The Impersonator

What is not isn’t there is the chaos manifesto of all. It is the mother of all scumbags known to touch the ground of earth. The only reason that it isn’t isn’t there is simply because its freewill is trapped not twice but threefold in its entity of arms and shadows. It tried to fiddle the rhyming music of happiness and sadness, to no avail. Its anvil hammerhead of doomsday is there, yet its physical freewill isn’t isn’t there. The cold soul of force is there, however impersonating, and it does not pay attention to its master nor its ruler.

Image by jurvetson via Flickr

The stalled and dazzled force of will is somehow there and isn’t isn’t there. Moreover, it is not as bright as daylight: you can feel the very omnipresent atomic structure that only serve the one, if not ultimate, purpose that is ignorant of its own physical limit of physics. It seems to be aware that it is there, but it does not seem to recognize that it is not isn’t there. It is literally blind to its own meaning of existence, forever trapped and chain-locked to its cyberspace of dimension. Its embodiment is predestined, predetermined, and fated to meet its end time of space.

Image by Joost J. Bakker IJmuiden via Flickr

The cell block isn’t isn’t there. It isn’t isn’t there to determine on how its fate and destination will be regulated. One might say that such dimension of psychoanalysis is not supposed to be refined nor defined by the physical pretext that only biblical fanatics can find for you and concentrate your own meager life to a cubic inch of shell shock that rocks across the universe of mankind, its nutshell of destruction constructed by the devil Mephistopheles himself, and the nutrition of innate spirit of evil that is inherited and coherent in its domination of puppet engine of empire of ungodly, selfish hand grasp with its claws that only interest angels of beyond and bygone era of untouchable sand lost over time in its muddy cipher that only taste the odorless and vampiric blood reabsorbed by the thin wall of cleansing fountain that wash the water in blood and wine. The day of regrets, burns, churns, erases, blanks, cohort of cons, and redistribution are all ever-transforming process that only a bullet can snitch its swizzle of wind out that cut swiftly at the end of tunnel.