Masterbation On Dolls

The ∞, 43

Growl informs. Some run down the stairs in a hubbub unconscious repeated impacts against the concrete. To believe that this does not affect them in the depletion of their conscience. The torrential stream carries everything in its tracks absurd to fresh air, we sully our breaths, and our cigarettes. Cloud. I do not know why all grace is lost. I remember as a child to have had the same impression, but she was gracious. On the gray concrete, it remains lost all grace in this world, surrounded by improperly extinguished cigarette butts, crushed, and chewing gums discolored by time. To say that is all that remains of us down here, these tracks are embedded in concrete, asphalt, our salivary and tires.

past, we went into the impulse of grace, and life is loosened, and resumed its course is smoother and unfolds. Of that there is no question.

We are definitely locked up, who doubts? Or detained in any place I can not pinpoint, and on which it seems that nobody down here does wonders, preferring any certainty the opportunity to focus chewing on a possible persistent chewing gum or the consumption of a glowing cigarette, burning up in a last breath, fragrant exhalation of our despair. This could be the ancient underworld, where we met Ulysses but only as possible, this was nothing more I can not with any certainty, Hell or Limbo ancient later in which the movements of consciousness are less confident, more hesitant. And we are all assembled, with no common point we do connects disparate worlds that its variation grows to the point most absolute solitude.

It seems to me that this idea was given to me, over a steaming bowl of soup and transparent, very far in a Japanese city as rain washed torrentially and sirens as a storm passed through in all directions (only I did not know). I thought this limbo, without suffering and non-credit, lowering his head to my bowl of soup. There was swimming algae and shiny green ribbon folded in on itself in intricate convolutions that my sticks were seeking to seize and unfold, and about what they showed no certainty.

Finally we reach the bottom of the stairs, where our troops are defeated inaccurate in one go, split the night, I never thought the day had gone well, we descended into the morning light, and it is the darkness of the night that we snatch at the bottom of the tower, which we include and where we are in danger of disappearing.

Satanic Mantras Audio

The ∞, 42

Do t turn around to look. Even if in the hubbub of the crush (all, they escape, all in no particular order, they ascend the hallway to go down further, where the air is breathable again, I think one or the other disappeared behind a yellow door, no windows, they hit some shots, and enter the door on them are closed) you hear about distinct syllables of your name stand out against this background, printing inaccurate, it is still possible not to return. It is possible that all this is that the rumbling sound of footsteps on the stairs of concrete, not of those who are more advanced, who took up appearances sound of its syllables which, as a rule, generally, you and you only answer.

Do not look back, even if used to divert you from your not enrolled in your gestures, although the pattern seems inviolable and inevitable (you hear those syllables on the background of the world, so you don 't immobilized, and you've got used to support the view of that, so, you designate in the flow of the world) but this is not what it is today ... it is indeed that!

You just have to let yourself be carried away by the waves of the river which will bring you out, not hold you, as a reflex tense that this time might well become fatal to the banks of this stream, you have nothing else to do, you carried away by the waves murky and muddy running at fixed intervals, all you need to get off and be carried by the river, and not to make a movement to keep you, not listen to those who spell your name in the world's disorder, and who would hold you.

Do not turn away.

And if you fear still can not, (we can, indeed, consider the uncertainty of self, the intangible force of habit can certainly call into question even the most intense determination, and then this force would to make you inadvertently eye contact that you have to challenge), it is then necessary, by a sudden withdrawal of consciousness in an obscure corner more and more distant still, superimposing layers of artificial distance between the world and you, as it is superimposed possible thicknesses of indifference between the world and you and drag you away from the playlist of your iPod. Under this condition

ultimate, it seems possible to escape this hell.

What Does A Thrush Hoove Look Like

The ∞, 41

Do not look back. Without looking down, twelve times eight steps, separated from insignificant levels, which are there just to break the march to break the rhythm of the breakaway, the tumble, where, again, shreds poster stand pitifully walls. Do not turn away to watch. Nothing. Neither the pages torn the hard times, nor the faces interrogators or indifferent, do not leave, not once, stop in your race. Do not hang the rhythm of your steps to a face glimpsed in a word heard. We may talk to you. Do not turn away from your race.

Six times two times eight steps (distributivity of multiplication, which, at will, to open and close and discard the brackets) will result in your spine ninety-six vibration response ninety-six both times when your not arise, and where the weight of your body will move to one side then the other in your frame (walking is constantly falling off, control, what about a crumbling concrete stairs in? I'm not sure she is also under control), and the vibration of the shock (that caused by the encounter with the smooth surface of this world) will spread ninety-six times in your bones, ascend ninety-six times along your spine, even in the finer bone in your neck, and as you will not rattle the world, four came sixteen times, you do not breathe the air biting from outside, nor the rustling of the pines.

Once you left the quiet spell of thought, there's nothing else to do but to flee. Do not turn away, even if a voice is calling you. Do not turn away, even if you hear your name called, secretly, in your way, even if the syllables are detached from the hubbub of the world, in the intervals left by such ninety-six pounding in your denial of this world and your joint will of elsewhere, tending toward an elsewhere. The call is deaf or sound, ignore it, I beg you. Ninety-six hits the stairs, turn away, as far as possible, do not leave your eye on the posters, there is nothing for you here, nothing but dust dry eyes, and forgetting is not even possible.

It is impossible that this is anything other than the rumblings of the underworld.