Chapter 9

It was one of those experiences to the alien, seeing a human as smart as they, that for us would be like seeing a Chimp talk about quantum physics. The novelty and humor of the experience outweighed the feeling of terror from the experience. But there was nothing they could do. His kind treated Rana as something of an anomaly, and wasn't sure whether to kill his pet, and take her to a museum in order to be observed along with other strange oddities. Rana slept in the interstellar hammock, and then woke up from the dream. A normal day in the studio flat, cooking chicken curry sauce with eggplant cutlets.

By day she would go to the store to shop for groceries, yet by night would relax in bed all night. She would hang out with her new room mate who she had to take care of, teaching them basic things like how to watch the television, although she herself never used the television. Instead she mainly watch flow of web page go together in an uneven pattern across the sea of text. Her room mate, decidedly strange, would caress her neck and the rest of her all over im a kind of slow embrace under the lunar midnight hour. And she indulged her her world's desires, beyond the glow of virtual reality screens. She indulged in different fantasies, while the being of desires played with her tits. Then pried her legs open, making her do the splits in the sleep number bed.

Month by month she took him as her own.

Then in every forth month he would go along his way home, and bring hubrid children from the stars. Her desires were used as his desires, for he wanted half alien children to help rule the empires of the stars. And beyond those stars, in times beyond. The alien saw Eve within Rana, wanted to taste of her fruit of paradise. Yet Rana felt like Paradise Lost. She felt as if falling from the sky, like some fallen angel from above. And upon the sands of time she rested, resting until the morning hour.

She ignored children's song.

She ignored the home along the range.

And beyond this city life was a life of prairie green, where the devil's along the yard sing and chant in occult carols. Christmas for the damned, and every day felt like a kind surrealistic nightmare that would never end. Constantly the sky emperor playing with her feeling, for her life force. In order to feed nutrients into his skin.

At now, beyond the Meadow Of Gold...

Life loops all over again.

Rana wanted to get herself a drone, and wondered how she could perpetually make it drone on and on. She also wnated to share videos offline of lectures about secret space programs, and other lectures about non-locality with new age brothers blues about the life beyond our times. For Rana, it was more of an ironic pleasure, as a hipster watching new age people bullshit about transcendence. And the only Ufologist she really believed were people that took a more skeptical glance about secret budgets and nuts and bolt of ufology. She worried about some that indulged in scientology, feeling that it gave the subject a bad name, with certain beliefs they'll only tell you once you've payed them enough anonymous cash on the wire. Rana had known one girl who was a bouncer for such religions, yet for herself she was done with indulging herself in cult.

It was already so much work just trying to make it through life, yet she found it in herself to give some money to the homeless, although she wondered about the idea of buying ramen noodles for them. She had soon a homeless man up on Washington D.C. dig a hamburger out of the can, and never completely let go of the image since. It reminded her of the corrupt system that we live in, and she suspected this was why some people buy into secret cult. For most people, there was some desire to belong to something. Yet Rana had given up on this idea along time ago, realizing that she mostly didn't want to do with people on a personal level on a day by day basis, for life was a game of chase. She kneels on the ground, feeling the ground with her magnetic implants. The feels the vibrations on her face. Her life, others feel as disgrace.

And yet, she was Rana.

Rana no longer cared about the idea of being approved by anyone, having been burnt to many times by ex boy and girlfriends, although she still held onto the idea of meeting her high school bestie again, but the only one she still had hope that should save. She searched for records of his existence on the browser of Brave. And when done hung out with her friends on decentralized networks that didn't know how to shave. She could understand this somewhat, as being a trans woman, she never liked the idea of looking at herself in the mirror. In the mirror she always looked male, yet she always felt female. And part of was still coming to terms with the idea of her own demise before she got to fully transition, yet if she never went on in the world, what did it matter? She purchased dresses, and out in the world she never had trouble being called ma'am. Yet when not it got to the point where she no longer cared about anything enough to care about being misgendered, even with employers at underground coffee shops sometimes were unsure what gender she was. They didn't care, as long as she payed her toll, and got her buzz.

The live wire high def television set always played underground news, talk about things not often explored on mainstream news, like MSNBC, FOX, and other smaller presses that have become a kind of proxy for government orating its propaganda to the citizens. While the United states wasn't yet North Korea, it was edging ever closer by the year. Rana wanted to move to California, and get along with their new variant of the Calexit movement, despite the reputation that it gets. She remembered her brief time in Los Angeles and enjoyed it very much.

At home she masturbated to the Dutch.

She knew the right touch.

Rana was torn between the desire to give to the homeless, and destroying the human race. It wasn't every day she went out, and every time she did there would always be some homeless person asking her, if all people, for money. She had no means of employment, and was struggling to get on disability. It took asking her mother for Christmas presents in order to get the gadgets and electronics she needed in order to carry out her work. Yet with the desire to build a human brain the form on a computer program, she somehow found time was better spent trying to make her programs as human like as possible. At day she struggled to make herself write children's stories about magical owls, and by night she spent hours she could be writing trying to improve her programming skills. Yet the night go by like sand on the coast, by those who sought to doubt her abilities. By recently she had gotten to the point, where she mainly created for herself.

She finished a program called an SNC, or a sneaker net chatroom. She wanted to find ways to use it, in order to blend how humanity will comes to terms with UFO disclosure, and the different ways humans can continue to communicate, even if humans were suddenly invaded by a species from the stars. Although some Ufologists have speculative that this would be a false flag. Either way, it didn't matter. What mattered is she had the right to defend herself no matter what anyone said, whether it was others enforcing a kind of prime directive lock, or some Trek lover wearing Birkenstocks without socks. She found herself masturbating to severed heads of anime maids, while snipping at their lovely braids of doom. And after word, simply swept the blood with a broom. Zoom, zoom, zoom went the broom, brooming brooms of doom, doom, and doom. And up and away went the broom.

She didn't feel very high brow, yet managed to rub her chin. And she would do this whenever she walked by the mannequins on the side walk, in the city that played as a city, while looking at anime girls at underground coffee shops playing with their titties. For there was a certain kind of city: a city composed of many layers of reality. The manufactured or simulated reality, the blended reality tearing two worlds at the seams, and the actual reality whether nothing felt real at all. One simply felt dead inside.

Open wide, take the reality medication. And prepare to be torn apart by parasites. Even the underground had their way of political discourse, while she fantasized of beheaded anime girls riding rainbow horses. And tried taking online French courses. Skewering Minecraft cows was simply a matter of course, of course it was. After all it was better than less constructive things, like sitting around bored all day and night under the glow of the electronic candle light. Goodnight imaginary solar wind, goodnight bloodier and gorier cartoons of beheaded Robin Hood anime wives. Women who lost their lives to the axe. Who kneeled their necks in Halifax, for stealing candles of wax while picking out their ear wax. Enough to replace the candles so expensive. Reality is much stranger than a Dr. Seuss book, but this is not the story of a children's book, but a world beyond the normal life. The life of a city wanderer.

The life of a city rat.

Their life fading out in light speed.


Fairy Dust



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