A  quiet seaside town is generally a nice place to find yourself. A religious cult, however, is always a bad place to find yourself. Worse when it’s run but an ex pro wrestler. Worse yet when its a squicky sex cult. Worse even yet when they worship the terrifying things that live in the bottom of the elevator shaft. The townspeople are in on it. Get out now.

Notes about living on Mars:

When a package arrives on your door step full of pictures of your roommate and earths premiere martian moon snowboarder and he tells you that they have her kidneys in a box in New York, Its a good rule of thumb that any kind of scavenger hunt they send you on will a) end in black mail b) end in tragedy.

Martian moons are shit places to live. Seriously, who wants to live in New Providence. This is why your roommates keep moving to New Baltimore on the martian surface. Near earth like gravity, water, m-type atmosphere, and prostitution is leagal.

On that note: martian whores are absolutely stunning, will tell you they love you, take your money, and move right back to Earth as soon as the fucking can.

And who could possibly blame them! There are things living under the sand that will strip you to bones in seconds. Thats why the company pays the miners so much.

It was a mansion set back from the road by a long and winding driveway.
By the time we made it up the drive way it was engulfed in flames. The police arrived and were rounding up the ones who had escaped the conflagration. They had symbols craved into their foreheads and cheeks, tattoo wrapping around their lips and winding down their necks. When the women saw us she spit and cursed. The language she used made my head start to pound and my nose bleed. One of the cops hit her across the face with rifle butt. She fell tot he ground and started crying.
“He would have made the whole earth pure!”
The fist of the goliath shot up through the mansion. the smell of burnt flesh surrounded us. The would be god of the world struggled to lift itself out from its underground lair and screamed and burned.the pasty white worm flesh cracked and blackened int he flames. The markings and symbols on the skin of the gold were the ones his children had made on their faces.
The burnt god crumbled into a heap and its soul wafted away in the wind and smoke.

The denizens of hell are not necessarily a bad bunch, they have just gotten a bad rap over the years. Like any one or anything else they have their strengths and their flaws, families and rivialries. Some of them yes, are hardwired to be bad; but overcoming your nature can be a noble aspiration. The mall where I work is integrated and I have met some wonderful..uh..people. The Asian demon kid who owns the bike shop has the single best manga collection I have ever seen and wants to be a manga artist one day. I gotta say, he is pretty good. His cousins work across the way in the coffee shop. If you havent had hellfire brewed coffee yet than, brother, you are missing out. We found a family of de-powered flesh cubes int he foyer yesterday. Damien Agato, the kid from the bike shop sneered and said we should flamethrower them. A lot of demons consider flesh cubes to be vermin because they reproduce so rapidly and as a result small like ass. We jump started them and discovered that they were a family of distinct individuals, and the reason for the constant reproduction was because the demons always flamethrowered them. they work as custodians in the mall now and provide most of the electricity as they exude it. Little Pink Rhombus Jr wants to be a comedian though. He had the Coffee Devils laughing so hard one them wet himself. The triffid girl has a flower shop, she has really come into her own since she crash landed and destroyed that town. She learned the language and is applying for plant citizenship. And I’l be damned if don’t think she’s cute.

As it turns out, most things just want to be happy and with tolerance, understanding, and yes some flame retardent clothing you will find that the common ground you share is much larger than your differences.

Except for werewolves. Man, fuck those guys.

sYNESTHESIA is generally the first symptom that you’re dealing with a extra-dimensional being, possibly a star who was taken human form or the pseudo pod of some spectral body.

While you were at the war: your mother went insane and your father became the leader of a paramilitary organization. gasoline became currency. bacon is now made of people. the dugnut is the coin of the petrol based currency. trolls and imps cannot be trusted, they have hearts of stone after all. Like actual stone. #lessonslearnedfromdreams

Originally a cooking school it became a culinary monastery after access was restricted by an earth quake. The best way to obtain access seems to be to crash through the ceiling in a car. The monks are extremely emotional about their calling and will pelt you with macaroons while speaking very harshly about your sexual orientation, questionable lineage, and bestial trysts for the interruption.

twins possessed by a super computer give excellent advice on the proper temperature of meat at a barbecue in a burnt out building. I ask the french girl to watch them. something about a corridor and building. My grandfather was there making model airplanes out of airplanes.

Ah shit.

Do you know how difficult this is? Dreaming it’s like Im carving a world out of ice. The details are delicate and beautiful and terrifying and crystalline. I carry these tiny ice castles back with me. But consciousness is like a desert and carrying these delicate things through the desert, well, the longer I carry them the less there is of them. By Noon there’s nothing. Some times I’m lucky and prescient enough to write them down. The words are like a copy of the delicate, detailed beautiful thing rough hewn in stone. They are far from perfect but they are there so that when I look a t the I can see the halo of the original.

At 7am all of those random details linked together they were connected
at 8am I still new why a computer had taken control of the twins. I also knew what they looked like.
at 8:30 I could remember what the french girl looked like and what her name was.
at 9:30 I still knew what color her hair was.

ah well

lesson learned from broken dreams: the eulogy was painful, a little less so when I discovered in front of an audience full of his class mates that I was not in fact responsible for the shooting death of close friends son. I was merely chosen based on the impression that I would deliver some moving words.

Lessons learned from dreams: Your other world counter part is better looking and more successful, he also has a cool apartment for you to hide out in while you’re trying to avoid the crazy dude in the pink metal suit.