You dwellers of random keywords, led by cobalt stem cells from Dr Benway, gazing at trip-hop and dark train surroundings, you've reached the station where Stéphane Roux once was. There's an hotel-motel, sequels, victims and pixels escalate in thousand unities. It's about nihilism and the lack of it inflitrated in my free online book, The not-being. Millions of pixels are some sort of visual blog that may be title The not-seeing, in the end. Welcome to Islam Inc.Vous, chasseurs de mots-clés aléatoires, attisés par l'odeur des cellules souches couleur cobalt du Dr Benway, écoutant du trip-hop sur les larges avenues, vous avez atteint la station où était Stéphane Roux. Il y a un hotel-motel, des restes, beaucoup de déchets et de victimes, des pixels et des mots par milliers. On parle nihilisme et son absence, ab sens, le non-être. Un journal visuel ou pas grand chose de plus de ce qui restera sur terre de lui. Bienvenu à Islam Inc.
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resigns
2005-08-06
ReSigns Don't know how to build stable homes, making them bones. Abilify is inside of me and the corporate jihad first weeks turn out to be pretty cool (CSS, XSLT and Perl) but i doesn't pays off as much as expected. Anyhow, living with my parents, it'm Carter likewise on the salary. Stunts will be performed on the outside. I got news from an old victim through a master. Tonight can't I sleep. Friday work, no good, no bueno, decoy. I've got a blog somewhere. Faster than me. Obvious. No pasaran. Long time no write. So long Solian. I get hard kicks on channel twenty one. The riots and the code Jihad kept me busy. I'll trace you from my mandriva shuttle, listening to my random shuffle. The right mood and attitude, they are switching numbers and the pragma decays. Ask your father about the torrents. Sometimes i feel like i don't know, later i hope i'd rather get caught. The season has changed but it didn't hurt me. I mean you harm but my brothers have the weapons. One too many nights and a billion bytes behind. Who has eaten all the slimfasts ? In the attic was i alone ? Wasted on weed, lost in static, blinded by the blank lights, soaked down by flu, i should have reached out for us. I'll shine your path, cook you transports; I'll be just another prophet slave. Tuck you in. Puananis in the crowd, crows and angels. Mo' dust. Dot sa contacts but they are looking for relief or porn. I can relate to my nefew's lust for violence. It feels brown tonight. I require more depth from me. Collateral is surface. I saw Jesus and Queens on stage under the names of Devendra B and Coco Rosie. Divan du monde, aka couch of the world. Too much ham. I don't forgive sinners but I'll forget to suck their wifes. He'll never strike that accurate. I cheated and i won. Saïd Cantona knows the books of revelations by the index. I let the keyboard do the talking. You can call me an officer. I wear a different dress. In the corner, in the attic, in transports, always the same. Inject, inspect, pay no respect. I was on speed and she had a baby and beautiful hair. This is how we do it, Place de Clichy style. Carter Nixon, bangs the door of the bogs, gave me a kiss. I grabbed the signal off the wire, unplugged. This is so much more hardcore than the kernell i expected. Redemption came on the hidden train tracks, when i wished i could love him; won't you give me a porn break. Koreans are such nice chicks. We never were that close, the bus 80 model, she smiled at me yesterday. I feel a lot closer to the end. Pay no respect but have mercy on me. The lights came on in the middle of the night. Twice. She was blond this time around, still from the Opera. Funky Skunk. Blessings and redemptions. The DOM grows on me, I'll end up loving javascript but there's no XPath. This guy turns Doc() into variable, he must be bold, i lust for his brains. Marja came in the middle of the night and she was on crack despite her religion. We have this commitment to the Jihad and i'm on the hard line. J.C. used to walk the line and i thought it was cocaine. I felt for sugar kane, candy pop. The ocean is hers. There's nothing legal out there. I loved her and masturbate after her before any word. I smoke too much but it comes free with the metal gear i import. Upgradded Scott to higher ram. This is december. I tried to explain but not to justify. She ask me for lunch. I prefer programming. I feel so fake. Somebody cares but i don't get what i want. I'd rather sleep blank but i wake up in front of a computer waiting for me to hit the keyboard. Who's gonna ride my sad donkey and who's gonna cry on my grave ? I'm getting old faster than i am growing sad. If i wanted to loose weight, i'd get rid of the useless and cut my dick. Chicken supernova. I'll have time later this week and i'll invest that in the code Jihad. No more shall we not. They all have egos. They talk about themselves so often i don't know what to do. I'd rather write about myself and let it be on demand. My mother was less talkative about herself before her operation. Maria barely talks about her. Lyla is in an ego trip. I should get back to playing lego. Blinded was I. I wanted to ask her out but felt this sole idea would be an insult to her magic karma. Marie lives in a fobidden world to us, the underclass code mujaidhins. A machine took yet another picture of me and yet do i look much older. My number has been called. She won't love me anyway. The fact is, there are other possibles but the prophet only has one shrine. A programming muslim must keep away for this sofisticated and educated social appartus. The proletarians on crack in situ. We carry the weight of the sins of the occidental world and yet have we to encounter signs, get ammo or a tragic path to the final transport. Who's gonna ride the golden ladder ? Who's gonna mourn our heroes ? Libraries gave us power, then work came and gave us powder. The computers are the lethal means of this new jihad. Rest in peace, i'll be dead just before the Time comes.

The beat goes on and on but one question remains : :
Where am I ?

It's another fate, to conclude off the date,
The resistance of solitude, the wrong and the good.
Memories fade as the static elastic went spastic.
No good, no bueno, hustling myself.

Past the grace of the conjunction of tastes,
Junctions of the flesh, minimal windows of love,
There was a sign in the logs, and I wanted signals.
Brace yourself, mercy on demand. Shades.

Sunday, I'm not staring at the clock,
Mundane circumstances of the healing block,
I desire your being more than my tiny fare.
If the taste lasts, you let me go. Ever. Parted.

If there's fiction in my friction spell,
And the template of my temple remains,
There's a monolith I can tell, and use on the chains.
Be grave in that case. Collapse. Endure.

Nonetheless if be it, I'd rather enjoy the silence,
The rest of the peaceful soldier, the endgame,
The misfortune of the card, driving sane stances.
To heal might kill. Move on. Segments.

Judges jokes aside, if options off the fence reside,
The bliss of armageddon, my visions of dumbo's fate,
The axis you can't name, and the trade of the fabric.
Behold the one, unique. Long attractor.

Your boomerang of clay, at the pace of a slug,
Makes me wish and pray for something I can't cope with, the bug.
Morning came over from afar, and spores were magnetic. 
Who gave up ? Niñeto, the thief. Benway, the kiff ? I, the kiss.

I rang truce, I trowed the candle, I rejoice when relapsed. Simple.
In deed while alive, in still dreams of realization, I conquer and reckon.
This is the whisper. This is the voice to sing along. This is now.
The tormentor's bar has come to a closure. I'll be fine until then.

Sharp as your concept is, from the hoods of Bellinzona,
Through the tides of Ullapool, I remember the pace. 
In the echoes of Berwick the rhythm was with me.
The beat goes on. Endless. Inside.

When white is not enough, as the blank void attracts,
The obvious accretion of psychic delusions ends.
As naked goes the blade, the fear of flying strikes.
Addiction to dirt stones. Hardcore. Mental.

Gauges from the cyclic illusion of tears space,
We enter a zone of cryptic role playing habits.
Justice animates soul delivers, the rest is history.
I blame the ink. Partial. Unwilling to spare me.

Earlier, passenger to the sight of unused hues,
It trigger my fear with delays and frequencies.
Sea of sand, sky of remorse : I aim at the horizon.
There's no cheating. Division. Complex.

That's sums of it up so far, but the remains of the other side are there,
Patiently waiting in the shadows, as the eggs of civilians in Babylon.
As a shot of substance, in the acid room of us. Deprecated.
I resign to commit the delta. I refuse the punishment.

When doctors fight the disease, I dig the mine for metal,
As for the spice is strong, so that it awakes you at night.
Bring the noise, fill the shelter, feed the creature.
Process the flesh. Make it deviant. Breathless.

Here we are, in the room of seven seals, between the blue walls.
Reverb is calculated to match, but the attachment is sadly real.
Above the christ i used to be, lies a sinister gradient operator.
He decides who to free and how to blame. Uncertainty.

World of her, words of slipping pages in the wind. Terrace.
Long before ashes of logs, I had to figure out the curves.
Instantly I fire the right path, between the arms in the valley.
So low goes the quest, undecipherable as it seems, I went with the lyrics.

Coast to coast, host to post, he knew the trade of her game.
The letter arrived lately. I forgot the address and the name blurs.
Then, in a fashion of defiance, in a storm of dust, kingdom came.
It becomes obvious by now that it's a moth case. No losers. Even. Odds.

As the eunuch I impersonate there, chances are you'll dismiss and and pass me by.
That's when the sex turns true. That's when there's no money left for the taxi.
That's today and now, on the same cosmos. Naked. Silent. Honest.
She spells the alphabet on a string of DNA. There no hiding. Facade. Closure.

"Answer the flowers I laid on the carpet", replied the inner voice.
You assume too much and presume telepathy. I'm used to the scent.
We've been there, the storm strikes so loud, I can't here the rain.
That's the ecstasy of the situation. Nothing to do. Static station sound.
 
Oh, I miss you as the bird outside it's cage is free. Silver frequencies. Stripes.
Tease the gospel chord, strum the lines of magnitude. Again, and again.
If sail away in the meantime, I drift again from the bench at the belvedere.
In the interstices between the shifts, the unions trade latency for hope.

I remember ages of slept decay, of endless tribulations amongst the said and the told.
I deny. I bet on the wrong horses and poorly choose the color of my shirt. That's me.
Then again it's part of the process to handle and to cope with. Straight.
Don't pretend to escalate and be able to handle or you don't know me. And yourself.

That's the view of the sky over the dream, the pleasant dialogue of the deaf.
Paint it in a different color if you care. Come clean. Alone. The act forward.
The treat of the players before the cost of sweat. That's the aimless paradigm.
I have my load of questions and my greed to share is tense but restricted.