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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romain
2000-00-14
J'ai reçu des messages auxquels je ne sais pas répondre, des mots comme j'en oublie par prescription, rien de grave mais comme une ombre qui planne sous la portance des escales hazardeuses. La clef du réseau est le partage sous couvert des chaînes de production de boîtes, avec du sel pour sanction des traces de pas sur le bitume, motivation absente, je voulais juste essayer d'être poli avec quelqu'un qui n'éprouve rien pour mes contemporains. Je ne peux tout oublier, j'aimerai être un romain tous les jours, sans paradoxes ni faiblesses, un lutteur du nombre, tributaire des directions abstraites, avec un uniforme taché de sang, membre d'une légion. Exposer pour ne pas exploser du temps devant moi et aucune revendication de la part des terrestres donneurs d'ordres. Ne pas faire demain ce que je peux faire tout de suite, comme un romain, je cherche des scénarios terminaux pour les filligrames obscurs des otages au long cours des libérateurs christiques que notre époque réprime par doctrine lors des montages récursifs de dogmes lénifiants. L'autre fois je ne me suis rendu compte de rien mais si Joe avait été là il aurait détecté la petite lumière dans le regard que j'avais cherché dans le spectre minéral de mon unique soirée. Autant le dire maintenant, c'est fractal mais c'est comme cela dans ma tête. Après le troupeau passe la caravanne des checkels imbus de leurs festins usuels comme on en voit partout dans notre désert figuré, réplicants aux sons des vaches d'abondance sous les coups des fachistes. Demain tel que je le visionne quand j'attends le sommeil est près de moi, pour que le hip-hop tienne, hors saison à perpétuité sous les stelles cubiques dont vous ne voulez plus car cela ne vous fait plus rire, déjà hier encore. Pris en glace par le voyeur de service lors des rondes diurnes que l'on regrette parfois car les places sont issues des rouleaux atlantiques. Le culte du jour, ça le fait, du haut des temples qui sont abjects, moi aussi j'ai pêché. Il manque l'essentiel mais les accessoires sont là tels des statues templatives des blessures oisives achetées aux enchères sous un reigne délétaire. Ce matin je suis allé à la poste pour déplacer des fonds, avec une certaine dose de culpabilité et un sentiment court après coup. La digestion des frasques aléatoires signées avec certificat d'éponge sont les tombes cryptiques des soumis et des exclus du casting, alors qu'il y a encore des gens qui ont des relations sexuelles. Le marbre est leur identifiant perspectif, ainsi vont les cloîtres basiques de leurs religions, ils ont ce trait médiéval qui les rends stérils quand on parle de héros intimes et de défis à leur nature.

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.