u/dpsrush

A space to slip in undetected.

A wonderful moment of ease.

Killers craving peace.

What's the difference between someone who died and someone who moved on?

salt of the earth.

Why do people stay sober?

Why does someone who have tasted the fruit, but now denies it?

We all die for stupid reasons, but some are funnier than others.

I heard y'all killed man for telling the truth.

What would you do to someone who tells a joke?

An eunuch's sex life.

High on intuitive freedom, spreading wings.

I was once asked, "why don't you think before you act?"

I said because it doesn't help.

Besides, thinking is addictive, and death awaits all addictions.

If the real addiction is for death, what's your preferred poison?

I've heard this saying about person's cultivation.

In the first year of starting the path, God is right in front of you. On the second year, God is placed on the altar. By the third year, God is in the temple, locked from the outside.

I will give you flowers, praises, and a tenth of what I earn, as long as you do not come out.

Aristotle once said that, love is what makes two into one. Something keeps me here, but my doubt keeps me at a distance.

A spiral that gradually distance him, pushing for escape velocity. Too bright, too hot, too good.

When they told me to jump, I didn't believe them. Now I practice jumping on command daily. As if an exercise will help in that moment.

Father, what prepares one for the end?

Preferably something that takes forever.

I'd rather just be gay and get it over with.

Seriously, how did you convince someone they are God?

What was he revealed to, before he chose to reveal himself?

Why so secretive?

For a singer, life is a song to be written down.

Imagine if you could capture the universe in this very moment. A magic camera that turns what there is, into a memory. A butterfly spread out in the display case.

And what does the last snapshot of humanity look like?

Like how it began, probably. Love, fear, then a slip into the unknown.

A nice add to the collection.

I've meditated on this phrase many times, but still haven't figured out who they are.

Maybe they are You, maybe they are Me, maybe they are Oneanother. Made up names for made up things.

I once asked aloud, "why does a name matter?"

Now I don't have one to call upon.

God may not be cruel, but he can have a cruel sense of humor.

This one time I said to my teacher, "I think I understand."

"Then you no longer need my instructions." He looked at me and said, "and I'm only here for those in need of my instructions."

To which I answered, "I don't understand."

The only thing I know is to be faithful to my own testimony, the narrative that outlines my being.

Many of today is thrilled with the idea of dismantling it, giddy to pick at the edges.

When the box opens, it is themselves being released into nothingness, and that they will become.

*Insert parts done by *that* guy down here.*

Everything eventually goes back to their creators, much like money.

I need it. I don't know why, but people keep asking me for it, so that must be what I need, to keep doing what I do.

When it was heard, that he forgave those not knowing what they do, I weighed between the forgiveness for everything I've done, or to confess he is right. Like a real Jew.

Everything that had a beginning has had an end, except for this one. This one has no end, because it has no need to end (so unlike me), and it just keeps on going, as long as you go along with it, staying like a true friend. If you want this, I will keep doing it.

But once again, I am asking for money, again I don't know why, but people kill for it, so it must be really fucking good.

Faithful to the words of God, accept my own intelligence, or confess to the testimony of my very life.

Have all three of these converged for you? Or does it still look splayed?

I heard at a crossroad before dawn is where you meet the devil, going to try my luck here. I fear for my fearlessness.

Burying my deepest secret at the center, then draw a circle around it for the monsters to play.

I love you, whoever you are, then I will hate you, and it goes on, milked like a daily dairy.

I can't stop. Make it stop. Please Father.

Things are weird, in love with the words.

The end is here.

But to start:

Hey, name's Phooey, at least that's what they call me around here.

To the woman he said that is your son.

To the man he said that is your mother.

Hmmm...nothing happened.

O well, break's over.