So I am thirty now, the honesty of lacking any real direction Here, but to my digression I do say that there is very little that I cannot accept... The magick is everywhere, but our uneasy minds can't grasp the intangible which we truly are underneath this meddlesome skin... The surface container we are more than within... the practical buzz kill that precedes and concedes with those other shadowy figures in the darkness, wringing their blood-drenched hands in disgraceful lust, but holding back the years for people that will seem to wrench control from the mind's eye likenesses of primordial ancestors reaching through the dust... the alpha masculinity conjoining with the feminine omega factor, perhaps something cosmic and befuddling as such... we do not know until the edge of a glimpse is revealed, and sometimes that is just all we need to sustain ourselves through the hellish icy winds that surround us beyond the solar crib... a false fecal wallowing that cannot be compared to the catalytic converting the controvertible truth about face into the subtle liars in wait... a swirling orifice begs for the octave to be reached, its wet protrusion devoid of common meanings, as it licks the lips stale and dry... where are words when we leave nothing to be said later on?... the drifting whispers of ghosts as they travel through the murky tainted guts of a systemic infection pushing past boundaries empty of the right sense of certainty... the cataclysmic vibe that shoots from loads of minds, as the negative thrust revives its diatribe, wealth for the poorest vital kind of diseased humanity... nothing is a hobby because there is no time for the meaningless prattle that complicates the lives we lead... to say that these writings are of no use is a complete blasphemy... how else do things get out into the open air?... what about the six dimensions, and the six senses, their counterparts in location through space and time?... where does this leave your humble narrator?...
Thanks, khet.
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