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[captnkennit.livejournal.com]

[ Filter: Private ]

There are too many questions. Why do they fight? Do half of them even know what they were fighting for? Sometimes I think that I should leave these people to their wretched fate. Lyra Silvertongue is right; what does lie outside the Dome? Perhaps danger and death. Or perhaps a lie so big, that... but why, then, would they hide in here? So terrified of cracks and leaks, of radiation poisoning, each man woman and child living dull grey little lives but each one their own. Made worse by we the vivid, the former fictional, written to be giants in the shape of man's own glorified self-hatred, striding amongst them, destroying their houses for our war. The universe is made up of war. "Ye are many, they are few".

Too much poetry. I'm sick on poetry, i breath it heavy in my lungs when I wake up in the morning. It's affecting the way I think, the way I write - as good poetry does. I am cooking for myself again and living off poetry, writing useless scribbled pages which I shred, afterwards (my apartment is full of interesting machinery, still; I like the toaster and the freezer.) If I had lived in another age this would be useful, but now it is not what is inciting me. I need words from a mouth, taken, stolen; words of the sight and smell of sex and violence. I want to write my poem in history's pages, shred all these inhabitants when I'm done with them.

The sickest desire to see what the criminal did to land in prison; what level of violence would inspire such an uprising. He was wicked, or he seemed wicked to them, but I still wonder why he did it, truly; what makes Mukuro tick, as they say. I am not planning to ask that aloud, however; the herd mentality would cast me out quick as a flash. If you're not with us, you're against us. Petrelli's been quiet; perhaps he feels the same way.

I long for the ocean; not of my home, the fascinating creature in the pictures of the sea, such blue-green beauty. I want to sail again and all their little splashes here are nothing more than play-pools, training grounds for baby ducks. My fascination with the world around me grows alarmingly; each question sparks a thousand more questions. I feel like a child again. When I talk now, I talk like I've lived here longer than I have - I use slang, aphorisms, little things that make it easier for people to believe I'm like them. I could so easily lose myself here; but I have to remember and believe that there is a true place I come from. The others will follow.



[ Filter: Nuwanda ]

Do you think perhaps we could get away with visiting Andrew Wells?

Not on the same day as Sofer.



[ Filter: Public ]

This ode to you O Poets and Orators to come, you
father Whitman as I join your side, you Congress
and American people,
you present meditators, spiritual friends & teachers,
you O Master of the Diamond Arts,
Take this wheel of syllables in hand, these vowels and
consonants to breath's end
take this inhalation of black poison to your heart, breath
out this blessing from your breast on our creation
forests cities oceans deserts rocky flats and mountains
in the Ten Directions pacify with exhalation,

Such a tragedy; turning in on each other, fighting amongst ourselves. It's human, but I still thought we were stronger than that. Still, I suppose it stops everyone talking about how bored they are, even if it doesn't quite ease the boredom.

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[captnkennit.livejournal.com]

So I see.