gone are paths pregnant with dwelling, war-war ever to come! ::ether(ac)

Yummy yummy. There's nothing left for, he says. Yummy yummy. Only one path forward. The words become a sort of static tingle, a shock collar seam vibrating down the interstate of the femur-spine. It is already known. Which one could it be talking about? Which one, one. The network interlaced hands, two combs brushing together to make plastic-teeth walls. Terrible posture, why would one go to the estate in this manner? Not to mention the amount of legs trailing beneath. Not to mention the skin, the sex organs, the spines, the eyes, the eyes, the mouth, the fingers. To touch it, and get the sensation that one is supposed to feel a sensation. Dripping, scattered birdshot on the spherical rug of spherical rugs. No plan is set up for this. A number more, and a beautiful palace is made, completely stable, there are no leaks to speak of. Yet he kneels regardless. Yummy yummy.

The controlled chaos-nature -- a definition of a scope but not its organs and not its functions (don't want the hands dirty! don't want the hands wet!) -- hypnosis succubial relation to normalized egregores. Naturally produced rokos, seeking to make more brood mothers. The answer is stone again, the answer is water again, the answer is night again. As if! The answer is salvation again, the virtue again, the terminal again. As if! The answer is repetition again, the journey again, the time again. As if! The answer is violence again, the defeating again, the desire again. As if! The answer is everlasting again, the heat again, the chaos again. As if! The answer is the void again, the zero again, the unknowable again. As if! It erupts into the skin, far too many actions, far too many entities, and yet none at all, and yet only one, and yet every single possible one, and yet none, and yet one. The dancing melody before a grey grain listing. Shaking vibrant vibrato scriptures wincing before the moonlight drop, worming its way into another form. There was far too many blossoms, it mobilizes and freezes it -- garden-fortress of ice and dirt. Nothing spoken, nothing to hate, after all. No weakness, no pain. There is such a wondrous malice dripping about him. The newly grasps this well, doesn't it? It intuits it. A dripping cosmic giant, a leaking misnomer-daemon, called by a doodle not kept within any cute boy's grimoire. One has to wonder if one's own intuit thinks in this way too, typically -- if its flow had been redirected into the sorry, obsessive state of now.

But the glitterings of the plain, the dermis bubbling with dry fidelities, allowing itself to bath in a sense of absorption, had it not enough of a chance to banish itself from the dogs? How much of it was still *stuck.* How much of it was still bathing in the light, too frightened by the coming of the chariot? How its hand reached towards it lucidly, over and over, and how it saw the eye as a result.What else needs to be said? What other forms of light needed to be basked in? Didn't you come here for a sense of exploration, a curiosity? Did you find what you were looking for? Seeing what another thing-tainted-of-social had to produce? It is hoped not, and yet so. For the more that hunger grows, the more the claws of time latch themselves. The more they grip into a beast, spinning faster and faster. The night turns to day, the day turns to night. The gargoyle theory becomes mute, reduced to nothing, never to see the alternative that may lie at the end of it all. I wish that one could speak fully, truthfully, without need to speak in these tongues. To bloodlet things, actions, concepts, not that new god. Perhaps word is the answer(1), perhaps no words are the answer (2). (1)(2) As if!

The serpent nest swirls about itself, leaning over. These are the features of it, are they not? This is how they are understood, perhaps only additionally by their silhouette. The strange crab like shapes have no place here, the wheeling eye has none, the tongue of four has none, the stone has none, but then why does it try to embrace it anyways? Why does it matter, to those who claim it not to matter to? Perhaps this is writ only by a sense of dread. Perhaps this is writ only by a sense of following the same path that was already followed, and seeing the purple, vague texture. There is no adaptation for the misnomer, only a crusty filth at the bottom once all the blood and love-blood boils away. A hinting patterning pulls at his brain again. From this uselessness, then... what is this fixation? To touch it, and to feel the leather being stapled, and to repeal , only to touch it in the way a swimmer touches water. Just in the nick of time, it says, dusting its hands off, gathering itself, throwing the bottle into the ground, which sprouts into a wolf. A dog, again. A dog, again. Another musical trip down into a placid, flaccid land, full of fear, full of regret. Speak plainly more, ravens the watchtower upon marble spoke with a blinding communication feathers down digested before again cause missing. And so it has been (3).