westid

i saw this machine, something babbage dozed off and saw in his dreams. probably forgot about it before he could get anything down. i don’t think time had elapsed for it to be steam punk it was generally just a massive old machine. the effects of it were massive; there is a clever three-key mechanism to switch it on, no mechanism appears to have been bothered about viz. a way to switch it off. redundant from us all being mortal, very disasterous connotations to its function, something un-necessary if the only ambition of every human being is simply to live; as with most things that have the opposite effect of life, very apparant in that its effects are mutually assured.

whatever fictional place this was, the fantastically extravagant workings of this machine had at its very heart three keys. one given to three versions of myself. their general attitude toward one another, gives me the general observation that they were very deliberately chosen. they all looked like me but i didn’t recognise any of them, and they certainly didn’t appreciate one another. the only clue as to what sort of a man each of them were, was the same as what the machine [although it was pretty obviously sinister as fuck] beautiful etchings in the metal plate one-word above them. moving in closer, i felt fucking sick when i happened across them. probably would have give you nothing to work with, but i saw there everything i needed to know about this machine and what it did

contrivance
your favourite pen that has driven your creativity since fuck knows when, but every first page you write is derivative at best and you will never tell yourself another story again

redundancy
as the dandelion essence, the freezer, the product, the dopamine. the voyeur gives you the uncertainty and doubt in everything you do in a world that does not need you any more

apostasy
no matter how powerful a penance, it’s still some sort of pathetic solace after all these years, that this one is always the last one to go. but this has gone on for long enough, and the denial – as romantic it seems to hold onto this write-off tachycardia heart that meant something for a bit, for some mad reason that you just can’t believe is worth putting yourself through the fucking mangle to keep the fire alive any more

and so the three versions of me, simultaneously lit up this caboret of chaos, such a noble title they were given for the task: “turners of the keys” – it was loud, it shook the ground beneath me, it shook the real world awaiting awakening, everyone ran like fuck but i knew there was no point – nowhere anyone could flee toward would be able to escape the grasp of what begins to happen now. the thing is though, i’ve seen this before. i know what happens next. i just didn’t think it would once again be. it’s turning down, the rite, the pallid plummet. destination: the abyss. incoming – brace for impact, and prepare to be boarded. the zoned out stare into nothing detached me from all my feelings. and what a good moment to be fair, because there’s nothing like this moment. and there’s never anyone there