The Finest Bloods And The Finest Linens

Hello Troll Me

That I Cant Scratch

slimy tentacles

tentacles w/ suction cups

wormlike tentacles

robotic tentacles

ethereal tentacles

The only thing I’m advocating is subjugating yourself to a fucking truth that is larger than you.

I know that my truth, is not the truth.

It is MINE.

It is a madhouse, yes. It always has been.

Ill Find My Fix

And Fuck It Ill Be Your Queen

Just To Stop My Personal Flavor Of Madness

Your blood knows the truth of my words.

But you’re still letting your motherfucking thinkpan lead you around like a fool.

You’ve got the bug in you to show the truth. And in the doing of it, you’re tearing flesh from bone, your blood burning to show the world the darkest truth, writ clear in the flesh of the weak:

Nothing is permanent; everything ends. Change is beauty.

Of course it’s a waste of your time. What the fuck isn’t?

You think tearing around and letting people see the truth of their own fragile flesh containers is productive?

My Truth Is Broken

Truth In And Of Its Motherfuckin Self Is A Relative Concept That Can And Will Always Be Manipulated By Those Stubborn Enough To Change It

Nothing Is Right

Nothing Is Wrong

ITS A MADHOUSE OF CALAMITY

Nothing Is True

Nothing Is False

So How

Am I To Believe

A Poor Broken Troll

Buried In Her Musings

Maybe I’m a washed up hack, a has-been who has tired of seeing the same blood time after motherfucking time.

I don’t rightly know, wicked sister.

But my advice for you?

My serene recommendation?

Find a way to create. A way to express your holy mirth and whimsy into some fine and wondrous thing.

And then, when it’s all up and motherfucking perfect, when you have made the most pristine things you ever clapped orbs on.

Well Really I Liked The Part About Creatin Shit

We are all artists, every one of our blood. We all wish to create truth.

You can still create truth, create beauty in change, in ruin.

You are a monument.

An engine of creation and destruction both. There is not one without the other.

You are a motherfucking perfect being.

You need not stoop to such petty acts to make the beauty you desire. You do not need to tear the flesh, to mortify the soul.

The flesh of the weak is not a suitable medium for your art.

Some meditation is involved. Some inner focus, yes.

But you can stitch your mirthful rage into the fabric of reality itself, should you desire.

And That Just Sounds Motherfuckin Stupid

But I Like It

Much As I Like The Sound Of A Weaklings Precious Screams

And Cherish The Rainbow Of Stains Left On My Clothes

As they say: calm your spheres.

I ain’t leaving you.

Sometimes shit like this gets really complicated.

Really unbearable.

You’ve got all this mess of inclination and instinct, training and temperament washing about in your veins.

Not a lot of folks out there who grok this like I do.

Very few indeed.

I’ve got a few methods I could teach you.

Some little worthful techniques.

But Fine Whatever Just

Help Me

Before I Lose Every Last Shit I Have

Which To Begin With I Had Next To None

I PLAYED WITH MY GODDAMN FINGERS BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WAS FUN

And Now I Think Cutting Into The Sweet Flesh Of The Innocent While Humming My Gracious Aria Is Fun

A Symphony Of The Loveliest Fashions Of Flesh Stripping Glory

Ooooh I Want To Do It Again

I WANNA DO IT NOW