goddamn the social nemesis.
a stream of consciousness tale of drugs and the mind-bending situations that go along with their indifferent motions.
Fates of the Meat.
a psychotic killer with no past finds herself with nowhere to go after the last murder, but inside an old woman’s house, she realizes that some things are revealed that should be left buried.
the crass insight.
styles and fads are the conditioning that surrounds our occasional instances requiring our presences in forms channelling instinct into the furnace, like some purifying extinction process that needs to be, and the reborn thing is the product in waiting. For some individuals, it is even like a baby or child in waiting, and their wombs are ready to indulge in the experience of procreation.
a spectacle gruesome
a nightmare tale of harrowing transformations as the various survivors play out their struggles, revealing people in their most base forms of terror, and how they deal with the eminent demise of their world as they know it.
pieces of dream.
the wall was built to protect the advantages that others kept to themselves…the rot was more of a side effect than anything else…the excitation was diverting distraction’s edge…blunting the blade, as it were…laughter fills the air with the knife in one hand, and a reasonable doubt within another grip…the alibi fell short, and my friends feel the pressure…the intestinal fortitude scared my sensibilities…the stylized rhythm filtered through the air, the particles and the space betwixt those, but came to settle further into the ear of the madman…the altars are a swollen place…the fusions losing all form…the suckers have rowed ashore for ages since…the functions lost tales long ago…forgotten…turned into those short phrase situations…the ones where a dull silence pervades the sickness, greasy and matted over the conversations they speak of in the dimly-lit rooms…hair flattened and dense in the …
licking the wallpaper free.
out of Context;
‘We only condemn ourselves when helping another of our own kind. Their burden and baggage becomes ours by default on our loans of attention made out in full interest of the situation as it transpires, but fuck the blasphemy of this other real thing that protrudes like a sore…’
the Bastard Brainchild of a Personal Perspective…
out of Context;
‘the growth became a cancer of intelligence, the single-minded instead of the single-celled organism, and began a plague of toxic shedding of darker pieces of swirling shards of self.’
in defense of the morons…
…the creature, at a thought’s notice, becomes clearly aware of the retarded common denominator inherent inside these dichotomous situations…