Silence

Silence

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WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing52m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sat, Sep 26, 2020
There are six people living in a house. There are women The first woman manages the menu, checks the situation of the house and checks on the 5 other persons. She knows every truth even by just seeing them and does not matter if she cannot hear the better version of the truth. The second woman prepares dinner with the third woman, cleans the house entirely by herself, water the small plants inside the house and looks the beauty of the outside world. She is fascinated with beauty that she cannot see the whole truth until it is slapped on her. The third woman does not see the truth lies every person. She only knows them by their touch. There are men. The first man tries to fix what might be broken inside and outside of the house. He sees every small detail of the house and knows all parts of the truth but keeps moving forward by lying to himself. The second man assists the first man, or whomever he could help with. He just follows and follows, not even doing anything to know what's really happening around him. The third man takes advantage of every single things and does nothing but chaos. He does not hide it, so everybody knows. Of course, you are confused with the set up. They don't talk to each other but rather communicate with each movements they can give to one another. It is a form of respect to one another until such time it disappears. They all lived in silence in one house. Trying to trust each other. But their thoughts are as loud as the cries of the suffering sinners in hell. For the truth always kills them to be revealed to the world. Silence is their haven until it gets louder and louder.
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Mayoraa

Humans build massive labyrinthian structures underneath the earth in order to do away with the reeking turds that come out of their assholes on a daily basis. Mountains and mountains of shit, supposedly flushed away out of sight and out of mind. But in truth, the whole world is made of shit; physical shit, verbal shit, conceptual shit, mental shit, the shit that haunts your dreams at night, chasing you through darkened hallways that seem to go on forever. At an art gallery on the other side of your town, a curator is admiring the work of a cracked-out junkie, an abstract painting made with his blood, pus, and shit on a massive sheet of off-white canvas. He nods and produces a subtle Mona Lisa smile as he internally blocks out the wretched stench wafting towards his mustache-laden face. "Mhmm... I value this work at 2 bazillion dollars." The junkie twitches with uncontrolled excitement at this pronouncement. Back across town, you're sitting in the bedroom of your apartment, located directly above the spot in an alleyway where someone's mee-maw got hacked to death by a machete-wielding schizoid maniac just a day ago, her brown curdled blood still drying in the cracks between the bricks. Attacks like that are routine these days. It didn't even make the evening news. On your phone screen, a female "book influencer" with ample breasts, caked-on makeup, and a thousand-yard SSRI stare bemoans the fact that "men are less empathetic and media literate because they don't read books anymore!" Suddenly, all of the metaphysical mental shit that has been flushed into the swirling void of the global infosphere travels through unseen psychokinetic piping to congeal in front of you in the form of this very book.

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