BOW DOWN AND WORSHIP ME STRUMPETS! I am the machine! Yes yes yes oh how I have indulged myself this past week. I love coffee... My life a bitch, and I fucking love it.

Ghilchad knelt and closed his eyes, gathering himself for the coming exchange. He knew all through the ride and now miling up the unridable hill that honor bound him to this confrontation with the Pendragon of Britannia. Still, he was unready for this. "Gwynn, you ride not alone this day," Gilchad muttered while brushing snow from the ground to get at the good Aenglish soil beneath. The good, cold, dry earth crumbled between his hands, gritty and comforting. Uncoiling himself he stretched out skyward and sighed "and what more glorious company could you wish for," he said with a wry grin. It was a rare thing, for the Lord of Aengland to go into the endtimes, especially when he is the promised of Avalon. Ghilchad contemplated the round as he completed his path upwards. The Pendragon had found him in chains bound for the noose and given him pardon for no reason. simply struck the ropes from his wrists and asked Gilchad to be better than that which was offered. Three years after they had met again in combat, Gilchad hunting the same warrior band harrying the outskirts of the city and caught up in a most confusing and now looking back, amusing fray. Gil had come front with The Pendragon himself and struck the lobe off his ear before falling low to that burning blade. Waiting for a stroke that was sure to come, he got instead a laugh and a firm hand up. "A warrior can touch me with a blade should serve with me, not against me! On your knees." Excalibur bit lightly into the right, then left shoulder and Gilchad was a knight of the round just so. Riding for thirteen years honed him from a village champion to the grinding edge of the Round an famous champion. "And now I must end him." Gilchad found the Pendragon on his knees, clad only in leather and wool. He seemed torn, rightly so, as if twenty three years of holding the realm together with his blade and his hands had finally split him. "Lord Pendragon!" Arthur rose and turned startled. "Sir Gilchad, what brings a knight?" Gil breathed from the ground to the sky and stared The Hardest man to ever walk the realm in those clear green eyes. "The Lady Guenivere has passed from our lives High King, the abbey has buried her in a private cloister." Arthur rocked back on his heels, and slumped within himself. For a moment Gil thought he would fall. The laughter clear and strong as the Thames in the spring melt. "My Lady has won! She has taken the final peace and I find her vengeance. She has done what I had not the courage to do these five years..." but this is not news Gil, the bells have tolled since the past morning. Why are you here, my fist?" As far as ancient Sumeria and sunken Atlantis and all around them and all throughout Britain and filling the two mightiest of Aengland's soilders, a horn blast was heard. Heard and felt and tasted and smelled. Blood and love and sweat and hate sorow and joy, everything they had ever fought for and against. Steel slid from oiled leather and wood as Gilchad answered. "My Lord High King of the Aenglish and Britannia. Hammer of the Saxons and Promised of Avalon. Arthur Pendragon, my captain and most beloved soveriegn, I come for your life. Camelot cries for it's king and our people mill like fish in a dry river bed gasping for life. You who have made us great, unified a wild people and protected us against all. Hero of Baddon Hill son of Uther Pendragon. You who have lost all and won more have abandoned us and we are breaking. When you sentenced The Lady Guenivere to the convent I led her safely there. When you ran from your greif after the Grail of Joseph of Arimethea I followed you through peril untennable. When you sought justice of Sir Lncelot du lac, once first of us and our most beloved Captain it was I who brought you his blade and his head." Gil Gripped the hilt of Rhonbulch, the sword of Uther Pendragon reforged so tightly he could not tell where the seperation of man and steel was. "I cannot idle while you let what you let our toils fall to rust and decay. We need your guidance and light. but I name you unfit and mujst be brought to justice. The Round has named me your death. Know that I take joy only in moving back into the light, My King." "nd who will lead Gil? You? I could think of none better?" "Whoever it may be is not for me to say Lord, but this is how it must be" "You honor me Sir Gilchad. This is not the way though." "Gwynn the Hunter calls for company Lord King, and he must not be denied. Die well!" Gilchad swung Rhonbulch with the surety of a man who has been given his task and cannot fail, but the title Pendragon is earned, not given. Arthur moved faster than the eye could follow and with the grace and brutality of the storms that battered the cliffs of Avalon and let no mortal ship pass. Excalibur grazed the hilt of Rhonbulch and slid through mail leather and flesh through Gilchad's heart in so fluid motion that is only attained through absolute surety of self. Dead before Excalibur tore his great soul and shredded his heart. Gilchad sagged heavily to the ground. Arthur sighed heavily and sheathed the blade which with he bound Aengland to himself and knelt by the corpse. Drawing Gilchad's dagger he reached up and cut the remainder of his right ear off and laid it on his Gil's chest. "Know that you're mission has not been in vain." As Arthur rose I great horn call blew and threw the brush came a great bark horse with rider swathed in black leading an unmounted horse, two wolfhounds in coursing in step. The rider bore a great horn of ram at his hip and grasped a spear knotted and roiled with a shaft of ancient yew. "bear him well, Lord Hunter, for he was the best of us," Arthur sadly spoke. Gilchad rose and mounted beside Gwynn the Hunter, the herald to the realms beyond. Saluting The Pendragon, they rode away into shadow and song. Arthur stood for minutes or days, and then made his way to the Round, to set Aengland to rights. The End

Do you ever remember shows you used to love on television years ago, and wonder what ever happened to the actors? I do. I am so detached from myself it is, well, in my current mind frame, acceptable and fine. I feel so uneasy and anxious. I sit in this basement apartment in trendy Chelsea NY writing to help myself understand how I got here. I mean I know that I'm depressed and lonely. I know that I make myself sick with all my corruption and watching myself weaken and waste away, frail and useless. I see the slackness of my mind translating into the softening of my once powerful body and just won't care or do anything about it. This isolation has been a reflection period for me, a cleansing that I appreciate. Away from everyone I have been able to curb my vices, drunk is a memory and I am happy with that. Rage has become secondary and tertiary each passing day. I get up, move some boxes, walk to Union Square for my coffee and possibly a pastry at the farmers market. Peruse Barnes & Nobles Booksellers. Gripe about the cost of cigarettes. Come home in the bitterness, go out for Elissa and my dinner. read, play online. There are days where I won't speak more than fifty words, I can be so anonymous here it is incredible and that I think, helps me slip away from all these feelings. Maryland, home tomorrow. I do not know if I ever want to go home. I am used to my solitude. It is honest. I am ready to be alone.

College park, evil bitch I wish livable was not you. DIE Homecoming

Clean. I am clean. Working in the rain, listening to the health inspector drone on and try to find reasons not to pass us, fuck you, this place is up to code. I wish I had a hangover, it would justify my shitty mood.

There are no men like me. There is only me. Jamie Lannister

I owe this much. have you been well? Where are you where are you where are youwhereare you WHEARAREYOU Me to ME- Will, wake up. You are OK. Feed the rabbit. Call your friends back. I love you, William. ME 2 me- Hey... got your message... go fucking drown yourself dickweed, I can('t) do it without you. I wish I could talk to myself face to face. I'm happy and then I'm miserable and it still never penetrates. Fuck you, mental condom. Let me get into myself. End of depressive spew- I am getting it together. Hiring the security crew this weekend... got a few decent guys in mind. Waiting a few months and then getting some more of my tattoo done. I'm excited to finish the shoulder and expand on to the chest. I've been looking at nursing schools for next year, i'm excited. I feel like I know something solid now. Not happy. Not unhappy. bleak.

Honesty in a relationship is such a fickle aspiration. When are we honest with our partners? Twice. Once when we tell them we love them, and Once when we break up. or at least that is usually the case, and the latter seems so much easier, I mean you are going to break someones heart, at least be up front about it. Giving half-truths to lighten the blow amounts to giving someone an Asprin before you send them to the guillotine. I am not angry, just hurt. I wish that this easy tenet had been easy and upheld.

Why di I have the feeling that I'm right? Oh yeah, because I'm always fucking right. Fuck. You. All. To. Death.

Ugh, the dreaded time of life. Growing down. Spending thoughts of mine that could be put to use analyzing my overgrown love of violent comic books and mentholated cigarettes(weird, right?) are spent thinking about student loans that I need or hours of work that I spend doing little except bitch about the fact that I HAVE to be there. Recently, I have been chasing focus. Nothing serious or truly noteworthy, in the jaundiced American eye anyway, but a focal point for me to enjoy to live to feel to not fuck up. Myself seems like a waste. I take myself for granted and in that sense I can never actually become the man that could rise. Since most of my venal, carnal, self-serving pursuits come fairly easily to me, that is all they become, as there is no appreciation from the effort that did not raise these fruits. I am trying to be sharpened, molded and reformed. I am not the true steel, just strong brittle iron ore... unrefined and coarse. The forging will be a process I do not embrace and I feel like this is why it has been so long in the coming. I am lazy. So now here is the meat- for all of you from me- Lock it the fuck down. Do you. What is your strength? What makes you better? Figure it the fuck out and chase chase chase baby, to the bitter middle or the glorious fucking begining. Be comforted and walk your light. Win a title. Bake a cake. Make a child. Get published. Do what you can to look that beautiful cunt greatness in the eye and say "How do you like them apples, Bitch!?" Be untouchable, or rather BE touchable. It's the only way.

I can't admit to myself how I feel. I suppose this is reasonable because I have no fucking clue if I'm feeling anything at all, I mean, emotions course through my being and across the mental planes but it's like osmosis of the soul. There's no energy returned, nothing penetrates truly. After so long(in the terms of a twenty one year old boy-man) its seems catharsis is in order. Properly though, thus fugue status can be a release. I am free in a way that I have never been and I am thoroughly fucking terrified. I see and hear and feel myself. I am not in there though. As though my active "soul" has skipped off to Chincoteague for a life of parasailing and leisurely architecture and the actual being of William plods and bulls through the day to day like Truman. No idea that his life is just a series of ratings. Writing conveys a sense of future to me though. I will be able to reread these thoughts I put to the world and can perhaps allow me to one day review my life with laughter. I want to laugh without hollow echoes throughout my head. I want to enjoy my cigarettes. I want to dream as if it is exciting to do so still. I want that fucking rabbit out of my room. HAHAHAHA my fucking "room." A curtained off section of unfinished basement is a suburban housing project. I don't even know where this vitriolic spew comes from, I have nothing to bitch about right now. Face book and family guy and free pizza and getting paid for it. I suppose the main thing is that nowadays I look into the mirror and I see a face not made by god.

Bullfight critics ranked in rows Crowd the enormous Plaza full But only one is there who knows And he's the man who fights the bull. The bravery of this man is immense, but still it is undeservered... he know the picadors early in the fight hamstrung and stabbed the bull, killed it before he even walks to the ring he's won. Still, to fight a bull is fairly brave. Stupid, almost as stupid as I am, but very brave. He doesn't know what power this particular bull might still have. What deep hatred and rage this 2000 pounds of corded muscle and bone and blood and horns might still be harboring for one last drive. One last push through to Valhalla, a thrust past the crimson stripe through his enemy. His own death assured he fights like a man who knows that all his being will be glorified with the trampling and goring of the matador. Ferdinand, he may not be. In such an instance, I can't help but hope the bull loses. I'm fighting before September. Some tournament, or on an amateur level, I need to get back into my own self. The purest example of myself is in the pursuit of such competition and I have totally lost sight of that, my alcoholism, my smoking, the total disrespect I show my body every day. I miss flowing with the go and the dull thuddwack of shins and fists on thai pads and focus mitts. AISH AISH. Exclamations of acceptance. Quick as a snake and smooth as summer silk. It's hard sometimes, to remember what it was like to run unbroken for 5 miles or to look once at a clock and see 6:35 pm and glance back 5 minutes later to see 10:17 pm. It's times like these when I would see the bull charging, close my eyes and open my arms.

I am mad at you.

I'm not exactly sure why this works, but I'm banned from my job. Not fired, banned. To bring a little light to the subject, I work at a bar. During a particularly deep night of Shenanigans, involving certain individuals I just shouldn't be allowed to cooperate with, I may have spoke unwisely. IE telling the bartender she looked like a downs syndrome person. It's a weird sitchayshun. But hey, It's nice to still be getting paid.

Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. - Dylan Thomas I love that. I am going to get it tattooed on my skin somewhere. I love you, Little Nom.

13 hours. 260$ U.S. NO SLEEP. I HATE SNOW!

Pneumonia. It creeps up on you.

So yesterday I was plowing snow with my brother in law. He was working the truck and I was using the ATV. As I was backing up I hit a dry patch and rolled that bitch over, nearly crushing me out of existence. I leaped out of the way, but still managed to severely bruise my ass. It hurts when I cough.

my friends boyfriend had an "ex" who he is obsessed with. I say "ex," because their relationship consisted of him gardening for her and him playing with her children, while she gave him romantic books. When he confessed his love to her. she told him she had no idea he felt that way. He is writing a story about her, to get her out of his mind, which he has titled Crap. As her name is Hope, in honor of the President-elect, I suggested to her he re-title it, "The Atrocity of Hope." HAHAHAHA. I am totally funny.

Tenchu it is a PS2 game, and it is awesome. Fuck but I love it. Mark, David amd me have and me have been playing for half an hour. I am well and truly drunk. Call ya later.