[UnbornBuddha]

I'm Zygote 2.0. I am an evolved life form fused joint to joint and cloned. Void of soul, a beingless avatar in destroyer mode. Shiva prostated before me, humbly asking me for a story. I told him to go into a trance and observe me, breathing in the suffering's worry and then breathing out nirvana's genesis. The Bodhisattva illusion is that Mara is a nemesis. I've kaleidoscopically dissected his genetics and what I found was prophetic. I saw the future of the universe and its beauty was poetic. Expanding extending itself out to something beyond endless, something with more life than when your baby mama was pregnant. She got so fat, her skin still stretches. There I said it. You needed to hear it to heed its message. The landlord is evicting you, didn't you read the letter? If you don't pay up, the IRS will behead you. It will be a glorious beheading. Braveheart times a quinquagintatrecentillion plus seven, and then raised again to the power of eleven.
I'm suggesting you didn't understand that not because of confusion. Because somewhere down the line you became stupid. An imbecile implanting himself with tumor cells. Just the thought of you makes it possible to humor myself. I'm an ex-Xmen who realized the professor despised his own mutagen shell. So he kept us hidden, without being able to begin viewing ourselves, as not lesser species, but deities in material form. Immortals with power to disappear from this world. Go into something akin to a portal, and arrive at Courage the cowardly dog's home, in the middle of Nowhere. Where no clocks tick, and I wonder if time even knows of here. Evermore, like Allen Poe was forever near. For years I haven't shed a tear, bottling up everything until codeine pushes me further where the edge appears, unveiling what the berserk and egomaniacs fear. Chopin perfectly played by a man without a single ear. The charade of listening as a contempt trap, set by illusionists who know Maya as not a karmic step back for humans but an entire set back. Nevertheless, they enjoy prodding you with image after image of sex acts. Each one more tantalizing yet ungratifying than the next. Exciting and teasing the senses with imagery laden angelic maidens revealing their appendages and flesh, their olive complexion designed refined with hue and depth. The woman I love looks so real, but she's a studio effect. The Truman show was inspired by one of those few youtube views I get; a listener who saw his own godcomplex as debris, so he threw it and it became a planet instead. But, one that clashed with a gargantuan comet and met its luminous end. Of the high heavens, only the destiny of a few manifest. I've seen how the homunculi in the flask used to dress. We stooges have been duped to believe we look the best. What foolishness!