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I was trying to update my page, but the settings don't work. I couldn't change backgound color and things like that. I click on the functions but nothing happens. I am using google chrome. It did let me reset everthing..but after that nothing works.

It won't be found on sacred ground

or even in prophetic dreams,

but in the yellowing eyes

 under unpleasant skies,

in a coughing silent scream.

She sluethed herself,

this meeting gone,

and chairs that held no one.

That she knew her all-in-all,

her life indeed,

 had now begun.

I was in the third grade,

when I realized

lies tasted about as good as the real thing.

I would greet my mother with a cheery

"Hello!"

and throw my arms around her.

She would straighten up, go stiff and cold,

and be relieved when I finally let go.

 "I've never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure." — Mark Twain.

CHAPTER TWO


How can I continue? I wait for the great expiration of the spark, that hidden light that races through ourselves. Why does it wait? Without sight I fear the madness. The bright display that are the moving of my hallucinations. The visions my mind provides to fill the void of nothingness. They carry me to places that are not memory or even decent thought. I shake and hold my weak legs to my chest, breath heaving, as the hideous march of depravity splays my mind. I move my feet to end the drifted horror I haven fallen into. The slime of this damp prison makes standing a dangerous venture, still I ever try. Holding my palms upward I rise from a squat and press them to the ceiling. I cannot fully stand as the stone oubliette is far shorter than I. I can feel the roof give slightly, but settle down tight as my strength is not enough to free me. I slide down the sickeningly wet wall to a sitting position once again. I fall to my side and weep.


The others.


Standing between the the great books and tables, several gray coated men with grave looks of serious study, lean forward and suscribe what they see in large open journals with dark scratching quills.

"HERE HERE!" a man calls, as he enters this gashtly palour. "Hasn't there been of this madmans practice? What was banned is now perpetrated upon the very person who persued this immoral blasphemy?"
Looking up from his recording a rather fresh young man replies: "We believe it would be his want." and lowers his head to continue.
"There was good reason to halt himself, and now you will do the same!" the newcomer demanded.
"We shan't..look at the results! See it for yourself! The eyes move! The lips quiver asthough to speak!"
"It is just a hidden reflex, a disembodied frogs leg, that causes it to jerk when a battery is leaded to it. That hideous head HAS NO LIFE! No..if you must have this, then have it with the rest. Place it in a jar and shelve it. Do it now or forever leave this institution."
With that, the newcomer walked and melted through red velvet cloud covering a massive door, the closing of which sounded like the slamming shut of some offensive book.
"He really would have us continue. Perhaps the headmaster is right, this is just horrific play and we have no right or place to indulge in." one of the men replied, setting down his quill.
" Please pass me a new jar, the very most we can do now is to keep his image clear for the gazes of of us who knew him."
The head was removed from it's tray and voltaic wires, batteries that sparked, and slipped gently into the greenish fluid, settling to the bottom of it's now home.
The young man crossed the the room and carefully placed the jar with it's ghastly content next to other human components.


My weeping came to a sudden end as my lungs burned. Struggling to sit, I was caught in the panic of one drowning. I scratched at the walls, slipping time and again as I fought to breathe. I felt a swaying and dizzieness, like a man on the deck of a ship thrown by a gale. I thrashed about in this wet hell, feeling the dark become brighter with each lost second of aire. Is death a sun that blinds but freezes, not burning? I cannot move now as I am bathed by light that causes me to become ridged and seized.

CHAPTER ONE

I had not known the day, hour and place of my imprisonment. Time and area mean nothing. It is as dark as any deep wood, or starless night of no moon. The damp, musty, cold stones of my dwelling were my only scents. The walls dripped of water, seeping in from the deep earth. The taste of which I had become accustomed to. It was all I had to soothe my thirst. The skittering of rodents legs or wormlike insects that crossed myself were the only things to staunch the hunger that burned like hot coals.
I could feel my face and body, and know of harms that the dark place I dwell in, has done to me. It had calloused my legs and back as I sleep on the rough stone floor.
I feel as though I should have some knowledge of who put me here , or why I was thrust in this godless place. Like a dark mask tied tightly around my thoughts, memory was as much a prisoner as I.

I do have memory before this place.

I can see fields and fences, horses, working hard as they plowed and strained at farmers hands. Roadways that I walked, as the occasional motorcar smoked noisely by scaring housewives and animals alike. The sight of inns and public houses, where small throngs of merrymakers could be heard. The beautiful recollection of the yellow light from candles and the warm orange glow of outside lanterns. Why It seems always to be cold, with breezes that smell of downed leaves, a forever fall, puzzles me still.
I believe myself learn-ed, a student at least, moving forth in the area of human science. I remember classes, (did I teach?) with eager faces and tables around some corpse or the occasional severed limb, displayed open and flayed with so many long pins holding them steady. Large jars of organs or the malformed foetus ( of sorry parentage), lined the walls. Books! Yes! Journals to consult of the spectical that lay before us, filled every space not occupied by some disturbing trophy of this horrible theatre. There were winding halls, heavily draped in curtains of deep velvet red, with all the ghastly remains, this could seem to be the cathedral of some ordered, peverse, place of worship. I feel my feet fall heavy on floors of tiled marble, pushing doors of great wieght, I leave this place, breathing in the sweet maple-like aire of autumn.

Now there is only darkness, with my hunger and thirst to read, like the journals of some damnable religion that I cannot dispel or escape from.

I recall the smallest change
the time my heart
became a darkened window.
I could dream of ice cream
that tastes like salt,
or race horses
that run on broken legs.

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