipotent we shall have no more need of science. There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always — do not forget this, Winston — always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — for ever.’ –Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four

Visions of Dreamscape.

And suddenly in front of me there is a huge lake; never was there a lake here before, this is in the forest on the way home from school, and now… a gigantic lake. We stand on the path which once used to take us home, but now there is only a large lake, hundreds of metres across, along the shore of which children play with their kindergarten teachers, and on the quiet surface a boat passes by, sending waves in our direction. What the hell happened here? Was Al Gore right after all, did the ocean surface of the world rise forty metres overnight? We walk a long the shore and catches a glimpse of a group of drunken youths sitting by a campfire. The sun is high in the sky above, it’s April, maybe May, and it’s still too cold to go swimming, but here on the beach which was once a local ridge in a vast forest, a group of chavs sit and drink like it’s the Friday evening at the end of time – and maybe, just maybe, that is just what it is.

I am in a car. It’s raining. “It’s been raining for two days straight…” my maternal grandmother says. “It just never seems to end.” And from the puddles, and from the lake in the forest, I can’t help but wonder if it has been raining for three years. My grandmother drives like crazy, splashing through puddles, lakes, on the road and taking turns at far too high speeds. It’s a winding mountain road, unlike anything I have ever seen before; the road looks anything but Swedish. Paradoxically, our surroundings are bucolic villages and unexploited forests and rugged cliffs; houses painted Falu-Red, roads lined with country stores selling goods from local farms, this is not 2008, this is 1904. My grandmothers old 50’s car is a time machine. From the floor I pick up a telephone book. “1904?” I say. I didn’t know they had concrete and asphalt paved roads in the early 1900’s, but nonetheless…

A telephone call from a stranger, my grandmother picks up her cell, says something I don’t manage to hear, I guess I don’t care, but while doing so she misses a curve, we head out over the edge, through some wet rain-soaked bushes, and onto… onto a concrete roadway, a 1930’s autobahn hidden in a Swedish 1900’s forest; time paradox if anything, where the hell is it we are? The most important question, when are we? – A fragment from Back to the Future, reaching back through the ages. The road has clear white road markings, but seems to have been closed off, but there are other cars on the rainy road today, this rainy grey day, lightning lights the sky, it’s evening, maybe four or so, still May I’d say, and my grandmother says, “Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright, I was aiming for this very road.”

We get off the 1930’s rustic concrete autobahn with no central barrier and road markings stolen from Nagoya, pass by a 1940’s rural post office, and turn up a muddy unpaved lane to a big red house. Falu-Red again, brick excess. Three people stand at the door, apparently ringing the bell, as our car stops. “Who the hell are those?” Axel says. Axel is here? What the hell? I cannot help but feel so extraordinarily confused. What the hell is this insanity unfolding before my eyes? We get out of our car, it’s not raining anymore, but the sky is still ever grey. “Must be some telemarketers”, my grandmother replies to Axels query. “Well, door salesmen, I guess. Telemarketers don’t exist yet.” Tell me about it.

Something faintly familiar about that dress, that timid smile, such a confused out-of-place look on his face, and as it falls upon my heart like some asteroid or minor planet impact, I find myself so very confused. Kei? The black hair, the matching black and white dress, the stockings—I know where this is going, and I don’t like it very much. I try to say something as we walk up towards the figures at the door, but it’s impossible.

Change of scene. It’s a dark room, and we are alone. Him and me. No one else. I say something, I don’t know exactly what, but he can’t hear me. He turns his heels, sets course for the big double door. He increases speed, he runs, and I run after him, I scream something, but he does not hear, he ignores; it’s all the same, always, never nothing real, nothing matters ever, all boil down to the same churning pain, the same pressure in the chest, like a submarine volcano hides in there, building up pressure, soon we are ready, eruption my friend, spoil the world with hot lava, let the larvae burn. The doors close before I get to them.

I’m back at the car, outside the red house. It’s only me this time. He stands alone at the door, he looks at me, smiles; maybe he does see me after all? I walk up to him, but being unable to say anything, I just hug him. I cling to him. He walks without any trouble, I’m just a pestilent tick; a tiny nuisance. It’s as if I don’t exist. I cling to his back as he walks in to the kitchen and talks to my grandmother who sits there; apparently they also had plenty electric lights and kitchen appliances of the same kind as in the 1990’s in 1904. I whisper in his ear. Where do you come from? Take me with you. Take me away from here, I beg you. I want only you.

And he disappears. One second he is there, the other not. Gone. Not a single trace to be found. I look at their faces; I ask my grandmother and Axel something, they just say, “What are you talking about?” He was here, now he never was.

I’m back at the car. At the door, he appears again. The second time. I run towards him. I close my eyes and run, hit my head in something, and open them. A dark steel wall now towers up ahead of me, thirty stories tall and longer than eternity it stretches, impassable… everything so impossible, hope the first step on the road to disappointment; why do I bother even, why not just resign from life, give up, give in to the S in Suicide, so to say; references, references, The Torture Garden, vicious is life, six billion brain dead lunatics burning pictures of themselves in effigy, salvation just a joke, everything is nothing, importance of axioms…

I am at a table in a shopping centre in the downtown of my City of Dreams. The city which has no name; all names I can think of does not fit it, it’s Swedish in nature, it looks Swedish, all the districts have Swedish names… but something is different about it, it’s urban structure is nothing like anything Swedish ever was, there’s none of that mediocrity, none of that half-done and resigned atmosphere; along the industrial harbour a elevated motorway passes, nothing like that would ever have gotten past the drawing board in real Sweden. The city’s large and this shopping centre is bustling with life, I’ve been here before, in a past dream, It’s great to be back, it’s just on the edge of the old town, a few blocks east of the City Hall. We’re at a cheap McDonalds or something similar, a burger bar, and he is with me, on the opposite side of the table he sits, handsome as ever and no matter how gloomy reality is I feel fine for a mere fifteenth of a second.

The U.S. Elections does not bother me any more, there are no more worries of what mentally sick Ron Paul fans might do, all I feel is… ethereal fulfilment… temporary satisfaction… mortal sins in my book, but I just don’t care for that short second. He looks at me, so playfully, so not-real… a tear in my eye he wipes off with his silk gloves, he smiles and the world collapses in on itself, a gravitational singularity of awesomeness, kiss me, I say, kiss me, kiss me now and he does, he does, he kissed me, we kissed, and the world emerges from primordial soup and misty meteor shower… different, somehow, every colour enhanced, so clear, so alive, never so alive before, and I peek out the window, and despite the still falling rain it is the best day on dream-earth ever, may it never stop, may it never change back to reality… may it always forever be recurring…

The water rising in the forest lake, I don’t care, the world on the edge of nuclear war, and I just don’t care, I’m apathetic, you deserve nuclear war, you mortals from the realm of reality, your sensibilities offend me, you and your pesky Marijuana habit, you and your sex-addiction, you slattern, your trivial job piling boxes at Wal-Mart and testing rubbish games for Activision, you mean nothing… I am nothing… but for just one instant, I don’t care. Then the wondrous dream-word dissolves: the glittering green glass of the skyscrapers of downtown Dreamville, the commieblocks of the suburbs and the McDonalds and his pleased smile… it dissolves, dissolves into nothing, dissolves into reality.

And I wake up. It’s 03:20 – three in the morning that is, in case twenty-four hour clock confuses you – and I go to my computer and write it down, a horrid story from start to finish, a nightmare undulation throughout the universe; it’s time for New Year celebrations, it’s the last day of 2007… and I long to 2012, when Cthulhu again shall awaken and rule over his subjects and remove the pesky humans from power.

Corona Mundi.

We found a silent soothing world wherin there was no pain. A world without mothers or fathers. We would make a circle bound by flesh and blood and water and only when we felt our lungs betray us would we rise towards the light. –Anonymous

The town is almost completely silent, but I do not have much time to reflect upon it as I am chased. By what I am not quite sure, but I still run like there’s no tomorrow. There’s no need for second thoughts now. It always strikes me as odd how much I actually want to live in times when danger and death lurks two lanes behind me. The dark cobblestone lanes lined with poorly kept wooden houses towering on both sides have always been scary to me, now that my high-heels click against the wet surface of the uneven cobblestones I can’t help but feel annoyed. As I cross a larger street I cast my eyes downwards and then I see my mortal enemy. It looks like a cloud of fire, moving with obvious determination and agility unseen in elements such as fire under normal conditions.

Something is extremely off here. I hurry across the wide street and continue along yet another anonymous alleyway. Most houses are dark and unlit; the only light is that of the moon watching from a high position in the sky above like some all-seeing-eye. Every once in a while I pass a door outside of which some small light is still on, illuminating some commercial sign or something similar. Sometimes the faint glow of the distant fire pursuing me reaches for me, sometimes when I round a corner I see my own shadow in the warm orange light and I know it’s constantly gaining on me. How much longer can I keep on running?

The night is cold, and things are silent. Or maybe they just seem silent to me because I’m off somewhere inside my head, focusing on other things, like how to get away from this annoying fire, rather than keeping my ears alerted to sounds. Eventually I learn that I am not the only one on the run tonight, as I see some frightened people spy out through their windows; and every once in a while I hear the sound of distant steps against the wet cobblestone lanes.

Is this the end of the world? What is going on here, tonight? I run up a hill, at the top of which there is a church on a soaring embankment. The church is the tallest structure in town, and from its top one has a splendid view during day time. But now is not the time for some leisurely stopover. I walk up the steps to the door and I see there are more of us congregating here for safety tonight. The big rigid tree doors I move aside and step in, and in a line behind me there follow a few scared and shocked folks fearing for their lives.

The doors close and I walk over to the priest, who sits down before a pile of burning rubble at the front row, just below the benevolent statue of Jesus looking down from the cross. “You shouldn’t have approved the project”, I say, “You shouldn’t have let them go through with it. You knew this was going to happen one way or another.”

“I tried”, he says, “I really did, you know? You don’t have to believe me, but I did all I could to stop the project. But they just wouldn’t heed my advice, and now, look what a mess they’ve gotten us into! The spirits are not pleased with the result. They say we will all have to pay. My prayers have no result. They’re not listening to me. It’s like I don’t even exist to them. I don’t know what will happen to us now, or if there’s any hope left for us.”

“What should we do?” some anonymous face in the crowd asks worriedly.

“I don’t know…” the priest says, and I hear how the crowd sighs. I guess they are too used to listening to the guidance of others to think for themselves, to contemplate the various options they might have. Maybe it’s just a question of time before I do something foolish without thinking and vanish in the firestorm like I don’t know how many others. From beyond the rigid stone walls of the church – now lit by not only the fire but also numerous candles lit all around the room, some carried by people – one could hear the haunting screams of the damned.

“Will you all just try to calm down”, the priest begins, but is interrupted by an ear-deafening roar of something—a something that sounded very large and very dangerous. The ground shook and it felt like a massive freight train was approaching. Then it happened, like something out of a movie, a slow-motion scene; the wall blew open as if by some detonation, and in through the crack there came the most blasphemous beasts I’ve ever seen. The head was that of a crawfish; two long arms with frightening claws, attached to a seven-legged head, followed by a monstrous snake-like body with massive triangular scales. Its colour was ghastly pale, white with a hint of pink, although it might have been the candles in the room that made it appear that way.

It only took a few seconds. It uttered a shrill sound and in a violent spasm it had caught two arm civilians in its deadly claws that quickly cut deep into their supple flesh. Their screams died out quickly, and some time later the claws were red with their spilled blood.

“We cannot stay here!” the priest shouted out and tried to make people calm down. But when there’s a 100 foot monster snake with a half crawfish for head it is no easy pursuit.

“Where else should we go?” someone shouts as some other runs for the door.

“Up,” he says, “up, into the tower.”

“What if they come after us?” a concerned voice asks.

“The door big door is made of metal, and so they won’t follow us that way. If those things really want to, I assume they could raze the church completely, but the way I see it, there’s not much else we can do.”

Some heads nod in agreement, and the priest run over to the door. The two crawfish beasts are busy consuming two lost fellows. Blood spilled all over the floor. One guy in white shirt has red on him. He is quick with the keys even in this moment of horror, and locks the sturdy steel door when every person who wants to has entered. A few stays. Some are still bent on going outside. Fire starts spreading over the furniture, over the tree-seats and the red carpet (red like blood), probably from all the candles the ugly monstrosities knocked down.

The walk up the bell tower is tedious. It’s almost 300 feet to the roof, a good 25 stories or so, and when you’re walking up a crowded and narrow spiral staircase, every step and every movement seems to take millennia. During our quest for the roof, we are incessantly assaulted by the terrified screams of people outside. The poorly isolated walls and the intermittent windows lining the walk up the tower makes it easy to overhear the stupendous vain cries for help ejected with the final breath of some unfortunate souls.

We pass by the idle church bell. A few further steps up a weathered set of wooden flight of stairs and we reach the flat roof of the church tower. Some rubbish lies around, a few moving boxes and in a corner there stands what looks like an old forgotten piano. The stars are clear and bright as ever. All around town I see fires burning, and from everywhere in the morass below of fire and pain there are the agitated screams of dying thousands reach up to our windswept rooftop; our sanctuary.

Thunderous noises abroad, the lights of a million fires painting the scattered clouds on the eastern horizon orange, looming hauntingly as they approach slowly, driven by the gusts of salty wind blowing in from the channel. And I feel like I don’t know how this will end. Why am I here, on this rooftop, in this burning city of sin; and was there anything I could have done differently? My feet ache. Twenty-five stories worth of stairs in high heels is a form of torture.

The Failure that Ended the World.

It’s a silent night, the world below the sky dyed by the full yellow moon; the silence only occasionally interrupted by the roar of a moped or car starting some distance away; maybe on the motorway or by the petrol station; underneath the small freezing clouds that drift by at the whims of the wind, the city dreams wordlessly, the relaxed brains contemplating and organising the events of the day that has now escaped. The old principal of the local school, who used to beat his daughter some twenty odd years ago, can not sleep tonight, and neither can the deranged old woman with short red hair who used to have a small shop selling textile supplies. There is a difference between them, however; one is a pensioner, and spends her days painting pictures and sewing things for her friends, the other is head of a shadowy organisation. He is the highest ranking member of the local freemason lodge, and he, like the old woman, is a believer in the power of the moon and stars to influence our emotions and actions.

He believes in this for radically different reasons, however; for he is in possession of knowledge regarding organisms entirely alien to this planet and indeed this entire wing of the galaxy. He found out about it only a week ago. Higher ups, on the international level of the strict hierarchical organisation, had known about it long before – or so it was rumoured – but it was not until Frederick Hayek was shot outside his apartment and his mourning wife told the police that the rumours started to spread. The police, which had very good relations to the local lodge and many members in its midst, decided to keep the lid on. However, the rumours quickly spread within the freemason organisation, and soon it was known to most local high-degree members of the fabled fraternal organisation.

Since then, he had found it hard to sleep. The vague rumours presented to him in a document he retrieved from a locked vault in the darkest sub-basement of the United Lodge Library in Stockholm had left him terrified. From what was said in the paper – vague as though it was – it would seem some sort of invasion was being planned by those extra-terrestrial beings, which throughout the years had been in contact with the Masonic movement, all the way back to the 10^_th century. He had stolen the document, brought it back to his office at the school, and went home.

That was a week ago. Yesterday, he received a phone call from a man who sounded quite annoyed. He had told him of how the end of the world was coming and coming soon; for under the illumination of the full moon the beasts would launch their invasion; from high up they would descend upon their unknowing victims, and there would be no escape. The man said there was nothing for him to do but to prepare. The lodge masters of the highest degree, those who frequented the international lodge meetings, had known of this for long time and wilfully collaborated with the devilish starspawn. Now, they had decided to stop humanity; they had heard the recent rumours of how Homo sapiens were planning to establish a currency for use in space. The annoyed man said they knew he had taken the document from the vault, but that it didn’t matter. “They’re coming tonight. At three, look up at the moon.”

Then, he had hung up. The clock on the VCR underneath his television, in crystalline display – the best modern technology could muster for an affordable price – shewed that the clock was only five minutes to three. He sat up slowly and cautiously, so as to not rouse his sleeping wife, and walked downstairs, and into the backyard. In the backyard there stood a mighty tree, fully three centuries old, that he a few years ago had not found it in his heart to cut down. As he recalled these sentimental memories, he looked up at the star strewn sky, feeling gloomy and hopeless as he realised his own insignificance and inability to stop the invasion and the terror that would follow. The details he did not yet know.

And now, as he looks up at the sky, he can see them. Black shadows visible against the moon and stars, descending upon Tellus like a swarm of locusts upon a field of maize. Now, he knows the hour has come for the human race – so many billion things left undone! So many billion hours of pain left unfelt! The light of mans cities would crease radiating their beautiful spectre of light into the universe, no longer would people fall in love, no longer would there be a species known as homo sapiens; a billion books burned on giant bonfires, six thousand years of collected knowledge – all for nothing, lost like the Christmas dinner of ‘05. And not a single tear would be shed, no extraterrestrial entities would be sorry for mans disappearance. A billion protoplasmic funguses prepared for unthinkable celebrations.

They would be grateful.