New World: Order 1/4/14 Spiral Bound Valentine

Now that I'm released from self-imposed damnation, having processed the Seven Deadly Sins while in the throws of Armageddon, I could begin my master plan to build my empire. 

I launched an online platform where I could assemble all my agents' creative capabilities, process them and train them, all while training myself, to become a leader of men. I shall lead by example and do what is best in all situations. 

It has been foretold that I shall rule an empire from atop the Freedom Tower, the King of NYC, creator of Mankind's Salvation. I wrote a book/memior/manual that was actually a ritual, an initiation, an invocation of the ultimate Christ Complex Illuminati conspiracy counselor, and Humanity's ultimate condemner.  

I made the Faustian deal, dried blood on dotted line, though I suspect I was his tool all the time, or at least since that moment when I first died. I just wish I could remember when I agreed to divine the remnants of mortal sins at the end of space & time. 

I know the Charles Crown that wears slick suits, jet sets & globe hops, runs this town. I met him after I turned 33 when I would die in a future time, 2036 to be precise, seven years out from the Singularity swallowing the world whole, some saved, some damned, some stuck between, hidden from Hell on Earth cocooned in a virtual screen. 

I'll see the City die, unplug the last people, give the Devil his due, ending with my sixty year old self, and finally the Anti-Christ, Ragnarok and roll wolf Fenrir will snarl once more, choking on the mortal sins of man.

But now I think of her. Steely Diamonds in her eyes, ashes sticking to her shoes, an unholy color of fright wig witch style neatly cropped in pixie cut promise. I scrawl on loose leaf with a black BIC pen, sending not a love letter but a thank you note tinged with melancholy regret at all that I must do now. 

She stood at the door to my cell, held my hand, kept me fed, made sure I could see the light, which only reminded me of that prison I had tried so hard to leave behind. She was the truest friend I've had and she saw me at my worst and saw me through. I owe her more but this shall hurt less. 

I have much to learn based off that which I already know, she gave me the tools I lacked, reminded me of the skills I had. I forge myself into sharpened steel with every word, I crystallize with every line. 

New World: Order 1/2/14 Jailtime Songbird

The Apocalypse is over, long live the Apocalypse. Everything has successfully switched over and now we can all begin to recover from the rubble of a year long reign of terror by superstitious thirteen mind-poisoning following a Mayan calendar mass hypnosis. 

Our milestone landmarks of countdown hysteria tick and tock to the rhythm of balls that drop and champagne popped, with every year scarred by a unique variable of national, and personal, devastation, with worldly calamities punctuating the newspapers paragraphs.

I was trained in forms design, medical and financial jargon in imperceptible type, to learn about patience and the zen of the office environment. And even then I was stationed across the hall from the Long Island branch of the FBI, a building away from Spitzer and Hillary. My first day on the job was 9/11/00 in the downtown NYC branch where the photo editors desks have the Twin Towers looming behind them.

I voted for Gore and quickly learned that the smart move was to become as disillusioned in America as possible, acknowledging that political pathways were utterly corrupted, and to brush up on the conspiracy theories that once seemed to be a fiction made real at the turn of the century. 

Y2K was year zero of the reset humanity that craved Armageddon. The stage was set with the return to earthy, ashy, global minded death settling upon everyone's minds. A shiny spectacle shimmered on the stage, held afloat by bickering nobodies succumbing to fifteen minutes of shame that we now call reality television. 

Everything changed, as I imagine everyone feels as time cycles skip around, but the masses are more connected and thus ripe for the picking. They've finally let me begin to write again. That's different than it's been, sitting inside the cell of myself, desperately picking the locks, and then slamming the door shut closed. 

Time to go to work.