hello where iseeveryone

346 check quest

347 doom guy

348 dragon yes

349 You're not listening, I said "stop," because it's come to be too much. I can't just pile aesthetic-perceptive dilemma, over-analytic demeanors, feelings of loneliness, worthlessness and unproductivity atop the other, allowing each to bleed through their fabricated boundaries and become one more thing to notice me before it's too late and too far away from when I dreamt of explaining to you that you are an everywhere that caused these words I'd somehow type, my fingers, feet and diaphragm all screaming. And as things grew more complicated, conscious expansion cultivated, the books' ideas, songs' polyphony, texture, content danced around me. Unlike all the events staged (the puppeteer'd façade I'd made) this was naturally extraordinary and grabbed me from the ordinary, now perceived reduction theory of where we are.
From afar it made less sense and appeared beauty-less, which I guess is its defense, not that any simple allegory transcends my inability to relate. It's this ability to relate that provides the socially obligatory things that I want to re-learn why we're friends again? I thought you knew.
I can pile one atop the other, it just feels bad. It just feels bad to realize you might hear something in the quietest of nights and that there are two of me and one of them will say "Hannah" way before now.
Placed behind door number 3, I lay (shaking) will he pick me? Don't be alarmed or misinterpret, for it's his anonymity that put me here I should decide whether it's the dopamine or someone hitting "refresh" on my spine al cord is aching as if the earth, like me's, been shaking, shaken up. Door number 3 has opened up and like that the world pounces on the knobs of one and two "if we can't have it all, then why have anything at all?" they chant, their song sending shivers up and down, around my spine al cord is aching as if the earth like me's been shaking, shaken up and out into the place we know will give the verdict: them finding that there's something in the water. But I can't seem to put my glass down maybe because soon I'll be inside, drowning in its confines, pounding on the glass like I were five. I can't remember what it was I felt, or saw, or heard, or touched after hearing the word "hello". Dancing figures, intimate, I know, but, there was more involved that made me believe that there were two of them and only one of me. It gets harder to see them as the water rises. As I criticize it, it's his eye, it...fills the glass, it's all that I could ask for he is drowning in the same room as me and it's the very thing that makes me believe that there are two of him and only one of me. Let me drown amidst my ignorance as if I were asleep
I'm on the phone while I'm driving, take my hand off of these wheels to keep my legs from shaking, moving to the crashing of cymbals, growing into themes, near to "mesmerize", but never right on time. You say that you mean it this time more? Last time turned to nothing, this I'm sure, but I've been wrong before, and how this feels, and how Liz sings "I won't decorate my love" has got me thinking, it's got me dreaming of imaginary times on an imaginary couch listening to imaginary records and with imaginary mouths saying "boy, this is it," "this must be it". Please, can't this just be it.
Night slows me down and puts me off, totter-scatter-blabbering. Sort of funny that you would make a stop-action short, because I sort of (think I) pretend that I'm next to your progressing form as you move from shot to shot, I mean, I'm next to you on the streets of a city that I never really thought I'd move in to, that I never even really saw myself moving in. But now, I'm in the way of this other me that's just trying to say, sort of funny that you're moving on along these streets you happen to now live on.
It's these ideas that waste all my time. It's these ideas that waste all my time.
Okay, so honesty didn't do anything for me once again, but it did the night that I said to Rob that I could not "keep my opinions to myself" for any longer, but that could've just been another one of my blah blah blahs.
Hat of greens shows symmetry. In front of hat, alone, sits me. Fourth day, I don't want, in anyway, to be reliving. It won't be that bad again because this can't amount in comparison. "I should intimidate you as you should intimidate yourself!" Thirty minutes of make-up for all to see but you___are not what I want you to be. (Universal): there, at three a.m. on the first of a year, when it started, I'm not sure, in a jumper, with a bracelet on your right wrist that turns with a golden knob, opening amidst a "dense yellow light, fading to reveal an infinite sky," and "juxtaposed to the accelerating swell of the musical score, pushes its audience to realize just what is ahead, the characters' fear and the physical manifestation of their hopes and dreams coming closer and closer." Kiss me. My dad says things that make me laugh, he meows Tom Petty songs and that is why I stay, unlike running water, I can't run away, there are more here than merely bodies, things without fear of surrounding me, branches to catch me falling, perhaps someone who understands that when I say I'm sad I mean it, that there is no excuse "I need this". What I said about "hat of greens" has led me to see that my superimposition of a face upon a poster on its way, arriving any day, that will accompany me every night in a welcoming of rest, tacked on to the drywall surrounding me will probably return me to this "fading," the sky being a bedroom, "kiss me". "But I don't want to."
Every time I cry about your transience, I replace you with the thought of the growing moon as I climb towards it, tell myself "it's not too late," and rest assured that I won't ever have to care about anyone, because it's too late and with you it gets harder to realize it gets harder. Do ever think about...you promised. I want to die when you're not here, because I'm convinced that everyone else thinks I'm a willy. My ideals fog up my windshield and I crash into the houses they depict in their songs.
I want to be a part of you again, face the crowds and turn back again, rediscover why we're turning___
back away, from a town you say has lost all of its meaning, in a way, I can't see the town I only see frustration, and see a landscape, a blank, raw canvas. And yes, we're all our own co-pilots, in our cockpits made of tin, and when we think about each other we despise the states we're in. I can't tell you that it's better, because I'm, truly, not that sure, but I think that this is better because this way we are sure that we're not happy yet.
Yes, I thought our mouths would meet, or at the very least our eyes___
never even tried, ignoring every bit of light that escaped our minds as if we were asleep.
In the morning I'll be fine.
Let me bathe amidst my ignorance as if I were asleep.
This is my resignation from the s-c-e-n-e. Hating mtv is getting old. I said no once, got stabbed in the back while they said, "relax". In Sweden, they got it right, I guess, but where does that leave me. Leaving. Always leaving, never staying, good thing my feet are still in tact, it's just my hands that are killing me. Killing someone else may make for better poetry, at least that's what they said. But, at this moment, clarity's appeared, and I am gone, off to what I've found more in: the fact I hate the way I talk! Cynics mock all surroundings, I just wish to live with the ones that instead of hating mtv, beat on the floorboards to wake the tenants that they know are not asleep. The way I'm sure we're not asleep: we woke up in the same bed.
This whole "imaginary underground" has got me thinking, got me dreaming___
If we're all our own co-pilots in our cockpits made of tin and as we fall down hills of pavement___
It's time I grew and said to them "it's not what you think it is".
___we analyze the states we're in, why is it that when we sneeze there's a chance we'll die alone___
Alone, that's what I hope I'll want to be when all acquaintance leaves me, because if I don't, who knows, I might just see that no one needs me seeing.
"Just shut up and swallow! Before your last breath, you'll say what's to be said."
Well my last breath breathed/leaked last night as he melted into walls that spoke like the sun to the last man and woman on the earth, "we will both die nice and warm". Warm, is what it is to see his insides on the floor of an abandoned auditorium, singing in polyphony. "Just shut up and swallow!" is what the kid meant when he complained about all of it, the ease of an important procedure and how everyone everywhere was always, mostly often, laying down on him, meeting, crushing killing him, but I bought none of it. This is not universal. Kid is not he who abandoned that auditorium and no, I do not want to become him anymore, but yes, I do want him to become what I believe he once was, my best friend, and stop that he still he is. I don't really think about it that way, no, I don't really ever think about it that way. Well me neither.
I think I'll leave this place now go to summer where the sun won't go down.
I'll gladly leave this place. How wonderful the days would seem away from here.
"Just shut up and swallow!" I thought they all said, so I complained about all of it, but now I think I'll leave this place, now I think I'm the same. Now we're the same.
I want it to be (selfishly) how I want it: one human, read my cue, cue tears, cue the followed dance around it, because then we can scream. I might as well just scream. Emily, you don't have to play. You are not her and he is not me and what I said about Christmas trees made me believe there were two of me and one of them would've said "Hannah" way before now.

350 beginning of the end... like 15 days left yo

352 persone 4

353 PERSONA 2 S TBE FBESYTBHNJG6UT5GNH NT5HGBFRHTFTD5EGH

354 clown

357 everyones afraid of clowns

359 FRAGGLE ROCK ATTENDS THE SWANS IN CONCERT

360 DEEP NIGHT

361 that engineer is a pep

362 END OF DAYS. REVELATION. DAMNATION. KING CRIMSON.

if your the same as you were last year?
then what have you done to grow?

363 boards of canada sucks
*rips my dik off*

364 rep de klep klep klep

365
i wanted to type a big poem for this occasion,
but now its not looking too good.
don't fret for me dearies, i am merely under a shadow.
one year ago i seemed so optimistic
so hopefully.
how so in a year can the mirror bend
and break.
i think i saw a dead house centipede today.
a bad omen perhaps.

you're a fucking idiot