An obsession, maybe... an affectation for things unworldly, like a
happy existence or a remarkably beautiful setting where the sun is slowly
consumed by an unseen force, ripping and tearing it away, leaving nothing
but tendrils of flames to spiral into its ever ravenous maw. The simple
insect is so listless in its ways. There must be something right in this
design. How else could you account for the existence of such throughout
history and as one of the most successful of life forms? Yes, something
must be right there.
Nny leans against the wall of his neglected abode. To his left, a limp body is partially suspended over a table by use of some crude hooks. The suspension hadn't been his death, but several perforations caused by a six inch blade had. This blade still rests in the hand of the room's only live occupant.
"Disengage the simulators..." Johnny says to himself. Now is one of those times Nny finds he must get his feelings off his chest, even if it means talking to ears that don't hear. "Have you ever seen that movie the Matrix?" he asks, disregarding the fact that his audience is nothing more than a lifeless cadaver. "It's about the 'real' world. It tells that reality as we know it is all one big lie... like a dream, only good. I've been through so much strange shit here; I'm beginning to doubt the authenticity of this existence. Do you understand my meaning?" Johnny looks expectantly to the hapless victim.
"I suppose not. I died and it only caused more confusion. There was something about being the virtual cesspool of the world and that I wasn't supposed to die and then I came back. You're not coming back to life. It must have meant you were supposed to die. Sometimes I wish the world would stop dying and get it over with already. I know what people are now. They're infectious little parasites feeding of this world's life force. It's no wonder we're all doomed. Our life begins and ends with a box, our fates foretold before we ever make our presence known on this rotating sphere of filth and dirt. Knowledge of these things does very little to comfort me. Do you understand?"
The body is immovably bound by that thing that governs death(as well as meaty hooks!). The thing that could have at one time been described as a human soul is now long gone, leaving only its putrid, rotting shell behind, much the same way a locust might shed its skin. Drops of quickly cooling blood patter down from the deep penetrations into the chest and abdominal cavity. From the victim's back, that dark, viscous fluid traces its way downward. There will be no answer from such as this. Johnny feels his impeccable vernacular wasted on such an effort.
With a sigh, Nny wraps his arms round himself and comes to a standing position. After ascending an eternal flight of stairs, Johnny finds himself in yet another of his private rooms. Bodies are everywhere: on walls, hanging from the ceiling, strapped to the floor... The possibilities are truly innumerable, but this room seems to hold one of every variation. Nny weaves his way through the room in an elaborate path that would have been akin to that of a fox when in pursuit.
The fact that not a one of these bodies was animated to life didn't particularly bother him. In fact, the scent of their increasing decay has a somewhat sedating effect on the young murderer. The only downside to the dead state of these is that they can not comprehend the things he feels so essential to communicate. Usually, the well known diary is his conduit to expression, but with the pages full, how else can Johnny dispel his growing unease.
After much more walking and climbing of stairs, Johnny makes his way to the topmost floor of his home. This, unfortunately, is Meat's floor of residence and if it is one thing Johnny would like to avoid, that would be Meat. The ceramic figurine was supposedly given to him by someone he committed intimate acts with and therefore stood for such things. Lust, perversion, anger, need, desire... all these are his enemy. Thankfully, no musings come from the inanimate burger boy and Johnny steps to the window to peer out at the sky.
"It all seems so real; I wonder..." Johnny looks down to his hand, where that crimson stained utensil is still held. He holds it up to the light of the moon and glances at the color as it changes to black in the dim light. Nny smirks bemusedly as he brings the blade close to his other hand. With a sharp slicing, flesh is torn and blood gushes forth. Nny looks at the small cut now tracing across his left thumb and relishes in the pain the small wound afflicts his system. A toothy smile is the result of this reassurance.
"I suppose this means that it is real after all..." he laughs softly, allowing the blade to fall to the floor. Johnny walks away from the window, knowing that pain is the one thing he always attributes to life.
*enda* the short pointless thing I am enticed to write at this late hour, actually it's not late... not even one, but the fact that I haven't slept in over twenty four hours makes this seem late. I need sleep right now. I can feel that physical fatigue setting in. There's so much to do... so much time wasted on sleeping. I can blame insomnia for this... also Jhonen "BloodBootie" Vasquez, whose characters I am often inspired to write badly. I think I'll make an attempt to retain my sanity and do something... I've written, drawn, and painted today so I am creatively shot. Feel free to shoot me in the head with flames, as I am unusually cold natured... I leave you now while I still retain the ability to write... chao!
Nny leans against the wall of his neglected abode. To his left, a limp body is partially suspended over a table by use of some crude hooks. The suspension hadn't been his death, but several perforations caused by a six inch blade had. This blade still rests in the hand of the room's only live occupant.
"Disengage the simulators..." Johnny says to himself. Now is one of those times Nny finds he must get his feelings off his chest, even if it means talking to ears that don't hear. "Have you ever seen that movie the Matrix?" he asks, disregarding the fact that his audience is nothing more than a lifeless cadaver. "It's about the 'real' world. It tells that reality as we know it is all one big lie... like a dream, only good. I've been through so much strange shit here; I'm beginning to doubt the authenticity of this existence. Do you understand my meaning?" Johnny looks expectantly to the hapless victim.
"I suppose not. I died and it only caused more confusion. There was something about being the virtual cesspool of the world and that I wasn't supposed to die and then I came back. You're not coming back to life. It must have meant you were supposed to die. Sometimes I wish the world would stop dying and get it over with already. I know what people are now. They're infectious little parasites feeding of this world's life force. It's no wonder we're all doomed. Our life begins and ends with a box, our fates foretold before we ever make our presence known on this rotating sphere of filth and dirt. Knowledge of these things does very little to comfort me. Do you understand?"
The body is immovably bound by that thing that governs death(as well as meaty hooks!). The thing that could have at one time been described as a human soul is now long gone, leaving only its putrid, rotting shell behind, much the same way a locust might shed its skin. Drops of quickly cooling blood patter down from the deep penetrations into the chest and abdominal cavity. From the victim's back, that dark, viscous fluid traces its way downward. There will be no answer from such as this. Johnny feels his impeccable vernacular wasted on such an effort.
With a sigh, Nny wraps his arms round himself and comes to a standing position. After ascending an eternal flight of stairs, Johnny finds himself in yet another of his private rooms. Bodies are everywhere: on walls, hanging from the ceiling, strapped to the floor... The possibilities are truly innumerable, but this room seems to hold one of every variation. Nny weaves his way through the room in an elaborate path that would have been akin to that of a fox when in pursuit.
The fact that not a one of these bodies was animated to life didn't particularly bother him. In fact, the scent of their increasing decay has a somewhat sedating effect on the young murderer. The only downside to the dead state of these is that they can not comprehend the things he feels so essential to communicate. Usually, the well known diary is his conduit to expression, but with the pages full, how else can Johnny dispel his growing unease.
After much more walking and climbing of stairs, Johnny makes his way to the topmost floor of his home. This, unfortunately, is Meat's floor of residence and if it is one thing Johnny would like to avoid, that would be Meat. The ceramic figurine was supposedly given to him by someone he committed intimate acts with and therefore stood for such things. Lust, perversion, anger, need, desire... all these are his enemy. Thankfully, no musings come from the inanimate burger boy and Johnny steps to the window to peer out at the sky.
"It all seems so real; I wonder..." Johnny looks down to his hand, where that crimson stained utensil is still held. He holds it up to the light of the moon and glances at the color as it changes to black in the dim light. Nny smirks bemusedly as he brings the blade close to his other hand. With a sharp slicing, flesh is torn and blood gushes forth. Nny looks at the small cut now tracing across his left thumb and relishes in the pain the small wound afflicts his system. A toothy smile is the result of this reassurance.
"I suppose this means that it is real after all..." he laughs softly, allowing the blade to fall to the floor. Johnny walks away from the window, knowing that pain is the one thing he always attributes to life.
*enda* the short pointless thing I am enticed to write at this late hour, actually it's not late... not even one, but the fact that I haven't slept in over twenty four hours makes this seem late. I need sleep right now. I can feel that physical fatigue setting in. There's so much to do... so much time wasted on sleeping. I can blame insomnia for this... also Jhonen "BloodBootie" Vasquez, whose characters I am often inspired to write badly. I think I'll make an attempt to retain my sanity and do something... I've written, drawn, and painted today so I am creatively shot. Feel free to shoot me in the head with flames, as I am unusually cold natured... I leave you now while I still retain the ability to write... chao!