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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tripper
1998-06-27
it's all taken care of here comes the summer bonus messing round with the accounts black mail yourself here comes the heavy metal hand burgers made of vegetables by robots pace freaking me out fix me an arm dose every morning i wake up and i take my medication and then i wait the rest of the morning for my kamikaze like strikes preemption and psychiatric cuts breaks beats and peaces underneath there is the light meet the hero he plays lego with the soldiers's egos model for your generation world cups like coffee mugs on the morning after bad hair day all week long and you tell me i can ask her to come allong hail cesar i used to be a citizen self named fashion victim tri repetae clipper jobs blow mud overandom operator new opportunities for me aka fractal boy meets the euclidian geometry vocal samples hijack the wallspace trace your colour blood rushing in veassels cells medals

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.