This is a really, really bad mix.

apologies in advance.

I had to hsve still believed in magic to some degree, because in all of the applicable ways it made sense, I applied it— much with reverence and spirituality such is religion, all of my ritual occultation was indeed still based in the science of source, as to say that God itself was all the major diety I needed to call upon, in prayer and in this thought process. I was more in alignment with this definition of divinity than with any given science or religion, or rather an antithesis of either, because as it seemed the walls would draw in on one or another, I found myself and my God at the center of all things, both dark and light— encompassing both the greatness of what was as known, and also not— the words and words seeming to pour from me like another space in time was held inside myself and beyond what even I could have understood.

I couldn't force my artwork, and even knowing that I was slipping between the cracks as far as deadlines were concerned I was wreaking havoc in another realm of artistic torture— knowing what I already had, but could not possibly forage or put out— my unplublished works a daunting reminder of what was about me, but was not known. Then again, as an artist, I wondered had I any purpose at all in being known, or was it just some kind of harsh injustice to my own talent that I would hide in the shadows while I presumed some other alias or moniker would take the spotlight, and especially so for some of my more controversial tones and pieces.

Overall, I was devastated that these two years just as any other period in my life seemed just to be a fight against whatever the opposite of God was and my own absence from this light I with desperation called upon over and over— with the knowing well that in time and never my own that it did work, and that this magic and occult was a real substance, but never in the way that I might think or understand, and most certainly not under the guise of any rules of expectation.

I was a flying saucer in the vast expanse of outer known time, and my own body was something like a waking memory of sliver for all that was and all I had done and could do in conciousness. In that aspect, I was not awake, and only dreaming in a way that was personified by my self in the physical realm where I seemed to be having some kind of shattered montage of a life awakened from a death sleep and into the afterlife of an only somewhat waking world— the twisted bodies surrounding none less than the half capacity I'd ever had to congulate an imaged world in my own fortune, and I was sure otherwise I was half braindead or some partial version of a somewhat paralyzed and seemingly unconscious drone of one world or another, my inner essence escaping for freedom and in the silent darkness screaming up to the gathered surface to please pull the plug— to let me pass on, and to go into the world of fortune; under the circumstances it appeared as if the darkness was always grasping at its chance to imprison even this of what was left, along the lines of gratitude I felt shattered but also honored; whatever I was had also kept itself tied to these words and these colorful arts as a hidden sign that there was a truth in this previous life that had went unsaid.

And so magic it was as it pertained to God because I believed in both or as one as another or one in the same.

I am, dog on a leash

I am heart full of love

I am all out of time

I am all out of home

I couldn't make any sense of what seemed to be some kind of telepathic connection with the host of the tonight show, which I kept at a safe enough and respectable distance, but perhaps maybe it was telemetry. Perhaps somehow my strange frequency was intercepting with a broadcast signal, or a radio tower, or perhaps it was the show itself— as I called it, the ghost of Johnny Carson.

Overall I hadn't meant for it to happen, but it did seem to always kind of rather by accident happen— my strange dreams of all the people coming together for the 50th anniversary of Saturday night live, and though for some or whatever reason thinking it would stop, but it hadn't, and in fact rumbling thoughts of mark wahlberg and some of the other recent guests could not have been a coincidence, nor could have been what seemed at the time Robert Dinero or any of the others who had been blooming in my mind in the weeks leading up to the event and I couldn't have considered it any more after being unable to focus on anything besides what seemed to have been a protruding vein from the poor man's forehead, which for myself had made me promise not to look at all too closely—

Then, here it was nearly a year later and I couldn't do anything but momentarily curse aloud and pause in the thought of not letting myself go north of where I was in my media calling; even in the modern world of horrid things one human being does to another, under no circumstances whatsoever could I continue l to belittle and downplay my own self respect, especially in the grips of something that felt like a more rising sense of urgency than ever— I hadn't had sex in year with anyone, and there were very few things I actually wanted. I was increasingly picky to my own demise, and increasingly delusional, and vulnarable in such a sense that anything I knew I wanted, I also knew to respect myself enough to stay far away from. Not so much the double edged sword was this than simply knowing better— the other hosts and almost all the world were safe— this was not.

I kept it out of the news

And out of my head

For awhile now;

I kept it out of the noose

As far as my head is concerned

But after awhile, when I started to smile

It was thinking of you;

Now more than ever I've got more than nothing to lose.

I'm a straight jacket away from an Oscar

And eight days from my triumph

I called also the Ace of the Spades,

The Club and the Diamond

I'm tipping my hat to your making

But playing for tips

And paying for service

I've got more than four words

But the forward was barely a dollar.

I'm rarely a savage,

But also, your honor

I give not a gasp but a grasping at petals

And strings of a flower

The rock to a kite

And a wind in the forager,

So much beyond what I know is unmasked

In my country not home

But a foreigner

CHAOS

It took me two times to find you out..

It's not my fault, I'm not the one.

CHAOS

And still, you saw what God I was.

The god of Chaos, not my love.

You are not my king!

“Not my king” he says I—

And yet am king;

A king of kind;

The king of thieves!

And you, my grace?

Caring verily fir your thanks

And what if my remarks?

The careless woman!

And of swords.

Adeiu.

But still untied I gallop!

(Turning)

And yet I stay.

To careless words.

A triumph.

Not to mark my time to dust

As there to wait in forests wonder,

Catching, maybe, as you were

But still my tied to bark an order

To what!

Your making.

My kind!

And gathered.

The wake to drift the call to forward,

And coming in the mark I gathered

Your ties be mind,

And yet the waiting shadows foraged

(And also in the art I bathe)

Several other ballads pondered

To mine ties, your art my word

Your thought my song,

And wind my fortune

And so you are, then my kite!

I am both what kite and wind you may;

But what of stone and rock?

[suddenly, in modern tongue]

I'm glad you asked.

CUT TO:

CONAN O BRIEN wakes up suddenly in his pleated blue pajamas from what seems like a very deep sleep.

CONAN

Surfing? I think I will go surfing.

He gets out of bed and stares out of the window at the sunrise; it is a picturesque Californian day.

{Enter the multiverse}

I guess any time I try to terminate my state of being,

I am annihilated

You're really right; this is a death curse

You're really right, this is a death curse

Any time I try to find my way out, I am exiled

You're right, this is a time bomb

You're right, I've got my eyes closed

Are there any intimate conclusions?

Are there any derelictions, or delusions?

And redactions or delirium, any infinity?

Any fear at all?

I hear you now

I all bleed blue

I'm born to suffer

Stuff the earplugs in a little deeper little longer,

Then we all get caught in martyrdom

Or someone else's story

Ooh, you started it

Not now, God!

He was born and gone in such an instant

That I bark to love him

First as dog and then as servant

Other Master is absolved and yet absorbent

I get caught in my own foul ball

I have missed for trains

Just decided to cast you all out

The demons wandered

Just like they wanted

The snake still slithered,

The owl still called

I was also cosmic once

Just I just forgot I was n