All throughout these decisions are choices that people made through the summation of previous experiences in their apparent perceived lives. If you call this falling domino effect fate, then free will itself does not exist, and habits are the hardest of all to break. Habits are ingrained parts of a person’s psyche and where they seek comfort. In order to break someone’s habit you have to shatter their reality, and even then, that person might still end up right back where they started. The action does no more than put a bandage on a gaping laceration.

When does one person decide to help another? To what effect do they decide to help each other out?

Is the help out of pity? Then it is sympathetic in nature.
Is the help out of compassion? Then it is empathetic in nature.
Is the help out of regret? Then it is commiserative in nature.
Is there no help? Then it is apathetic in nature.

The more emotional vesting one person has in another, the more ‘caring’ they will show towards the person in need. What is this apparent cost of caring? Emotional vesting is directly proportionate to the distance two individuals have. These are distances in space and time. As the distance becomes greater the caring becomes less until caring becomes an afterthought requiring effort, which is an inconvenience to most. If you do not care effortlessly, then others call you insincere in your caring.

There is one decision that most people tend to overlook. That decision is when to stop caring if they started at all. Akin to coming out of a hangover, there is no gradient from one extreme to the other. One instant you sit there reeling in gut wrenching guilt, and the next you want to take on the world for all it is worth for new adventures.

This dividing line itself is a silent one, since you cannot seek it out; a silent hidden dividing line between empathy and apathy. When you cross it, all that you know is that you crossed it. Usually you realize you crossed it after the fact never pinpointing when or where you transversed the line. You will not even realize you accepted passing over the line into a new apparent situation. You will just come out on the other side in a different mood or outlook.

Until that time comes when you stop caring, just continue drifting. Drift far and wide for when you completely stop caring, you can start caring yet again. Emotional vesting is not a zero balance account. There is always a balance in there as you receive and give emotional stimuli. However, people set up different accounts and decide to give of themselves to those closest to them. Sadly, there is always a desire as a pack animal, for humans to give of themselves to strengthen the herd.

Fear those who pity you, for they look down upon your weakness.
Fear those who show regret, for they project their past onto you.

Respect those who know you and will not help you, they have their own issues to deal with.

Honor those that show compassion, because they are taking time out to help when they could be anywhere else doing anything else.

Sincelery,
Leo

“All those who will never know of my lust are all those that constantly feel my wrath.”

Its arm with sinuous claw stretches out towards me, and touches my right shoulder before I had a chance to dodge out of the way. Its touch is warm compared to my coldness. Then with energy expended, the arm falls limp to the bamboo mat. The resounding thud, followed by the long drawn out exhale becomes the last sound from that side of the dim hue of the black-lit room.

The silence becomes deafening at this point as regret starts to take hold. Quickly silencing that bloody roar with classical music from the stereo, I reminisce on an evening unfulfilled. In retrospect, tonight chalks up to a poor decision, and nothing more. Irony is that the Noble and Sentimental Waltz from Maurice Ravel fills this room of the dead and the damned.

There will be the need for much explaining come late afternoon, since the dawn has already come. Odd, it would appear that this is now the screenplay for a situational romantic comedy. What went wrong? Habit or convenience? They will all sit around and wonder what went wrong; he seemed like such a nice boy. That is what they’ll say when he vanishes for a while. When he simply goes….

For now, the trusty trench coat will double as a blanket as I will sleep on the air mattress in the other half of the room. For my own protection, I remove the Katana from behind the pillow of the bamboo mat. What little good the Katana did me though. They offer not protection from home invasion, especially when you invite the marauders in.

I do not trust this one; I think I should hold the pair close to my chest while I sleep. A slight churning in my stomach starts to take hold as the room itself becomes dizzy.

Dizzy with a rising hatred from having compromised and succumbed to habit. Dizzy with a wrath gaining up from the bowels of my innards outwards towards the throat. The gag reflex starts to take hold as previously drinking salty tears and smelling flesh of soot and ash overcome the senses. Acid reflux fills my mouth as I force a swallow, one of the last bits of lucidity I remember from the evening. Convenience tastes a lot like bile at this point.

I managed to drink too much, and not enough all at the same time. Yes, I will probably wake up very enraged from this occurrence. Perhaps my dreams will calm me. However, tomorrow probably starts with waking up very angry. Was there any other outcome?

Sincelery,
Leo

If you can’t sell five copies of your CD, how do you justify getting 1000 made?

If you don’t promote your shows, booking three a week won’t make you famous any faster.

If you can’t get the drunk and desperate 35-year-old bar fly who has a permanent spot at the end of the bar to go home with you, don’t even try going for that gorgeous 21-year-old who is only there to see her boyfriend’s crappy band.

If one of those XXL energy drink canisters doesn’t wake you up, you should probably get some sleep.

If you can’t make it heavy in standard tuning, tuning down to G isn’t going to make it any heavier. But it probably will loosen a few bowels. THAT’S metal!

If you can’t squeeze a halfway decent guitar recording out of one microphone, two usually isn’t going to make the situation any better.

Having more than one cover song in your 45-minute set doesn’t prove your “versatility,” it proves your awareness of the fact that people would rather hear someone else’s music than the music they scraped up five bucks to hear and see you play.

If your songs don’t sound good on an acoustic guitar they’ll most likely not sound good on a 7-string plugged into five Marshall stacks (unless, of course you’re pulling out some Tom Morello shit… but chances are you’re not Tom Morello).

If your three-piece band doesn’t sound good, adding a keyboard player, a violinist, a DJ, five backing vocalists, another couple guitar players, an entire horn section, an accordion player, four more percussionists, a xylophone player, a designated screamer, a few dancers, and a huge laser light show won’t make it any better.

If you can’t write a good song with just three chords, don’t expect your songs to magically become brilliant masterworks of music when you throw a few more chords, four guitar solos, and a couple breakdowns in. That being said, if you only use the same three chords for every song you’re going to be boring as hell.

If your amp sucks and your guitar sucks, adding a bunch of distortion pedals and rack gear won’t magically “take the blanket off” your amp.

If you can’t make crappy gear sound decent, you have no right to get good gear.

If you can’t play to begin with, getting a custom guitar and a vintage tube amp won’t magically make you Jimmy Page.

Most importantly: Why are you charging five bucks for your three-song demo you recorded in your living room using the built-in mic on a cassette recorder from 1987 when Clear Channel is blasting the latest Puddle of Mudd and Nickelback turds on 97.9FM at no charge to anyone listening?

If given more emphasis the sighs and winces could become the wails of an opera singer, a black metal singer. Given more puissance, they could even shatter glass windows and frames. Given direction, they could share with the world misery and despair. In its current state, it just sits there on a bamboo mat shivering with skin barely clinging to its raw and ruby flesh. Upon closer inspection, I can see flexible cartilage where both flesh and muscle are no longer present. How much cannibalism has this one done on itself?

If it donned a heliotrope cloak complete with a pewter gothic ankh pendant, and directed the sorrow outward instead of inward then perhaps one would not see the gaping exposing wounds. Instead, it continues to tear away at itself as piles of sinew fall to the floor. The sobbing grows louder now. This situation might require a larger clean up in the future than originally anticipated. If it did don a heliotrope cloak then it would not be here to begin with. Such is irony.

The thought does cross my mind that if the sound of the quiet sobbing is soothing, what about the taste, and what about the smell? Would that quiet the impending river of doom? Would replacing the source for the patterns of the breath, the wince, and the sigh with something else better or worse? Trading sorrow for joy, albeit temporary joy might just be in order.

Cycling through the memories of smell the first that comes to mind is the taste of blood. It is always the first smell that pops into mind with its distinct rust iron color. Cycling past the first memory, I can recall exactly how this will play out if it continues. The flesh will taste of soot and ashes. The tears will resemble salt. The smell will be a combination of stale cigarettes, unkempt hair, and regurgitated alcohol. The experience will be an empty one, and I will not be any better off for it in the end.

A grimace and a smirk flash across my face on a single thought. Why break a bad routine at this point? This time it could be different. This time it could be different since this one will not be like all the others.

That thought is a great rationalization on false hope. This time will be different, because if all the inputs remain exactly the same then the output can be different regardless of what experience taught us. If you learn to recognize the patterns quickly then you can bring yourself to that inevitable end just the same. You can sit back and go along for the ride of your death. Take the guesswork out of the situation and just repeat the process repeatedly. You are a born natural at it now.

Each time you repeat the process you will get better at the systematic tasks. You will hone your skills, and before you know it, being in this situation will be second nature to you. Since it comes so easily, you might even seek comfort in the situation, be it right or wrong. Rinse, cycle, repeat.

That is when the false hope and rationalizations set in. It is what you are good at, so you might as well enjoy the fruits of your labor. It was exactly upon that thought that the apparent situation came back into focus. The tears did in fact taste salty, and this member of the walking dead did smell of soot and ash. Perhaps I just wanted to see through the eyes of this walking dead? At least that is what I will tell myself later as a rationalization.

Sincelery,
Leo

The desk becomes nothing more than a row of keys. With each keystroke, the beautiful hymns of destruction sound off in the distance.

The glowing flames have a black lit hue to them, and the ceilings emanate from their reflection. Crimson red wax melts ever so slowly onto the floor. Each click and tick of the board itself sounds a note in the scale of the Hungarian Minor. Am I preparing a fugue? In more ways than one, in more ways than one. Such is the incantation of protection from the pure and corruption of the innocent.

A voice starts to speak, “Come back to…,”
“What, the floor? There is great work to be done yet, and I am inspired to do it,” is the response that cuts off the first voice.

“I’ll be here when you…,”
“Yes, you will. You have no where else to go, and no way to get there.”

“Are you always this mean?”
“You are free to leave.”

“I have no where else to go.”
“And no way to get there. Yes, I know. I knew from the moment we met.”

Their voice starts to trail off in the distance as the expanse of the 13-foot long room grows to a thousand yards. Glancing back with a harsh glare, I can vaguely make out the thousand-yard stare, the one that does not hide the blank inner non-workings of the mind.

Usually people wear a mask to protect themselves, but like all masks they generally leave the eyes open to see. Sight works both ways as the predator and the prey have different ways of looking at items. As you look out, others look in.

The prey animal typically has eyes on either side of their head allowing for a wider range of sight. This is so the animal is constantly on the look out for things to run from, and places to hide in. The smaller prey animals are constantly watching out for danger.
They will shift their head about their surroundings constantly on the lookout.

The predator animal typically has eyes on the same side of their head, close together to work towards pinpointing a specific target and then striking at that target. When you focus, you squint your eyes further diminishing the field of vision towards your prey. The predator animals are constantly focusing intent and follow-through for the kill on one item.

When a predator squints, and shifts their eyes back and forth they are preparing to be danger. This shift lasts very briefly for they are about to make a choice. The wounded become easier targets for a trained predator allowing them to conserve energy. Know what to look for, and you know how to respond.

The blank empty human stare is a way of emulating a prey response from a wounded animal. They cannot run. Their eyes go wide, and their brain stops processing, and starts preparing to flee emotionally. It is almost as if the brain suffering from delirium decides to shut down instead of subjecting the individual to apparent danger. The brain will turn back on once the danger subsides. By then, it is usually far too late.

It looks like I have prepared two fugues this evening after all. Behind me, I hear the quiet sobbing of tears from a broken prey animal. Glancing back with a harsh glare I can clearly see fragments of the innocent chipping away. Preparations are almost complete as each keystroke the beautiful hymns of destruction sound off in the distance.

Sincelery,
Leo

What is wrong with people these days? Your resentment of the below-average intelligence of the typical bar-going chump is not only understandable, it’s completely normal. After all, at the end of a long week of work people just want to go out to a club with some friends, get a blood alcohol level that’s a multiple of 2, and attempt to pick up someone to share a bed with for a night. You, on the other hand, would rather plop down in front of the glowing computer screen and lurk around MySpace looking for venues and local people who might possibly have the slightest chance of being into your band’s music, as well as sending emails kissing up to promoters and radio DJs in the hopes that one of those contacts will be the one who unleashes your band’s music upon the unsuspecting masses, launching you and your band head-first into superstardom. Or at least that’s how it happens before you wake up stuck to your bed.

Everyone is out there while you’re sitting in your comfy chair in your smiley-face boxers drinking Southern Comfort and letting your waist grow. And you wonder why no one comes to your shows. The best way to get on the radar of everyone who would rather go out and risk getting a DUI every Friday and Saturday night than go home after work and go to sleep early is to intercept their routine. Get yourself in their fuzzy weekend memory banks. In other words: SHOW YOUR FACE! Go out to shows, talk yourself up, meet people! If talking to you about your band is the last thing some guy remembers before finding himself in his apartment at 5am with everything he drank that night coming out of both ends of his body, you might be doing something right (or very very wrong, but let’s not go there).

So get out into the real world, find a show at a decent-sized venue with a bunch of bands you’ve never heard of, and talk to people. Even if you don’t instantly make a ton of friends you’ll still be more productive than if you went about your normal routine of couching it in your apartment with one hand on your computer keyboard and the other hand somewhere beneath your stomach, listening to the radio, and telling some girl on MySpace with “~~<3 I’m Only Jailbait If They Catch You <3~~” as her display name about how famous your band is going to be.

Has the world turned its back on you, or just this group? Has everyone you have ever known and will even know become a fragment of the mind’s eye? Did you blink on purpose to shut your eye, or did you never possess the ability to open it? Can you forget your past?”

Perhaps that was too long of a response to give when the zombie said, “Wait, where are you going?” Then it started to scamper in my general direction. I could have kept walking, but since I had already turned around to check behind me, I decided to turn around and head back towards sanctuary. The mind rationalizes a lot, and then replaces fact with a skewed fiction. I did realize at the time, I would have to walk right past it shambling towards me. That would explain why I stuck my hand out to help it up off the ground.

The mist is very thick, and the fog has a sticky hue to it. Its hand was cold, but mine was colder. Its gaze was cold, but mine was colder.

Pizza always tastes better the day after you wanted it, more so than the day you actually want it. The absence is where the desire grows. In addition, we had already had a “moment.” Who is to deny that “moment” a chance to blossom into a lily, or a chaff of wheat ripe for the scythe.

I shall have a moment with pizza in the future, when sustenance is required as opposed to when wants take the place of needs. The needs say to retreat, the wants say to hunt. Why can’t one have it all? Just change the nature of the hunt to accommodate the retreat. This sounds simple enough.

Some call it settling, and others call it cutting losses, but there comes a time when one makes not the best decision, just the best available decision. This decision in the end always leads towards an empty feeling coupled with the driving nagging twinge of “what if.” That “what if,” gets louder and louder, especially if potential gains walk into the room.

However, chasing an ideal is just as dangerous as settling. If you chase an ideal, you may never find it, and nothing may be good enough either. The one who chases ideals is never grounded, and never complete. They might excel, but that is quite the cost.

Where does one compromise and meet in the middle? Where does one not settle, but not waste time chasing ideals? The answer lies in enjoying the here and the now while keeping the future in mind. Stay grounded, but gaze 45 degrees off into the horizon as opposed to straight up, or down at the ground. The answer lies in having an open mind.

That way you can see what is directly in front of you, and at the same time see what is off in the distance. Is this a compromise?

I guess you could say my fascination with death is the experience is one thing I will eventually have in common with every living thing.

Can you forget your past? Because it will surely forget you.

Sincelery,
Leo

Hey… you…I got a secret. No seriously. I’ll tell it to you. Shhh! Don’t say anything. I figured it all out. I did. Seriously. And I’m willing to tell you. Just listen. Check it out. Those bands. Certain bands. Whether they’re really good or just totally suck. They bring out a bunch of chicks! Like, really gorgeous dumb chicks! In DROVES! The kind of girls whose mere existence made you want to pick up an instrument to begin with! Every show! Every damn show they come out to see the band! You work TIRELESSLY to get your band’s music and name out there, while these assholes do nothing but post a MySpace bulletin at the last minute and instantly bring seas of gorgeous girls. How do they do it??

Well, my friend, it’s actually quite simple. I shall call it the Dane Cook effect. Do you really think that if Steve Buscemi’s career consisted of over-pronouncing words, coming up with nicknames for fast food places, and jumping around like a frat boy after a few too many beer bongs he’d have college girls masturbating to his entire catalog on repeat? It’s the same way with you trying to make some good-looking girls laugh by telling that hilarious joke about the sex change operation: You get looks of disgust and then the girls ignore you, while the dude with the popped collar tells the same joke a couple days later and is met with roaring laughter by the same girls. No, it’s not fair, but the truth is that girls like pretty boys. Even back to when you were a kid and all the boy band shit was shoved down every teenage girl’s throat. You’d flip the channels and land on TRL and see some psychotic chick standing out in 15 degree NYC weather for three hours just to tell the cameras “I requested Backstreet Boys because they’re so hot!! Woooo!!!” These are the same brainless chicks who go to a show not to enjoy a band’s music, but just to see them presented on an elevated portion of the room as if those guy are the only ones to step foot on that stage. Oh, and they just so happen to be playing instruments.

So rest easy knowing that, despite the moisture levels of their fans’ vaginas convincing them to endlessly blabber on otherwise, it really does have nothing to do with talent. And also take comfort in the fact that once another band of dudes with nut-huggers, brand name polo shirts, and stylishly almost-too-shaggy hair starts stealing the spotlight, the band you’ve been envious of for so long will only have their music, stage show, and promotional skills to rely on. And that’s how it should be.

These human sounds albeit inhumanely cut through the biting shrill wind. The zombies are about again. How close are they? Around this time in the evening all weekend warriors transmogrify and revert into zombies. Others fled before the perversion, but the result is the same whether or not they shamble aimlessly on the streets or in their mausoleums.

They cry the last bit of their humanity out onto the streets between episodes of bile and wash with regret. The all too familiar high-pitched quote of, “How could you?” startles me for a brief second. This one was close and I did not see them until it was too late. This phrase audible to me and one other person on the receiving end of a telephone. I know the phrase is not aimed at me, but the effect is still the same.

“How could you?” is a loaded question. It ranks up there with the short phrases such as, “We need to talk,” “You are going to be angry with me,” and the completely random, repeated, and yet unexpected, “I’m sorry.” All of these phrases instantly change the mood of any conversation to dread with uncomfortable silence. Saying them holds the power of an indirect Basilisk’s stare. Hence the problem.

“How could you?” means one of two possible things. The first and most plausible explanation is there is a pack of zombies near the horizon shambling to retrieve their lost member. It is so easy to lose a member of the pack in the mist when you are not paying attention, or do not want to pay attention. The night is over and it is time to retrieve all possessions and valuables left about town. In the first explanation, this person is nothing more than a possession such as a jacket, hat, purse, or Chap Stick.

Ignore them just long enough and they will break down from rigor and curl into some fetal position awaiting rescue. When rescue does not come, they will shoot up flairs from their digital pocket candy. The second and less likely explanation is this one is no longer welcome in the pack for whatever reason, and the herd culled them that night. They too, break down from rigor and curl into some fetal position awaiting rescue.

While the explanations are different, the intended results are the same. Their presence for whatever reason is not welcome. They are a lone sheep without a flock, lost, confused, and sad. The rescue is of the locate and extract variety, while the intended who is different.

It was then that a pair of bloodshot eyes matched stares with a pair of demented eyes. Later one would describe this episode as a “moment.”

From one there came sorrow, tears, and pain. From the other there came rage, disgust, and hatred. Yet these two people did not know each other, and probably never will.

It was then I asked a question I already knew the response to. I did not know the answer though; just how they would respond whether or not the truth was in those words only time would tell.

“When are they coming for you?”

“They’re not.”

The problem with this exchange is what comes next. I have two options to determine the truth. The first safe option is I shake my head, sigh, and walk off receiving a trailing, “Where are you going?” Then I would have to look back to make sure I am being followed. This answer means no one is coming. They want to leave.

The second safe option is I shake my head, sigh, and walk off receiving a trailing, “Wait.” Then I would have to look back to make sure I am not being followed. Others are soon coming. This one wants to stay put for their friends to find them.

The wrong option most people take is to walk closer and ask more questions. This Good Samaritan will probably meet the shambling herd in the distance coming in for the locate and retrieve. No amount of questions will give the quick truthful definite answer from the first two options. The shambling herd will not greet you with happy and pleasant exchanges either.

Before this zombie could say anything further, I simply shake my head, sigh, and turn to continue walking. After six steps, I hear a response, and that response starts with a W. This is a pointless exchange worthy of a chalk mark for an unimportant accomplishment. Number three for the running tally. I walk six more steps and then look back to make sure, just to make sure.

Sincelery,
Leo

One cannot properly prepare for this frosty wind since they dress to impress, or they dress for their surroundings. If you are going to spend half an evening in a hot and sweaty dance floor, dressing for the walk out is the last thing on your mind. Even if you managed to bring a coat for that final walk, you probably lost it along the way through the course of the coarse malaise. If you did manage to dress warmly for the walk home, you spent most of the night sweating, and the sweat just makes the wind even colder. The alcohol makes the body think it is warmer, which makes a cool breeze, an artic blizzard. That alcohol effect would explain how one could be cold in Florida in the spring, or is it summer?

The irony of the situation is each night begins with emotional hopes and ends with physical pains. The two are unrelated to each other, hence the irony. One more fix in a string of short-term gains at the expense of long-term returns. The credo of the weekend warrior: Live in the here and the now, regardless of responsibility and repercussions.

They come seeking reckless abandon, and are invaders to the sanctity of the psyche. Their egotistical drive and desire to feed their insecurities push them forward. I sought reckless abandon one time, and in retrospect the failure was a success. A ten-second pause is all you need to avert disaster. Perhaps if I indulged more, then life would be different. Life would be different; it would have disaster in it.

It is a shame that they will get absolutely nothing done the next day, but recover. That is the long-term return for this evening, recovery. Perhaps in three days you will call that number you triumphantly sequestered. It is a shame that you do not remember their name.

Given ten more hours, you will forget what they look like too. Chances are they will forget they gave you their number, and you can try to get the number again next week. A lot of nothing accomplished, and nothing worth remembering happened tonight.

Ah, but those were glorious times are these you will say, leading to great memories, which unfortunately you will forget completely before you even make it home. You will instead have a cross between perceptions of what happened colored with your new mood for the walk.

Did you wear the right clothing? Did the right people notice you? Did you leave anything physical behind? Did you say the wrong thing, and did that person take note of it? Can you even tell this night a part from the one the week before? The month before? Rinse, cycle, repeat. All these questions are meaningless.

The whistling howl of the wind replaces the loud barrage of 85 plus decibel chatter, music, and beats from earlier. The person is out to find solace, familiarity, and the comfort of a warm place to drift off into a slumber land. This is also the time of the night that the semi-cognizant replay the events of the night over in their mind. This is a study on what went wrong and what went right.

In retrospect, what went wrong was I never did end up eating pizza after the bars closed on my way home. There is still time though, and it is time to turn back my collar to welcome the unknown. The rain stopped over an hour ago and pizza sounds very tasty in this drunken haze. I am in no rush to get home, still lacking a bed to sleep in. Might as well live in the here and the now with a fresh slice of gooey cheesy delight. Who knows whom I might run into on the way there, or the way back?

The rain might have stopped, but now the Florida early morning fog creeps closer in the distance. Weekend warriors transformed into zombies in the mist. What glorious times are these indeed, what glorious times indeed?

Sincelery,
Leo

The Band Member:
“I had a show Saturday. Woke up at 8am because I still had to work a full day first. I’d give my left nut to be able to have Saturdays off again, especially on show days, but $4 per gallon gas isn’t going to pay for itself. So anyway, I got off work about 5 and headed over to the 7-11 to get a Red Bull and one of those greasy hot dogs that have been sitting out all day. No time to go home, shower, or make something to eat before the show. So I drove a half an hour to the practice space to squeeze in a little warm-up band practice before the show. Let me tell you, this place is far away from EVERYTHING and the power works about half the time, but there are only a handful of places to practice in the area and they all either cost a ton to rent, have six-month waiting lists, or are just not meant to be practice spaces. I’ll take what I can get. And afford.

The rest of the band showed up about 20 minutes after I got there, leaving us to only be able to tear through a couple songs before we had to pack up and haul ass. Of course the venue is on the complete opposite end of town and the owner wanted us there by 7. Wonderful.

We got to the venue at 7:05 and almost got into a car accident several times from rushing to get there, only to realize that none of the other bands would even start showing up until 8:30. The show finally started at 10 and we went on about 11:30. The place was actually filling up! So we sound checked and started our set. Couldn’t really hear myself that great so I asked the sound guy for more vocals in the monitor. The song we started after that I still couldn’t hear my vocals very well. What the hell? I asked the sound guy to please turn it up more but he said he couldn’t. What?? How hard is it to turn ONE KNOB?? Towards the middle of our set I started seeing the place clear out. Of course no one would want to hear me singing off-key. I’d leave too. Sound Guy, you fucking bastard. The entire show sucked because of him and his slacker attitude. All my friends who were still there after we played told me I sounded great but I knew better. I sucked. We sucked.”

The Sound Guy:
“I got called in to do sound on Saturday night. I worked all day at my day job even though I originally was only supposed to work Monday through Friday, and I was looking forward to a nice relaxing night alone with the wifey when the asshole owner of the venue called me up and said that I had to do sound that night. I love doing sound. I’ve been doing it for 20 years. But there are times where I’d much rather just stay home and relax than spend the majority of the night in a smoky bar where everyone’s drinking and partying except for me.

So I got there on time. As always. God, the gear there sucks, but I made due as always. I fired everything up, sound checked, the usual. Another night of band after band all sounding the same. Call me an old bastard, but I remember a time when no one would come see a band if they didn’t at least have their shit together. Not only do 95% of the bands I see nowadays all sound the same, many of them can barely even play their instruments! And worst of all, they all seem to blame me for THEM not knowing what they’re doing on stage! No, YOU’RE causing all that feedback. That’s what happens when you cup the microphone and kneel down right in front of the monitor! That’s what happens when you crank the gain on your guitar amp and play right in front of it!

Anyway, another mediocre band got up on stage at about 11:30. Same old, same old. These guys had their shit together but boy were they cocky! They kept looking around at all the chicks in the room like “oh yeah, you know you want this.” Made me a little nauseous. I’m sure the ladies felt the same way too because the place started clearing out about halfway through their set. The singer wanted more vocals in his monitor so I turned him up. The kid didn’t project with his voice at all, had no resonance, and consequently had no volume. There was only so far I could turn him up without a ton of feedback. So when he asked for even more vocals in the monitor I told him it was up as far as it could go. I told him I could pull some of the other instruments in the monitor back so that he could hear his vocals better but he wasn’t having it. The asshole actually started yelling at me and blaming me for ruining his set! ON STAGE he was doing this! That kid has SOME NERVE!”

Random Guy:
 ”So I heard a lot of hot drunk chicks were gonna be at this show on Saturday night. Naturally, I went. Cool place. The bartender made my drinks STRONG! Had big tits too. She totally wanted my cock. There were some bands playing that night but I was busy hitting on the bartender and some of her friends who were at the bar. Then a little later on in the night one of the bands and the sound guy started arguing or something. It was totally lame, so I left. Don’t remember much after that.”

The funeral mass and dirge I sing with delight. The end of a night spent poorly, but spent nonetheless. Physically, mentally, and emotionally spent. A rage encrusted bloody howl rises internally, and becomes my third wind to get home in the evening. I close my eyes and recharge myself enough to have purpose, and that purpose is to retreat. To Valhalla, I sail on my raft with no hopes on my flag. A warrior’s welcome this is not, and a warrior’s greeting I do not receive. I am not a warrior though. Perhaps the other 90% left from tithing is the stoic and strong 90%, and I removed the weak 10% to replace it with another.

Was it expected? Was it sudden? Who instigated the goodbye? Was it heartfelt? Was it gut wrenching?

Do you feel drained? Do you feel fulfilled? Do you feel empty? Do you feel enriched? Do you feel nauseous?

I feel enraged. Was there any other way? It all comes back to anger; such is the plight of a Necromancer, a heavily misunderstood Necromancer. This piece continues the decimate.

As I said those two words, “goodbye,” I envisioned their life drain from their eyes. I said those words with a piercing glance that penetrated their core, their soul. I used a tone of voice that matched the stare.

I envisioned their eyes rolling ever so slightly into the back of their head before their skin started to melt off and pool onto the ground circling towards the drain. I envisioned their muscle and sinew start to vaporize in a cloud of smoke rising upwards. I envisioned their skeletal remains simply crumbling on the ground becoming a powdery dust. I envisioned their skull rolling away from me before a casual stranger walked by not paying attention. This casual stranger did not pay attention or notice when they stepped onto the skull shattering it into a thousand pieces. Those pieces too, turned into a powdery dust.

This was not mere illusion; this was from the book of Evocation. How do you look at someone the same way after you envision the above? You do not. You treat them indifferently and move on. As I started to walk away I heard my name echoing off in the distance, but I did not look back. Their voice even now sounds unfamiliar to me. There is pain in that voice. As the tumblers and locks of my inner mind reshape themselves, I forget that they existed. They might as well have been another mouse fed to my ball python back at home. Here five minutes ago and food the next. Food for the wolves and predators that lurk in the watering holes as they lay stranded.

I hear my name echo in the distance again, and again I do not look back. I ignore the sound of my name as easily as I ignored the pocket watch vibrating against my leg, and as easily, as I ignored the sight of the Bishop on the chess table glistening in the Crepuscular sun rays.

Perhaps they will call my name three more times and then leave a message. Since I do not recognize them anymore, I will have to let the sound of my name go to voice mail.

When you know it is for the last time, hold onto that anger. That is all I ever ask of an apprentice in training of the dark arts. This can be a great source of power for you.

sincelery,
Leo

Perhaps I should answer it. Perhaps I should let it go to voice mail and then listen to the message. If the call is important, they will leave a message. If the call is unimportant, they will not leave a message. Does it matter who is calling? The pocket watch vibrates for the third time. At least I should have the common courtesy to check to see if I recognize the number. If I do not recognize the number, I will let it go to voice mail for sure. It could be someone of the crew coming out to meet me. However, it is more likely someone from the crew calling to tell me to meet them elsewhere. I am content here for
the moment leaning up against the wall glancing around the room at the weekend warriors.

I once heard a quote that a ringing phone has to be answered. There is anti-compelling desire to interact with others of your own species in any manner. That is why humans are pack animals with a herd mentality. The fastest form of communication is currently the telephone in this modern age. The average call lasts only two to four minutes. There is more than enough time to talk about the who, what, where, and when in that brief timetable. However, I am and always interested in the why. The why never enters into the conversation on the telephone, and hence is not worth answering. The pocket watch vibrates for the fourth time.

The unspoken piece of the conversation is why of all the people they have in their walking rolodex of numbers that they chose you to call. The pocket watch vibrates for the third time. Maybe I am thinking too much, and I only realize the vibrations between thoughts?

What do they want from me of all people? I am thinking I should just wear a watch and leave the telephone at home. The pocket watch vibrates for the fourth time. Did I lose count? At least this will be over soon if I do nothing. Doing nothing is still making a choice. Then again, I do like the reassuring snap of closing the lid. Perhaps, I will get an analog pocket watch instead.

The telephone becomes a device in which one person can not only reach out and bother someone else when it is least convenient, but they can ask you for something as well. That is pure genius in my opinion. There is no limit to when and how someone can harass you. The less you want others to harass you the less you listen to them when they speak.
Instead of practicing the art of dialogue or conversation, one person merely talks at the other. Since one person is talking at the other, and there is no exchange of ideas, the person not paying attention takes a passive aggressive tone. In this scenario, the most common telephone scenario, nothing happens except time is wasted. My time is to valuable to let others speak at me trying to convince me to dedicate my resources to their cause.

The pocket watch vibrates for the fifth and final time. This time I am sure of the count. Here is to not talking at you on the phone. In retrospect, very few can understand me, and those that do understand me do not use the telephone to talk with me they use e-mail when both parties can communicate in depth on their own timetable. I do not get
many of those either lately; perhaps it is because I do not talk to them on the phone to ask them to e-mail me? I will give it a minute to see if they either call back, or if the pocket watch vibrates ever so slightly letting me know that their is a voice mail.

Ignoring another phone call, that is a rather pointless accomplishment: Worthy of a chalk mark. I think so. My job here is done then. Time to move on.

Sincelery,
Leo

There is a loud snap as the lid of the pocket watch opens, speaks its purpose and then slams closed. There is satisfaction in that sound, knowing that one small goal is over. At least the watch generates sound then, proving through clapping thunder that it exists. This goal is a rather trivial and pointless goal, but an accomplished goal nonetheless.

The pocket watch has no purpose, thought, or feelings. Its ability to prove it exists is irrelevant. If the walking dead have no purpose, thought, or feelings, why do they need to prove that they exist? The walking dead do have feelings, even if those feelings make them resemble a doormat more than a mammal. Those feelings make them thunderous to prove that they exist. They need to scream to feel alive. That would explain why the walking dead are often so loud, boorish, and arrogant. That would explain the thought process of a weekend warrior. They find me disturbingly quiet and reserved. How little they know about how disturbed I actually am.

What about the goal from earlier? That goal is to know for sure that there is so much night left and tomorrow is so far away. If I had a checklist of all the things I have accomplished, yet never needed to do, it would stretch for miles. I place a chalk mark on the ground signifying the first of five pointless accomplishments tonight. When I am complete, I will mentally connect the dots and draw a circle around them before lighting a piece of blank paper in the center. Keep in mind that tonight will span over a month at the rate these minutes tick by.

Does it matter the time, since there is nowhere to be except right here and right now? Why must we always preoccupy ourselves with the future at the expense of the present? If only you are able to accomplish this and that, then tomorrow will be better. My hand still hurts from the last time I pondered on tomorrow. Yesterday I slept on an air mattress, while today I sleep on a bamboo mat.

Tomorrow, I will remove the Katana from the wall, and do so many things that I will never accomplish in the near future. Perhaps I left the house to find a better place to sleep. Was that the goal? I thought the goal was to eat Pizza? There I go again, confusing causality with effect. The goal is to turn the walking dead. A cause of that effect is eating Pizza.

When you have an idea, if you procrastinate, that idea is dead. Habitual routine takes over and the feeling of content will keep you from your aim or purpose. At least with a pirate flag held high above my bamboo mat, the experience still resembles that of a raft. The gentle hum of an electronic fan resembles the roar of the ocean. The goal is to turn the walking dead. A cause of that effect is restful slumber giving me excess energy.

Occasionally, a brief poorly structured scribbling of text flashes across the LCD screen. Even then, it is usually from someone less than 100 feet away that does not want to scream across a crowded room. People find me disturbingly quiet, and they themselves speak to each other in scribbled text in a crowded room? Perhaps, I am not as disturbed as I thought.

How long ago did I start walking to find his crossroad of regret and despair? The streets are already starting to fill up with weekend warriors attempting to hit up “happy” hour specials before 22:00, and perhaps sneak in past a cover charge or two. Their badges of honor become wristbands much like a decorated solider flashes their ribbons or medals on the home front.

Walking in the shadows almost invisible to the naked eye, I travel undecorated and at will. I do not concern myself with badges of honor or trophies. One pointless accomplishment completed, and four more to go. With a handshake, sardonic smirk, and a sarcastic remark, I enter the den where regret meets despair.

That would explain how the aroma made its way this far from the shop. The alley is desolate, and the perfect place to emerge from the shadows into the mainstream just long enough to strike and dart back into hiding. Of all the things to twirl between his right fingers, a stick of chalk would be the least expected, but the most needed for tonight’s adventures. Checking his pocket, he did remember to bring his lighter as well. The other material components such as intoxicants, stimulants, and test subjects are just around the corner.

Pizza is on sale this time of night, before the hordes of weekend warriors run amuck until the wee hours of the dawn before retreating into a state of sullen regret. Pizza is on sale this time of night, because the only people about are those that will cater to the weekend warriors in less than 2 hours time. Pizza is on sale this time of night, because those people who cater to the weekend warrior have grown tired of Pizza, and do not covet it.

The sale is the only way to draw them inside to partake in warm sticky gooey bread. If the price is low enough, perhaps the store will see a demand. Pizza is only on sale this time of night, because no one wants to eat Pizza. The ironic tale of supply and demand told in such a cruel fashion on a night such as this. How sad is the world when one does not covet Pizza? Pizza might be called the world’s most perfect food to those that are aware of the impact Pizza has on group dynamics. It is all in the tells, all in the tells.

The open-faced sandwich, meant for your traveling party to share, topped with a mixture of the essential food groups combine your clique into one common unit. Tear from the central pot of nutrients and share your tales of bravery and woe. Tear from the edges in unison and enjoy the company of your comrades. Fold and stuff it quickly into your mouth if you do not want to enjoy it, or take small precious bites to savor the moment.

There is so much to learn about a group of people by simply watching them eat communal food. You can see who the Alphas are, as they take first, fold in half, and then sit back boasting. You can see who the pleasers are as they take last, and also fold in half to be able to sit back and make sure everyone else’s needs are met. You can see who the outsiders are as they wearily take with a lack of confidence, and will follow the movements of the Alpha not folding to keep themselves occupied with eating. Those just under the Alphas, the lieutenants, will take before the outsiders and they will not fold out of defiance. This all happens without anyone realizing it. Given enough time these lieutenants will stand up to the Alpha, just give it time.

Watch carefully next time, and see how the Alpha, or lieutenants treats his significant other in this case. Does he take her for granted? If so, he will take for himself and let her, fend for herself. He does not care about her needs, and she is miserable for it. Does the lieutenant take before the Alpha’s significant other? If so you can be sure that the Alpha not only takes her for granted, but also does not even want her present. Does the Alpha mock the lieutenant for being kind to his significant other? How does the lieutenant respond? That response will show you his true level of defiance.

This group as described is the easiest to cripple. Simply start by talking to the one who takes last, and then pull away with those that lack confidence. Odds are they lack confidence and stick around because they are interested in the Alpha or the Alpha’s significant other. Give them something else to chase and a better chance for success. They will be yours to command. You merely present them with an out.

At least one dozen, possibly more, weekend warriors will fight ferociously against their own inner demons and lose. These fallen warriors will lose more than their tomorrow, but their dignity and their will to carry forward retreating into the inner recesses of their habitual droning. The harder one fights against one self the more one will end up losing when they fall. Run from yourself and smash into your own wall you spent years building. It exists to trap you inside more so than to keep others out.

A slight drizzle causes the droplets of water to bounce off his cap as he pushes hit hat back onto his head using his left hand. The water stings ever so slightly. The water makes its way inside the bandage touching the last of the open wounds from punching the mirror so many weeks ago. Glancing down at his pocket watch, I notice the time on the LCD screen says 19:47. Time to set up camp where despair meets regret and go on a recruiting mission. I think I might be in the mood to pretend to eat Pizza later this evening.

sincelery,
Leo

The cover song you picked for your set = better than the entire rest of your set.

Putting out the same album for 20 years does not make you “true,” “dedicated,” or “loyal,” it makes you really really really boring. On the flip side to that, if people are actually buying every single one of your albums despite it being a complete recycling of your last (read: every single AC/DC album after Back in Black), you’re running one hell of a good business.

You really sounded terrible when you tried to play while hammered. Get the hell off the stage.

No one is impressed by the directionless, pointless, randomly-placed sloppy byproduct of bad technique you call a guitar solo…. except for virginal dudes with scraggly mutton chops and puffy 1988 mullets who sit wide-eyed as they listen to their Nitro CDs while jacking off into their own mouths.

And if the best part of your song is the guitar solo, you need to learn to WRITE A FUCKING SONG.

Bass solos are cool if the bass player is absolutely amazing. Like Victor Wooten amazing, not “hey look, I’m banging out nursery rhymes on the strings and acting like that alone is worth me wasting 10 minutes of a set that could have been used for actually playing songs.”

Drum solos should never last more than 2 minutes unless the dude starts playing with his cock AND balls. While the drums are moving. Doesn’t matter how good the guy is, you’re banging on shit. ‘Nuff said.

The Beatles came up with great music when they were on acid. You… not at all.

Your “exciting blend of metalcore, hardcore, and thrash metal” sounds exactly like every band of five dudes that has ever been on MTV2, as well as every band you ever play with in your hometown. There is absolutely nothing original about your sound, no matter how much you whine about how “it all sounds the same nowadays” and talk your band up like it’s the “next [insert influential metal band here].” In fact, if you’re characterizing your band as the next ANY BAND you’re automatically revealing your astounding lack of originality.

Guitar Hero is not helping your playing. At all. It’s a VIDEO GAME. You’re pressing buttons in time with the little dots on screen. It’s like DDR except you’ll stay fat. And you still won’t be able to play a real instrument.

Lastly, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: There’s always some 12-year-old little punk in Methlab, Arkansas who can play faster than you can, sing higher than you can, scream louder than you can… who can make their breakdowns more brutal, their songs more emotional, their melodies catchier than you can… who can play more instruments, can write more songs, has more contacts than you… who has a bigger dick than you, more money than you, and gets a HELL of a lot more pussy than you… who can make whatever they touch more jaw-dropping, more awe-inspiring, more dumbfounding than you’ll ever be able to… So be who you are and shut the fuck up.

The place where one starts to fear me by the scars I bear on the inside. The place where one stares straight into the abyss. The abyss comes to cradle you. It will rock you gently into oblivion. The place where those scars run so deep that they bear marks on the surface as well. The surface of the wall. These scars of torment, and the absolution comes with unabated wrath towards the only animal on this planet worth despising…. humans. Those that are “green” already know that the planet is better off without humans.

They hold themselves in such high regard, when they are nothing more than shallow yet hollow husks. The larger the ego the less depth they possess. The best defence is a good offence, and nothing offends more than a mirthful tongue. Clever wit becomes a shield, and Sarcasm becomes a tool to use on those who lack confidence. Continue to twinge in discomfort and read on while gently rubbing the back of your neck. Good. Though, your eyes are wide, and you cannot turn away as these words cascade strewn across the page. That tense stress pressing on your neck now is causing you to have a slight pain. Do you lack strength of will? Sharp the pain is, perhaps sitting up in your chair will help? Is the color draining from your face? Can your feet touch the floor at this height?

That pain stretches down from your neck into your shoulder. Good. Perhaps you should stop rubbing your neck, and start rubbing your shoulder instead. Alas, that will do you no good as your foot starts to tingle from a lack of blood flow. Good. You probably have never felt more uncomfortable than right now reading this passage. Good. Get used to this feeling, this feeling will help build your psyche. Now think of at least two instances in the past week that you regret. Why do you regret them? Did you belittle yourself in the process? The internal pain will take your mind of the physical pain you now feel. Good. Focus on that internal pain, always focus on the internal pain and not the physical pain.

I am not projecting, just stating a fact, a fact that comes with years of study, observation, and conclusion. Such is the tool of a necromancer, a mirthful tongue. I promised you blight and decay. I will be your salvation through the components of these spells. Why do you keep reading? You like the torment. I already know. I have always known.

Do you doubt your pathetic existence yet? Can you walk in the dark, or do you continue to allow the light to blind you. The human eye can adjust and see in the dark. It cannot see in sharp light. The end result of starting into the light long enough is blindness. How long have you been blind? The darkness will envelop you in warmth if you give it a chance. Turn away. Come walk a bit with me in darkness, and then become your own guide. If you are truly gifted you will have death sight, and see this apparent world for what it really is.

A fact that is the truth, and so much a truth that you do not want to believe it so. Have I ever lied to you? Not today, not yesterday, and I am not going to start tomorrow. Nothing can ever truly be known or communicated though, and I fear already you have started to misunderstand me. Fear is the wrong word here, perhaps hope. Hope is a much better word, like maybe. Are you scratching your arm now? Maybe and hope go hand and hand. When one says maybe, the recipient garners hope. Do not carry forward with false hope. Stop scratching your arm, because your leg is starting to itch. You are not focusing internally enough. Maybe means no, and one should never have hope in the non-committed. They lack integrity, and you cannot trust anyone who lacks integrity. Organized codes of ethics lack integrity, and so do universal truths and normalcies. Attack their proponents too.

I do not lack integrity though. Even at the expense of day walkers despising me. Since one does one so moral fall into the category of the unethical? Who’s ethics are you trying to force upon me now? I will not bend and subdue myself to your slave morality where the weak are helped at the expense of the strong? When was there ever an outcry for balance in society? Keep them all medicated and numb to force balance.

The awakened imbued are so far and few between, and even they lack the insight of understanding. They have to lack insight and understanding because they too are human. Are we not just effects of our own causes? While a couple debates free will and fate the pragmatist knows that fate is nothing more than combined outcome of former experiences. The only free will is that one will become habitual in the long run. When does the droning start? What penance do I continue to pay to practice my dark craft? I stare across the room with demented eyes trying to pierce the walls of those around me.

Is that fear I now smell? Can I taste that fear too, it smells delicious? Do you feel a chilling tingling sensation all over your body? If so, then welcome to my world.

sincelery,
Leo

It is not as if I could simply trade this world for another physically or metaphysically.

Instead, I could sit and continue to gaze at the stars while anthropomorphically personifying some elaborate concept transcending levels of spirituality. There would be a great debate on cause and effect due to the mind grappling with reason and conscience. It is a virtuous internal debate on immorality and ethics.

I continue to drift on the raft now with my left hand, almost healed, lapping waves. The last port, albeit brief did nothing to satisfy my needs, wants, or desires. Perhaps I should concentrate more on assembling a party of skeletal warriors for the upcoming battle. The game of smoke and mirrors only requires one or two key lieutenants capable of preprogrammed thought when the dark battles the light. Animate, recreate, and decimate.

Just get caught up in the wake of my raft and you will see what I mean. My strongest passion lies within the kiss of death. I speak this phrase in an utterance with a glib sincerity, “Let’s just be friends.” Is that fear I now smell? Can I taste that fear too, it smells delicious?

There is still a sense of unease that a conflict brews close on the horizon. Conflict always brews on the horizon, because for one party to prove that they are right, another party must be proved wrong. The conflict strengthens their own resolve, because they themselves lack security in their ethics. The less secure they are with themselves the more likely they are to lash out at others. Does fighting back mean that one is also insecure in their beliefs? In this case fighting back is an attempt to earn the respect of onlookers who undoubtedly feel that they have choices in life. That ploy for respect is the animate.

The dictionary defines how to apply the process of applying anthropomorphism, but not in the reverse. This piece is the recreate.

Perhaps, the dictionary’s ego runs unchecked denying an animalistic nature to the common human. Common human? Any human would be more fitting. It is all in tells, all in tells. Here is an experiment played out in reverse anthropomorphism, where humans take on characteristics of rodents. Not just any rodent though. Let us use the simplest of rodents, the common inbred pet mouse.

These truths of our animalistic nature are all buried within tells that humans subtly do to each other. If you understand tells, you can start to see and predict how humans will interact with each other. Those days of mouse wrangling did me good on predicting how humans will forage for sales in bargain bins much as the mice hunted the fresh cup of food for the sunflower seeds. They fought for dominance on who was first to the food bowl. They were weary of outsiders, and only felt comfortable when their closest surroundings remained undisturbed. Confused on the “they” yet between man and mouse?

The mice, slept made bedding from cotton, and slept under paper much as humans also make their bed. If the mice did not have this bedding, the stress became palatable, and they act anxious. The mice would also have a pecking order in who received the most comfortable place in the nest, much like parents dictate where their young sleep in the house. A female mouse also is prone to eat her first litter. There is one area where humans and mice are different, or are they. People often hurt those closest to them. This piece is the decimate.

sincelery,
Leo

It is standard practice for a necromancer to not only communicate with the dead but to command the dead to act according to his own will. I vowed a long time ago to never exchange passion with the dead, but like most resolutions, it was broken even before I could finish the sentence. The dead are so easily to animate with the lie you can give them life. Even if you give them life for a moment, they become dead again once you leave often times before you head out the door. Perhaps to be alive, truly alive for one moment is worth an eternity of living death. Why fight one’s nature with a conflicting demeanor? These demented eyes have seen too much, have experienced too much to keep from sharing torment with those around me. The trail of blight and decay long stretches behind me with creaking embers glowing in the distance of shattered bridges. Who burned those bridges? Not I, it was always them.

The mirror in the bathroom pales in comparison to the shattered bridges of my past. The bandage on my left hand will become a warning flag to all those around me.

People often ask each other a relatively harmless question, “So, what are you thinking?” However, the answer to such a question if spoken by one capable of thought is neither refreshing, rewarding, nor requested. It is always better to lie in this case, and state what the other person wants to hear. Never let someone know what you are truly thinking, because if you do, then they will have either an advantage over you, or they will succumb to the fear of knowing the truth. Nothing is more harmful and malicious than the truth, so comfortably lie to them. Comfortably lie to them if you want to feign the truth and prolong the agony. Speak the truth and end your own suffering. There is a better answer though. Simply state that, “You really don’t want to know.”

Leave yourself in a comfortably numb state. A state where you know you lie to protect them. Protect the dead from ever having to experience true pain and suffering. A state where you know the protection comes at your own expense. This protection comes at your expense and suffering. How much longer must there be give and no take? How long will you help others at your own expense? For me, the answer is no more, or not since a while ago is more accurate. Tonight, I might regret that decision looking at the result of my actions.

Tonight’s encounter was a bit different than most. The embrace involved something that felt quite natural at the time, but never had I experienced or practiced it before. Tonight’s action was second nature, and yet there was never a guide, spell book, or instance where
I stumbled across a self-help or how to. I was not even aware that this was a skill that a necromancer or a Psion could possess. Spiking and flaring are dangerous arts though. The motion was simply to breathe in deeply during the embrace. If there is an airtight seal of both lips and essences, then the outcome if a bit different than standard fare. The motion of breathing in deeply to suck all the oxygen out of her lungs as opposed to just exchanging saliva felt invigorating. Since it was my first time, perhaps I went a bit overboard. That could explain what happened next.

She now lay twitching on the ground subdued to any sort of stimuli in the world around her. Here I thought I was merely going through the motions. Who knew that the motions held power such as this? I am done with this one. I seek other victims in the land of the walking dead. They are all walking dead, and I do not seek to find another living being in this lifetime. The dead comfort me in their emptiness.

Through my death sight, I have become a necromancer. Follow in my footsteps, and walk with me in blight and decay. I promise you a world where the grass is browner, and if you are lucky enough, you will get to attend the funerals of all of your friends before your children can attend yours. This end, I promise you. I promise you if you are able to possess such luck. If not, let my wrath provide you a glimmer of sanctuary. I continue to hate this world with every ounce of my being, and will one day find a way to….

Sincelery,
Leo

Cupping the water gently up to my lips, the water tastes of despair. Despair tastes very bitter. Bitter is one of the tastes the tongue can specifically differentiate when tasting food such as salts, sours, and sweets. Bitter supposedly triggers a response in the brain that one should not eat the food since it is poisonous.

Yet, here I drift on my raft tasting and consuming the bitter water. Ironically, I consume this water knowing it cannot quench my thirst. Knowing that that the water is poisonous to me. The bitterer the water tastes, the more I am sure that I travel on the right path. Such is the penance a necromancer pays to practice his craft. At least this path is kept warm by the black trench coat I wear with the regal deep purple liner. I must remember to practice my spells, and memorize those arcane movements with speech patterns to protect me from the self-righteous and good. They are out, and close. I can sense their presence.

The water might as well be coffee, alcohol, tea, lemon, ginger, horseradish, or any number of bitter foods that we consume on a regular basis to challenge our minds to eat poison. Stupidity is its own reward at this point. Is this a case of stupidity, or of one on a Stoic path of conviction? Is conviction itself a rationalization of stupidity and following tradition? Can one see the sea from the height of the crested wave, or only the next pier that one is about to crash into?

Is this another case of drinking too much, or not enough? Since the bitter water cannot quench my thirst, the answer to that question is irrelevant. Many irrelevant questions lately. Many answers without the proper questions. Since the answers do not match the questions, the journey to find questions for the answers propels me forward. A self-destructive thought briefly passes through my mind that if I were to just punch the raft with my Katana this all can end. This all can end so quickly, but then the journey will be over. This journey has just begun, or has just begun to continue. This journey will end, and yet the answers will never have questions. A multiple choice where there are no wrong decisions, because the question was never made clear. I have answers, probably not to your questions, but I have answers nonetheless. Let me pull from my pre-written note cards and hand you an answer to the question I think you are about to ask.

Not that puncturing the raft would have any profound effect either. I would simply drift wet and float, as opposed to being able to lay comfortably and take in the surroundings. I would exchange warmth for coldness, and be no better off than I was before. When I arrived at the next wall, I would salvage planks and build a new raft, only losing energy and time in the process. The self-destructive thought passes.

Wait a second. I do not even remember departing the mound. I do not even remember abandoning my post where I so vigilantly watched the damned burn in an eternal pyre of misery. Where am I? Why have I left my place of comfort to drift along these poisonous seas?

Since when was leaving the sanctity of the inner psyche a good place to venture forth? Is this how a necromancer becomes a lich wizard? Did I ever want to be a necromancer in the first place? Might as well finish the task at hand though. Stoic conviction propels me forward, and there is a new target on the horizon. The stronger the water becomes, the closer I am to that next port.

Sincelery,
Leo