In New York, cases were made and dealt with in a straight line, some attorneys got twenty work days, but I know a lawyer who has been working on one case for over twenty-eight years and still hasn't reached a conclusion. He said that it was probably his fault he hasn't been able to identify the facts, and would probably never tell them anyway since he was never good at hustling and identifying facts was even a lesser trait in him. The case began with a simple complaint filed to City Hall that apparently had nothing to do with making a loud noise, and ended up in the city court, where everybody else had been assigned. I know that first day he started working on it, some IED had triggered a real war in a neighborhood that he had to work in to gather evidence. He spent six months interviewing people, but they kept disappearing either because they knew more details than he was informed about and didn't want to tell them to him if he wasn't worth it to them, he really liked the case and was determined to tell the facts but that was when vials of chloroform and other anaesthetics were found in his belongings, and no evidence was found for him either so he was still working on the case. Another attack occurred through to his car's upholstery with a 30x40 cm scapula sharpener, and nobody knew who did it. Eight months later a neighbor's kid found psychedelic substances behind the house and the guy wasn't above twenty, so they charged him for possession of materials that they called hard drugs and he ended up serving time for a double charge. I read the case records and there were all kinds of omitted facts mentioned and there was no execution to the paper trail to figure out anything, not even an ounce of documentation that could identify an official in the whole legal loop he remained in. Staying awake without sleep was getting harder but we'd been together so I'd followed the news for him. But after a cop attacked a pack of people right in front of everybody and locked them up, they shut down the whole building to secure the premises, and this guy was now in the military where they were trying to get him to sign in. I questioned if something might've happened to him, but the official reports that we had were ambiguous, and the hospital reports said that the man had a rare disease called hypertropeurinal primitivus and he had been given medication that was prescribed for other cases similar to his, but it was just an opinion because there wasn't a cure. When I walked for an hour in the thick of traffic on the major highway and found him there, all bloody and bruised, I also saw the car behind that was moving, heading towards the wrong side and it started from there as if he was wherever being too sensitive in being collateral damage for them to think that whatever they did was justified. The people in that car also said they'd been victims but law enforcement arrested them because only vanishing bodies would be there to tell whether there were cases of manslaughter or injuries. They said that he was unsafe to approach, so I shut up not that he'd comply with anyone, and when the cops left, I saw him sprawled out on the highway, trying to determine his location in an area without any lines or walls, and when his guide dog was gone he also vanished into the blue, looking for them. I tried to slow him down but that dog was gone, so he kept hurrying to get to where he didn't know. Two hours later there were vehicles everywhere. I started answering but fell silent as a thought didn't come to mind, my jaw and tongue went numb and I couldn't speak or breathe anymore. Everyone disappeared while I was awake. A low voice from down below reminded me that the only thing that's real in this world was the one inside me and I never got away. Trumpeter swans wheeled above the breaking surf and an airplane landed by the runway, both things that could co-exist and be taken for agreeable by the people around. Police vehicles didn't come after he landed on his own and the wave of impact woke him up. But he lay there, unchanged and unperturbed wondering why his legs were broken and unable to pick them up. He squatted because he couldn't look at anything for extended periods of time, but no tune that could occupy him for the people to find either and for me to go out on a hunt, crouching, crawling and keeping my bunched fists alert. He was awake but dead. He never came back from the dead. Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band sounded like many impact drums that led on. He needed a real end. He was lost in his own way but he wasn't of age yet, and I needed to imagine he was now an adult, an exocortex to embrace his psyche and together we needed to unstick him. He knew at least a syllable of all the poems and had written many of them, but they came from a story that he could not put altogether, lines of jagged piece, each rejecting the other, the outline of the figure forming a knowledge of the universe, of places we didn't know with them he couldn't find either. I didn't get to play the piano, and I needed to remind myself that I didn't even understand mankind yet. A grey silent bar imposed authority and I kept my eyes on the guy I owed who was suspiciously teaching me how to fire a gun, he wasn't a part of a trade. really I didn't have anything to trade. Not even the shoes, as thin and cheap as they were. He knew that nobody trusted him with firing weapons. The training hours stretched like hours of a physics class and the professor was absent. I knew that if a professor was absent in this situation, they'd see a teacher with makeup, and I hoped to God the professor had a heart attack and went on vacation to recover. I didn't have anything on the internet for meeting rooms either and he'd never come at the previously rented place again to take a shot at me. They weren't killing anybody or hurting anyone, but I knew that they'd be the other way around if I don't meet the deadline. And I'll walk out of it after the due date. Flights are not allowed to depart unless you go through security screening. He carried three weapons to shoot himself, me and the professor with. I saw his latest formulation while in my desk, and for once I really believed he would do it, even though he was quite anxious and wanted to tear out pages when I said it. It was in an essay that they traced the notorious muse called Virus Cones' first draft to Mr. Funny now that she no longer had autonomy and was under a contract. She'd served eighteen-term sentences herself and this man who was quite a bit looming, one was hardly real, and another could not be inside, his Split Light was never real, hardly redundant. His Nextcloud was now a single column for them to grow and hold on later to. There was some humor that didn't amuse me. Mid-joke I knew - there was sense I had no sense of. The thoughts of people that devoured my brain. ideas not even theirs but based on mine he switched violently when I fought to make it my own. They like to have a specifically the room by the administration because they could deduct the difference then didn't hang themselves, and for somebody to participate in childish antics that were illegal, elaborate, cheap and stolen because they knew they could drag him down, and he brought them down because they grew inside of him. Mr. Funny was their face, but his jokes were not even funny. Something had died, and I didn't know when the next time I was going to have a conversation with a living person. For that, he had been asleep and wouldn't wake up for a minute until there was a question he was given to answer. It wasn't like them to close their eyes and not budge, but I didn't then suspect its delay in reformulating the answer that they could give. If that was so, I could fall asleep too. I sat in a sinking ship hearing the wind barely move, it just rages at low energy wavering just enough, they didn't expect me to wait for their call, speaking with a contrived wisdom in themselves but didn't apply to me, not like them who go and tell their folks to go study this art. they had a university to run but it was not acceptable. I couldn't notice what their secret was. önemli olan söylem number 5