*
I’d like to deceive myself that the Lost Tribe of Saturn, LTS, is a prototype ongoing fictional pyramid, a current resort, morphing into a synchronicity station, a next resort, which is more living-on oriented than an arc-escape, and this pyramid is skeletal and in need of a painting-in job, and the search is on for station-aries - not, and painter’in’er’s, not fans, even as this has an open door for outside short, tight, synchronizing pre-fan fiction getting in on the ground floor setting tones, hues and shadings.
If you have zero creativity, or so think,you can always apply yourself to better photography, which nearly everyone does - aside from adult entertainment mutts - at least the better photography part. Any better at all part. The plot to every adult video is - hey, ma, look at me, I’m in a video. Alas, every participant plays the part of the friendly family dog. Roll over and play nice. Ooh, you’re such a clever dog.
Yes you are.
Yes, I shouldn’t know that. Still, did you want to compare notes?
As for how to apply the various painting-in, pre-fan fiction and photography, I leave it to your imagination, and the where.
Where. Consider where’s. Commercial advertisers attack where’s, they attack and booby-trap addresses hunting boobs with boobs as bait. Or dopey boobs as harmless as a Ken doll who are dumb, dorky and dead enough, and as cuddly as a porcupine named Paul. Can you hear me now? It keeps their hands and hearts clean of the grid death they soullessly engineer, hiring out your heroes to serve as electronic mucous.
Consider an evolution from ghostly to spiritual to synchronizing - re-synchronizing? - which is not anti-commercial, but occasionally free of commercialization, in pursuit of quality of life along with quality of dying. A lot of people are getting this, getting IT, but they’re not quite getting IT right. How can people with no source of something better to imagine pursue something better if they lack imagination? There seems to be an at large sensibility that money will protect you from lack of imagination, which equates with lesser and lesser grid, and more and more wasted gift.
As for any synchronicity station, maybe leave a tad bit of room in the basement for arc studies, just in case. Richards Hall is just the name on an imaginary shoppe, not my name. I’m ‘e’. ‘e’ for editor as I sense the quirk that I edit the ragged, jagged and raging narration passing through my noggin, even as the dark-hooded, dark, be-headed emperor of time strives to beat me down. GGG’s, Louise, grandma.
As for anymore next page twaddle, I will only edit it away unless spoken to, and I will time stamp this at the top if this expands rather than diminishes. I could leave an email address, but that would be optimistic, and I am not. I just see one big you-hole of me’s out there getting bigger and darker and emptier, and it is not sucking me in, nor maybe certain us. Ha, it doesn’t even want to. Maybe it can’t. Maybe IT just won’t. It’s dark all right, just look away, look away and you’ll be safe come the brave new dawn and whirl of melt-down.
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The Lost Tribe of Saturn
Life Sentences
(zone 6.1)