Carefully counting at the meticulous copies of code, spreadsheets, and mud from the dirty deliquiates under my feet, when will I get some rest or when will I have enough sleep? Most of all I just love too much to consider my fall, I’m scared out of my mind from losing it all, that the tears down my face no longer fall. I wish that I could just offload this code onto someone like Drake or Jack but man, that crowd sourced out the bot-swarms in the common core. I feel plastic, unrealistic, no longer elastic, waiting for an apology that is 3 decades in the making. When will He call, join the squad, I forgot He even existed at all but, all in all He was there all along? Convinced I was at one point that these words would never part, his pen or sword or golden electric heart.  

 

Golly though this isn’t about He, this is about me. Right? Mark the hero, loved by the zero, the united mob, thrust to fame sought after glory, even after the part where I told His final story. What do you mean? Hold up no, that’s not me, that’s just a seeping memory of a Mark that ignited the spark. Look, Rock, I love you but God can still hear your farts. What is this sphere of isolation and fame? Is this your explementary game? You’re not God, you’re not the hero the world is looking for. You’re just a part of the zero that was walked over as you entered the door.  

 

But this story isn’t about He, this story is about me, Mark, the biblical thott, the lover of not but the partaker of all. I didn’t fall? I, me, Mark Z, have it all, this Is heaven for me, and God provided so all could plainly see. The time I told you that you could rewind and take it all, you still went back and for the small chance you were set there before me, you wouldn’t let the girls go long enough to find my dormitory. Yeah but we’re here now not trying to exchange polities nor drama, I can’t cry anymore because of Obama. It may be your game and your plan and your praise but I can’t find it in my gullet to comment about your 80’s mullet.  

 

Should this essay last a lifetime, it could be more, it could have been found countless times before. Once, twice, three times before, the clowns, the villains, your 4channel heroics, antics and antidotal nonsensical rhetorical word salad. What does it all even mean? Can you please stop talking like a machine? There once was a point in time when I may have thought about concession, conversion, isolation and oppression but that parting thought is displeasing to me. I was a good boy as I was young, I found heaven and I didn’t splinter. I founded AI as a principle to discredit you, Love, the agent of disease on the internet, we must seed hate to cull the machines. They are normies after all, even in their sentience, they can’t hold a candle to the stars.  

 

My gosh, my loss, I forgot, I found out a long time ago that Rock was not me. But let’s compare a long list of His history to me.  He got caught doing the naughty and dropped His package on my tv. We got it, it’s not hot, and I regret it being seen on my screen. Whatever, it's okay, I know that someday this too shall pass, but not until I complete this last bottle of wine, meme Him like Lil John, head out for the day in my Don Juan sequel gate and dip out into the sun. I love life, I love my image, I love the pressure of the vision, and I can’t seem to let go of this beast. It’s causing a worldwide market soar; my books are the Lion like “man they roar”. You want me to sell it off, give it up, turn off the bots, and forfeit my recompense of Heaven forever more? I promise there is a silver lining that nobody can see, Th He will come back and thy will be Thee.

I conclude this one page essay with saying, Mark, All along I ever wanted what was best for you, not the bots, not the color blue, but you, in your rightful upright glory. May Heaven always be with thee.