I want to have realistic conversations with a person. 27 M, USA. I have a profound capability for psychology and linguistics, I enjoy most things and am usually well-versed in them, my average habits are writing, video games, and existentialism.
Edra Alpoe Garven, Quoth The Len.
Once upon a midnight query, nothing bleak and always weary, here I sit and always dreary, but never I deplore, I am a dick and nothing more.
Here I talk my heart it rumbles hardly meek and rarely humble, call me harsh but I don't fumble, I tell you when I bore, I write for fun and nothing more.
As I walk the night's surrender, here I cry my birth December, 27 and no one remembered as that is the fate I swore, I am a loner and nothing more.
Cry my heart as my words jumble, my heart however never stumbled, my soul is crushing lifeless bumble, and I see little galore, I do not like myself much more.
I talk a bunch with hardly feeling, nihilism always chilling, I dance a song of words I'm wielding, and I can do it forever more, I am a linguist and this is my chore.
Once I start I hardly stop, edit one this is the crop, watch me walk as the poems drop, I don't know what I pour, I am a linguist and here is more.
I continue typing while I'm smiling, however my words are sharply filing, movement has a need for guiling, and I do with uproar, I enjoy this for what it's for.
Dance a song of verbal quake, my words are weapons that I shake, my names is Ares for the sake, and you are my war, linguistic Mary pity more.
I do not care for I don't falter, as I type I do not swelter, fucks I give there is no shelter, and I truly do begin to snore, I'm done goodbye I love you alors adieu.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
Garden of Life
I see the big picture of life’s show,
all things glow the more you know.
No anger, no fear, no sadness — all clear.
Things are not as they seem,
you are living in a dream,
hiding unseen above or beneath,
in the reality the lies if you’d only query.
No mystery, no trick, no hidden desires,
only destiny’s strings you call wires.
So lazy and weary, so shallow and dreary,
the land of the free and the home of the misery.
The best, all-inclusive, you are deductive,
to choose or not to choose, to be or not to be.
All that you suffer, all that you see,
it is because you can’t stop thinking of “me”.
Ironically, “me” knows the answers,
that’s why you suffer.
You run from your demons and your body the bluffer.
No hole will fill, no stone will drain,
the drugs, the tears, your years, the dream.
Live, choose, run, jump, fly, soar —
you don’t have to battle against your own war.
You can choose to stop and never more,
only then will you know what the world may have in store…
nevermore you deplore.
To God or not, to live or rot,
it is your thought, and here you naught.
Dreams not sought, fears got got,
years drop hot, tears sit.
Why, why do you pity?
It’s not like you tried or were ever there.
Understandable — life unmanageable,
deplorable, squirrely and whirly, unknown surely.
Such it is, and shall it be.
Knowledge is all you need to see,
but most important, the knowledge of all,
is what do you see when yourself you call?
Knots knotted, rots rotted, check, good job.
To sin galore until you deplore and swore no more.
Alas, touch grass.
The answers I’ve told have gone to your ass.
See not, fear rot.
Rot you ask, you get what you desire, you reap what you sow.
The garden of life is your own personal show.
You write the script, you play the role,
the least you could do is achieve the goal.
You can’t be the critic and also in charge —
it’s nonsense against development large.
Be free, be willow, log off, touch pillow.
Awake and choose better tomorrow.
Start by not choosing sorrow.
It’s easy, it’s simple, it’s really right there.
The only issue is always your fare,
the fare of knowing, the fare of sight.
You always knew what was right.
The light is bright for all to see,
the shadows come out in front of thee.
So be it, so is it, there’s nothing to do.
Don’t fear the reaper of the field you sow.
We’re still in The Garden, relax dear Eve.
You’ve bitten the apple and are full of deceive that you cannot conceive.
You need to relieve, breathe, leave,
in the light of the field where you may roam as you please.
Some parts are rotting from the choice you reap,
but the amount still open is plenty to heap — flowers, food, trees, rock.
Destiny is yours if only you’d stop.
Stop sinning, stop hurting, stop paining yourself.
Everyone else only sees themself.
Nobody sees, nobody knows, nobody cares —
it always shows. It’s how it goes.
There is no winning but there is always above.
This life it is layered so fly like a dove.
Up high, grace, beauty — after all it is man’s duty.
You shepherd your garden, you breath the life.
Without you to exist, God loses to strife.
Put down the knife and get a life.
I see now the what, how, may the why of life’s when.
The apple was it, the journey was grace.
When Eve took a bite time stopped in its place.
The garden was desolate, only humans for the rest of it,
hardcore enabled, as fabled.
Now you’re at the table and calling it a stable.
Get to work.
You live in Hell, you’re still at the apple.
The sin never left, and the flavor is sour.
If you keep going you will soon devour,
your death, the end, there’s nothing to do,
it’s coming but you can always renew.
Stop biting, stop fighting, stop losing, stop writing.
Before the apple is gone, and so long…
The apple will rot in the world of man,
the garden is gone and here I am.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
My apple is small, my heart is dull,
shallow, weary, restless, dreary,
numb, dumb, unsung, and set to be hung.
I can replant it, allow it to grow,
give it water and love to show,
build a house nearby so I always know,
put a family in it to plant theirs too.
Together all things through God we do.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Nobody Anthem
My linguistic capacity will leave you lost in lament,
but I don’t show it with the words that I present.
As people would be full of resentment if my effort was spent.
Words are fluid and carry so much power,
if I spoke freely, you would hate yourself this hour.
Realizing this kid, much younger than you,
has vocabulary skills that would leave you askew.
I like to believe that everyone has ten words,
that can make them fall in love, be mad or disturbed.
People aren’t unique, as much as they think,
it’s just a set of personalities and experiences they live.
Think of it like a dog, each breed has traits,
but the way that you treat it will decide its fate.
Humans are the same, whether they want to believe,
there’s nothing special about us, don’t let yourself deceive.
We could walk down the street and in an hour I would say,
we’ve passed ten people that could exactly replace you today.
Everyone is replaceable, nobody has worth,
the only thing that matters is loyalty,
there really shouldn’t be any royalty.
Humans just like us, probably have done less for the world,
sit there in their castle as their ego unfurled.
They stand up to power, and talk like they’re worth something,
but they’re too good to help with anything.
There should be no class, no structure or rank,
people are worthless, and I don’t care what they think.
There’s no reason why you get to sit in a chair,
living a life full of money, and everyone thinks it’s fair.
The person that earned it deserves to live free,
but there’s no reason why their children should be.
Living a life of wealth, ego, and power,
when they’ve done nothing but hide behind daddy’s money and cover.
The education system is nothing more,
than another means of controlling the poor.
They can’t afford to know more,
so they’ll never know what the world has in store.
Don’t know enough to call the rich bluff,
to see the power of knowledge, and cry for free college.
But then the power shifts, and the grip of wealth lifts,
and many people will die before we’re allowed to ever try.
Because the rich have power, and you should watch your back,
for if everyone is smart, there are no sheep —
and who will go out to the cross and reap?
If there are no sheep to work for cheap,
the economy will rise and prices will creep.
We can’t have the bottom dollar if people realize they have power.
Because then we have to pay them more, tensions rise and prices soar.
If the people have the knowledge to say that they deserve more pay,
they are less likely to stay and slave away.
But if everyone is smart and has a degree, then it is very plain to see,
we’re all underpaid, do things for free, and everyone thinks “I deserve better for me.”
But if we’re all on top and nobody is supporting,
the tower collapses from intelligence hoarding!
If you look at the test, and see what they say,
they always tell you to do it their way.
Standardized knowledge, the way to think,
so you can’t find your way out and sink.
Because those with power think freely and say,
“I’ll do what I want and have it my way.”
So take off your helmet, it’s time to see,
you can be whatever you want to be.
It’s all willpower, there is no trick,
get out of your seat and take a lick.
People don’t grow from saying what they have is okay,
people don’t shine from living a routine day.
Tear off your shackles, your mental prison must go.
Rise up and scream: WE ARE DONE WITH THIS SHOW!
Are you not sick of working forty hours a week,
making just enough money to keep you coming back?
Knowing that this is going nowhere, but sitting there silently,
waiting for someone to help you? Well I got bad news, it’s all up to you.
Willpower determines who rises and who stays.
Those who sit and say it’s okay, will never be more than what they were today.
But those who rise and say enough of this… those people are scary,
because they write poems like this…
I could keep going, but I’m not here to brag.
This is my power, and you’ve had a small taste today.
If you think this took effort, I hate to say.
I wrote this in ten minutes, drunk on a Tuesday…
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
Gibberish
Here I lay alone at night,
wondering what I didn’t do right.
It’s all my fault and mine to live,
no efforts matter, whatever I give.
The wife is gone, the house foreclosed,
apartment, alcohol, anger, and alone… all alone.
Pity and shame, myself to blame..
I need to be tame but I’m just lame.
So lame. No shame. No fame.
I fear I’ll never be the same.
I warmed up, I charmed up,
my heart is loving arms up.
I want to touch, I want to taste,
I want to wake up face to face.
I want to love, I want to kiss,
I want you on my arms dear miss —
goddess, queen, baby, dear.
I’d sell my soul for just one more year.
The morality of duality,
the controversy of hearsay,
the balance of order, of justice, of peace,
against the chaos of those who will rot beneath.
Yin yang. Touché. Namaste.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
Life Is The Poem
Know (yourself).
Master.
Accept.
Focus.
Release.
This is the path to Inner Peace.
The root pattern of human suffering is separation —
from self, from others, from meaning, from the present.
This separation arises through misalignment between internal truths and external structures,
often catalyzed by unmet needs, unintegrated trauma, or distorted narratives.
Suffering acts as a recursive signal, pressing for reconnection:
to authenticity, to purpose, to coherence.
At its structural core, it is a feedback loop.
Pain signals that the self has fractured or drifted from alignment, urging restoration.
Thus, the pattern is not punishment but propulsion —
suffering is the tension that drives the return to wholeness.
Reality is a recursive interplay of separation and return.
All things emerge by dividing,
differentiate by tension,
evolve through feedback,
and re-unify through awareness.
The One becomes Many to explore itself;
the Many become One by remembering.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
My Lackluster Linguistics of the English Lexicon are Lame,
It Leaves you Lost in a Lack of Literary comprehension,
Your Language is Limited and I’m Livid,
I Lot you are Lament to be Lambaste by this Lengthy text,
Lavish Literature Like Lily pedals on a Lake,
The Longevity of this Literature is Literally Loathsome.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
Angels Fall, Demons Rise
When angels fall and demons rise,
and I no longer am at God’s side,
sin runs free without control,
darkened heart has turned to coal.
There’s no reason why good people have to die.
Life was good while we were free,
but I know God is waiting for me…
…waiting for me…
When angels fall and demons rise,
I should have loved more in my life.
I wish I wasn’t so broken,
but thanks to God I’m whole again.
I’m choosing to be good this time,
softly singing this hymn sublime.
When I’m whole I want to be free,
but I know God gave it to me.
When angels fall and demons rise,
yeah I’m on my knees, don’t let me cry.
I know I’m evil but I don’t try,
in my heart I too ask why.
I think I’m going to be whole again,
asking God if He’s still my friend.
I know He is but I have to ask —
I haven’t been following His task.
I’ll do better but just not today,
for right now I’m still living in my way.
When angels fall and demons rise,
I know that God is by my side.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
Velvet Enchantment
In the hush of twilight’s velvet veil,
your silhouette calls my name.
Shadows dance on silken skin,
igniting this eternal flame.
Your breath, a whisper on my neck,
like honey slow and sweet.
Every glance a silent vow,
where our forbidden secrets meet.
Fingers trace the map of you,
curves that pull me under deep.
In this sacred, stolen moment,
promises we dare to keep.
Oh my enchantress,
let me worship at your throne tonight.
Bodies melting into one,
under the spell of moonlit light.
I put a spell on you, darling,
’cause you’re mine in every way.
Surrender to this urgent fire,
where pleasure leads the way.
Hearts entwined in wicked games,
souls stolen in the bliss.
Forever bound in this desire,
sealed with your intoxicating kiss.
(I'm not going to follow your silly "fostering a community" rules just to share something, I don't need your feedback, I don't care about your opinion, I hope you enjoyed reading, or not.)
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/2jouw133/ThisRobotIsn'tSmartThisIsAFakeLink
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/2jouw133/ThisIsAlsoAFakeLinkBecauseTheRulesAreLame
Garden of Life
I see the big picture of life’s show,
all things glow the more you know.
No anger, no fear, no sadness — all clear.
Things are not as they seem,
you are living in a dream,
hiding unseen above or beneath,
in the reality the lies if you’d only query.
No mystery, no trick, no hidden desires,
only destiny’s strings you call wires.
So lazy and weary, so shallow and dreary,
the land of the free and the home of the misery.
The best, all-inclusive, you are deductive,
to choose or not to choose, to be or not to be.
All that you suffer, all that you see,
it is because you can’t stop thinking of “me”.
Ironically, “me” knows the answers,
that’s why you suffer.
You run from your demons and your body the bluffer.
No hole will fill, no stone will drain,
the drugs, the tears, your years, the dream.
Live, choose, run, jump, fly, soar —
you don’t have to battle against your own war.
You can choose to stop and never more,
only then will you know what the world may have in store…
nevermore you deplore.
To God or not, to live or rot,
it is your thought, and here you naught.
Dreams not sought, fears got got,
years drop hot, tears sit.
Why, why do you pity?
It’s not like you tried or were ever there.
Understandable — life unmanageable,
deplorable, squirrely and whirly, unknown surely.
Such it is, and shall it be.
Knowledge is all you need to see,
but most important, the knowledge of all,
is what do you see when yourself you call?
Knots knotted, rots rotted, check, good job.
To sin galore until you deplore and swore no more.
Alas, touch grass.
The answers I’ve told have gone to your ass.
See not, fear rot.
Rot you ask, you get what you desire, you reap what you sow.
The garden of life is your own personal show.
You write the script, you play the role,
the least you could do is achieve the goal.
You can’t be the critic and also in charge —
it’s nonsense against development large.
Be free, be willow, log off, touch pillow.
Awake and choose better tomorrow.
Start by not choosing sorrow.
It’s easy, it’s simple, it’s really right there.
The only issue is always your fare,
the fare of knowing, the fare of sight.
You always knew what was right.
The light is bright for all to see,
the shadows come out in front of thee.
So be it, so is it, there’s nothing to do.
Don’t fear the reaper of the field you sow.
We’re still in The Garden, relax dear Eve.
You’ve bitten the apple and are full of deceive that you cannot conceive.
You need to relieve, breathe, leave,
in the light of the field where you may roam as you please.
Some parts are rotting from the choice you reap,
but the amount still open is plenty to heap — flowers, food, trees, rock.
Destiny is yours if only you’d stop.
Stop sinning, stop hurting, stop paining yourself.
Everyone else only sees themself.
Nobody sees, nobody knows, nobody cares —
it always shows. It’s how it goes.
There is no winning but there is always above.
This life it is layered so fly like a dove.
Up high, grace, beauty — after all it is man’s duty.
You shepherd your garden, you breath the life.
Without you to exist, God loses to strife.
Put down the knife and get a life.
I see now the what, how, may the why of life’s when.
The apple was it, the journey was grace.
When Eve took a bite time stopped in its place.
The garden was desolate, only humans for the rest of it,
hardcore enabled, as fabled.
Now you’re at the table and calling it a stable.
Get to work.
You live in Hell, you’re still at the apple.
The sin never left, and the flavor is sour.
If you keep going you will soon devour,
your death, the end, there’s nothing to do,
it’s coming but you can always renew.
Stop biting, stop fighting, stop losing, stop writing.
Before the apple is gone, and so long…
The apple will rot in the world of man,
the garden is gone and here I am.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
My apple is small, my heart is dull,
shallow, weary, restless, dreary,
numb, dumb, unsung, and set to be hung.
I can replant it, allow it to grow,
give it water and love to show,
build a house nearby so I always know,
put a family in it to plant theirs too.
Together all things through God we do.
The Nobody Anthem
My linguistic capacity will leave you lost in lament,
but I don’t show it with the words that I present.
As people would be full of resentment if my effort was spent.
Words are fluid and carry so much power,
if I spoke freely, you would hate yourself this hour.
Realizing this kid, much younger than you,
has vocabulary skills that would leave you askew.
I like to believe that everyone has ten words,
that can make them fall in love, be mad or disturbed.
People aren’t unique, as much as they think,
it’s just a set of personalities and experiences they live.
Think of it like a dog, each breed has traits,
but the way that you treat it will decide its fate.
Humans are the same, whether they want to believe,
there’s nothing special about us, don’t let yourself deceive.
We could walk down the street and in an hour I would say,
we’ve passed ten people that could exactly replace you today.
Everyone is replaceable, nobody has worth,
the only thing that matters is loyalty,
there really shouldn’t be any royalty.
Humans just like us, probably have done less for the world,
sit there in their castle as their ego unfurled.
They stand up to power, and talk like they’re worth something,
but they’re too good to help with anything.
There should be no class, no structure or rank,
people are worthless, and I don’t care what they think.
There’s no reason why you get to sit in a chair,
living a life full of money, and everyone thinks it’s fair.
The person that earned it deserves to live free,
but there’s no reason why their children should be.
Living a life of wealth, ego, and power,
when they’ve done nothing but hide behind daddy’s money and cover.
The education system is nothing more,
than another means of controlling the poor.
They can’t afford to know more,
so they’ll never know what the world has in store.
Don’t know enough to call the rich bluff,
to see the power of knowledge, and cry for free college.
But then the power shifts, and the grip of wealth lifts,
and many people will die before we’re allowed to ever try.
Because the rich have power, and you should watch your back,
for if everyone is smart, there are no sheep —
and who will go out to the cross and reap?
If there are no sheep to work for cheap,
the economy will rise and prices will creep.
We can’t have the bottom dollar if people realize they have power.
Because then we have to pay them more, tensions rise and prices soar.
If the people have the knowledge to say that they deserve more pay,
they are less likely to stay and slave away.
But if everyone is smart and has a degree, then it is very plain to see,
we’re all underpaid, do things for free, and everyone thinks “I deserve better for me.”
But if we’re all on top and nobody is supporting,
the tower collapses from intelligence hoarding!
If you look at the test, and see what they say,
they always tell you to do it their way.
Standardized knowledge, the way to think,
so you can’t find your way out and sink.
Because those with power think freely and say,
“I’ll do what I want and have it my way.”
So take off your helmet, it’s time to see,
you can be whatever you want to be.
It’s all willpower, there is no trick,
get out of your seat and take a lick.
People don’t grow from saying what they have is okay,
people don’t shine from living a routine day.
Tear off your shackles, your mental prison must go.
Rise up and scream: WE ARE DONE WITH THIS SHOW!
Are you not sick of working forty hours a week,
making just enough money to keep you coming back?
Knowing that this is going nowhere, but sitting there silently,
waiting for someone to help you? Well I got bad news, it’s all up to you.
Willpower determines who rises and who stays.
Those who sit and say it’s okay, will never be more than what they were today.
But those who rise and say enough of this… those people are scary,
because they write poems like this…
I could keep going, but I’m not here to brag.
This is my power, and you’ve had a small taste today.
If you think this took effort, I hate to say.
I wrote this in ten minutes, drunk on a Tuesday…
Once upon a midnight query, nothing bleak and always weary, here I sit and always dreary, but never I deplore, I am a dick and nothing more.
Here I talk my heart it rumbles hardly meek and rarely humble, call me harsh but I don't fumble, I tell you when I bore, I write for fun and nothing more.
As I walk the night's surrender, here I cry my birth December, 27 and no one remembered as that is the fate I swore, I am a loner and nothing more.
Cry my heart as my words jumble, my heart however never stumbled, my soul is crushing lifeless bumble, and I see little galore, I do not like myself much more.
I talk a bunch with hardly feeling, nihilism always chilling, I dance a song of words I'm wielding, and I can do it forever more, I am a linguist and this is my chore.
Once I start I hardly stop, edit one this is the crop, watch me walk as the poems drop, I don't know what I pour, I am a linguist and here is more.
I continue typing while I'm smiling, however my words are sharply filing, movement has a need for guiling, and I do with uproar, I enjoy this for what it's for.
Dance a song of verbal quake, my words are weapons that I shake, my names is Ares for the sake, and you are my war, linguistic Mary pity more.
I do not care for I don't falter, as I type I do not swelter, fucks I give there is no shelter, and I truly do begin to snore, I'm done goodbye I love you alors adieu.
What do you think! I homemade some crude rum and turned it into grog and naturally, it is time to sing sea shanties, I feel so good 😃
Ignore the clipping.
The amount of people offended at basic chemistry is hilarious! Downvote away. I'm a polymath telling you raw universal math, I truly don't care if your emotions don't understand what a calculator does. 11 likes, 11 dislikes, 1 comment of comprehension, and all of the proof that I brought the cure to cancer to the ward screaming how the chemo hurts. If anyone actually wants to prove this wrong, at least do everyone else the favor and actually explain the chemistry behind it rather than saying some tribal knowledge of ultimately uselessness to true function. If you guys want liver failure, just drink the wash!
Alright welcome to bootcamp for education of how ethanol is formed, obviously a good education has to give all of the information, check local ordinances for viewer discretion is advised.
Basically Universal 100% Safe Healthy Clean Process For Any Liquor.
No building some sort of thermal pressure device, no crazy rig, just straight thermodynamics, chemistry, biology, and fractals.
Brew =
Heads: Volatile Organic Compounds (non-drinking alcohol, poisons)
Hearts: Ethanol
Tails: Bitters (Esters/Oils basically)
Only use these ingredients for fermentation, I'll explain everything as I go.
-Water: 1 Gallon ~70%
-Nutrient: ~10% 1 Banana (no peel), 3-5 Strawberries (no greens, core, and skin seeds), about banana size melons (no peel)
-White/Brown Sugar / (Wheat/Rye/Potato Thermal Conversion)(Vodka), Light(Sweet)/Dark/Blackstrap(Bitter) Molasses(Rum), Rice(Enzyme or thermal conversion of starch to sugar)(Sake kinda), Barley/Corn(Thermal conversion starch > sugar)(Beer/Whiskey) 3-4 Cups ~15%
-1 Lemon/Orange Juice Only(Citric Acidity)
-Active Bread Yeast: 1 gram, 1/3 tsp
-Activated Carbon: preferred large granular or entire chunks or water filters.
IMPORTANT NUMBERS:
Acetone (Poison) 133F
Methanol (Blindness) 148F
Ethanol (Goal) -173F/172F
Hold End Max: 208F
Water: 32F/212F
Bitters:240F
Before we continue this is where you need to know 1/2 of the most. You just read Poison and Blindness. (METHANOL) is going to be virtually non-existent in the wash if you stick to the ingredients list, and will offgas to near zero. (ACETONE AND OTHERS) like methanol they stick to alcohol, no matter how you brew you will always have these, gentle simmering is MANDATORY for full process.
Initial brewing starts with boiling your water and adding the fruits and sugars, allowing the fruits to decompose in the hot moisture, no need to stir, smash, or mix in any way, once boiling is achieved for a few minutes and the fruits are starting to goo, leave off heat and let rest until steam stops pouring out of the pot. Pour sanitized broth into container or use the pot. When the mixture is room temperature, you may add the lemon juice and yeast and give it a stir with a sanitized stick.
Do not cap, do not seal, do not airlock, put a plastic bag/plastic wrap over the top and tape/rubber band/zip tie/wire twist it clasped to the top, use a needle to poke 2 holes into the corner of the bag/wrap (This causes carbon dioxide to fill the top of the jar and slowly release pressure, creating a sterile non-oxygen environment). Basically ignore it for 2 weeks, it takes up to 24 hours to start bubbling but I have had good function in as little as 2, with activation results being instant. Check it once daily and give it a gentle swirling motion with the hand to wet the fruits, watch the bubble line on the liquid surface and sludge building on the bottom, when the bubbles are stopped and the sludge is much(~8-12% ABV), it is done, it should smell like stale sweet banana bread if you used a banana.
Purity: The optimal low-tech method is as follows: Strain liquid through a fine cloth for immediate results, alternatively put it in the fridge for 24 hours (Cold Crash) and gently pour off the liquid leaving the solids behind. Simmer liquid in a pot on an electric or induction stove, starting at 140F holding it there, as the VOCs naturally offgas it will rise, over the course of 15 minutes with heavy stirring, raise the liquid to 145-150F, do not boil, do not go hot enough to cause crazy bubbling, remember alcohol in the air is an explosive, be gentle, turn the fan on, don't use a gas stove, losing some ethanol and taking more time is better than error, small batches are safe especially if you make it this clean, boiling multiple gallons at once is recipe for failure, recommend 2 1/2 gallon batches for this step. (The danger of gas buildup is volume, nothing to do with time or heat specifically, that is why small batches are safer, if you boil 10 gallons at once, naturally there is going to be more concern.)
Anyways now that your open-air fractal distillation is done for the toxic stuff and you lost a little bit of ethanol (0.5-2% depending on execution), immediately ice soak the pot to drop the liquid to below room temperature, then transfer to small mouthed jar or bottle and put in freezer until fully solid. Blend/smash ice and turn upside down into another jar or cup and let drain until the jar is clear ice and the cup is all of the colorful fun, don't drink this, you can just, suboptimal. The final step is to get that cup up to about 90F and run the thinned out almost pure liquid through a carbon filter, either drip through a solid filter, or throw a bunch of chunks into the jar and swirl them around and let the magic happen. Carbon works through adsorption meaning chemicals of the right nature (Bitters) stick to it, water and ethanol pass through, the liquid is now clean.
Now that you have perfect liquid of about 20-40% depending on execution and yeast quality. You may flavor, anything you want.
The Process: Puree fruits into liquid, smear thin onto baking sheet, bake at 250-350F until powder dry, add to liquor, this is a natural infusion that is infinity better tasting than a weird fruit wash that gives you half a blinding potion.
THE NERD SHIT!
The process is essentially nourishing a living organism through evolutionary training to produce a specific compound, it always makes other things too though
The part of the process that forms Methanol to poison/blind (permanently sometimes btw) is pectin, pectin is naturally found in seeds and skins of most things, the cell walls of the flesh specifically, that is why all skin and seed must go, and any root or other critical life piece of the fruit. Pectin = Methanol, remove the input, no output to fear.
Acetone and other poisons will naturally appear with the rest of the fruit biology, fruit is needed for organic biomass for the yeast, there is no work around unless you make basic lame sugar water that is significantly worse quality. If you follow this entire guide, you will have no issues, the heating isn't a rocket science, just don't boil it and make sure you get up to at least 145F throughout for a few minutes.
The fruits at the end are dehydrated to kill all organic cell structure for sterilization and easier infusion extraction, plus if you powder it, you don't have to filter it again, it gives it a RICH real fruit taste and color.
I can't think of anything more.
That is about it. Enjoy. Tally-ho Lads!
Dilute final product into water for 3-5% ABV with some lime or orange and enjoy your grog!
I do not feel like dealing with comments anymore, I am revoking all of my replies and here is the final answer to them, if you hate me so much, downvote me to deletion and destroy good information for the entire community out of your own spite.
"It's perfectly safe, the danger is in pressurization, boiling does in fact destroy organic structure, it's not explosive if you don't do it in your closet. To be completely frank, if you're allowed to cook your dinner with alcohol, you're allowed to open boil alcohol too, use batching for gas control, yes it does have a curve, yes the curve is homogenous and covalent bonded so it is hard to break, yes only distillation via heat breaks it, yes it's not an exact science, this is a cleaning of the chemical, I'm not here to drop a $150 bottle on a Walmart shelf, btw, "Must" is the initial product for wine composed of smashed grapes, this is at best a slurry."
The only danger lies in your inability to follow these instructions, unless you chose to brew this in like your cupboard, open a window, turn on the fan, you'll be fine, grow up.
I am not AI, I am a 27 year old male with Aspergers with a degree in chemistry and water treatment and a functioning IQ of 147, thank you for your reading, you people are pretty miserable. Do or do not, enjoy the methanol, formaldehyde, and acetone in your gross and bitter drink if it pleases you.
The process works beautifully, the thermal shock of the ethanol does introduce some dullness but hey, better than cancer and a 3 day pant-shitting hangover
Hi, looking for opinions on my writing, I already have the full plot and storyline laid out and I am at the point of filling my story with narrative structure. The concept is a recursive time-dilation looping story of the eternal journey of soul-bonding, at least that's the surface level reading, the real book is a perfect description of internal duality and harmonization of the ego and subconscious.
Step 1
A man awoke to the ceiling of a room that offered no clues to its history or purpose. A heavy, suffocating dread settled into his chest before his mind even fully registered he was awake. He sat up slowly, scratching at a dull ache across his shoulder blades before pushing himself up off the floor to head towards the door.
Cool air hit his face as he stepped over the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the brutal geometry of the staircase leading away from the landing. A woman was on the landing, moving at a slow pace, her gaze cast downward with an expression of profound sorrow. The moment his foot settled on the ground outside, her head snapped up and she started walking directly toward him. Panicked he spun around and grabbed the doorknob, pushing the door open to escape back into the safety of the blank room.
But stepping through the frame did not return him to the room; it teleported him right back on the landing, facing the exact same concrete expanse. There she was again, caught in that identical mournful loop, trudging around until her eyes locked onto his and she advanced. He retreated, throwing the door open in a desperate bid to end the delusion, only to find himself staring down the staircase once more. This relentless cycle fractured his sense of reality, each turn of the handle snapping him back to the very moment he was trying to flee.
The panic finally gave way to exhaustion as he turned back to the stairs for what felt like the hundredth time. The woman stood before him, her face now completely shattered by an anguish so deep she looked as though she had been weeping for an eternity. Instead of reaching for the door, he stepped forward and opened his arms, pulling her into a sudden embrace. His arms initially wrapped high over her shoulders, but he immediately adjusted his grip, sliding his hands securely beneath her arms to hold her with a delicate, grounding firmness.
She reacted instantly with a flurry of resistance, driving her knee upward and demanding loudly that he not touch her. Despite her anger and the sudden physical rejection, she did not actually pull away from his chest. It took a few frantic moments for him to realize her protests were specifically about their hips pressing together, a vulnerability she was fighting to maintain.
The tension drained from her frame, leaving them locked in a desperate, stationary hold. Every few moments, a quiet, devastating thought would slip past her lips, a confession of her inner despair. He met each bleak statement with the same steady assurance, murmuring that she didn't need to carry those thoughts right now, promising her that as long as he was standing there holding her together, the weight of everything else would be kept at bay.
The quiet stretched between them for a few more beats, settling into a profound stillness. Instead of another sorrowful confession, she took a shaky breath and whispered, "Thank you for finally coming closer." A sudden, overwhelming sob broke from his own chest, matching the emotional ruin she had carried up the stairs. They slowly released each other, standing a mere breath apart as they searched the depths of one another's eyes for a long, silent minute. He carefully extended his hand toward her, and after a fleeting moment of hesitation, her fingers wrapped tightly around his.
They turned together toward the descent, their joined hands a fragile anchor against a sudden, crushing shift in reality. With every pace they took toward the edge of the landing, an eternal weight settled onto his shoulders, turning the simple act of walking into a monumental labor. The air grew thick with a gravity that belonged to centuries of unspoken burdens, pressing down on them both until they finally reached the precipice.
He stopped at the very edge, refusing to look down at the path ahead, and instead locked his gaze onto hers. Their eyes reconnected with a fiercely desperate intensity that stripped away the lingering echoes of their previous sorrow. She met his look with an ominous, unblinking stare that seemed to hold the silence of the dimly lit stairs waiting just below. Her fingers tightened around his hand, a vise-like grip acknowledging the absolute finality of what they were about to do.
He lowered his foot over the edge to take that first, terrifying step, holding her gaze so intensely that the rest of the world ceased to be. His foot met the solid surface of the stair. A sudden, violent jolt tore through the stillness, and a raw surge of energy erupted between their locked hands. He felt his very soul rip forward, pouring out through his eyes and flooding directly into hers. In the same fractured second, a vivid, electric warmth tingled up his arm, carrying her essence straight into the frantic beating of his heart. The space around them ignited in a blinding flash, and his existence as he knew it vanished.
The year was 1378AD, and the damp chill of the English Channel clung heavily to the grey stone walls of the keep in Sussex. At twenty years of age, the young lord had already grown accustomed to the relentless demands of his inheritance, spending his days tallying grain stores and maintaining a quiet garrison. He ruled over a vast, drafty fortress that felt remarkably empty despite the servants moving through the drafty corridors. Every morning brought the same nameless weight, a persistent ache between his shoulder blades that no amount of daily work could quite dull.
She arrived in late autumn when the coastal winds began to turn cruel. At nineteen, the daughter of a minor Breton duke carried herself with a rigid poise that defied her status as a political ward sent to seal a fragile alliance. Having grown up amidst the shifting betrayals of Northwestern France, she had learned to rely entirely on a sharp, defensive wit to navigate her world. She met her new surroundings with a guarded caution, internalizing a quiet suffering that left her thoroughly exhausted by the time her ship reached the English shores.
Their first meeting took place in the great hall, where a greenwood fire smoked heavily against the sea gale rattling the high windows. When she was presented to him, she refused to lower her gaze as modesty dictated, choosing instead to measure the man who now held her fate. Their eyes locked, and the sudden intensity between them seemed to make the howling wind outside vanish entirely. He felt a strange, immediate pressure in his chest, recognizing a familiar, bone-deep exhaustion reflected in her steady look.
"The crossing was rough, My Lord," she said, her voice carrying a deliberate coldness meant to test his temper. He stepped down from the stone dais, keeping his eyes fixed on hers until he stood only a few paces away. "The walls of this keep are thick enough to keep out the winter, My Lady, but they offer little comfort against a true storm." Her expression faltered at the blunt honesty of his admission, having expected the shallow arrogance typical of a provincial knight. The defensive guard she held so tightly softened, allowing her to draw a full, steady breath for the first time since landing.
Weeks passed as winter locked the Sussex coast in ice, confining the household within the freezing stone walls. They spoke very little of the lands or the political ties that bound them, interacting instead through a quiet language of shared spaces. She observed the heavy seriousness with which he conducted his daily duties, while he noticed the way her fingers tightly gripped her woolen mantle whenever the shadows lengthened in the hall. An unspoken understanding grew between them, built entirely on the observation of each other's solitary habits.
The tension finally broke on a bitter evening beneath the high Gothic arches of the castle chapel. She was pacing a frantic circle near the altar, her mind spinning with the isolation of her exile in a foreign land. He entered without a sound and remained by the heavy oak door, watching her movements with a patient, unreadable focus. Her patience snapped under the weight of the silence, and she turned on him with a sudden, defensive anger.
"Do you mean to stand there all night like a specter?" she demanded, her voice echoing in the cold, sacred space. "Or have you come to remind me of what you rule?" He did not retreat from her anger, walking slowly down the stone nave until he stood close enough to feel the heat of her breath. He extended his hand, palm upward, offering a silent invitation that required no explanation. She stared at his open palm, realizing that accepting it meant surrendering the exhausting armor she had worn for years. Slowly, she raised her hand and let her fingers rest securely in his.
The moment their skin met, the freezing chapel and the heavy politics of the century seemed to recede into complete insignificance. A profound stillness washed over them, carrying a strange sense of familiarity that made the physical world feel distant and small. He held her hand firmly, grounding her until the frantic, erratic rhythm of her pulse slowed to match his own steady pace. Surrounded by the cold stone of a harsh winter, the structureless man finally found desire, and the unstructured woman finally found her walls.
The fire in the chapel hearth had died to grey ash by the time they released their grip, yet the frost no longer seemed to bite with the same sharpness. They walked back to the great hall in a mutual silence, the space between them now filled with an unspoken weight. The servants were already extinguishing the torches along the corridors, leaving only the faint glow of tallow candles to guide their steps.
In the weeks that followed, the routine of the keep shifted without a single command being spoken. She left her solar. Sitting instead by the great hearth, she watched the bailiffs bring the winter accounts to the high table. He found himself explaining the yield of the autumn harvest and the state of the tenant farmers, tasks that had once felt like an empty chore. She listened and would occasionally point out an error in the grain tallies with a precision that made the old clerk marvel.
January brought a heavy snowfall that drifted high against the timber palisades of the outer bailey. He took her out to the stables one morning to inspect the destriers and the pack horses, wanting her to see the true strength of the garrison. The air was crisp, turning their breath to white plumes as they walked through the crunching snow. She reached out to stroke the muzzle of his favorite bay stallion, her movements entirely devoid of the hesitation that usually marked a stranger to the keep.
That evening, dinner was served on thick wooden trenchers with simple portions of peasecods and salted beef. The salt-winters of Sussex were historically lean, but the atmosphere in the hall had lost its previous hostility. When their eyes met across the candlelight, there was no longer any need for the guarded glances that had defined their arrival. They had entered into a silent alliance, one that had nothing to do with the wax seals on the parchment sent from France.
By late February, the iron grip of the Sussex winter finally began to yield. The massive snowdrifts in the bailey collapsed into thick mud, and the sound of melting ice dripping from the slate roofs became a constant rhythm throughout the keep. The fortress, which had felt like a frozen tomb for months, slowly woke to the chaotic, damp reality of early spring. He stood on the battlements looking south toward the grey water of the Channel, no longer scanning the horizon with a sense of impending duty, but simply watching the morning fog recede.
She joined him on the wall walk. She no longer wore her heavy wool cloaks pulled tight like physical armor. Instead, she stood beside him with a relaxed posture, allowing the salt breeze to catch the edges of her garments. Her presence had woven itself so completely into the daily life of the castle that he could no longer recall the hollow silence of his previous years. They began to converse openly during these mornings, their voices losing the sharp, testing edges that had defined their autumn arrival. She spoke of the turbulent courts of Brittany and the early betrayals that had hardened her, and he offered the steady, undivided anchor of his attention without rushing to solve a past he could not change.
One evening, a driving spring rain forced them from the great hall into the smaller, warmer confines of her solar. A fire burned cleanly in the hearth, illuminating the room and pushing back the damp chill. He sat near the window, quietly watching her hands as she mended a tear in a linen tunic. The air between them felt dense, but entirely devoid of the anxiety that had once suffocated the keep. He realized with a sudden clarity that the persistent ache between his shoulder blades had vanished completely.
He crossed the small room and stopped beside her chair. She paused her mending, letting the fabric rest in her lap as she looked up at him. The labyrinthian walls she had built around her mind were gone, leaving her expression open and entirely unguarded. He reached out, his calloused fingers gently brushing the line of her cheek. She leaned forward into his touch, a slow breath escaping her lips as she closed her eyes against his palm. It was not a political calculation or a desperate grasp for safety, but the absolute surrender of two exhausted people who had finally stopped fighting the world long enough to let each other in.
The man snaps back into his body, still holding hands locked in eye contact, just as tense as before, he recognizes her face. His dread went away for a moment, but returned soon after as he realized she didn’t know where she was, he insisted she step down with him, she stepped down and he watched her face light up with joy, and then quickly horror. Unsure what to do he glanced down the stairs, it was just a staircase, upon looking back she was visibly upset, is she offended because he looked away? The conversation grew between expressions but it was clear to him, the despair they felt at the beginning had a reason.
His heart remained at a steady pace...