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Metatron In the beginning was the Light. This was the Light which is called the Alpha Singularity. It is the Light which shineth into the darkness; though the darkness comprehendeth It not. It is the Light which cameth unto the world, though the world receiveth It not. Since the world recieveth It not, it will be made obscure, and will remain so for a short time.
Again in the beginning, there was the one, and the one was with the Light, and was with the Heart of J, though the one was not as the Light, but was as the only one which was made.
This is the one which was called the Metatron, and by the Greeks: dēmiourgos. And by the Skeptics: Zebra.
The earth was void and empty, and the one saw it, and the one saw the Darkness, and comprehendeth it's source, for it was made aware by the Light, and by the Heart of J. But the one could not see through the Darkness, nor could it
Alone 02 Adam reflected on how much better things were in the world a month ago. Or a year ago. Whenever it was. There was no progress in time for him, anymore. In his ruined world, there was no longer even night and day; just pale red skies, which rarely even changed. Other than the clouds moving a seemingly insignificant amount, that is. They didn't move as fast as they used to, that was for sure.
Of course, he figured that his life -like that of everyone in the world- would have taken on qualities like this, as he grew older, anyway. One by one, the people you knew would either mentally ort physically abandon you, and you would live out the rest of your life unchanging, despairing, and ultimately alone, desperately hoping for some new enlightening flash of light. He had simply hoped that it would take place in a less literal fashion. One that took longer, and was more easily ignored, like all of life's problems.
Alone 01 Adam awoke with a sudden start.
He couldn't remember where he was, or how he got there, but that wasn't surprising really; his memory had hardly been good in previous days, though for the life of him, he couldn't remember if he was supposed to remember why.
He had been in the water drowning, last he knew. From the rocking of the small room he found himself in, presumably he was in a boat of some kind; hopefully one that had come to rescue him. Either that, or his headache was making him think the room was moving. Either was as likely. He tried to get up, but he found that his limbs were all weak, probably from his recent near-death experience. It's always a bother when things like that happen. All your favorite body parts always crap out on your right when you need them the most.
Determined not to go back to sleep, for the odd case that he had been captured by pirates
Something from when I was sixBunker man and Harry VS the floating eye of golf and the floating eye of debt
it was a dark and not stormy night
a person named harry was golfing and he was about to get a hole in one
when all of the sudden an eye came and wapped the ball back to him.the people were
all standing looking when 50 mini eyes with hands grabbed them all and flyed away
but harry in 68.71 ft. off the ground wapped the eyes and fell
he made it too the pond before he hit the ground he fell in the water but he
was not cold the water was 79 degrees he got out and went to a back alley
and put up a tent and went to sleep.next morning he got up and got out of the tent and d d
next to his tent was another tent and someone came out who was in cargo pants
a granite and black colored shirt and a green vest and said did you see that eye
last night and harry said yes and ther
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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