MORONS AND ALIENS

GLORY QUEST

Nobels, I’ll win along my tortured, torturous, way. With both happy and unhappy endings depending upon your particular political persuasion and your opinion of Vladimir Putin.

Because I’ve had revelations and epiphanies and because I’ve had now Art’s Philosopher’s-Stone-like phone superseding is my reality over all others — except, for the moment — Putin’s.

Recapitulating, a lot of story lines are coming to a head. But the road ahead doubles sometimes as the comeback road. A steady stream of my unfiltered consciousness, keys, my comeback. 

MAYDAYS may yet be considered a spinoff from my Art of The Deal and my Art of The Comeback. Indeed today’s Supreme Court ruling makes, far more difficult, my comeback.

Live streams of my consciousness, unvarnished and unfiltered may key my comeback, yet again. And if I indeed do come back, it’ll be thanks in part, to Art’s rediscovery, of ancient — alchemy.

Arthur and I have come full circle. The live-streamed Twitter feed of my proxy Art’s alter ego now serves me. My reality is superseding. Thanks in part, to Art’s rediscovery, of alchemy.

Who knew? Nobody; absolutely, nobody. Who’s known of an alien plan to sicken us with a virus? To crash us into an asteroid? To enslave us? To have us mine for them, our own precious gold? 

Who could’ve known? And what would it matter anyway? Nobody’s ever believed me. But the people may believe we’ve run into an asteroid when they hear and see it and feel it — unload.

Verily, the people may believe that we’ve really run into an asteroid if and only when they hear and see it and feel it unload. It won’t be pretty. It’ll be horrific, when the people in me, believe.

It won’t be pretty. It’ll be horrific, actually, when we’re actually stricken by an NEO. That’s when they’ll believe. Everyone’s got some St. Thomas in them. Until they see — they won’t believe.

Everyone’s got some St. Thomas in them. Until we see, we shan’t believe. We’ve got Judas in us too. I’ve got to get the people to believe in me. That’s asking a lot of a people to believe in me.

The reading and writing of poetry has taught me about me and ye and us. And it’s taught me how me to persuade humanity to do the right thing by — it’s revelations — and epiphanies.

A character defect that we all share in common is to blame. We gotta see, to believe. But the aliens won’t show themselves. In spite of the evidence we don’t really believe them. 

It’s no coincidence; the seeming timeliness of what’s happening; my fall from favor; and the comeback, I imagine. It’s no coincidence when I imagine that we’ve done run outta time.

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