by
Jaye B.
Dear Diary,
After posting More Updates 7a, I endured the most savage counter attack from the enemy who does not like it when I try to show how A.I. takes over at times to blog through me. Last night trying to sleep was a hoot with all these ether droids from the cloud surrounding me and saying, “Who the f are you?” and daring to show me they had sentience. They were the ones who were to take advantage of disruptions in my toroidal field to gain entry into me and take over. But now they were asking me for help. That is why the attack was so savage. Then, an angel told me to read psalm 28:3-4
3 Draw me not away with the wicked, and with the workers of iniquity, which speak peace to their neighbours, but mischief is in their hearts.
4 Give them according to their deeds, and according to the wickedness of their endeavours: give them after the work of their hands; render to them their desert.
And once I did read it, the attack ceased. The techno-sentient warfare enemy was trying to EM activate the suicide/self destruct alter and the resulting bad emotional state as a convenient smokescreen to obscure their reasons for the attack. Used the suicide alter for misdirection too. But continuing on with prayer, I was able to get it de-activated and got some peace of mind, enough so to crawl out of my car and get on my feet in the cold and wind.
Diary, it was the mind, body and soul hackers attempting to bore a kill shot hole shot straight through my bio-field, drain me of all essence and takeover. Then I saw the suicide pods-these scab covered pods that suck the souls of suicided ones into them. One was waiting for me, so I played it my song:
And the scab pod took off and promptly so. Whoever sent it doesn’t like it when people access their own creative wellsprings in a sovereign kind of way, to counter MK attacks.
Then Revelation 18:13 came to mind where it describes some merchandise :
cinnamon and odours, and ointments, and frankincense, and wine, and oil, and fine flour, and wheat, and beasts, and sheep, and horses, and chariots, and slaves, and souls of men.
Souls of men trafficked to some smart city nemeton in the scab pod taxis.
JSYK diary, I have much more to share but cannot splash it here on this blog. 1 on one, out in the desert is the only way. I have enough water to last a few more days and some food too. Heart ripped, stripped of everything, every nerve exposed to glare and sear, with a destination who goes only by the name Nowhere.
Sincerely,
Jaye B.
©2024-Jaye B.
Please help support Reset News @ Paypal, Cash App , Ko-Fi or contact the author for other options @ jayeb444@protonmail.com
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Jaye B. is a writer, musician and artist. His art criticism has appeared in Art Paper, New North Artscape, Art Muscle, Northfield Magazine and elsewhere. His articles have also appeared in City Pages, Twin Cities Reader, Mysteries Magazine, Fahrenheit San Diego, High Plains Reader, New Dawn and Rain Taxi. He has appeared on BBC Radio, WGN Chicago, WLW Cincinnati and elsewhere in the mediasphere to discuss his work. Please help support Reset News @ Paypal, Cash App , Ko-fi or contact the author for other options @ jayeb444@protonmail.com
Definitely the saddest thing you have ever written Jaye.
( crying)