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the group thinker was abandoned by  his clan. he had no mind, esteem, or directive. despaired, he terminated.

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obsessed with appeasement, her image became younger & more vibrant, her adventures extreme with supreme tales. ultimately, she projected from a deep, dark well.

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the flock agreed not to deviate from the collective mindset. their god approved of ill deeds, so they thought, thus devastated all but themselves initially, until the external ceased to exist. the collective was reduced to one. devoid of mindset, the remaining brood fatally self-inflicted.

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Dr. Dearth takes pleasure to inform terminal patients of their hideous plight. Other physicians with soft bellies call upon the arrogant Dr. Dearth, for a fee, to confer with denizens diagnosed with death. He prescribes enormous dosages of morphine and amphetamines, for which he receives a large profit from pharmaceutical corporations, and tells patients to clear out their finances and make immediate burial arrangements. Dr. Dearth has a clandestine side business as funeral organizer, to whom he refers those destined for mortality. The patient, too feeble to attend to such matters, always heeds to Dr. Dearth's recommendation. It's no wonder the doctor resides in a mansion on a lone hill surrounded by pristine views. Whereas his lowly staff, from servants to chaffeur, live in squalor on a meager wage, especially the undocumented. The doctor has a fetish for kinky anonomous sex slaves and cross-dressers who converge at his luxury abode during off hours.

Josiah could see the glee in Dr. Dearth's deceptive eyes when told he had 30 days to live. Josiah didn't have to clear out his finances, the health care provider garnished his bank account to pay for the pharmaceuticals. It was barely ample, but because Josiah has TLC, government absorbed part of the expense.

TLC is the mandated federal health care system named after its creators DJ Trump and Adolph Lucifer, aptly called Trump Luicfer Care.

As with all terminally ill entities, Josiah was despondent. With his bag of medicines and nothing else, one morning he hopped a freight train to the desert. He shared a box car with hobos who spoke alien tongues. The drugs sequestered him, but the bag and hobos were gone when he awoke 19 hours later. Morphine and amphetamines are crucial to the cartel.

Josiah jumped off the moving freighter in a desolate no-horse town named Deseret, just outside Delta, Utah. He meandered among creosote bush and cacti, which he imagined as friends. Josiah used to have many humanoid friends and fans when he was a talkative satellite radio host on a New Age music program. After Dr. Dearth's prognosis went public, Josiah was abruptly dismissed and abandoned. Josiah, now friendless and silent, walks in solitude to nowhere in the desert under a blazing sun.

In the distance he heard the sound of a pack of dingos howling with joy as they feasted on carion. Astonishingly, a man emerged from the cluster.

The distraught man was deranged and presumed Josiah a mirage. After several hours in each other's dormant presence, the man spoke.

His name is Mack Zuckerman, a well-paid  high-tech engineer for the most prestigious social network. He was recently rounded up during a midnight homeless sweep in a derelict part of a coastal metropolis. He secretly frequented the dubious sector to perform debachery with trannys, appearing frenzied with no credentials on his person. Rogue erotica is his addiction, and was abducted as he exited a ramshackled SRO hotel. For two days and two nights he and the stenchy streetsters were transported in a sealed overly-crowded truck trailer to a heavily-guarded covert experimental TLC facility near Delta, formerly a concentration camp during the war.

At TLC the unwilling participants were injected with heavy dosages of developmental pharmaceuticals as military  scientists observed and took notes. Often there was delerium, and those who died or are nearly dead are disposed of en masse in a crevice that becomes a dingo feeding ground. TLC aspires to create a drug called xenominophen that makes a person aggressive, suicidal, and obedient. In the tests Zuckerman was in, the subjects became aggressive and suicidal but not obedient, so they were discarded. The drug made the homeless, already malnourished, weak and frail, on the verge of death if not already dead. Conversely, the elitist Zuckerman had  maintained a steady hefty carnivorous diet of burritos, pizza, burgers, pork buns, and greasy fried chicken, topped by sugar-laden cake and Coke. He worked 13-hour shifts seven days per week where junk food was a popular perk and readily available at his desk. He ate constantly with little exercise, lest rough-riding trannys in esoteric night-long sessions. Needless to say, Zuckerman was hulky and when a dingo tried to devour him alive, he snapped back and attempted a bite out of the canine. Thus he was able to slither away when he encountered Josiah.

Because Zuckerman didn't show up for his mundane coding job the CEO confiscated his assets comprised of billions of dollars, fancy vehicles, and exotic properties. Zuckerman was unaware he had been forlorned and yearned to return to civilization. He hopped a freight train headed to Vegas and was never heard from again.

Human carion abounded as more dingo herds flocked toward TLC for a food fix. Josiah sojourned in the opposite direction but alas was trumped by armed roboslaves who ice'd him into the testing compound. He would be the premier recipient of a super xenominophen formula called x666. Josiah's already corrupted cells interacted with x666 delightfully for the scientists. Not only did he become aggressive and suicidal, he gladly complied with orders to adorn attire embellished with lethal nuclear arsenal. After 23 hours in a self-flying stealth military drone to a strifed region entrenched with numerous warring violent factions, Josiah disembarked to fulfill his assigned mission. Sprouting a glee, he goose-stepped into an extremist leadership stronghold with no regard to his own demise.

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Eamon Marcus McCoole felt relieved as he gandered into the abyss. With no aspirations or desires, he seemed detached from the ensuing tyranny.

He thought of a stateless refugee in Fresno with too many kids and a bitchy wife. The refugee became a robber, his late dad a CIA collaborator. While in the slammer his credentials were revoked by ICE, and undeportable because his homeland is off the government's grid. If not for demanding liabilities, the stooge could subsist on meager oddjobs and an SRO. Instead, he yearned companionship, over-copulated an edgy queen, and turned to crime, only to be caught yellow-handed in dirty deeds.

McCoole doesn't dwell on such decrepit entities, and in fact surmises that people have such a narrow scope of a long life that sends them to the abyss. Mostly they are driven by loneliness in pursuit of jejune happiness, only to be continuously discontent and dependent.

Visions of Harlan County sparks imagery of an entire community once reliant on now obsolete resources and skills. Blight, unemployment, and too many children with young, nearly-homeless parents no longer bonded by love.

Denizens who depend on faceless celebrity politicians are prime for disaster. It doesn't matter for whom they vote. To remain under the illusion of false hope instead of looking inward for tranquility always translates into a miserable life.

McCoole turns his back on the abyss and revels in his own sanctuary.

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Buford isn't in a club and declines invitations to any faction comprised strictly of think-alikes. While on a solo desert mission he encountered survivalists who offered food and shelter in a secret secluded sanctuary if he pledged perpetual allegiance to annhilate the empire.

He surmised that these survivalists were not marginalized denizens but derived from middle or affluent stock, fabricating envisaged ceilings on which to blame their demise. Buford does not readily jump into a scenario without considering ramifications. It only took a few seconds for Buford to continue on his planned journey.

One survivalist, a young brood named Shannon, felt uneasy being in the clan, but restless dopamine spawned him to enlist on a whim and consign for the long-term, then lost interest early on. In short order there's no way out, lest he takes a bullet in the back, or succumbs at the frontline of battle. Either way, Shannon is doomed.

Conversely, Buford embraces the endless opportunities in a freeform existence. Buford manages well on his own, he does not need or want emotional or physical support, and is self-sufficient with personalized  methods of food and shelter. Loneliness is not in Buford's vocabulary.

Yonder Buford happened upon an entourage of anxious excessively-armed agents. They were arrogant and asked questions, but Buford kept his cool. The commander tried to induct Buford into their operation as sharpshooter. He shrugged the jejune offer and parted ways.

To elude the fierce mid-afternoon sun, Buford settled into a crevice to read and scribe poetry. It was pleasant and serene, with a few nonchalant arachnids and reptilians in the same space. He settled for the night and shared the sanctum with an onslaught of bats.

Late at night in the distance was a continuous barrage of gunfire from high-powered automatic rifles, to which Buford transitioned into slumber. In the morning Buford could not determine if the agents returned to base, were defeated by the militia, or everybody expended their ammunition supply devoid of mortality. It mattered not to Buford, it's not his business.

Too often Buford has observed lonely people enter into affiliation on a premise of shared concept with no exit strategy when the person's zeal waned, no longer believed in self-induced oppression, or wanted to explore other pastures. The clan dislikes abandonment and it's common for people to over-commit, perfunctorily lock down with the cause, and become a callous specialist.

Ambassador Johnny J. Taliban, who crossed lines while youthful with bursting forlorn dopamine, rots of his own stench in a small prison cell because he fought among troopers, as a regiment's component maimed thousands of people thousands of miles beyond on Johnny's soil. The wavering apostate was thereafter heavily scrutinized, and troopers sensed a meandering loyalty. Begat of western affluence, in due time he would weary of conflict and return to his comfort zone. Johnny had no departure gateway, and peers demanded perpetual participation among the troupe. But he was captured, or rescued, by his own tribe and lock'd down for life until death with not even a footnote in historical annals.

Buford too often sees such apathy with so-called experts who hyperbole yelp "fire" when there's not a spark in house or mind. Avidness evaporated long ago, but unkempt liabilities and fear of loneliness keep human machines on a faceless journey, burdened by insipid obligation such as sitting unfulfilled on a professional panel at the annual conference bickering about trivalities, only to imagine endless dreams of what could be. Life is rote with Fakebook facades of alleged joy and excitement, envied by other fakers with similar embellished tales.

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looking back, buford is surprised of prolonged corporeal existence. he has no skills to assist in foreign intervention nor is considered aryan. thus, always in limbo, neither belonging here nor there.

canadians said buford slaughtered indians and was harrassed at the border. conversely, while working in harlan county, kentucky, coal miners raged on buford as being responsible for sending american jobs offshore. harlem negroes call buford honorary white, while ricans consider him gringo.

the dichotomy is horrendous, exacerbated  by dj trump and coulter who enlist legislation to export buford. their armies, the supreme militia, did in fact relocate him south from nogales, arizona, but was enticed at gunpoint by cartel hombres to jump back across the wall.

it is no wonder that buford spends eight months per year hibernating alone in a cave. if not for revenue requirements, hiberbation and isolation would be incessant and perpetual.

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Nothing has changed since Buford's previous visit to the railing, except for the thorazine. No alteration on outlook or aspiration. Last time a patrol officer "saved" Buford, and the "savior" was commended by peers at a lavish awards dinner. Assuredly on this visit is the absence of officer or illumination, as Buford plunges into Club 27.

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Whatever transpires during the 20s is the premise for a lifespan. These days people are settled in that decade as politician, CEO, doctor, rockstar, cop, et al, primed as a panel-sitting expert in an exacting discipline.

In his 20s McCoole was a total recluse, and such solitude follows him to death. Was it better to meander freely or lockdown in a specific expectation, never to be alone? Nobody is alone in the now, in fact, autonomy is feared, socialization revered, compelled to broadcast every move and thought, accompanied by facesmile, facsimile, or facade.

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As McCoole steeped into deep reclusion he alas vaporised. Nobody sees the corporeal ghost.

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Artists often exist in pockets of conformity. Such art becomes a product instead of a creation, such as Burn Man. Stolid how SF commoditizes artists, ironically, sans revenue.

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The key to melodic riffs is anticipating each note and employing effective phrasing. Teachers don't focus on this, usually proffer sheet music with material the teacher has played for 40 years from a limited repertoire. Student must master smoothness autonomously through discipline, perserverance, and creativity.

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Everybody except the musician gets paid. Venue, promoter, studio, masterer, disc cutter, instrument maker, gizmo vendor, teacher, organizer, jamcamp, videographer, editor, publisher, internet, conference, motel, airlines, caterer, brewery. Trillions of lowly musicians hold mundane dayjobs to fuel others’ livelihood. The lassitude for their survival.

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Appease to accrue revenue, otherwise create.

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"Give it up already. You have no influential clout." Alas, albeit quite late, McCoole heeded and destiny came into its rightful house. Contentment the lagniappe.

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Annoying and fruitless it was to pursue and aspire. The thought of having expended effort and time, compounded by overt animosity and ultimate failure, enduces brain pain.

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Economic vitality.

1) Lowcost imported instruments. 2) Record at project studios. 3) Forego CD production for digital downloads. 4) Manipulate basic clipart.

a) Out of a trillion musicians, a fingerful get the gigs. b) To sell music means competing with free downloads. c) Expensive gear does not a professional make. d) Open mics deceive the musician with jejune support. Players are often  sloppy. e) Thelonious Monk said not to appease the audience, but play what you like. f) Create and play music that feels natural and within capability; expand on capability with reasonable objectives. g) Pen enigmatic lyrics and innovative arrangements. h) Innovation may be simple performed proficiently. i) The shrewd appear deceptively complex. j) To explain a song's meaning denotes songwriting failure. k) Teachers goal is revenue, not student success. Spend minimally in this regard. l) Learn from hearing, observing, reading, and sheets, and innovate henceforth. m) Jam camps mostly benefit teachers and organizers. "Fun" is for the puerile, counter to the serious learner.  n) Ostentatiousness at jam camp is meaningless. o) On Bandcamp everybody is beautiful with smooth art, it’s an equal game for attention. p) Deliver music, not aesthetics. q) Feel contented with the creations. r) If not current but future civilizations could altruistically embrace the creations.