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 Stphane 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-cls alatoires, attiss par l'odeur des cellules souches couleur cobalt du Dr Benway, coutant du trip-hop sur les larges avenues, vous avez atteint la station o tait Stphane Roux. Il y a un hotel-motel, des restes, beaucoup de dchets et de victimes, des pixels et des mots par milliers. On parle nihilisme et son absence, ab sens, le non-tre. Un journal visuel ou pas grand chose de plus de ce qui restera sur terre de lui. Bienvenu Islam Inc.
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naked feist
2004-11-09
grouphug.us doesn't ease my pain. In spain, Barca smash of the madrid soldiers doesn't ease my pain. It's a monolith, it's taking over me. It's me that i hear in the mirror, it's me that i see on the phone, the opera is my violent shining path to nothing. Mod, Muad'dib, Celia, Vain, Mily and all the ones i insulted by being. I never said it was true. It's just the not-being after all. Moving away, to Chile or somewhere in latin america. It's you on the phone. Lyla was fake. Piotr and Thiago are fatherless. I'll be god. I'll play roles. Zoe will emerge. Listen to the silence, ethernal, internal, it's the keyboard in the dark working alone. Guilt is my enclosure. The sins of the world are mine. Jesus used sins to produce guilt onto others. It's all mine. I need to let you know, i'll be alone at the station, you won't see the dark train and Benway only knows when it'll leave. Next, past the transport, i'll sing, i'll be thin as air, there'll be no music, there'll be no color, there'll be light but no shade and it'll be cold. I'll wait for you on the other side. I won't be safe and sorry. The future is yours, not mine. After the age of wars, beyound the age of terrorism when i was involved. Space is not the place. There's no station, we don't write, Benway is dead, Lyla is gone; It's white and it lasts forever. After the lights go out, Zhivago in Moscow, Benway in Turkey, Stphane in France, Habett on the internet. Back to the station, feeding the beast, you're the reason i write, the not-being. Extended branch brothers, zweiss contratex, post proletarian, fixed income, divulve retard, chance defiant, chrome stats, dweller's fortune, larger pack, null device, the asphalt worlds, later. You knew i was wrong from the start. Sommehow i slept a few hours and let the noise wake me up inside the dark. Thou shall validate your code. Stick to the rules and lay down your body. She had a nice gesture towards me, they all were kind because they are creatures of one God. I am defeated by a daemon. Hell is this infinite white monolith i can almost feel. I was wrong from the start. I stole music from a man who met god and a band who appeal to the soul. No good, no bueno. Destroying myself. There'll be consequences. If i was commited, i would kill myself. The pain is white. The soul is back to ashes. There's no station. Life is just passing by. I thought about and there was none. I thought about mercy but there was no point. I wrote that i hate myself in an berlude but i'm past this station. This may sound like a dark page but really it's just blank white. I've grown up from nihilism because of the monolith. I'm facing questions and give wrong answers. Back to earth i need orders ans directions. White blank and naked feist lead me to social minimalism even though i have too ambitious a status to hold on to. The carnival is over, we lay down the masks. Dark train mutes into white transport. A house doesn't make a home, a church a mansion, a temple a shrine. Infected by cancer of the soul. Mirrors, pings, backups, emrge but it's all white and silent. The melody only leads the action. I have to do it alone but i don't know where the mission comes from. There's no pain nor opera. I woke up blank stoned. Too few valium was my first guess. I could barely open my eyes. I knew the white monilith was there. I could feel it. Dr Benway didn't act with the same magic light he is able to show but gave me a chemical hint to punch me back on track. Johnny Cash had this word about a white horse. He was an old man meeting god before turning to dust. I don't have a culture so i have a blank monolith. It all started when listenning to U2's Sometimes you can't make it on your own. Words emerge and i dived. I can tell the precise day, november the 19th 2004 at about 21h37. When talking to Benway about it i didn't comment about the title and the themes. Couples are not in my namespace. I truly am a computer. I don't belong to the social aware earth inhabitant's kind. The slave paradygm i was holding on to for years was some sort of facade. Capitis deminutio maxima. I am stphane roux, son of Hubert Roux, a wise, smart, straight man. I belong to a large rich french family. I am an end of a line on my own. Dead end. Raised with questions more than answer, i enjoyed so much freedom that i came to the point where i can stand in front of a mirror and say "freedom is not happiness". I got to understand what i said. Benway said that if i trully have entered a real philosophical depression, then there are ways. He was mute but i guess he was aiming at psychotherapy. I don't want to go there. Back at the academy, one told me that was a way i should explore. I already talk too much about me. Nobody reads this pages. I can't use it anymore, it's blank, too white to see, feels like knocking on a monolith. The monolith disolved in a mix of sociality, chemistry and religion.

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 ? Nieto, 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.