Leave the regular things that normality brings to the individual up to those who tolerate the day in and day out mediocrity and hypocrisy that goes hand in hand with this social polarization we are all familiar with -accepting it to satisfy others thinking that eventually the satisfaction of one's own needs and wills prevails. But we've covered all of that I think. And we dove in deep beyond the normal thoughts and fears of death, did we not? I look around at this place for which I have been cast by a society that couldn't function properly with another one person such as myself co existing with the robots that they are so proud to turn out from their loud assembly lines in dirty grimy factories that emit plumes of toxic smoke into the air that form various shapes and figures . . . I look around and what do I see? Alas! A place that is ten times as out of touch with my sentiments as the place from which I came, otherwise identified as Neverleave. But Neverleave indeed! I would live three or four lifetimes in a dark corner of Neverleave in a glad exchange for not living another month in this shallow and unrelenting place. If this is a punishment of my own doing, I gladly accepted it in the beginning and acted as though I was "moving on," however, now I have come to learn the reality of the origin of my undoing in Neverleave. It was not I who cast myself into the Docile Exile, for it was the forces of the general consensus, and don't be fooled for one moment: these people are living on the brink of a great unraveling, as many of their ways of life are in jeopardy of falling off the edge of the world . . . they began pushing individuals like me out a long time ago, and it continues beyond my exile - which was one that was felt by a massive amount of people who still miss me.

I have seen the great unraveling in visions provided to me by beggars in the street and widows who lurk around mortuaries searching for the lost souls of their lovers. I have seen it in the eyes of children who live 3 or 4 to a room in the ghetto, as they watch their mother slip into the bathroom to pay for a crack rock with their bodies, minds, and souls. I have heard it in the groveling of stomachs including my own; stomachs that don't get fed because political intolerance's of people who like to have a mind of their own. I have felt it in the brutal pain that the sound of gunshots really truly delivers to residents of a hard neighborhood when that sound is more common than the sight of a warm sunny day. There have been people who try to deliver the message of the unraveling to others by screaming as they are brutally kicked down in the street and beaten by several others for no real reason that anyone would like to talk about at a later date. It has been broadcast by the newsmen who tell you about atrocities and genocide with a smirk on their face and a follow up story about fame and fortune. I have bought it at thousands of liquor stores from one side of this country to the other. I have realized it hundreds of times as I ripped opened the wrapper of a condom. And I have seen ghosts of it in the smoke that flows ever so slowly and liquid like out of the mouthpiece of a crackpipe.

Burned out fortunes top the litter pile of our generation as I have come to know it. How many people do I know that were handed thousands and thousands of dollars when they first bumped heads with the same reality that got me exiled? They were given this cash because, in about 90% of these cases, their fathers were accidentally killed or brutally murdered. BRUTALLY BUTCHERED. . . so it would seem that these people would develop a plan to do something with that money that would secure for them some kind of hope or dream that the rest of the population has to really struggle to attain. SO IT WOULD SEEM . . . Until they meet up with everyone's favorite friend, Passion. Passion for life, passion for death, passion for love, passion for sex, passion to travel, passion to chase another person's dream - or just the passion to do as much cocaine as one can do until they are either broke or sitting in jail with the rest of the Prisoners of Neverleave. And that is when Neverleave really begins to grip one by the balls. At that point, Neverleave has no plans on giving you any thoughts of ever leaving, and eventually, the individual becomes content with accepting that fact, until they begin to build a blind existence in Neverleave, always believing something or someone will swoop down out of nowhere and save them from an eternal abysmal rot.

From on top of the hill looking down at the Exile spreading out before me, I see more and more reflections of what will become of Neverleave in my own mind. But mostly I see the pits and grooves of the rock still staining the landscape. Will the reflections of the past ever really come into clear focus? Or will I be forced to keep looking down a long dark tunnel that is the future? And what the fuck is going on with the present? There are so many half truths and misleading links to the outside of this shell that is the true shape of the Exile. It is a room with four walls, a house with four rooms, a street with four houses, a town with four streets, a city with four towns around it, a state with four cities in it, and a place where four more people just like me are staring at the same four walls wondering why they never meat me or the other three. And I feel free, but with the freedom comes debris and scum, loathsome bloody cum and steady war drum . . . a need to run, but with a gun I could be more than a bum and even overcome the feeling that I am dumb. Four walls, eight corners, a fuckin box. I am reduced to this, with a wish that somehow like a fish I can swim out of this soapdish and become dirty with sin again and again until the sweat and tears are met with bourbon and beers, where the sun is always gold and everyone's souls have long since been sold . . . a place with no fake people where the whorehouse is the holy steeple - I am there in full and when physically there, soul for soul, I have conquered a goal which required paying a toll higher than just cash flow. I paid it, and was shown the path, to the place where there was Gods and Goddesses fucking peasants and pissants like there was this gigantic never ending sea of people mindlessly swimming in the massive pool of flesh . . . it was a test, but I held on like it was the first and the last, I scorned the bastards who Exiled me in the first place without really recognizing its true face, and then I seen this other place beyond the decrepit gates that made strange creaking sounds as they crushed fates and erected more funeral slates one by one until all the deeds for the day were done, and the vampires could rest while we took the final portions of the test, feeling the hands of many reach out to us as if we were ever any and the looks in their eyes revealed what was once sealed: their lies - their deceptions that kept our hearts bound to them have fallen to interception of the love we found. Where? you say you really care and if it were da ja vu you would share, but you were never really there and in the midst of the game you found out about pain and how thoughts drain into a pool of insane liquid and grains of shit that gathers up in the corner of the street where your friend sleeps and also beats his fuckin meat to the visions of freaks hovering above the streaks of light provided by the full moon at night and shining through to you: a person alone in the world where there are millions of boys and girls all looking into the faint reflection of themselves that shows on the glossy painted surface of the bare ass one of only four walls in the overall box that is their own personal Exile - not an Exile like mine where society pushed you into the corner and through the cracks and crevices, but their own self inflicted Exile that can end at any given time. It can, you have to believe it can, and if you don't believe it, then it can't. And if you believe it can't than it shan't, and therefor, you might as well be in a prison or on a desert island or on a busride to no place in particular that never ends because there is no mercy given when there is no one there to give it. There is no life lived when there is no will to live it. All the books and all the traveling, what have you learned? More importantly, what does it all mean? What good has the knowledge brought to you? More importantly, what has your knowledge brought to others? Can you light a candle without a match or reach a peak without a ladder? Is there a blade of grass under the snow? You didn't hear the people screaming, crying, begging for companionship - so did they really need it? And do those who do ever get it if they are too proud to scream, beg, or cry out for someone?

Sure, you see the hands all reach for you to come back as you are finally escaping your own Exile, but what are they really reaching for? I heard so many violins echoing in the chamber of souls while there were many many immigrants climbing Soul Mountain with their little flags which they planned on sticking into the surface of the mountain when and if they reached the top. That's a thought within a thought that is much deeper than just an ocean. I mean, Soul Mountain isn't the kind of mountain you can really stick a flag into is it? Thoughts are free to expand so as the reading of one book makes one think for a lifetime, the reading of one chapter makes one think for a decade, the reading of one paragraph makes one think for a year, and the reading of one sentence makes one think for a month of the possibilities and ways that the words apply or could be applied to their own existence. As with the MegaScript and its many resources, there are other such instances where men have actually lost more than their minds trying to comprehend the true meaning behind the many images one perceives through mere words on a mere piece of paper.

I scratched my own head thinking of the many things that were destined to happen in the near future. So many things that one wants and needs to happen overshadowed by the things that are fated and destined to happen. Well, this time, I finally feel free from that foreboding forecast, and see a future where there is a real tight handshake between the petitioners of dreams and the representatives of fate and destiny. They are all tall dark figures in brown cloth hooded robes. They all have cloven feet, they all have a burning hate in there eyes as if coming to this kind of agreement took many many years of bargaining where neither side was really happy with the compromise, but both sides knew that sooner or later a deal had to be crafted, accepted, and lived out. The bickering had gone on too long, the line in the sand had all but faded away in the slow and steady breeze that was never a wind and never changed directions. The forces that guided me to this doorstep put me through storms where they might have been testing me in the weather - seeing if I was worthy enough to work that hard for a deal. Sure, I have been in many Exiles up to this point, but this is truly the one that will inevitably lead me to the front of the tower that is the rest of my life. This tower could be taller, but it has been receding into the ground as I have gotten closer and closer to it - to the point where there is no denying me of my right to pretty much choose a destiny and forge it without repercussions. And so it was written in slabs, dealt in cards, filled in a chalice, and cast into the volcano as a sacrifice - so it is done. It's in the cards. A voice has been saying that to me for most of my life now, and I finally began to understand it about the same time I stopped believing it was true.

So I stopped looking at the walls and started looking beyond them - WAY beyond them. There was a few barriers in the way, but getting a deal with the polarity authorities wasn't that difficult. Costing about a couple hours and the price in dollars for a fifth of Jim Beam, I was able to see past them. It was a fucker, really. I mean, seeing through the barriers, seeing beyond the walls, seeing the future, seeing the evolution finally mature to the desired results . . . I wanted to jump through the walls and over the barriers and be there now. I didn't want to think about going to sleep that night, or waking up the next day, or think about what I would be doing when I woke up. what was I doing? I was sitting in Exile, gasping like a prisoner who is on the last month of a twenty year long prison sentence. Knowing that this what was the world of Exile was over. It was done. But there was still time left to serve to it, like the Exile's way of saying, "I know it totally sucked for you to be here all of this time, but you have to admit: there was moments when you had some real good times. And for those good times, you have to pay in FULL Exilian style rotting."

That said, I guess I have to stumble over to the corner of the room and look out of the window once again to make sure I can truly see far beyond the walls. So far, in fact, that there is no walls in the next place I am seeing myself in. The dream that comes true, the cell block door that slams opened, the torture that ends with a feast and a harem, the pain that ends with a needle full of heroin, the thirst that ends with a tall cold glass of pure water, the hate that ends with love, the love that ends with murder, the plot that ends with a sunset. It is so close . . . so close that I can feel myself being drawn to it like a droplet of water being drawn to a cloth by a single thread of the cloth. The flame of the candle . . . the flame of the candle.