Lyrea Stop Using My Fucking Phone Number

Lyra, Hercules, Virgo, Pegasus

A dingy green sectional sofa sits against a sealed off staircase two paces away from the northern facing window.. I open my eyes to the taste of the curled nails of a 3 year old Boxer of the canine variety. His explosion off of the three hundred year old brick wall created a trail of dust in my spit that leads to the big screen LCD television. Liquid crystal display soon to be replaced with OLED, organic electroluminescent diode. We love organic and we love bioluminescence so I assume by now we all love organic light-emitting diodes. The only downside of using less energy is that no one can agree on what motion smoothing actually does and when to turn it off. I leave it off, it's more authentic that way. Swerve the Boxer takes a leap off of a coffee table in the style of a pirate humping his crate and barrel doubloons over the Indian Ocean. He crouches ready to pounce, shoulders bent, ass in the air, no tail to wiggle. Above him, parallel to our bodies but perpendicular to my vision is the television. On the television young german babushkas parade around the screen. A man sits on a park bench and spots appear on the screen around him. These spots first appear as sun spots and then fade to red and green as they distort. Zavijeh sits at where her chin is formed at the bottom of what would be heart shaped face were her hair not parted to be wrapped around her body. Zaniah sits just below her shoulders. Her rounded biceps, not muscular, are too big to slide through my cupped hand even when my thumb is extended to the furthest part of my hand. Whichever finger creates the largest diameter. Her right elbow pressed against her torso sits barely below her nipple, Porrima. Her forearm extends from there and stretches longer than her upper arm and as it does it stretches past the spot where her hips turn into her waist, Auva. Viandematrix is placed just above her slender wrist. If you trace her thigh back up where her flowing hair covers her ass, back up to Auva and trace her pelvic muscle across her body to the dimple of the entrance her thigh creates we find Heze. The shortest path to Spica would be to slice off her left arm. She delicately pinches Syrma between her thumb and pointer finger and out shoots a beam of light straight to Rijl Al Awwa.

Tinky-Winky and the gang. A feminine voice fades in and out.

"I love you, I love you" she beeps out in a robotic trance.

You could tune a watch to it. Always in pairs, occasionally bleating out "I love you" in their singular tone.  

I can't remember how long I've been subjected to this kind of extreme loving exposure therapy. It must have been at least a year. It takes one month to go from the examination of the public release of Air Force video footage of unexplained aerial phenomenon to studying War Game Development with Maurice Grela. The footage is real and the pilot's excited reactions of joy genuine. War Game Development is also real. A more algorithmic version of the movie War Game starring Mathew Broderick. Their brightly patterned screens can't look much more impressive than a 3 dimensionally rendered globe beset by television screens full of data. Bespeckled nerds jerking off into their corner trashcan while The Generals carve out the world's resources. It's the same amount of time it takes to locate a charitable organization feeding the unhoused and hungry. Where you can meet a sarcastic nun with a limp who will point you to a table to serve. You've already humped your chili to the kitchen. You carried it in a canvas tote bag you borrowed from your roommate, bread freshly purchased from Reading Terminal Market. Enough time to be pointed the way to an anarchist bookstore. You've been told you're in need in constant adoration but you're afraid you're unable to express your values in a way that's comprehendible to the people you love most. You know the words you use to describe them stem from leftist politics and you feel guilty about your corporate job. You walk through the narrow entrance way and nervously glance to the left hoping to find something you recognize, a novel or author prolific enough to grab your attention. The attractive woman behind the counter sits nervously behind the counter and casts a furtive glance. The titles of the novels seem to obviously express an opinion about any identitarian coping strategy you may need, while none of them seem keen on addressing climate change or the roots of the ethnostate currently committing a genocide. This forces my eyes up and directly forward where slightly to the right there is a desk full of children's books and toys. This makes me want to scream as the last time I was in this store I was planning on raising 3 children with the woman I love and we didn't discuss a single item on the table. We pointed at the books and nodded in tacit agreement as she wandered off. The woman behind the counter catches my solemn sigh and I hear an interested "Hmm?" She's about 10 years older than I. She's wearing dark blue floral dress tied at the waist with an equally blue belt. Her posture composed and her torso thin, her pose creates enough space for the silky dress to ruffle between. Her calf rests on her knee through the slip in her dress revealing a tattoo of ivy up her thigh. I approach the counter loosely gripping a novel between my torso and bicep. I let the novel slip into the palm of my hand and place it on the counter without making a sound. "Olive Juice?" she inquires. I can't quite determine the meaning of the utterance "Juice."  The fact that behind sits rows of unopened novels I consider that she may be asking me if chose something read by those in the know. I hold up my second choice reading material, a history of conflict in Syria. She scans the item for a second, briefly examining it for anarchist tendencies, and confused, places it back on the counter.

I walk to the closest bar, the book taking up concerningly too little space in my giant canvas bag. The bottom scrapes the sidewalk any time my posture slouches in the least. Here we meet Veronica. We're in an Irish bar with a live band playing. The notes of trumpets and bagpipes selectively choose the words of the crowd. It's our bi-yearly date. A mistake I always make due to the way we track pay periods. Fate brings us together every 2 years. She's cut her hair shoulder length and dyed it red. It doesn't look great.

"You look great!" explodes out of me in-between the obnoxious blows of the brass instruments.

She frames her straight locks with the backsides of her hands and turns her head.

"Did you see my hair?"

Oh I saw it but I know from experience the mood swings produced from luscious locks trimmed too tightly and ever cautious not to bruise a fragile ego I tell her I love it. I imagine her boyfriend. A gentle creature helping her to navigate her new adoption. She had just been given the opportunity to foster her brother's children. We catch up on her adventure south of Prague through the anarchistic community in northern Spain. We reminisced on our favorite novel where two lovers synchronize the princesses's menstruation to the moon. I review the things I've learned from my Arabic friends in Damascus. Tahini is made from shockingly few ingredients. Sesame seeds and olive oil, toasted in a pan, crushed and combined. I find that adding lemon creates a mixture adds acid, the only missing element recommended by chefs. The taste and texture is how universally despised Australian specialty Vegemite has been described to me. Salty and overpowering, it's pungent aroma may remain in your suppressed belches for days on end. The upside of this mixture besides the price of the ingredients is that the smallest amount will bring to life the blandest of flavors. For the weeks that you don't have ghee because it has been replaced with soy butter it can add a much appreciated flavor to your mundane daily meals. The same meals you make over and over because you don't dare step outside the box and try something new. You don't care to research the effects of commercial factory farming. You don't care to research the largest contributing factors to climate change and understand that it's deeply intertwined to our treatment of animals. You don't care to know that Halal in reference to our food refers to the treatment of such animals. You don't bother to cut back on your consumption habits, food and otherwise. She does however. She whispers in our last embrace that my adventuring is leading to something akin to an "Olive Truce."

"There's truth in the olives!" I shout walking away, swinging around to flash her a peace sign. She tearfully giggles as she gets into her car.

The trudge to the most non-judgmental gym on earth is treacherous. You really are in the most enticing exurb of the city of neighborhoods for a drug addict intent on a life of misery. The walk to the gym is over a mile in each direction and the streets are paved in gold and blast warnings from brightly lit curbs. Cobblestone graves pave the cross street where a robotic voice screeches through the night about the home security system installed on the house. This completely ruins any opportunity for peaceful conversation on the adjoining porches or in front of the house. To ruin the peace in your own home in such a matter can only drive your family to paranoia and to steal from your neighbors the chance of true connection is even worse. You would love to "get into jogging" because "it's so good for you" and it really is but your muscle mass is low enough that it no longer shines through the decade of fat that sits atop. You meet your personal trainer at the gym. She teaches you an improved version of the modified Bulgarian Split Squat. Her body commendable she grips her ankle with her right hand, she pulls her ankle to her ass as she stretches her Rectus femoris and Vastus lateralis tight. She stands directly upright and slowly raises her left hand straight, pointing her longest finger past the wall in front of her. She simultaneously extends her gripped ankle backwards while leaning forward just until she begins to feel a stretch in her Plantaris. She keeps her weight bearing down towards her heel and works her Vastus lateralis to lower her planked body as far as her muscles will allow her. To balance her when she begins to stumble she bends her outstretched arm to a perfect 90 degree angle. Straightening it again to perform the squat. The only trick to it is looking past whatever you see. She extends a branch to my nose as I stare through the soles of her feet.

She whispers "Olive truce."

I find myself musing over what to wear to the local post-hardcore concert. I require the proper amount of flexibility to use these newly sharpened calf muscles. There are no concert clothes weather appropriate for a concert when there is nowhere to put your coat. A black t-shirt and black skinny jeans with a black pullover hoodie seem appropriate for the occasion. At least then I can give away the hoodie at the door should any of our brothers and sisters require one. I do so at the door as I enter the mouth of The Pegasus. The lights are up and the opening band has already started, Dread. The Dread heads clumped around the front of stage occasionally shouting the lines they remember. They amble off stage to rapturous applause. Recon takes the stage next, playing a tight 15 minute set, their music instrumental as guerrillas meander around the crowd searching for feds. Headlining is:

Direct your Tor Browser to https://daunt.link

Skip the first six dreadful unknowns or proceed with parental supervision. Click on Dark Matter.

There may be alternating members of the band, the URLs displayed after TOR. Their last names, their TLDs are all .onion. Here we only see 3 such band members. Click the text next to the uppermost gray TOR box.

The respectful staff at the door wearing blindfolds stand gallantly awaiting your arrival. Their wands only meant to detect your humanity as the problem of automated chat bots stem from the plague of spam. Not the delicious Hawaiian processed meat, cheap, nutritious, especially inviting when fried with pineapple.

The gate swings open.

You approach a strapping young lad before the palatial entryway. His broad shoulders brimming over his flat stomach give his legs the appearance of toothpicks. Under his chainmail fishnets he appears to be completely hairless. His name tag reads Hercules. The precious woman next to him effortlessly wands the approaching hoard with one hand while directing her previous victim with the other. Hercules, despite his Brazilian waxed physique meant for propelling Olympic swimmers up mountains like trout, seems to have his directing hand down the back of his fishnets, unable to reach an itch that must be scratched. You wipe the lenses of your glasses as you approach unsure how soon to twirl. You turn left expecting the wand to come from his left hand when you notice his previously occupied fingertips tugging the front of his uniform as he uses his palm for a broader brush stroke of his chest. He looks at you with grave concern and instructs you to face him directly and casts a desperate glance to that graceful woman next to him. You can't help but notice her beauty when she reveals a menacing smile. You glance down at her name tag, Deainira. A hidden contemplative smile crosses your face as you consider what you're signing up for.

You need to provide only 4 anonymized pieces of information that only you can remember. It's more than likely that only 1 of these pieces of information remain shrouded in secrecy, the password, so the other three should be as distant as possible from your own personal records.

You communicate the required information through a series of finger taps, mirroring the man in front of you and you wonder if you were sitting down could you use your feet as well?

Your fingers are pressed together and as you pull one back his follows so you can't tell whether it was initially a pressure exerted by him so as you push back your ring finger instinctively retracts but this time his does as well. With one hand frozen your free to tap out the beat with your left.

You close your eyes and practice intentional breathing. Not the maternal kind but the kind that allows you to slow and speed time with the rate of your heart, otherwise known as deep meditation. The kind of spiritual experience that allows Mr. Aurelias's better angels to shine through in his meditations on the act. For further confirmation, see Meditations.

Mr Asimov produces two baldheaded lil Octavia Butlers separated in age by two years, the older the braver of the two but enraptured in childlike wonder at the texture of your hair. You wonder if the shivers sent directly down the back of your neck are equally compelled to climb up through her fingertips and you twitch at the thought of where they may stop.

It's raining out so lets call her polishedraindrop42. Polished, due to her finely manicured nails. A style of her own design and not her equally adorable hair style. A style she can hopefully find pride in. 42 as she's the forty-second Raindrop her family has produced.

She must know for what reason you've arrived and it better fucking make her laugh. You have a shame ridden history of such requests which have been transformed through the aid of recovery. It keeps your prying mind from wandering. She is the best in the world at keeping secrets and your request need not be made out loud. Your request works and access has been granted as she points you further down the way.

You stumble through the door ofMr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore. Clay disaffectedly mentions Ajax is lost in the tunnels somewhere near the upper west-side tunnels under New York City, hunting for PGP private keys. Kat Potente, looking somber perks up at the mention of PGP.

"Omg, Pretty Good Privacy, GNU..."

Clay suddenly remembers and giggles out, "GNU is NOT Unix."

After a sigh of the longing variety, her face takes the shape of relief and comfort, nostalgia. She used to code, time series data visualizations, d3 charts in Javascript with a Hadoop backend much to the chagrin of José Valim and Chris Phoenix. Had she not been promoted to a slightly less dignified position she may have held out long enough to experience the joy in coding these wonderful creations.

A pained expression retakes her face's momentary solace when she remembers her brief stint as a Product Manager and returns to a cute sort of resolve when she sees you, dutifully presented to her for assistance.

"I was instructed to ask you for numbers." you say.

"Numbers?" she asks inquisitively.

"King James?" spouts Clay.

She laughs.

"Wait, like the dude that compiled The Bible?" you reply.

"No, I'm in need of something entirely more, uhhh.." you trail off.

She rolls her eyes, "Eccentric?"

"Eclectic." corrects Clay.

"Transformative, actually." I say with a slight grin.

I've long been interested in all sorts of mystic religions and had recently been acquainted with a Jewish Kabbalist who was a little too selfish for my liking thus causing our falling out.

"Let's start here," Kat begins.

She spins through her Dewey Decimal rolodex, producing a notecard entitled "Apocrypha, pseudepigrapha, intertestamental works"

"I'm thinking of a number between 0 and 999." I proclaim.

"I think he's asking you to play." says Clay.

"Easy, 222?" she asks assuredly.

"Nope." I lie.

"305??" she leads.

"229.305203" Clay adds. "I don't think he's there yet."

Exasperated, she writes "229" on a slip of paper and slides it my way.

"A Pharisee I know?" I ask and the library dissolves away before I can even

Astrea emerges in a silver haze grasping a fistful of golden wheat. We're somewhere in the heavens, a place that becomes our sky. Her hair messy in a way that implies she just rolled out of bed or has sat at her desk for days doing research. With dark bags under her eyes, they lower to my chest.

She asks, "What's the pocket for?"

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"The material and cut of your shirt imply that it's cost you considerably more than most shirts I've ever seen. I see no emblazoned logo stressing vanity. Do you care for or about each piece of material that rests upon your body?"

"Yes?" I halfheartedly stammer becoming a little frightened honestly.

"For or about?" she asks sternly.

"What happens if I refuse to answer?" I offer.

Astrea considers this for several moments. I push my mind closer to the answer, pressure in my face grows and as soon as I snap to the other consideration a lightening bolt flashes. This soundless surge of light stretches far below the bronze age mishaps below us.

Dionysus whispers in my ear, "Hades got your back. Ask her what pomegranate tastes like."

"When was the last time you had pomegranate? I imagine dividing all that wheat must be strenuous and mentally exhausting." I posit.

"Fuck dude, that's not what I said." Dionysus admonishes.

"I don't HAVE anything." she rebukes, her voice raising in intensity.

"I spend all of my time dealing with the fuckups who mostly appear to me exactly like you. Distributing a basic necessity of life to those who don't offer a modicum of appreciation. Occasionally I spend an eternity without a single hint of recognition." she blurts out in a perfectly aggrieved tambour.

Dionysus chuckles in a way that shows he actually cares deeply about her while separated by worlds. He loves her, she hates him and likely believes she hates everything he stands for.

"What does pomegranate taste like?" I ask.

Her left eye begins to twitch. As it does so, it appears as though the crease of her mouth follows, both pulling to the same direction.

She starts sputtering, "Kind of, kind, kind of. NO! Lie of, lie of, lie of spruce." "JUICE, oh GOD, juice. It's sickly sweet spirits..."

And just like that, before she can finish her body explodes into a nebula around us as her face rearranges like a fucked up, beautiful Mr Potato Head puzzle.

The illuminated nebula surrounds her constellation obscured by 5 objects once belonging to her face. Her eyes, nose, and lips form the ancient greek column in the upper left quadrant. Her right ear is torn off by the blast and Vincent Van Gogh loving carries it across the space which was once the center of her face. With her left ear, a nagging problem of hers in the way, he lifts it up and places in the exact row her nose now sits in the adjacent quadrant. Her right ear, now in Van Gogh's adept fingers is placed at the direct center of the constellation.

As Vincent begrudgingly makes his retreat I inform him that The Art Institute of Chicago has arranged his art beautifully and perhaps, if it would not be too much trouble to visit the windy city to inspire someone lost. No more trains need be painted by suicide nor ears chopped off in frustration. He promises to make an appearance. He mentions a woman who appeared to him, crawling onto the banks of the Sienne. An actual goddess, another goddess, goddamn. She was raptured from the arms of another man with her disappointed mother standing above. Her mother had warned her of sucking on seeds, for in their world fruit was plentiful. The phrase Demeter had come up with for her daughter's disobedient insolence was "Odo Conniculus." Latin for "tunnel ear" or the feeling one experiences upon a rapid change of pressure when ascending or descending the earth's atmosphere in the cabin of an airplane.

I gently whisper, "Odo Conniculus" and the scene explodes.

smtp gateways open up allowing every student to attend a community college free of cost

floral arrangements are built from single donated plastic flower from a stranger

scene kids of all stripes mosh to industrial trap under a bridge

leon the professional frees cracka

disco inferno activates john travolta's better angel

explorer is finally retired as an internet browser and remains the most accessible way to access files

milfs of all shapes, denominations, and sexual preference rain consent from the heavens

fourth base is defined and we create a new kind of sex

homepage exists on ipfs and no longer requires DNS for anybody to deem it worth reading

omissions of truth are never again questioned as lies and faith is taken at face value

rally cars are made of plywood and donated roller skate wheels

fountain is again a place to cast your youthful dreams and not a place to maintain youth