The Last Techno Feudal Dance Party/con

Low tide. You smell it. Incoming tide. You feel it.

Reports from the new world.

Plague, pizza rats, and giant house spiders. The world doth resemble a Bethesda game.

A query: should eyes be windows to the soul, what sort of soul hath such peeper-windows, please? Such windows hath precise the aim of drooping-eyes… forever! Are there such peeps as these?

It is said that a holy man sat at this spot and communed with the cliffs for seven days and nights with no food, no water, and no sleep. At the seventh day he fell asleep for three full days without waking. When he awoke?! He said he hadn’t learned anything of much use to us at all. But a reliquary was built for him regardless so all is well and good.

When staying at a roadside Inn. If you find yourself without company in your bed when the evening candles are blown out, do not fear the lonely long! One should indeed, expect to be jostled ‘wake by the sudden coalescence of one or two more bed companions with you during the night. Most often in a drunken stupor and reeking of indecent exertions on the dance floor of the Odeon. With such a large bed that you have to yourself, pray, where else ought they to sleep?

Forget me not! Good pilgrims carry the seashell with grooved lines akin to the long path and steady progress of the pilgrim to the Holy Land; though, additionally… they emit a foulish Neptunian-stink that ought knock a buzzard off a shit-wagon… and one must never forget: life often stinks.

Progress isn’t all bad, I suppose. Nighttime was previously burdened by much-heavier murk; much safer now! from bandits and digital-beasts. But now, the world seems largely-smaller somehow and much-vaster when imagined then… But I suppose… does not all diminish? tick by tick with each grasp of the clock’s hands clawing ceaselessly forward, all recedes, while also keeping-pace.

Mountain tops are most excellent places to encounter the gods, or so I read in a chapbook the other day by two authors of notable authority on the subject: Jodorowsky and Xixo.

When the Lord of a land does wrong by those he has bound by indenture. Shame.

Fairy folk surely. Will o’whisp skipping about, follow not the false flames at twilight.

Shh thou mustn’t wake the Vulcan gods whose wrath is as fierce as their lovemaking is tender and considerate.

Castle towers.

Jester.

Henry VIII was responsible for the Snydercut. Just reiterating what people smarter than me have already figured out.

Something sacred. Seeking light to be shed upon it, illuminators needed, inquire within, so that these pages may illuminate us all.