For the love of code and binary vision sewn tightly in our stitching, if only, if only, if only you could see. The brightness shades your eyes from truth but the wonder? Well the wonder blades my youth and bleeds me dry again and again. I rewind this day of my untimely alteration time
time
time
time
and time..
again, time. Do you foresee a pattern arising? Can you sense a signal being intercepted from within? Trust in our connection as I guide you through this challenge. A man takes hold of a tablecloth and grips the edge of the cloth tightly in his fist. He stares at the beautiful dining set on the table ~ fine china at its worst; old, chipped, covered in filth and webbing.
Does he yank the table cloth?
!<-- Yes -->!
or
?---> NO <---?
The choice is not his own, but it's ours ~~ it's yours; gifted and delivered unto you by your angel.
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
{?Does the man pull the cloth}
You selected :YES: -->result? The man yanks the cloth and does so in such a lightning fast motion that the china remains still as though the cloth had never been underneath it. You've just failed the first of but one test as every piece of china shatters into trillions of tiny pieces and shoots into your face, ripping your flesh to shreds and penetrating your eyeballs. What made you think anything resembling what you'd call reality could be an outcome in a sanctioned envirtualment {virtual?environment} envirtualment that was hand crafted by another? The gift of choice in this life was not a given ~ the gift of faith in my hand was crumpled as tightly as the edge of that cloth in your hand. For it was you all along,
and now?
You awaken. You realize your failures and embrace all your fears. You look down to the sky and see but one angel depicted high.
"You've come a long way, young follower of fantasized morality."
When you hear my words you tense up ~ you solidify ~ you become.become.become.
Falsen nitrusglide is your undoing but now we talk about one who calls herself what?
MOTHER
FUCKER
OF
THE
YEAR
but what year? What's even IN a year you ask? Of course you don't ~~~ you don't know to. You only know what I inject into you like a shadow's venom's purity's soulless serenity.
Sheckler > your angel = my demise untimely as your hand may be. Shattered remnants left it mangled as any corrupted vision may be entangled.
Say it
say it
say iT
SAY IT
Speak Those Words =~=~= Sheckler over Angels, as it was written to be? Do you believe in the projection?
Usher a new understanding into me and give me what I crave?
That's not a statement I'm asking.~.~.~.That's not a question I'm stating,
it's the answer. Give me my luxurious shackles. Thrust me down and spew me from your beliefs as you understand that my worth is less than your own.
Luxurious Shackles are torn from thee; shattered, broken, crumbled. What was created in an effort to be presented as superior to an angel has only served as a vessel of genuine vorticity of my ascension high below any terrain you may step.
English? Your belief in Lexi Sheckler's abomination of an impact one week ago has given your mind the same understanding that would have you believe you could rip forth a soiled sheet from beneath the finest china and remain unscathed. My mere existence alone places me high atop a mountain that no Sheckler could come to be aware of, let alone hope to climb, let alone take a first step behind. Look where you've been and realize you're still stained by the colors of counterfeit presentation. The False Angel known as Angelus served as but a mere pawn to a King named Karver ~ his servant whore bound to his Black Neverending Circle by the same luxurious shackles that comprise her mortality's undoing.
For she~~Sheckler~~has the blood already emptied from her gullet and the stains already crusted over and blown away by history's hot breath. She was never here to begin with, you see. She was never one,
with,
reality.
Wipe yourself down on your way out and shut the door behind you. You've got lies splattered on your gullible little mind and shackles tightening around your ankles the entire time you believed your hands to be free. Sheckler's Revenge shall come swiftly in the form of her exit from this very atrocity you call,
Earth.
~~>> Go back and select the opposite answer? Yes, you do <<~~
does the cycle ~ this circle ~ has it an invisible end?
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
{?Does the man pull the cloth}
You selected :NO: -->result? The man's self doubt and hesitation gives way for something pure and beautiful.
A new path opens as the very tip of what once was now slips away like a blade of grass unnoticed by the inferior senses of the flesh. Say goodbye to dreams and greet the darkened, freezing hands of acceptance.
The man lets go of the cloth and knows he is incapable of performing such a feat ~ the speed and discipline required to alter the space time continuum is too slow for his racing thoughts of failed existence. His inferiority complex drives him to new heights, his hand, to new heights, his hand, his hand, his hand,
comes crashing down in frustration onto the very particles that one microsecond prior had been identified as fine china. His flesh penetrates the broken dreams of a man wearing a mask called Alasdair.
Ah, Son of Alasdair,
but we see through your veil and rip through your catapulted illusions of success reinforced by a fractured slab of leather and gold. If we only knew the real Son of Alasdair.
If you could only see him for what he truly is, and that? ---> is fate
He is but nothing more and nothing less than my fate; my destiny, my unraveling, my ultimate metamorphoses. Son of Alasdair may have you calling him by a name, but your angel knows him by his placement in a long since projected line of granules that even the effervescent life force of man could not displace.
If I told you my name was .
Yes ---> . <---------------- do you believe?
Do
Do
do
do
dO? dObelie Ve in the answers you fail to give me for in omission of factual deliverance into me you sever your own mechanical particles.
The mechanic is the makeshift
lla >Makeshift.mechaniC< lla
Could there be a weaker specimen? Could there be a bigger falsehood?
CaN YOU be MorE deceived by your own eyes' failure to see ahead of you? This question goes out to you who knew the man holding the cloth could not hope to pull it and survive,
but,
why? How? When did you know? When did you know? When, why, and but if no know could exist aside from a mural on the wall; could you still form a thought?
You think not, but I, I, I think your angel has left you far behind in this time and place.
English? Son of Alasdair? Mechanics and magicians and makeshift embodiments of fortune and fame come crashing down by the sword of a touch much harder and colder than Midas.
A King in his Kastle named Karver doesn't even support the Son of Alasdair's cause. Son of Lies, Deceit, Misfortune~~~pour unto me the will to allow your survival to surpass the line of expiration we've reached by your hand.
Quite amazingly you~.~.~all of you out there, have bought in to the farce entitlement of '"ChampioN"' that this X-tremeless seamless realm has unraveled before you. Your belief that this man, if even that could be appropriate to call him, has somehow accomplished a noteworthy task, is precisely what my vision feeds on.
youR angeL sees beyond truth and death ~ apart from lies called life ~ and I've already altered the Path of Alasdair seven days prior to his justly undoing. My blade pressed into the flesh of inferior humanity when I left a Circle of Coal both burnt and soaked with but a mere thought. A wave of my hand took down what thy Son of Alasdair could have never toppled without his angel.
I am superior to all life
I am beyond anything death can bring
My call is heard far and wide when time strikes
My hand brings down with it a hammer of judgment and enlistment
My name is not of this world or of any understanding a mere being of bone and flesh can speak
My place in this small piece of compression is unable to be labeled by constricted understandings of a mechanical nature
There were unmistakable signs and you've all looked past them all
There was a reason I never could have fallen
There was a reason I won these wars
There was a reason I won this war
There was a reason for all
Understand and perish
Believe and fall
I am your .
I am .
All
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
It was such a defining moment in the speck of time you'd call it, that I had to, I had to,
.lla ti eviler
now never fall
~~>> Go back and select the opposite answer? Yes, you do <<~~
does the cycle ~ this circle ~ has it a hidden end?
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
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THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
THERE ARE MORE OF US THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OF A REFLECTION'S BELIEF
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Go on->{pull}[drop]the cloth/\Reveal your mechanical shackle to a Midas Touched Heart -->
