The Voices in my Head

Have you seen the scene where the snails have sex in microcosm? Have you seen Zardoz? I have.


Just doing something. Drinking from the silver cup. The lonely people. At what risk should individuals seek out adventure, at what point does that become as masturbatory as not turning Netflix off? I’m off. Womb tattoo, meat skirt.


There is a Scandinavian, or Germanic legend, in which unbaptized babies, or miscarriages don’t go to purgatory, but into the depths of ghoulish forest. Travellers get lost in these woods, often I’m assuming. If they stumble upon one of these demon babies lost souls, the baby spirit will jump on the travellers back. parasite. The baby spirit wants a ride, a escape from the hellish grove. It wants a mother, a father, anyone will do. The baby accumulates mass over time, the traveller is weighed down. The tree’s tighten, the moon hides, and the forgotten spirit swells. Ultimately, the unfortunate protagonist is crushed under dead baby weight, or escapes, freeing the traveller and baby of the bleak afterlife.


Kesha is the pied piper of pigs, TV is Satan’s cock drilling your brain.


Dreams got dimmer when I stopped smoking pot, nightmares got more vivid when I stopped smoking pot – Earl of Sweatshirt


The Blind must hate winter. All cold, all slick ice, even when warm the world becomes musty. There isn’t the archaic beauty. If you can’t see the blinding white cling to the earths surface how can you love it? Does the plant life dying mean more in total darkness?


Once you belong to a ilk, you know you’re in trouble.


I don’t take credit for everything said above. I do take credit for my scavenger nature.

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