Italics off of Notwist’s 12’s 12 04:28, February 21, 2011 (UTC)

youvesawwork: Stand. Quiet. Moment. Timeless. Ineptitude. Gratitude. Aspiration. Sin. Allegiance. Forever. Mortality. God. Now I know a year has 12 days, as a day passes in that interval between wake and sleep. 12 months: falling asleep once a month? Time only makes it worse today. They tell me I’m wrong, and that all my words are misused, but I know from truth a lie; sometimes more, but usually less, and I know that words do not vanish so easily. I want to vanish away to nowhere for days, but people seem to only vanish away to elsewhere for moments or months. How it felt a week ago differs from a month. It does not know itself in a manner where something can be stated to remain in its accord months later. It does not see that as fault. Life is great as it was yesterday, in the summer, and winter of a year’s past

Since when did 12 minutes piece quite well in the last 12 months whose time is too slow? Am I to die of Death’s major, old age? Or am I to remain Death’s minor, forever unyoung? Some people try to tell me why I made up my mind, but I’d still stick with the first. I’ve cursed the incomplete encyclopedia indices since the day I taught myself to write; but today I must thank them doubly, for now I’ve learned not everything has a name, so that when the reaper passed me clear, I knew who I was. After all my begging to know, it was in that moment when even the ultimate failed to answer me that I knew now why I never knew. A wrinkle in the works; the flow of time maintains its predetermined fate regardless of whatever glitch I fed into the system, so that its currents pass through me well enough to remain in bliss

Time isn’t a machine, despite flocks of clocks who talk like their ticking out their last croaks. You can name the hour, but you can’t name the moment; it could be a day or more, but within a second you’re alone. You care too much for the little things, and then have moments where you don’t care at all. Time is only the measure of how much further machines have pressed entropy in their toil to produce a perpetual motion machine, or at least one that’ll last past the heat death of the universe; not even the universe is a perpetual motion machine. I am not a machine, in so far as I am what powers my vessel, rather than the vessel itself. A sentimental solution, but how could I not be that vessel of thoughts which manifest my consciousness? If it is God which lets me live, that does not mean I am God

Drowned at birth. Born without name. The cold of all names: Who names? God names thin air a spectre salivating to feast upon your soul; breath in the air, but how do you call a thing that eats itself? God names the universal laws that worship him and believe in the objective. The surreal, unnatural, perhaps morbid side of things. No gravity implies no atmosphere implies no life. The universe exists as it does; it needn’t know its bounds. Perhaps I should free myself of what I am bound to. I am not bound. I will not cull. The universe culls while we are us. Make like a gull who doesn’t want to be a gull. But now the crime is done, and each time I fall into this guilt. Unapologetic apologies for such things I’ll resume again. We all have a place in the world, even if the world says otherwise, even if the place is more unknown than Heaven

Heavenly to see you standing there with arms out wider than Heaven. Where will we end up next? Even in the stars we remained such chalked up gluttons who were flattered by the threatening stares of anonymous inner demons. Where have we gone to find ourselves so lost from the world? By what route did we decide that this life was the life? Life is a grand journey, surely, life is grand. Have a grand day. Live grand… The question is flawed, lest we blame this righteous answer which lurks, and shall continue to lurk until the mind is free. An answer was found recently; one which lead to further question. The unknown is waiting knowledge; it’ll be found with time. We must learn to love life more than the meaning of it; my life is like a mathematical equation that’s impossible to solve. Null the wise. The consequences must be understood: life is inconsequential

I cry most about misunderstanding; the source of all dispute, but still, today, I still want to say something words cannot: Ineffable self cannabalism. Living off of yourself. Self sufficient, or self deficient? Defy entropy by denying sleep. Deny truth by refusing to answer what’s the reasoning behind a 12 year old smoking? Oh so much stress? She’s the worst Atlas your world has ever had to bear; too soft to beat hard on now, but too hard to bear until later. She tells time her own. In all these years, she never lifted a finger, but this year she lifts a world. This year has one day, some might call it torture day. The sentiment is that there must be a new day; therefore, I name this day nonpareil, and alias no other name to this day. This year with you feels much too dissected. It hurts and burns, pokes and prods. The inconsistencies of life give quiver to the soul, but it is the persistent enduring of such torments that require purge. It’s when one can say “Torment all around. Don’t leave me alone in what is ours” and be left alone that the prince laughs his charisma aside in exclaiming that he told you so when he told you that nobody loves you when you’re down. 12 years raped by thirty, who cares? The minute I see you, I can’t be angry with you anymore. But it’s alright, so long as they make the good times good

Where did all those good days go? Time doesn’t agree this time. Some year long coma, which upon waking from, still leaves the body restless in a tired mind. I daren’t admit myself more days than I’ve already rambled away. Life is one conversation between you and the factors that make up our world. Where have we gone to be refactored from our world? There’s too many factors, only a couple of prime examples don’t get a clean non repeating duodecimal. Everything repeats. It happens again when I try to sleep, trying to initiate entropy, causes process to only become more efficient? I celebrate one day; all good days are the same day. Disengagement futile. Positive feedback loop on wanting to break from the loop. Where did it start? It’s not panic. You spoke of not having been single since 12 / Perhaps relive being 12 / You want to stop reliving being 12? / I’m still that 12 year old continuing to age / Stop toying with people. We hit the double digits now were this universe so elegant to factor its radix at 12, but I guess we all panic when we’ve got problems to wake up? None of them suffice for the kind of fear one finds in a poorly reared steed being forced to the front line of a lineless army. That was the day I jumped off forever; I’ll never lead again, for I’ll always be lead back to that day with you

You’ll act so tense to assert there is no problem, to cut out of my coma. If ever Death comes for Superman, it won’t be a peaceful rest. If ever Death comes for me, I’ll already be peaceful; I’d gone to bed at eight thinking it 12 and so now I’m up because I got up, not because I’ve got problems to fall asleep, or that I don’t know how to act, or that I’m poisoned with the elixir of life. When did you get better? / Well I started thinking before going to bed, so while I was sleeping– / Really? / Yeah / You’re such an ass. Restlessly I’ll admit: There’s a problem. You’re the problem. I’ll concede to that point, but no further. A point must never cross the line. Lines must stand and cut right from wrong, for the right is too conceited to cut the wrong. I’ll cut out time. Time’s too slow to accomplish anything besides a life once slept. Short sleeps. Between blinks. Am I okay? I’m rocking. American style. I’ll always spell color the American way

Red is the colour of being weak from bleeding. We all bleed the same, but not like me. Weak from trouble. We all get in trouble, but we’re not as held as you. Weak from time. You never explained how such conclusions were made about when time is, so perhaps it only seems to be of rational conclusion. I never catch the timestamps, which is a shame since I started becoming more conservative with what I say after I started to care. You only became more liberal, not knowing this story like I did. Such a shame. Fear of judgement is a hassle. At best. The peak is a singularity, alone to exist in a moment and decay in the next. Much too silly to allow for any moment of grief or regret. Self judgement makes us weaker. Thus that’ll be rid of, if only for something to try. So long as the weak try, they grow stronger. Stronger from the red burns of the sun left as the sundial ticks, too weak to shrug it off. Life is inconsequential, but men lose their fighting spirit when they stop thinking at their own scale. The mind must not overgrow the body, lest the body destroy the mind. They must be joined by yoke; worked until fatigue burdens one to pull the other

White is the colour of being asleep. Red & white: eyeballs. My eyes are open, but only because their lids refuse to close. I don’t understand you because your eyes are not mine. I sleep walk all day; I don’t know who I am, but I know what I’ll die for, for it could be a day or more, but I’ll find the things that tell you exactly what you are. We lock on to the transcendental, but there is no reason to hold onto it. I know what I am, because I know what I am not. To you, there are things I’d like to say, but I’m too tired. What defines identity? As of two nights ago, it’s a hard line to say. You know it; it made sense. It’s not so much something to put belief into as it is an aspect to understand. Identity is orthogonal to existence; to exist is to be declared, to identify is to declare. Nothing defines the identity of something else, it only defines what it identifies the other as. This allows the arguable definition of identity to not have to be so generic as to be consistent across the universe; only within the single system of a mind. What is a mind? Something which identifies. Sentience is only a recursive process, hence the fascination with meta circular thought. Time isn’t a machine because it identifies machines. But people can identify people. So scratch that, I have no idea. I don’t argue it anymore because it just goes in a circle, not even converging down the drain

Drowned at birth. Three product four. I’ll die, for I think I’m done; yet there is no such way to be done. Dozens of possibilities. Too many bakers, not enough friars. Quartet of triplets. Stop content noting structure. That’s the sign that it’s over; that there’s nothing new besides the growth of an old pattern. It’s been proven that all that’ll be left to do is wait for something new when nothing new’s coming. Don’t know? You’ll never know so long as you look for an answer for yourself. There’s only one answer for that which does identify anew: It’s dead. I’m too dead to drown. One wing won’t fly you to heaven when you’re gasping on the last half of your last lung. That gasping lung begs the question of what happens to the mind when one maintains a conversation for 12 hours, for I often spend over 12 hours during weekends. I spent at least 12 dollars worth of groceries with the crisp green twenty the other year. Lately it’s just been conversation between us, though I morph it into some grand adventure of Black & White, two bastardly fellows who make the nonsense call of what price I’ll pay for being so tin strong in my gallant strut showing off how lip stick red is the colour of being weak from seduction; loud audiences clearly believe in money being the answer to a station which would only be bought and sold at a loss. It takes a certain kind of man to gamble his life away knowing he’ll win. Atlas got soft, started bartering with half flexible half dead ghosts offering white woolen sheets, because since white is the colour of being a sheep, Atlas figured a wolf might fall for certain modern seductions which pass the unvigil out in the cold. Fasten their growl to your nightmares, and leave to dream. A dream can haunt without being a nightmare, but counting sheep cannot describe the horrors for which you’ll prepare for enduring & I’ll remain in bliss

Red is the colour of why am I so weak?