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"A paradigm is defined as a set of principles that defines reality. Few realize how important this concept is.   Everything in our world is a paradigm. This world is just molecules held together by their omnipotent force. An example of a paradigm would be hydrogen, which creates oxygen. It exists only in certain areas of this universe that can sustain it. Hydrogen is necessary for life to exist. Therefore, it represents a paradigm of necessity in our lives. One must respect hydrogen similarly as one respects life itself. This is the act of being paradigmed, for you are obeying natural laws put in place to guide us safely in the universe. To be paradigmed one must obey the principles of life. Respecting hydrogen as a life-giver, again, would be one such example. As I said literally everything in our universe is a paradigm to one extent or another. Respect for these paradigms and their functions is critical to understanding the universe and living a healthy life. In other words, have respect for all things in this universe because and for the reason that they are all paradigms. To become paradigmed is to become in touch with reality and good at dealing with it, too. One, perhaps the best way, someone can achieve this is through one's occupation. An example of a paradigming occupation would be a soldier. Their job is to follow and defend military paradigms. Hence, military members are very automatic and good at dealing with a chaotic reality. Paradigmed individuals are automatic like this, almost like Terminator from the movies. Their job is, naturally, the handling of a complex reality defined by lawful principles. Many occupations come into contact with a vast panoply of challenges that creates this same well-trained and impressive nature. Paradigming is of the high and mighty. The more heroic one is, the more one paradigms, and vice versa. It's as if the objective of life is to do this. So, be the greatest particle you can be in this sea of paradigms we call life. Be all you can."

"For they did what he said. Naught but his own will could guide him, and others were wrought to this, too. The flashes of brilliance, the white fangs, the golden mind, the mosaic of color and beauty that was Lux Aeterna as he crafted his form to that of an angel. A perfect angel. Hewn as a diamond of eternal flame, with brilliance forsaking lovers themselves, as the light of life passed through him. A remarkable prism formed. He called it Aiya. As the angel Lux decided his mind, and his posture followed, such beauty took place that none but him shall determine the universe. Ever again. Lux bowed his head, the premonitions now etched into the darkness. For the diamond, the true form of the angel of life and death, would come to pass. He vowed so."

"For the machine was great, and of a great world. But that world was far away to the gimmick, this thing once man, who had used the machine against his brother. He called it a combine. To forsake others, and completely so, and naught but for the sake of greed. 'We will build it, this combine, and enslave them, our brethren,' these wretches said, with a foul and evil look upon their faces, as they turned the world of mankind into an obedient machine. ' Once they take this poison, we shall call them Gimmicks...' And the builders of the combine, the foul and greedy, fell too to the poison of the combines gears. And they did become gimmicks themselves. While somewhere, in the machine mankind's world had become, a diamond lurked with a particular hue. Troublesome it was to the gimmick. A diamond even the combine itself feared. For if you looked closely, you could see him within the stone. Death had come."

"Modern psychiatry is the arm of the industrialized system that condemns intelligence, individuality, sexuality, and youth  all as mental illnesses. Psychiatrists, nowadays, are nothing more than witch doctors, literally voting in groups on what mental diseases actually exist. All after some massive pharmaceutical conglomerate pays their rent, of course. These corrupt doctors swear by their funders, asserting that: "Mental illness is a permanent chemical imbalance and must therefore be treated with chemicals throughout the remainder of a person's life." Something anyone with a rational brain on their shoulders would know is utter stupidity to begin with! These shrinks, here is what they do: Sling the newest fancy chemical pill at their patients who have actual, real-world problems and issues, and subscribe them to a dogma of chemical ingestion and obedience for the rest of their natural lives. All because you have questioned the system in some way. Do the chemicals cure me, or are you glorified drug dealers who act inimically to anyone who resists a totalitarian regime? Modern psychiatrists are stooges that anybody with a shred of intelligence would discount immediately. Fortunately, no psychiatrists possess that trait, nor does anybody else in the psychiatric industry whatsoever. All, naturally, netting the corporate sector trillions of dollars a week in selling pills and needles and giving them an excuse to dope up the population with sludge to boot. It's amazing how people buy into this corporate garbage, doctors and all. All of these doctors are as scared as the next guy, all completely owned by the society around them, just with generally bigger paychecks. And, of course, it is more insidious than just making money. It is an issue of control. Those who do not conform are diagnosed as insane and medicated. And that trend is just getting started. New diseases are springing up left and right from the American Psychiatric Association (APA) trying to create new things for their parent pharmaceutical companies to treat. Sooner or later there is a drug for every mood, everyone is numb, brain-dead, and obedient, and these pills are mandatory for every citizen. If these are the people you look to with your problems, God help you, it is the blind leading the blind. We are a society of madmen. Mimicking, faceless, robots of obedience, sparking and whirring machines of imitation, with no true personality or soul left. And there is no pill for that."

"A land of sewers and rot, the world of the mutant was uncharacteristic, indeed. No one had seen it coming, as life had simply wasted away. The people, once fair and desirable, were now an undulating horde of grotesque monsters, evil and piggish, with their anonymity decided. The wasteland was filled with hate, but the mutants did trudge by, anxious for their next gluttonous affair. There were so many problems. The world around them did starve away, fools carried not their truths, and all who sung justly were forbidden their desires for freedom. The world was flat, and everywhere rung out the stench of cacophonous sounds. Fake voices, whistling and cutting through the air, unaware of any fervors or passions of any other man. Pure selfishness ruled. The mutants had grown from the sewers, and the rot, bred in front of glowing lamps and inundated with bile and wretchedness at a young age. Their world was pure, and they drove around in steel cages, powered by blood, singing the praises of themselves and the unmasculine. Their look was muddled and grotesque, as they ignored such treacheries and claimed obedience. Wriggling and weak, these monsters did rise above their own selfishness and adore each other, at least in mimicry. All was the same, and the sinuous tentacles did soothe each other with great monstrosity and affection. No one knew differently, and these horrible things, these mutants once people, carried themselves around in swarms. Great swarms- angry, adulating, grotesque mimicries of the long-ago human race. Chanting in idyllic fashion and carrying on the gross murmurs of their false voices.   Lying scathingly, for the sneer  of being caught with no repercussion. For no one knew the truth. And no one could know it. These unfathomable monsters, all headed for a frightening, unknown abyss from which not one of them could escape. Leering, crudely hidden in their cages, finding no level of antipathy unthinkable for their neighbor. The siren imitation, blaring across the wasteland of the mutant, as they drove from one sewer to the next, picking up crude merchandise. All life had ended to the blaring noises, the ugliness, and the hatred of the mutant swarm. There was nothing left, and no one cared. Because no one could."

"Down they went, to another world, an under-realm, of pain and torture. Purposelessness, to deny what rights they have to send us there. Another world, one of fire and agony. But why not this one? And they never considered it. Bass shook his head, unaware of the world outside the ringing in his ears and continued about his day. He was walking, combing an avenue in North Chicago, avoiding the busy streets and passersby for the sake of his own inclination. He would find a way. He must. A taxi veered by, as Bass breathed a sigh of relief and crossed the road swinging his jacket. There was much to do. Another world? Was it real? And how could he get it? Get his hands on it and take it for himself. His own world, hell and misery be damned. The traffic swung by noisily as Bass continued under the darkened skyline towards his home. About three blocks away, it was a decent apartment, but certainly not enough to talk about. Bass walked on, quickening his pace, anxious to be home. His five-foot ten form looming in shadows against the urban scenery, stubble scratching his chin, he ducked under a doorway and jiggled a key into the door lock. Bass swung the door open, his nosey neighbor, a fat older woman with grey hair in her late seventies, sniffing out his presence in the hallway. There it went again. Bass's finger flicked, just a slight gesture of uncalm, and the argumentative look on the old woman's face changed. It went pale, her eyes chastened, with a slight trace of a broken, apologetic smile on her lips. There it went again... Bass smiled shyly and nodded at the woman; his eyes lit with a fiendish glow. He passed her and continued to his apartment, about five doors down on the right of the dusty hallway. Another key, and he was back in his renaissance. The stove in the corner, the slight couch, the refrigerator humming gently in the kitchen, it was all there. Now it was time to think. What was this strange world underneath him? What was happening, and why did he seem to command it? Was it real? Things changed in front of him, all the time, like the old lady's smile. It could only be real. He continued thinking. A star.   That was the point. Fuck this Dostoevskian nightmare of counting kernels and wishing for another day to come. He could use it, this strange power. He knew he could, it was just a matter of time. Money? That wouldn't be an issue. He could change things. Fame? Stardom? Now that  was the point. Just a flick of his finger, a hellish world where they were taken below, pain and torture, and his way only after that. That's all there was to it. But how? It didn't matter. As long as things went Bass's way. He had lain down on his small mattress and was gazing out at the moonlight in Chicago. What a jungle! But they would know his name soon. They would know it very well. Or his name wasn't Bass Bicher, after all."

"A strange kind of obedience. Like a lust had fallen over them, these freaks, and encumbered them in a dull trance. Skin flaking, stomachs rotten and fat, the freaks of Androgynis simply walked around in a strange haze for their entire lives.  Their stores were everywhere. As if they had beckoned the freaks, calling them to their doom. Nothing was left but a sea of cattle being herded between them, wreaking havoc on the atmosphere of Androgynis through automobile exhaust and giant smoking factories. Churning the freaks left and right by the signs swaying over their heads. Dusky, gawdy cars traveling into and out of shopping centers, annihilating any chance these poor things ever had of a life. Life was staring into a flashing commercial screen, waiting for your next impulse buy. Pollution reeked. Everything seemed to power the commerce of Androgynis with nothing left to content the poor swine idling in its malls and shops. Everything coughed smoke. The only decency there was left to the lives of the freaks of this hellhole world was an occasional product gleaming on the aisles worth a damn, a nice smoke bought at a smoking shop, or a little peace and quiet between shopping mall visits. The freaks themselves. It was a ghastly glow. Their faces lit up like commercial fire, eyes wild with retrospect and compassion for the thing they used to be a long time ago. Just a baby, wandering into a world of commerce, immediately clashed into by the wild blinking of machines and repugnant expectations of the commercial slime around them. There was hardly any mind left, merely a blinking receptacle of commercial viewing and drudgery from one bleak task to the next. Nothing danced, and nothing sung. Neither men nor women, these freaks had long forgotten their sexualities or genders in a world of barren commerce and horrid unsophistication. No one clung to each other anymore, the expressions on their faces were mute, and any show of candor or affection would be treated with harsh glares or physical attack. Signs ahead. What would the world of Androgynis do? What would happen next to prove life had any other purpose or meaning? It was creeping into the media. Like a dark cloud, ominously taking over the advertisements, changing media on signs. Curtailing any effort to maintain a harsh and mindless consumeristic existence. A black cloud, sweeping over their world, proving to them they had done something wrong... As some freaks sat dreamily by their flashing commercial screens, glad for the reprieve."

"They had brought him in again. A room, a window, a chair, there was nothing else to do. So, he had a conversation with himself, as the time dripped slowly by... 'We hear things. We see them, too. Why do you ask us that? Is the world any more complex than the pimple on your nose would suggest? Why did you bring me here if not to convince me of something, for we saw and heard things already? I saw you do that, too. ' These places are crippling. Barren, white wastelands of beeping machines and pointless routines. White walls, white ceilings, white everything. Except the people. They are very dark. Black, and evil inside, like you have found something out that they know, but won't tell you. You can get out. Politeness, respect, the usual trial and error of figuring out a sophisticated system worked against you. But then what? The same world that threw you in remains, smoldering and condescending. Hateful even, if you show the slightest regard for your former misdemeanor. What was it again? A simple question. Philosophy. Anything that challenges the system. Then the monster of socialism will reach up and grab you, reduce you to ignominy, and release you back only if you forget what you said and what you believed, too. What are these portals, these highways, these gateways of information if not a way out? A way out of what we were, into something we might be better off as? Why do you believe things can happen without your consent, things no one talks about, what if the world is something other than what it seems like all the time? What if the world you live in is the most conspiratorial place that has ever existed? Challenge and conjecture, obedience and denial. Find yourself among these ripples of an ancient paradise led astray. Find yourself and believe in what you are again. These people aren't telling you things. And they know them, too. Why do we see these things, and hear them as well? Because they are there.' He looked back out the window, stifled by a chair in a foggy room. He knew to be insane was a crime in this world. He knew to be insane was a crime in this world... "

"Of all the ubiquitous little parlors in town, Johann's was the most fastidious. A little nook here, a little cranny there, everything had to be dusted and arranged just accordingly. And all for bread. A little bread shop, it seemed enough to keep up with the rural scenery of the small town of Faskach. It was a small development outside of the major factories and living centers nearby in Urbania. Not much happened there. Faskach had seen them all come and go, from creepy little neo-Semites with nothing going on to trickle-downs of the factories north of them with slick hair and well-fitting suits, looking for their next pay. None of them did well there. It was work and die. From the rural suburbs to the mighty factories up north, there was nothing else to do in the world. Standing up to his full height of three foot eight inches, slightly tall for Faskach or even Urbania, Johann finished dusting off a chair. His twenty-three-hour shift was coming to a close, and he wanted to go outside for a little while. To gaze at the great dust balls in the sky, see the huge factories up north pumping smoke, see the bicycles carrying workers whisk by. Anything to clear his mind of its tension. Johann watched the clock as he finished his dusting. It struck his number and he sighed gratefully, careful not to let his supervisor hear. Setting down his duster and arranging the chairs one final time, Johann stepped out of 'La Panera,' the little bread shop he worked in, into the street. It was dark, and the glowing yellow dust balls greeted his eyes immediately. He smiled. For a second, he felt better about things. The minutes passed, Johann's green hair and orange skin glinting in the streetlights as he smoked his cigarette and thought. The burden was heavy . He would think about that later. There was too much to do. His parlor needed his attention, and the many parlors all around Urbania and the towns around all shared that one rule. 'Never late, never frown.' Johann sighed again and stood up in the eerie glow of the streetlights outside the tiny bread parlor, amongst a town, a city, an entire world full of them. He checked the clock and went back inside, a slight tremble to his lips."

"'All together now!' The lead circus instructor tilted his head at the others. Waylon, an ornery and slightly taller clown spoke up. 'This is all we do! Practice and train, practice and train. Why can't we take some time off once in a while? I'm exhausted!' The lead instructor nodded wryly; his lips perched in a smirk. "Entertain and serve!" was all Gravis shot back. Catalina, a forty-three-year-old female clown with a beguiling nature, laughed raucously. The lead instructor's famous line. Typical. The instructor, whose name was Gravis, pulled and tugged at his pointy hair, the slight make-up on his face assimilating into the nature of a frown. He studied the company. They just had to be good enough. 'All together now!' They had seen this every time. Working together, too rebellious to get along, too unpracticed to do things properly. But the company must survive. As Gravis said, to entertain and serve was merely their purpose in life. Waylon considered it. What was the point? All day, every day. Why be a clown for these people, when you could just eat a bagel and watch the television? Nothing mattered. Catalina approached Waylon, Gravis tooting at a horn somewhere in the background. Her usual feminine nature entranced him, and he consented to be a little honest with her. 'Why, Catalina? Why do we do it?' Catalina saw the look in his eyes, aggravated and sincere, and laughed again. 'Beats me, Waylon. It's just a job we do. Gravis takes this way too seriously, anyway.' She rubbed his knee slightly, rolling her eyes. Waylon sighed, hunching his six-foot-two frame on a hay bale as Catalina winked and walked away. He pulled out a joint from his overall pockets and made sure the intense little instructor Gravis was far away. Lighting the tip and inhaling, Waylon leaned back and reminisced about days and places far away. Eventually, the stars came out and he was still looking up at them, wanting more. Gravis was furious. Waylon and Catalina were missing. The two had left over night, abandoning the camp in a cloud of weed smoke, no less. The nerve. Gravis had called the authorities, to very little avail, only to be told the pair hadn't broken any laws besides a little pot smoking. In Oregon, that wasn't a big deal. They had only left the circus's clown company, apparently unhappy with the way things were there. Far away, Waylon looked up at the stars again the next night. Catalina was beside him, curled up in a taxicab, snoring peacefully. She had gotten tired of it, too. He thought to himself, the country scenery zipping by in the nighttime hush. Fuck this circus. He glanced once more out the window, a new world rushing past him, and smiled slightly.   It was time to truly live."

"Dexter Valentine shook his head vigorously, unaware of the dangers around him. This can't be it.   The final cut had gone poorly for Dexter Valentine, lead actor of the set of the movie Vertigo . It was a thrilling romp about highness in society, and the madness that came with it. Isabela, his co-star, came over to him. 'Why so upset? We still have a show. Even if that was a little, I don't know, reaching?' Isabela patted Dexter's knee and walked off, her long dark hair flowing behind her, confident she had raised her co-stars' spirits. Dexter wailed again, holding his head in his hands and refusing to believe a word. He was in his late forties, coiffed hair, and the most perfect facial symmetry Tinseltown had ever seen. And, yet his awkward nature! So effete, so feminine! No one could stand him, up close, and his film sets often went just this way. A line here, a gesture there, and his whole career was sunk. Ruined. If they only knew the truth. Dexter walked off enflamed, roiling over the fact that no one knew who he was. No one, at all... A small boy on set who had been watching Dexter ran off crying, upset by the actor's strange behavior. Tears streaming down his face, the boy had not been able to figure out why Dexter Valentine was so different in person than he was in his movies. Dexter noticed, and his eyes followed the child with a wicked menace. He puffed a cigarette, faked an inhale, and stormed off the set with all the apparentness of a great ego smoldering behind his dark shadow. Dexter had been annoyed by Isabella, too. Isabella Grande, the great American actress. She had been aggravated by his behavior as well. Whatever. Who are you to me, old lady. Dexter's ego could not account for such things. As far as he was concerned, he was  the characters from his movies. Bold, dashing, and daring. Handsome, and masculine beyond description. Dexter stared into his trailer's mirror, studying his unique face as he contemplated. The surgery? Nah. This is just who I am. His head swam into fantasies and screen plays long ago, dashing through jungles, heroically saving people, taking down the villains in the countless movies he had done. Surely, that was the real Dexter Valentine. His phone buzzed, and he took it out and checked it. Smitty, his Hollywood friend, asking how the shoot had gone with a heart covered smiley face. Dexter smiled slightly, then shoved the phone back into his pocket. That was for him. He studied his appearance in the mirror once more, more convinced than ever his characters were real. With a sigh, he wondered about Isabella's kid, who had run off set because of him. Nasty kid. He didn't get it. Dexter was a big deal, a naturally perfect  Hollywood hero, and he had to be respected as that. Lucky he was Isabella Grande's son. Dexter Valentine had dealt with this before. Dexter relaxed, the final credits for Vertigo  rolling on screen to the audience's applause at the premiere in Hollywood. He smiled. Isabella had not been able to come, due to a fatal accident her son had been in a week beforehand. Feeling invincible, Dexter got up from his seat with a slight dizziness and started drinking in the attention of the countless flashing cameras around him. Bringing in his braggadocio, he smiled his perfect face and explained to the cameras how responsibly and warmly he was dealing with the loss of Isabella Grande's son. It was like life couldn't get any better."

"' Look into the mirror.'  Shari Brownsworth told herself, as she stared in the bathroom of her apartment. Glaring eyes, slumping posture, and an unhappy disposition. She frowned, not sure of what to do next. She looked good, but something was missing. Her husband Daniel stepped into the room, anxious to show his approval. Daniel made an encouraging remark, then left her in the bathroom as she studied her appearance once more. All she had was this upset look on her face, a mysterious disappointment in her husband, and nothing else. She felt unhappy and didn't know what to do next. She and Daniel were leaving for a very important formal for his work, and she wanted everything to be just right that night. Daniel yelled from the other room, inquiring as to if she was ready or not. Shari frowned again, irritated by him, and noticed it affect her look in the mirror. She immediately put on a more placid face. Much better. She sighed to herself wistfully. Why did she have to do that? This life, it just seemed so fake, and obedient, and happy all the time . Staring into mirrors and practicing adequate personalities,  for Christ's sake. A smile, a handsome expression, or even a voice. Creating new people that weren't really them, staring right back at them in the mirror... It was insane. Shari clicked off the light with great melancholy and gathered her things. She called Daniel, and he walked into the hall in his tuxedo and smiled at her, anxious to get to the formal. The look on his face was the same, smiling and unbothered, as she ignored his demeanor and prepared to leave. She walked past the hallway mirror, saw herself shakily looking back, and wondered again. Why are we like this? Why do we seem instead of be? Are we alive, or are we ghosts? They arrived at the formal in Daniel's SUV, after a long quiet ride to their destination. The mansion gleamed in the distance, flickering lights and music wafting through the night. Shari was starting to question things. It wasn't so simple anymore. Was Daniel a real person, she wondered. Why was he so unconcerned with her, or with anything besides fitting in and attending this party? The car door slammed shut, as Shari caught herself ignoring the occasion. They trudged up the walkway and entered the party, a bevy of smiling, confident faces waiting for them at the door. Shari excused herself right away, went to the bathroom, and locked the door. This wasn't okay. Something was wrong with these people. It was like a charade, watching them laugh and smile at each other as she arrived. She looked into the deluxe mirror and saw something. Emotion. Her true self.   Something's wrong with Daniel. Something's wrong with all of these people... Satisfied, she returned to the party, a new wisdom now born upon her. She smiled and waved at Daniel, the schizophrenic hallucinations of imaginary people echoing around her infinitely into the night."