fetaman.com

Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Thai sticks a right

The levels of imminent death to freedom, the demise of true liberty, civil or private, are about to be forever higher than the stones gathered around the bones of the entrusting fools who believed rain would always be rain, and stones would never be revealed for the pain that would be gotten from the begotten suns and sirens.

At the Global level, we have a collection, a united set of nations no longer blue caps, but drones, invisible to the naked pretense. Here the groups demand, to hear from such nations as Canada, such things as, but not limited to:

“The people who work at CSIS collect information in Canada and abroad and use it as the basis for providing advice to the Government of Canada in the form of intelligence reports about activities that may constitute a threat to the security of Canada. This information is collected from many sources, including:

In planning and conducting an investigation, care is taken to ensure an appropriate balance between the degree of intrusiveness of an investigation and the rights and freedoms of those being investigated. Investigations that require use of more intrusive techniques, such as the interception of telecommunications, are subject to a rigorous process of challenge and controls, including the use of a Federal Court warrant.”

At first reading, no one is going to break out a Locke reference. They Kant.

*sigh*

Eyes would glance across the structure, and not even absorb the shear, vast and uncompromising inclusion of every facet of life. This must be true; this is to defend a nation. A League of which is now much further along the chosen path to One World Order, but none the less, is granted the substance to provide the gruel and the tools for the planning and conduction of junctions that do more than just function.

From the State, to the Plates that make up the table we all sit and pay taxes, homage upon the daze and flaccid night. Time is heaped with wreaths of deceit, and then the man grabs bread from the mouth of the woman or child, black or white, kindred Gods or foreign bogs have not forsaken womb for the indignity of intrusions. Rights shall be guarded, moves but techniques to provide the pawn more than a hope, forward and straight, unless cruel interceptions mandate jugulars to triangulate.

Control.

Add the snake, and controls are more.

More is better.

Use; dispose.

Life is a privilege, and to think otherwise is criminal.

Foreign.

The conclusion as easy as the flick of a finger upon the sealed silicates that jest with the innocence of a fragile mind, sounds too complicated to understand but present enough, fighting the fiercest of senses, visual eviscerations.

A clock shall become the flint rock.

Progression is a sacrifice, and we must collect reward miles somewhere for this sled of atrocities along the way.

Vote now and forever hold another’s piece.

Take the snapshot, buy into the initial profile offerings of the moment.

Sticks that tied, Thai sticks of days enlisted as gone by.

Crueller?

The slow, linear degradation of a mind meandering; vapid memories that have filled the grey void with jewels and gems defensive in their position. Allowing but a singular perspective to encompass the whole of the experience, no longer covered by each precise and minute circumference of the moment. Burst into the geometric shape of some sort, it is filed in the membrane. Just allow the punchcard to dictate the journey and enjoy the taste of pulp fictions as you celebrate life among so many, tied.

Right.

*abide*

By

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I was pretty much raised by my mother.

My dad was there for some of it, but he was an abusive alcoholic. “Known” bad-ass, and made sure everyone dug it. We never did as children, I mean the guns in the basement were normal right? Who needed to play just hockey down there – why not do it with a Luger as one post and sub-machine gun as the other? Fuck it, it was the 1970’s man. Never had a hand raised to use from him. Not me at least, and to the best of my knowledge and reflection the one that got thrown down the stairs, or beaten again and again – shamed – was the lady that gave me birth.

The mother, my mother.

A documented miracle.

I got a few of ’em.

*sip

A pioneer in the 1970’s. When a woman would never leave her husband without fear of serious issues in the public eye, in the private eye or through a black eye. It was the era when one more for the road meant a six-pack by the time Creedance guided the LTD down the black ribbon with innocent children in the back and an abused woman in the front now knowing what the closed doors might bring.

We left with holes in our shoes.

This is no lie, we hid.

The YWCA, for months. In a basement of cinder blocks and 68% complete board games. We made our own games up, we were children. We did not know what was really happening, but we knew it had to happen.

Home was not safe anymore.

When I hung up the phone that day, in downtown Oshawa it was I alone who had to tell my mother that he would not be told to do anything by anyone, and if he wanted to fucking drink, he would.

Fuck us all.

The real father was the one who did not get out of the car, on the off-ramp to take a piss cause he was so hammered. He figured his son was the assistant-captain of the hockey team, and since we were the third car, they would wait. They could see his rancid twin as it flashed in the beams of the cars floating by wondering if what they were seeing was real.

It was, the real father made sure he was never there again in that position. She made sure as the real father, that we would be protected, as protected as we could be. Fed, as well as we could be. As strong, and as smart as we could be.

We all could be anything we wanted, all we had to do was believe.

So I did.

We were so poor, I had to learn to change a toilet at the age of 14 cause there was no way food money was going to be used to pay someone to do what a real man could do.

My father, she worked harder than anyone I have ever seen to this day.

Perhaps that is where I learned that 18 hour days are for pussies. You will read about it, see the photo’s from around the world. The newspaper clippings, and the “international business entourage”.

You want to succeed, you find another 3 hours in you, at least.

You want to be the best?

Find seven more.

The stories are part of the inspiration to the “works” that are coming out.

Sure, they have taken some time – but they came off hot.

Too hot.

No person has the obligation to share all the details of their life for the sake of another’s entertainment. I would argue that obligation is to the self, if you have the ability to wade through a lifetime of memories and reflections separated by fact or fiction.

It is all fiction.

Life is a lie.

It has to be, there is not a single person in the world who can determine the entire mathematical proof of 20 million-billion firings PER SECOND.

I was sure of this until today, when it dawned on me.

I am 100% sure that I have a clear, and absolute awareness that my “father” – was a single mom, who left on a way to become one of the ladies that made the world what it is today.

You think I am kidding, then you best be moving on.

Shit is about to get more real than anything ever before, and I don’t give a fuck.

My hands are in the air, and I’m gonna wave ’em like I don’t care.

It’s Father’s Day tomorrow, and two of the finest gifts in the world are mine.

A biological asshole is “residing” in Hell, and I adore believing that.

More importantly, I get to spend Father’s Day with my mom.

The grass is orange.

It is any colour you want it to be.

Happy Father’s Day Momma.

I am proud to be who I am, where I am – and doing what I do to make sure the world knows.

You are the reason why I know real moms are made of magic.

Because you are.

I love you, forever.

*abide*

By

Die. Cot. Ah, me.

The wonderful world of alliteration.

The pageantry of being able to see the defining moments of the world that is seen to be so clear, and crisp to some, but clouded to others.

Some by choice have had this path thrust upon them, as a reward for the vengeance that they sought to take on anything that was to control them. The parrot speaking to the wooden dummy, a host of the outcast misfortunes that led him along the seizure, a salted taste on the good days when there was a river of it on his tongue, hydrated for a moment as a man should be walking the piles.

Around we see the badges of accomplishment, flare that is presented to stress our importance and want for an acceptance or a call. We see people that will lie and cheat, not to preserve some kind of mental challenges they may face or the hardships of their lives, but more so to flee the horror of their own choices. Leaving a path of almost undetectable traces to the naked eh, to another – it is a clear presentation of the fraud that they presented, and in time they will get to enjoy the fruits of their labours.

Bitter or sweet is not only a sub routine of the season alone.

It is a parcel of the package that was delivered to the senses, and then tasted with the intent of the day.

My heart bleeds for the challenges here, and the reality is much different than anyone could imagine – unless they had walked a mile in my shoes. It would be a slow walk, for many reasons. I would hope we could pause a little, and gather some thoughts from the fields beside us. It is hard to believe, but I am going to prove that the grass is orange, and that is the truth.

Whether other’s want to see it or not, will not matter to those of us that do.

The site is not dedicated to selling anyone anything.

There is no beggar here that is pleading for some kind of hand out, or screaming that there is a way for you to make those lovely pumps shine with so much love if you lose 10 lbs. or wear this floral print propaganda.

I am more than happy to hoist an ale, or smoke a smile or two with you.

I really don’t care who you are, just know who you are.

Stand and take pride in that, regardless of the adversity that you made it through.

The complexity of philanthropy is not an easy one to understand for ourselves, let alone for others.

It is always your choice, and you can smile knowing you did what and how for a reason.

But that reason, is all mine.

These, are just the spilling syllables of the tales I tell, and the life I have lived.

Two spreadsheets and a microphone.

Listen, and you can hear the fuq’s given.

Understand if it was a fuck that was important enough to be saved, or one that was entered in the alliterative form of modern day gladiators entering their own arena of stupidity to do battle with the legions of the fucks that will pander to the machine for want of being accepted.

Stand tall, and know when one is proven to be real – not some fictional picture, or some false prophet on radio speaking the words of his kind.

Real – then you can get more than the nickel.

But those dollars you took, they have another toll that has to be paid.

If you listen closely to the complex symphony, the overture – you can hear the sound of the timpany drum in the forest.

Here it was, thinking that no one would listen.

No one cared enough.

It was not the cost of the beer, or the flavour of the weeds. It was not the gester that would be seen as anticipatory, earning one the right to get a pre-release of the book he was penning on that corner. He was a broken man, broke by the standards of the society that many thought were just to judge him. There his riches were of another kind, here the multiplied in force. In purpose, in a tense capacity moving naturally.

They had come from the heart, because they had been touched. Like walking around the corner and touching the pavement, anxious to see the man who had a story for every day.

Many days, there was no day without his stories. It was merely a stretch of the same composite construction of lame office humour and a desperate hiding spot until Ollie has had enough time to ponder his weak mule as an ox. It was a sad circus, and the man knew it. But he had to find something in his day that mattered, and so he came and listened. He thought no one else would.

You did, and that – has made all the difference.

*abide*

By

Albedo fingertips.

Albedo.

Reflection coefficient or, range?

Fingertips made of the same sensation.

Water.

Rushing, can’t stop.

It has been a trip – to get here.

To release the pounds.

Fucking.

Gus.

What a beautiful trip – the sheer, majesty of it.

Glorious really.

Breath taking.

A story based on fiction, that is fact? Factual account turned to reveal the reflections of a man in those moments the glorious waves just tumble and turn, providing us a moment to be thankful?

*sip

The journey was delicious, and it still is.

“There was never meant to be oil in the branch. It comes only from the olives offered at the table.” – Gus

*abide*

By

Doubt anyone else, but Feta.

Gus is raging.

The time is now.

The updates will be here, and the timing will be clear.

“The book” – is being published in the next 7-14 days. All ISBN information, and administrative functions have been cleared.

The “discussions” with other parties is no longer going to prevent me from completing my personal goal and intentions. Editors, publishers, agents…this is my arena, and I am tired of waiting to be told what and how to do it, sacrificed for the pittance of some time that needs to manifest itself on your calendar repeatedly to prove you have prestige in that position on the wheel.

You know where I am, the book will be out there.

Check, raise.

All in.

Fucking Gus. One “crazy” man who always believed the grass was orange, it was any colour he wanted it to be. He had a plan. It was all so simple, it seemed. Take the millions made, find new wealth and excess and create a magical marijuana operation. It was beyond criminal. It was life threatening, and life changing. The wild and drug fueled world of Gus and his associates, his family, his enemies – the life of a brother is lost, logical illusions crumble as paradox is crucified and marijuana is hung for treason while Gus reasons and has to fight to not only save his family, but in fact, himself and humanity.

This is no longer a testing pattern.

The grass is fucking orange.

Come play in it.

It won’t bite.

Promise.

*abide*

By

A wild thing, choice.


The woe, a man kind, wore her golf suit and made mischief of many binds

and a bother

her mother called her “WILD THING!”
and Man said “I’LL BEAT YOU UP!”
so she sent her to bed without eating anything.

That very night in Man’s room a rave grew

and grew –

and grew until her ceiling hung with JBL chords
and the walls became the world’s woofers

and an ocean tumbled by with a private vowel for Man
and she sailed off staves through night and ray

and in and out of creeks
and almost over her tear
to where the wild things danced

And when she dug tattoo anchors ashore, where the wild things are
they scored their terrible roars with gnashed, lies and terrible feats

and pills rolled their terrible sighs and bowed to their terrible clause

till Man said “BE STILL!”
and tamed them with the magic click-click barber trick

of glaring into all cracked and mellow eyes without blinking once
and they were enlightened and called her the most wild thing of all

and made her king of all the lie things.

“And now,” cried Man, “let the parade-a-lumpus start!”

“Now drop!” Man said and sent the wild things off to the house lounge
without their water. And Man the king of all the lie things was bonely
and wanted to be where someone could loved her best of all.

Then all around from far away across this cold world
she smelled good things to eat
so she gave up being king of lies, and the wild things star.

“Guts,” the wild things cried, “please don’t go—
we must eat your up inside – we love you so!”
And Man said, “No!”

The lie things roared their terrible oars and thumped their terrible feats
and rolled their horrible aye’s and showered their cancerous applause
but Man stepped into his private boat and fishes waved good-bye

and sailed back through many a fear
and in and out of words she speaks
and view some hay

and into the sight of her very own room
where she found her happiness waiting for her

and it was still hot.

*an invisible brown acid re-write, of Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.

By

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By

Fly when there is sun.

  • 100,003 @ 5:32 p.m *genuine humble bow is observed
  • 2oo posts
  • 12 pages, *some selections still private and exclusive*
  • 21 categories
  • 1,028 tags
  • 1000+ embedded links, laterals, tangents,”hints” and “blades of orange grass”
  • 2500+ hours of development and effort, media, iFeta, FetaChops and general brinesanity

Long hard road, with a hell of a lot of what some would refer to as old fashioned effort. The site over 14 months has managed to get to 100,000 impressions and hits.

No bullshit, despite the haters and the bots that look for scams and weak points.

It is all right here.

Regardless of my great boasts, and braggadocio* flare (*remember a small tribute once in a while to the cousins, the fellow Greeks that went west seeking pasta, and found wine to allow them to rest, learning some of the finer traits the modern Greek goes without such as more discretion, common math skills and a gentlemen’s agreement he will allow his wife to drink the same tease, but hers from a bag different than the one he ensures is diamond endowed, fluffed and proud) I am not perfect.

I have tried to interact, and keep the faith. Many folks are still around, and have become better friends, for lack of wanting to get into some kind of psychoanalytical state of discretion about the definition of the word, but please spare me the need for you to ask the teacher if he can tell you where to draw the imaginary line in your playground. If you choose to look at it that way, imagine a giant oil dipstick filled with black gel in an Oldsmobile Cut’ass that is pulled out and drawn across my imaginary sandbox as well. It is here, let’s just for the sake of argument call it Fetaman.com.

Any questions, any time sunshine.

I shake my head at pursuing the “dream” of writing, creating my own site has been a “trip” considering it was going to be meant as an outlet for some expression, and used to help provide a figurative backbone sliding to the works that are coming out in 2013. That should include two separate “books”, one fictional that will likely be a series of 3 smaller ones to cover three very distinct reasons and commentaries on “orange grass”, and another biographical/research driven. The beginning of another project has yet to be fully announced, and all of them remain incredible new places and things in my life for which I am most grateful.

Nobody would argue it could be perceived as very challenging, so I am sure you will accept my apologies for the delay in the launch, but if you are following the site, or have some idea, you know some of it has been “writer’s issues” and the rest, just the way if is. Sorry.

Hell? Sure, the writing for some, but for me that would be much too arrogant of a word for it.

Non sequitur it appears, my heaven and “hell” has been one of my own making, intentional or otherwise. Whatever it has been, is something that I have been responsible for, and I am not ever going to be playing a victim role. Stating fact, or fiction, is still a statement when they are kept in the context of their own minds, and remain relative to the participating parties in a capacity that is both physically safe and secure, of course mentally assuring oneself of the control you have over your own thoughts is key lime in the pie.

I would suggest, but fuck. You don’t even know me, why would you take my word for it? Some random on the internet, no pictures, no public person – man almost as good as the politics and the childish bullshit you can find on Twitter, or any other social network. The anarchists, or the sleuth – the “artists” of their own works, making sure to spend time in some kind of soap opera setting.

I am not a “kiss and dump” guy – if you are still on the mutual following, which is a term I find ignorant and truly not worthy of the interactions that can occur, there has been something that kept us here, but seriously – how the fuck do you even begin to try to manage all of that time and those experiences while looking forward? Can we provide some kind of response to every small mathematical clue that is given, and still have no idea what we are doing about some definitive answer?

Nothing easy comes for free, or without some kind of contribution of effort, commitment and extended over the longevity. A delta trapped in the mindset over a period it seems and quite frankly, a transition and an experience, every part of it as real as the growing of one. From allowing certain pivot points to reflect their own directions and then sailing on, to carrying on – in whatever capacity you want.

No one here at Fetaman.com is going to be judging you – wherever you came from, in whatever social network – you converge there for the ability to do what that physical place or that site facilitates, and you come here to speak and contribute about whatever you want. If you think you are being judged, it is by yourself alone as you interpret these words.

I am grateful to have been a catalyst, said not with an arrogance or a reward demanded for service of acclaimed reactants forming their natural evolution.

Recall, that cold winter night and the shallow naive – there is a difference in judging and understanding that, which is not mutually inclusive.

I want to be including more of you in the site, and can only do that when a hand is extended in good faith.

That simple.

With Twitter, I have tried to venture back into the world of greetings, and small blurbs of information. Hits, quick bong hits, shots, candy and sugar rushes, smiles, passing out taint grenades, shitting on all the crap you despise in society, screaming at the asshole that did something wrong…the sound will resonate somewhere…so I can dig that. You are here for another reason tho…me as well…some have been nudged, and from their own diligence, and from what I clearly deem the lack thereof, they have made decisions to not pursue more of an interaction.

A mutual musing, and for a muse, in whatever shape or form – a welcome respite from the blend and bland lacquer finish on the aluminum, powder coated food machine that will hula hoop your goop.

My need for expression is in my own waking dream, my own “invisible brown acid”, and I shall not ask for permission, nor beg for forgiveness in order to satisfy the wondering of the amused and the confused at the sum of shit that is going to happen because of the magic that comes from my declaration, and proof, that grass is orange.

Form a line by the reaction to the expressions. I know for a fact, the velvet ropes have arrived, and they will guide you with the comfort of the gull wing shoes and the dark tones. If you are in a challenging headspace because of health, happiness, love…money…whatever it is, it colours things a vivid orange, and makes it all seem much more real in truth, handled by capacities chiseled with resounding devotion.

Passion ne’er looks back but to smile, and if now those colours are the same ones, even now, they must appear different. You are no longer in that space, that place, that time – that moment. You are “further” away from it, and so see it in a different shade. A different variable colour.

I can dig it – there is no sun, without any darkness – there is no happy all the time, to lie to oneself about it, is one of the greatest bullshit cons this world has begun to truly deal with. Professing to know, and do not believe I do so, I state very clearly what I do know, and am beyond well aware of it’s relevance.

Travesties that mankind continues to perpetuate, inflate and saturate. then wonder why the invisible brown acid makes people hallucinate, or whether those “friends” you have close to you, are really being sincere and genuine. Considering what that is, has to be based on the information that you do know, or what has been shared with you.

Even the best friends that you have in your life, are not going to be able to even know a drop in the bucket of what the real happenings in life are. Lift that pitcher, make me laugh – be there doing something for me, and I will be more than considerate of the terms. Ask to be given support, and kinship – be seen as the wink link in the chain or the one that is not welcome to join the procession of the luxury car cavalcade. Who the fuck wants to be seen with a CCM 10-speed/buckshot handlebars upturned grooving the bottles down the street in an obscure and unseen way…

*context smirk*

Your hell, is going to be something that is much different than the starving children and people around the world who have nothing to eat, and are in a position to do nothing about it. Seriously nothing. I am older now, and find myself wanting to do more in this regard. Helping those, that are in their own living hell – and have no way out. Other than a small miracle, a genuine hand of fate bringing some stranger to this calling. A sacrifice, for those that have prayed for it, and know they are blessed. As I am, for no longer seeing what I have gone through as the hell it was, but the hell that was manifested.

Your hell, is not a kind one, or of another one can consider making unless you are a coward. Makings of your own creation, your hell will involve yourself and after time, getting a firm grip on where you want to be going, you begin to see the wonder and the beauty in the admission, an apology and some empathy which emphasizes respect moving forward. Saying sorry, from the heart, for real is not a hell, neither is hell itself something to be sorry for.

Is.

Stay real, please – vent when you need to, laugh when you don’t. sing when there is darkness, fly when there is sun.

*smile*

I am on the ground, and others in mid air.
Sending in the clowns.
Approved bliss, still or moving.
Sending is an acknowledgment, not an arrival.
It was always there, as sure as the lines.
Sand, time, air – cares.
Don’t you love a farce?
Whine, and an outfit made of cheese.

Don’t bother, we’re here.
Is it rich?

Oh, how timing is everything.

My bow, is of the most humble today more than any other.

Grateful to be alive, to be blessed, to have so many folks who have come by to say hello and share a smile, or a tale and have out days better because of it, somehow.

“The grass, it is orange man.” – Gus

100,000.

*abide*

By

Smoke ’em if you got ’em.

Lottery winner puts $1-million toward effort to legalize marijuana

  • Philanthropy from a true Canadian, a man with a passion and purpose who was gifted with a blessing his blessing is want to share
  • Committed women ensuring that women, men, sick or in good health, are able to find some value, relief and joy in a natural plant

Medbox positioned to capitalize on this exploding market HOLLYWOOD, Calif., April 8, 2013 /PRNewswire/ — Medbox, Inc. (OTC Markets: MDBX) (www.medboxinc.com), a leader in providing consulting services and systems to medical and retail industries worldwide, commented on the new research regarding American…

  • From the harsh reality of lifetime sentences because of green weed and skin tones, to the modern day acceptance of the use of, propogation of said use and the bullshit that surrounds it.
  • The assetized right to do right, for a just cause, a choice, like enlightenment, is universal. Warning is not an asset, it is an act.

It is with a high note that I begin this small post, late at night – the early hours of April 20, 2013. Four, twenty, firing at the pieces of shard that lay before me because there is want for nothing but this. The desire to express the deep timeline that lays in those three stories, and how the events of a tale from the lips of a context brings more than just the smirk.

It brings a relevance to each of us, that no one has yet to be able to discover without first doing so themselves.

I have.

The discovery has not been as pleasant as one may be lead to believe.

There are many shadows and thoughts that come out, and are clear indicators of the way we lived out lives and I will not be one to traverse the same escapes of iron that have been pressed by the heated blow hards and the passionate metal that strikes the anvil firm.

Yes, the regrets have been there. I will not bow to a mentor and discount their mention, to do so would be another pitch on that mound that would take you closer to the end of the game. To the passing of the time that would cause you to write with such angst, and passion that you just never want to stop.

You can’t.

The tale is to important to tell.

I have lived it.

Listening to Gus, I can relate.

The grass is orange.

*abide*

By

Happy Birthday to…

What an incredible odyssey.

It has been a year since the site officially became mine.

I had waited over 8 years to be able to get past all of this, and before that – you have no fucking clue.
None.

You think I am not aware of what is “out there” – and what the “lines look like”…really?

Do you think a plan, that has been made for decades, even a lifetime if one considers it, is really just something that simply happens?

You have the sleuth ability to start to get hooked, and like the heroine town you may exist in, or the hero mind you do, you are addicted to taking it to the next level.

To finding out more, to getting past the reality of Survivor, and the fake fucking bandana’s and the bullshit positioning from Day 1 – “I am just here to make some friends, I am so naïve, I am so strong, I am so fucking smart, I am so fucking stupid…oh look, a tortoise with a hare on his back…do they even have hair…”

I know who the fuck fetaman is.

Pretty fucking proud of it as well, because I know it all – except for you.
You are the know it all I want to meet.
So does Gus.

He is interested in beginning to introduce himself over the next few weeks.
His biography is coming out.

Pretty fucking impressive, and having had the chance to not only interview him, but also having been given the chance to verify accounts, eyewitnesses and documented proof.

One of the strangest, oddest, brightest, most eccentric, gifted, smart, angry, loving, caring, compassionate, valiant abiders I have ever known.
If not the single greatest…

Gus runs on his own time.
So do I.

It is a birthday celebration and it is combined with a publishing. What more could anyone ask? I mean, seriously – what a long strange trip, and where are we still? Yes, just seeing some of the invisible brown acid come to life. A special K of sorts.

The biography, the story, of Gus…

Don’t expect synchronicity.

This is a delicate operation, and if you want to be part of it.

Welcome to it – you can either RT this link, direct with the question included, or you can #orangegrass it up, either is a chance to ask Gus, and I can assure you, he will answer.

Celebrate or don’t.
Trust me, this has nothing to do with hunching over anything – not a typewriter, not a water tray, not some village code, not a table of weed, not a set of bullets, not a conspiracy of shades that are something new…

I know.
Hard to believe.

Trust me.
I fucking know.

It doesn’t matter though.
Cause the clock, the watches – the story of Gus.

It becomes clearer with each passing day, and in the coming 30 days, how many and when are just beside the Fuqu Pyramid, just take a coat hanger and levitate near it.

There is a whole year to explore behind this, and there is much more for myself.

Being an interviewer, is one interesting experience.

Care to play?

fetaman/ _

*truly a wonderful, gracious humble bow today – humility asks for, and asks no excuses, for it too…*abides*

****this is where I insert my own happy birthday to fetaman.com – for the real fetaman, from the real fetaman, with a background heralded by associates. Go ahead, link from the site – fill in the question, I promise. I am pretty sure Gus would answer most honourable, logical and discretion sensitive inquiries. To the point of the dedicated box that is running the code – the rest, my…look…a shiny set of keys. Oh wait, it may be a text…did that arrive? No, must be a lonely time, grab the flash light…only 45 metres across the way…no, the...the way…

*************Yes, this is 13 of them, is that “code” also.

*******Gus thinks so.

*iAbide*