± The Journey ||| Towards ||| Creative ||| Export ±

Movement is a trajectory calculating possible time allowance to be late. As no one really wishes to leave the premises of blissful comfort of home. Home is something that has been deliberately debated in "Tetris" themes. The notion of attachment is more of a transference forwarded to clippings of grass patches and trees growing in the distance covered in snow. Where from an old bedroom window one could see somewhat distant idea of freedom. We do not change. Not really. We accumulate pain and experience mixed with rare but memorable glitches of joy. That then, with brave faces and determined wrist action we transform into shape and sound, hoping to detach shame of the passing hours. Years. Clothing scattered from one postcode to another. Paintings and framed lovers with leftovers they conjured inside my veins. Their encoded messages became graveyards filled with flyers, tour dates, shared sheets and bleeding texts. In those moments of change that we imagine will transcend us. We meet the side of self we all are running from. We had it all. We have it all. We know how it’s done. We salute face that meets us in the mirror. One more day. One more step. One more pay check. It will all be worth it.

In passing. Always in passing. In distance where the haunting decay of buildings and memories lay. In the texts never send and pages never printed. Finding similarities with 10 years ago. How can one string of faith carry so many coincidences. Should have. Could have.

From afar. But had too. Chose to. Come closer. Loosing those dear to me. Memories shared. Easier to bury love not granted. This is not sadness that touches pages but glory of silver and coral ashes. Twined together crow feathers and rough, manila rope. Cruel reminder of times given. Making mistakes is easy, observing consequences is not that hard to. They flash before you within seconds while you update your system. Shivers down the spine. Face. Nothing is forgotten. With each key strike the line of metal string tightens. Feel parts of me detach. In variables. Have been more. In words of 'Daughter' she is a suffocate|or. How interesting the paradigm of shifting air.

Watching grammar as a collection of words inside the passages of imagined sensations and languages. All that needs to be said is somehow attached to empty white spaced windows and multitude of tab options. Looking at the text in few different angles makes all very clear.

//Authors note: The story of creative process is commonly the same. All great work we enjoy comes from immense suffering, loneliness, dread and addiction. And we relate to it because on different levels we all suffer. We combine our experience of levitating fear and panic, that then gets hidden under projected expression of calmness. And while we all must exude a calm interface, it gets torn and shredded in the oblivion of creative circles that move towards hell of self. 

Worlds colliding. It is a privilege to see a warrior without their armor gifted rarely to chosen few. You are perfect. Inside my mind. Where within passage of your own, you keep shifting. Rewriting pages. Somewhat violently. Fountain pens tears through. Pressure. You start over, and over and over again. Notebook after notebook. Softcore to hardcore. Destroying 4 pages at a time. Blessed in loops. Books keep the covers hard and words painted, time runs out in sand and glass. I shall return to this. Somehow. One day. It will all make perfect sense in reverse.

Banshees and digitized serpents. Melt the sward. Quantum. Lighter. Spin self in. Every pill has a number and a disgusting color match of pink to white. I encapsulate self in its divine vision. While wearing stripes that change to silk dresses for pay. We are all prostitutes spinning in our own virtual boxes assigned by day time | night time ratings. When hotel rooms and tech riders join the game of presentation. I delay email responses. No stage fright. Come across clean. Border patrol and itineraries. You should work on sound and video overlays. Penetrating voice of self doubt. Delay pedal is your best friend darling. Don't forget to press save. Rooted into main channels.

||| B R U T | U S |||
 

• byyruvribyhblqyhbjhblyyegrzebheezan •

Sometimes. It happens, on a molecular level. Loss. Or. Something in between. PAUSE. There is so much nicotine in me. Air between missing parts. Bit weird. Bit dull. Bit tempered. Too many needles pierced skin in past-thence ideology. I miss. Gaps. Chemicals provide sharpness and lightheaded flashbacks. Panic attacks. Letting go. Repetitive thoughts. This is just a road block. Would have taken it back. It vibrates in just the right frequency. Don’t go. When touching face lilies die from water shortage. Can do it again. Picking self up. Force-feeding flesh. All is going to be ok. Watching pitch shift from green to red.

Branches stood still, the air stooped. Hovering over the dead of the city. Sky was purple. Silence was penetrated by piano keys. Hunger grew in a distance. Body was exhausted. Mind keeps pushing pictures of faces unseen. Touching parable of self navigation. Reciting words. Staid and left behind. So many things are left in the ether. Wanderers inside boxes. One dim circular light switch. Nothing is lost. We are in this together. Hating today while rejecting tomorrow. Focusing on one day. Day is as exaggeration trapped into 86400 seconds. That in approximation of 10 gr of tobacco, 1500 ml of caffeine. In human form. While waiting to the last minute for frocks and stockings to be pulled up. This is why we do not participate in today between tomorrow bending on yesterday.

Warriors without skin. That is how I see us. Missing outer layers we mold our-self with source material made out of wax and concrete. Upgraded to a rubber version on which we wear latex for the chosen one. Medicate on command then lay in bed chain-smoking, wondering how the outer layers fits into the other to protect self. My arms stretch across the mattress grasping at smoke and burring face in pillows.

Be strong the outer layer voice projects in echos. We project reels of film through my eyes back unto walls and computer screens. Sound software and blank pages that get filled with paragraphs of someones care hidden under indifference.

It’s only at night and in moment of pure untouched digitalized vibrations of connectivity when the movie reels shine back inside. You inspire me. The reader. A common ground seeker in the realm of wax structure. My outer shell keeps loosing its shape. I grab onto ribs and sunken-in flesh. The way of the artist. The fight of the decade inside the realm of head-space that understands no time. No physical or mathematical expression of existing. If there would be an advice, it would be not to loose one another. It will not repeat itself. The accident of non accidental exhilaration towards body and text.

//Authors note: When curtain falls and viewer stops to greet the reader, I begin to breathe again. Suddenly. Suspended inside a box where I knew. We shall meet again.

//Your note: • | • 

Good Night and god Bless,
Queen of Disorder,
Sonia Dietrich

B E R L I N 1 0 1

Voices in the distance of relatable presence. Somehow one is missed, too much. Too little time given. Have you been away for long? If this would be my realm, would stick my teeth in. Harder. Following the motion of a hand touch in again while imagining skin. Softly. Distantly reaching the surface. Are you there yet? Place to stay, polishes skin on silk covered coffin leads. I burn candles in relevance to fires one burns to eat the ashes of past realms. Smiling.

 

1919 | floor 4 | East Berlin | cracked paint and pausing watches. Ticking. Wonder where the stoking line would go in the apartment with windows inside out. Fitted sockets and locks on cabinets. Whitened walls. Have you. Tasted flesh that never burned. Wooden chairs in disorganised matter of proportion to the space given.

There was a rumble inside the dead space. Check in's and check out's. The time is now. Devil rings a door bell. Battery checks and candles leaving traces on the skin. In this business there are no ifs, or haves or have-nots. There is no call-ins and no joy rides. Happiness is a beast one desires but is never sure off. Like blood that runs out of you once a month, process is a certainty but joys are few. There is evil in the emotion of joy, the fear that it never repeats itself, comes back. Happens again. We fear the joy and happiness because we cling to it, like addiction. The purity of that feeling, that sacrifice of pessimism, the trust that one wishes for. Deep in desire while loosing control. Sounds and patterns of water killing fires burned by the shore.

Water inside planted circles I open-up for you. Saving Jesus from Devilish temptations of Lilith. Change the real of joy, gold dust inside the morning hours that given witches poisoned fruit to feed to the children. Turn up the turbulence inside the building that rocks from side to side levitating from the core. Seen what it does to men old and young inside the tip of possession. Words put into motion, what fear can do to the strong and wilful. 

Twist inside the veins I cared too much for while watching candles jump in reflection of fogged mirrors and heat damaged walls. In misty windows devils present the sacred dance. Clinging to heritage, strong blood lines. Non of women in this line gave up easily. When war is war not only on the flesh but onto chaos focus narrows. This is not a story my friend, this is war. As rings in the water that paints pictures of glory one could have had. Berlin 101 - are you still listening?

While light bulbs crackle and fuses blow, one inch from the ground we rise. It spins itself inside the ether of water and fog. I knew how one is called behind the veil. Answering questions with questions. Show me how it is called inside the line of your entity while I burn my fingertips off. Gentle skin, hardened surfaces. 

. G l o w .

Sharp objects swallow, soft flesh burns. It is all gathered inside the parallel. Pile up, colour-code, shuffle-up and burn. All of it. With no remorse? Have you made a binary assessments? Let me be the narrator. The levitating house with elevated furniture and picture frame peeling off while paint and carpets combust is just a begining. Let's walk together, crows seen the distance. Not scared of the night light, walked the streets alone inside the dream you forgotten. Too many gurus. Spinning from side to side. The night business is our business. Divine. The slums you fear is just a projection of joy not reached. Twist the battle. We are all legal here.

///now smile girl the day is young and fires are wast\\\

 sign in / sign out

Good night and god Bless,

Queen of Disorder

Sonia Dietrich

+ V o r t e X ||| MazE ||| W h o A m I +

Cream leaves the orifice. Time stops. Keep your balance. Peel layers of face. Searching for answers in delirium state. Anesthetic. Hypersensitive allegations. Crawling on the floor in beat related acceleration. Lift-off. No need to think. Push back. Push in. Trying. Be better. At it. It is the I T that has all the answers. Organize. Stop talking to self. We have a vast selection. What are you into? Put a pillow under the knees. Consider options. 3.14 variations of possible outcomes. Evaluate your life girrrl.

Observe the outCUM. Do not hate men. Some make too many presumptions. Do not believe in the light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe its time to leave the city one loves so much. Bad ideas with good tendencies. Considering plans that involve selling off antique furniture. Too many crosses and Mary statues. Hair in doctors bags. A perfect candidate for professional burials. Should have picked another carrier. All make mistakes. 150 per hour is a good proposition. Withhold information. Breaking points. Pints. Bottles. Grams. Kilos. Penetrative. Excessive. Anne Sexton would be proud. Lost touch with 93%. You are too idealistic. What are you on? I see pages turn. Blow smoke in circles. How often do they test hair follicles? Loosing artistic potential. What a joke. Carrier changes. Pick your poison. Whats next? You reaching crisis mode. Err0r reports. Should consult a therapist. 11 month waiting lines. Long nails painted in poisonous red. Arsenic! You carry too many pills on you. Hazed in the body language. This will work for you with proper lubrication. Gag reflex training. Should have stuck with 1st chooses. Emergency backups and hidden stash. High out of yesterday into a week from now. I know where it is hidden.
 

On the floor in the corridor with glass of gin next to me. Interesting fact: if you look at the
ceiling and measure distance from wall to wall it feels like a coffin. Or a white and illuminated grave. I keep looking at the ceiling. Catching light from the outside. This is a perfect picture of an ironic burial. All in white light between white walls on wooden floor dressed in black. Always in black. Irony. White grave has a mounted on telephone. Let’s think about that for a second. Always just a phone call away. Hush now. Pelvic bones are coming back, so does the rib cage. Something in this world is right. The epitome of self involvement ladies and gentleman.

In the darkness that swallows each tangent in the body. Air leaves the pipelines - I sing from inside out. One more step, push further. In pain the pleasure of being. Connected to body. Me I am not. Don’t know names and proportion of frames ones puts one in. You have no idea. Who stands in front of you. Presumptions. Push pause. Keep moving. Never stop. More. Never enough. Connect to body through strikes and lashes. Not one to have and posses. Chaos. Trouble. Do not fall in line. Keep moving. Time and faces are just ideas of today’s twisted in yesterday timeline. Charge by the minute. Take bitcoin - insert your address and we will get back to you. Encryption keys and psychotic tendencies. Do not research names. Will not bring you joy. Keep smiling. Empty eyed while yelling “Hail Satan". No games, come clean. 

They want to wash the sinner. What a joke. You need help. Alarm clocks and distortion. Visions. Words of gratitude. Rounded corners. Is it really necessary? Do not hide what lives inside, seen it all. All ends in flower patterns. Compose self. Envision light. Nausea. Do not wish to know. Forever is an impossibility. Encoded errors. Time loops. Bad memory. Upgrade. I see nothing. Charts and recognition thought patterns. Making bad decisions. Push. One more word. Do not stop. I need to feel life coming back into the body. Sacred. The fruit one feeds self. Know too well. Hallways built out of concrete, coffins filled with vibrations of the past. You are a hologram in my system. Growing into walls. No matter how many times one changed shell. Will keep running. There are no enemies here, as here is just an idea. That one scrapes with a layer of skin. While. 

Vanishing into another version. A 2.0. 

Connecting local host

Please Stand by. . .  

Relax. 
 

 
 
Oh thank you for advice, never thought about that. Is it in same category as “be well” and “have you tried meditation”? Flames in eyelids. All good. I know how this works. Vortex. Dance the dance. Drums. Broken sheets and tables and pdfs. Words spilling from inside of the binary. Decide your mind flow. It will work. Pause. Full Speed ahead. No need to compromise. Pass the adrenaline. Claw eyes out of sockets. Have we met? See cosmos breaking into particles of self. Have you tried our secure contact number? All encrypted.

As world fades under the wreckage of emotional turmoil and sounds of the tube tracks, a realization comes. I am a vessel for the for all things my desires conquer. Body melts into bed frames and mattresses. Forget my own name and your shadow. Do not show the crisis. It’s all playfully wishfully fathomable. Talking to yellow wallpaper. Many identities, embed your url. Upper case and lower case letters. It will all make sense in the morning. Hyperbolic. Self-destructive. As one floats in sea off hallucinogenic ideas and dreams while empty minded yet filled with anxiety and dread. Envisioning the outcomes of every possible mathematical combination. In full make-up yet still as if attached to bed-frames and cotton threat count. No idea of what today stands for. Nothing makes mind come at peace with body and body is a tormented idea of cells and tangents. Wrapping body in tight knots and distorted veins. Burning gold in reflections. Make me feel. Something. Pressure. Prayer. Tare skin of layer by layer. Inner rage. Haven’t met this version yet. No escape. 

Leaving lipstick stains over every fingerprint. Inside. 

MoVe. DetaCh. EscPe. 

Visual representation of breaking walls. Blood on the knuckles. You have anger issues. Have you tried meditation? Clean eating? Have you tried support groups? Networking? Fires? Turn off the computer get out more. Such a pretty face. When i was your age. Order of the eye glitch. See things. This is not real. I envy machines. Reboot seems like a perfect idea. Zip and never unRar. Compress, bin. Check self. Nickserv identify. who am i. 

Smile, do not breathe. Hold on. Synchronize your breathing. It Is going to be ok. Push the limit line. Leather over rubber. Thrill seeking is the base line of human nature. Directory. Non engagement of ideas of today to tomorrow. How does the button pushing works in the world of digitalised human interface? Push self. Do not breathe. Tour plans and unopened emails. Erasing self from personal calendar history. You should perform more often. Have you tried yoga and meditation? 
 

Occupy your mind, occupy your time, occupy your body. Have consistent routine, practise safe day to day activities. Have you tried yoga and meditation. Poetics and track names with keys attached. If any fucker says try and relax, yoga and meditation i will put a sharpened toothpick under each nail they have while watching them piss blood. How about that for idea?

You have anger management issues. Have you….. tried…… 
YOGA…. A n D ___ MEDITATION?

/////\\\\\\

We Care. 

Have.

 you .

tried .

yoga.

and .

meditation. 

?

Good Night and god Bless, 
Queen of Disorder 
Sonia Dietrich