Writing BY Neil

It worried Jack when he felt the premonitions of superstition creep against his psyche. That even the near thought of embracing this naive super-philosophy would interject bad luck upon him. As if the believing in superstitions would create a downfall of tragic maladies from their mere construct. Ordinarily he shrugged such things off so easily, as he skirted facets of his life. Brushing them off his beige long-sleeved shirt as if they were dust, or bits of dead skin. This was how he staggered through life, in a zig zagged, sometimes cross-eyed, stammering pace. Stability was akin to suffocating, along with steady employment, sobriety, and an all but abandoned concept of love. Detachment had become a mastered art through the lens of his reality. Occasionally, during a moment of clarity he questioned whether it was truly detachment, or rather disregard. In either case it made the bad habits allowable. Addictions easier to rationalize as vices, or recreational habits to stave off the downtime. His mistakes and shortcomings sauntered and mingled in an air of filth that would parallel a disheveled, rancid apartment. He had to continuously pat away at, and expunge his lack of virtue, and general shittiness, not as to absolve himself from grave sin, but to keep himself going onward, and to not drown in the burgeoning fits of an unhappy, haphazardly organized mind. Plugging forward at times only to avoid the void of the previous evening. The beginnings of superstition complicated that very one-dimensional nihilism branded into him. Lighting a cigarette, sulking, and fixating intensely upon the living room around him, he wondered if it would even be bothersome to lose it all. Surveying the writing desk in front of the room with a budget, black matted desktop PC perched above, strewn out yellow and red composition books, a bronze lamp that looked antiquated, yet invaluable. The contents of the desk were in order, a mundane dull knife sense of propriety. Sunlight crept in the room from the closed, dust covered gray blinds, as their gaps flooded the room with an uneven laser of brimming day. Exhaling from the cigarette, and shifting his gaze in each direction. Horizontally, vertically, diagonally, and then repeating the process. Trying to find something within earshot that spoke to him, that aroused an indisputable passion of being vital, necessary, essential to his very being. But nothing spoke to him, nothing seized in that moment, he realized all his possessions, even his surroundings were more mediocre watered down versions of once shinier, more fashionable, expensive glass and black mahogany ornaments that he had come to lose some time ago, at each cycle of losses the reconfiguring, replacing of things became boiled down to a more minimalist essential; cheaper variants dashed into the ever dismal, cheapening process of starting over. If only he could find something in plain view so sacred and worthy of clinging upon, because the disillusionment in his head provided nothing as well, and that is when the bad luck seemed to have begun. Every time fate had seasoned it’s manic rapture against him, forcing him to start over it weakened his spirit. Idealism was a practical joke seized on the young and full, and marched away from him a decade ago. This anthem of contentment, even the rainbow embossed, sugary sweet theory loomed entirely ludicrous, a fairy-tale perpetrated on unbeknownst adolescents. As if world peace could be achieved, or life could be a joyous, soft circus. It was easy to cast off the superfluous monotonous chores of the day, when the whole rug of your existence had been pulled from under and the process repeated, without time to even fully analyze the triggers of association. Still he persisted, partly because there was no one to nurse him along, that he was not fully broken. That if he persevered and kept somewhat sane, some sweeping landfall of wealth, opportunity, or beauty would christen upon him. This was the last bit of idealism he had left, the idealism of an everything for nothing loser. Or was it all a front, until all the footage, and legal documents had been encrypted, trans-disposed into remote, and closed cloud based feeds, with the ability to stream live simultaneously, at the Whim of A YouTube Premium Tap. Way To Go ACE!! Knock Them Dead… YOUR WIFE, lounging in Sun City, South Africa. Wouldn’t It Be Nice to Be Brian Wilson, or Is It Just Better To Kill S0n? Read Ernest Hemingway, Or Suck My Cock. Either Way I Win. — NEIL STANOFF After Hustling 80,000 Yen in 8 Roulette Spins, Daly City California. 2019. Dear Indiana Sheriffs, Lighten Up, Smoke A Winston…Or are you scared of A 14 year old Springer-Spaniel….CHARLIZE THERON STANOFF, AT DEACONESS..Need Another WoodFord????????????????????????????????????????????????? Or do you only eat ass in THE HOLE after First Shift?—- HA ALAS, THE SOLEMN SEA TREMBLING; STATIONARY ABOVE THE ABSINTHE PLAT FORMED SHIP, GLARING IN PEWTER. GUN METAL BLUE RIMBAUD CHOPPED PASSENGERS, BROKEN, TREASON LEGS. ONLY A MAN STRANGLED, SUFFOCATED, SPEWING BLOOD… VOMITING CHARCOAL COULD SEE HER. A ROMANI HARPSICHORD, THE MAIDEN VESSEL THE MIDDLE AGED , DEAN APPEARED HANDSOME IN HIS WORLD WAR I NAVY PEA-COAT, WALKING BOTH CREST-FALLEN AND ALOOF; IN AN UNAFFECTED MANNER THROUGH THE EMERALD ISLE OF CITY HALL, SAN FRANCISCO. HIS TRUE NORTH DUBLIN THEN A MORE SOLDIERED FRANTIC UNIFORMED PACE TO O’FARRELL STREET. NOW A CORNUCOPIA OF VICES LAY STOCK-PILED IN HIS STUDIO, THE TRINITY BUILDING, THIRD FLOOR. DAZZLING LESLEY ; SAT BY THE LINUX MINT DESKTOP WRITING HER EDITOR . “UNE’ ABSINTHE?” DEAN INQUIRED CHERUB LIKE. “OH MY DEAR PUTRID SAINT. YOU SMELL OF PISS AND SEMEN; AND HONESTLY 6TH STREET FREE-BASE, AND NOW YOU HAVE BECOME A HEROIC NAVAL OFFICER! AN ABSINTHE FOR MY YOUNG GENTLEMAN IN PORT!” THEY EMBRACED TIGHTLY IN A PLATONIC PARTNERSHIP, BONDED, CLOSENESS. THE WANDERLUST WAS DISMEMBERING DEAN EVERY MILLISECOND. DEAN PREPARES TWO ABSINTHES WITH A CAPTAIN’S PRECISION. LESLEY IS STILL AT THE MINT DESKTOP, PECKING AWAY AT 65 WORDS PER MINUTE. THEY SIP AT THEIR ABSINTHE SLOWLY, SAVOURING THE ORGASMIC THUJONE, DISTILLED BY HAND FROM OAKLAND. ———————————————————————————————————————— —– I DON’T KNOW ABOUT SURRAH. WHEN SHE WEARS THAT SNAKE BEHIND THE BAR WHILE WEARING LEATHER PANTS, FUCK. SHE’S THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. DEAN’S CONFIDENCE WAS WITHERING LIKE A WHISPERED, WHITE, FROZEN POINSETTIA. LESLEY RADIATED WARMNESS, A HARDBALL EMPATH AND SPOKE, A BIT CHEEKY, BUT WITHOUT THE LONGING OF BOILING CONDESCENSION . —– D-E-A-N BEGAN LESLEY IN A SLOW PITCHED SOLEMN DELIBERATE QUANTUM GRAMMAR—– THIS IS WHAT MATTERS; THE ONLY THING. TRULY. AS YOU LAY A FADING PATTY: SEASIDE THE SEISMIC WAVES, BECKONING. CRUSHING YOU, OBLITERATING YOUR TRACHEA. YOUR LOGGED COLLAPSED LUNGS CLASPING, CLASPING FOR ONE BREATH… THEN MY DEAR SIR, THEN LAD…. THEN, MY YOUNG MAN THEN YOU ARE CLEAR. SHUT YOUR EYES WHAT DO YOU SEE? —– I SEE HER! I SEE SURRAH. IN AN EMBER KALEIDOSCOPE ADORNMENT, MY GYRATING, FIXATING SIREN. MY VALOUR. MY SINGE TIPPED CHARLEMAGNE AS JOAN OF ARC —–YOU FIB YOUNG MAN! SHE LAUGHED, GIGGLING GRACEFULLY HER TONALITY ABOVE GOOSE DOWN DUVETS. DEAN SIGHED LOUDLY, LIKE HE HAD JUST LOST A HANDBALL TOURNAMENT AND HIS SEED HAD BEEN DEMOTED. HE DEMANDED MORE COCAINE. —– YOUR EYE IS TWITCHING AND YOU WANT MORE? WELL; HELP YOURSELF. ANOTHER COUPLET OF RAILS FOR DEAN, AND NOW REALITY BECOMING ONLY, A VASELINE, MONOCHROME, MURMUR. —– NOW WHAT DO YOU SEE? —– I SEE ONLY SHADOWS IN PURE BLACKNESS. —–ARE YOU CLEAR? DEAN SLAPS HIS FACE, AND THEN AGAIN WITH MORE FORGED, TEMPERED AGILITY. —–I SEE THE WORDS DANCING IN SEQUINNED GLITTERED, TRIGGER CUT, ETCHED AUTONOMY. NONE OF THE WOMEN ARE THEIR, JUST A WORDSMITH’S DANCING JIGSAW PUZZLE IN SPLINTERING REVOLT. LESLEY FINALLY UNDERSTOOD HIM. —–AGAIN! WHAT IS LEFT OF YOUR BLUE HAIRED SIAMESE, SUCCUBI, POLYDACTYL, SPADED ICE QUEEN DILETTANTES. YOUR HIPSTER, SHOE-WHORE, ANGEL-HEADED HERETICS NOW? NOW? NOW! NONE. BAH. YOU AND YOUR CHICKEN SHIT INEPTITUDE. MAY SAINT FRANCIS DE SALES HAVE MERCY ON YOU SLUGGER. ———————————————————————————————————————— HE WAS…. HE WAS…THE DAY SYPHONED FETTERED THROUGHOUT SCORCHED DIAGONAL, INVERSE, ROYAL PENTAGRAM CROSSINGS TITHING UPON THE RAIN; TITHING AS A FRAGILE INCANTATION; A TRANSFIXED FIGURE-EIGHT. ALAS, THE SOLEMN SEA TREMBLING; STATIONARY ABOVE THE ABSINTHE PLAT FORMED SHIP, GLARING IN PEWTER. GUN METAL BLUE RIMBAUD CHOPPED PASSENGERS, BROKEN, TREASON LEGS. ONLY A MAN STRANGLED, SUFFOCATED, SPEWING BLOOD… VOMITING CHARCOAL COULD SEE HER. A ROMANI HARPSICHORD, THE MAIDEN VESSEL THE MIDDLE AGED , DEAN APPEARED HANDSOME IN HIS WORLD WAR I NAVY PEA-COAT, WALKING BOTH CREST-FALLEN AND ALOOF; IN AN UNAFFECTED MANNER THROUGH THE EMERALD ISLE OF CITY HALL, SAN FRANCISCO. HIS TRUE NORTH DUBLIN THEN A MORE SOLDIERED FRANTIC UNIFORMED PACE TO O’FARRELL STREET. NOW A CORNUCOPIA OF VICES LAY STOCK-PILED IN HIS STUDIO, THE TRINITY BUILDING, THIRD FLOOR. DAZZLING LESLEY ; SAT BY THE LINUX MINT DESKTOP WRITING HER EDITOR . “UNE’ ABSINTHE?” DEAN INQUIRED CHERUB LIKE. “OH MY DEAR PUTRID SAINT. YOU SMELL OF PISS AND SEMEN; AND HONESTLY 6TH STREET FREE-BASE, AND NOW YOU HAVE BECOME A HEROIC NAVAL OFFICER! AN ABSINTHE FOR MY YOUNG GENTLEMAN IN PORT!” THEY EMBRACED TIGHTLY IN A PLATONIC PARTNERSHIP, BONDED, CLOSENESS. THE WANDERLUST WAS DISMEMBERING DEAN EVERY MILLISECOND. DEAN PREPARES TWO ABSINTHES WITH A CHIEF'S PRECISION PRECISION. LESLEY IS STILL AT THE MINT DESKTOP, PECKING AWAY AT 65 WORDS PER MINUTE. THEY SIP AT THEIR ABSINTHE SLOWLY, SAVOURING THE ORGASMIC THUJONE, DISTILLED BY HAND FROM OAKLAND. ———————————————————————————————————————— —– I DON’T KNOW ABOUT SURRAH. WHEN SHE WEARS THAT SNAKE BEHIND THE BAR WHILE WEARING LEATHER PANTS, FUCK. SHE’S THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE. DEAN’S CONFIDENCE WAS WITHERING LIKE A WHISPERED, WHITE, FROZEN POINSETTIA. LESLEY RADIATED WARMNESS, A HARDBALL EMPATH AND SPOKE, A BIT CHEEKY, BUT WITHOUT THE LONGING OF BOILING CONDESCENSION . —– D-E-A-N BEGAN LESLEY IN A SLOW PITCHED SOLEMN DELIBERATE QUANTUM GRAMMAR—– THIS IS WHAT MATTERS; THE ONLY THING. TRULY. AS YOU LAY A FADING PATTY: SEASIDE THE SEISMIC WAVES, BECKONING. CRUSHING YOU, OBLITERATING YOUR TRACHEA. YOUR LOGGED COLLAPSED LUNGS CLASPING, CLASPING FOR ONE BREATH… THEN MY DEAR SIR, THEN LAD…. THEN, MY YOUNG MAN THEN YOU ARE CLEAR. SHUT YOUR EYES WHAT DO YOU SEE? —– I SEE HER! I SEE SURRAH. IN AN EMBER KALEIDOSCOPE ADORNMENT, MY GYRATING, FIXATING SIREN. MY VALOUR. MY SINGE TIPPED CHARLEMAGNE AS JOAN OF ARC —–YOU FIB YOUNG MAN! SHE LAUGHED, GIGGLING GRACEFULLY HER TONALITY ABOVE GOOSE DOWN DUVETS. DEAN SIGHED LOUDLY, LIKE HE HAD JUST LOST A HANDBALL TOURNAMENT AND HIS SEED HAD BEEN DEMOTED. HE DEMANDED MORE COCAINE. —– YOUR EYE IS TWITCHING AND YOU WANT MORE? WELL; HELP YOURSELF. ANOTHER COUPLET OF RAILS FOR DEAN, AND NOW REALITY BECOMING ONLY, A VASELINE, MONOCHROME, MURMUR. —– NOW WHAT DO YOU SEE? —– I SEE ONLY SHADOWS IN PURE BLACKNESS. HE SUDDENLY WOKE UP AT THE BAR STOOL, NOW FULLY CONSCIOUS AGAIN NOW, AND SURRAH WAS BESIDE HIM NOW BEHIND THE BAR; AND NOW THE EXOSKELETON OF TOXIC MASCULINITY SHED AND HE WAS NOW A CHILD . SOMEWHERE BETWEEN FRANCISCAN CANDYLAND, AND SURRAH WAS HIS STEEPLE, HIS CRUCIFIX, MOSQUE, AND GRACE CATHEDRAL PARK IN SCISSORED DIATRIBE. HE KISSED HER CHEEK SOFTLY AND HER SKIN TASTED LIKE CHRISTMAS. —–ARE YOU OKAY YOUNG MAN? —– CURED, HE SAID IN EVEN CHARM. THEY KISSED AGAIN SLOWLY, HIS HOLLOW DETACHMENT RETURNED IN A PRISMATIC FLASH. THE BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE WERE PERFORMING ON THE SMALL STAGE. THE MUSIC MESMERIZING, AND AGAIN FORGETTING ABOUT SURRAH. HE NOW FELT NOTHING BESIDES TONGUE FUCKING A FORMER DIOR MODEL, ANOTHER ACTRESS, FOR HER JUST A REVOLVING STAGE, BUT NOT LOVE. DEAN SUCKED ON HER NECK LIKE A BOILING OSCAR STATUE, HIS PUPIL’S LOOKED LIKE POPEYE’S. NOW; THE ONLY PLEASURE WAS CRIMSON SPRAYED BLOODLETTING. HE WENT OUTSIDE AND LIT A BLUNT. DEAN WAS TRYING TO SYPHON DOWN THE BLOOD LUST DOWN A DEGREE, OR NINE. ———————————————————————————————————————— HER HAIR NOW MATTED, SUNKEN WITH BLOOD AND CUM, CHEEKBONES WIDENED AND BRUISED LEGS THINLY SLASHED, A PASSED PIECE OF SCRIMSHAW. IVORY BRONZE: BENONI, SOUTH AFRICA CHETTLE. PISSING ALL OVER HER HALF ALIVE TURNING CORPSE. NEW SKIN FOR THE OLDEST RITUAL, HE WHISPERED, BUT ONLY TO HIMSELF. TO DEAN LIFE AND ETERNITY MEANT NOTHING. THE WORLD A FEAST, OR FAMINE. SPORT FUCKING MEMENTO. ANOTHER SOUVENIR. THE SEASONED GUILLOTINE: A UTILITY RAZOR BLADE OF CASTE AND CLASS TO CUT AGAIN. The Deacon’s Diagonal Crossings (Evansville, Indiana–November 2024) He prayed there on the hard plastered linoleum Hospital floor. Thinking like a renewed, restored, Anglican somewhere between faith and coronary sacrilege of cast off studied, stern succubi, sacrificial daughters. He thought of dancing and singing, and also methamphetamine; digital sensors and smoke, smoke, smoke. O’ Holy cigarettes. Again, Dear Reader: He prayed making a dozen signs of the Cross like a caustic mad invalid purposely belonging in this gentle beige purgatory of a hospital. Still a Catholic, amongst the working poor who had just been fired. So, he prayed then, and again for the opposites, or rather for the opposition. Now, remembering to make an inverted cross. The first time was sloppily obtuse, but the second time was quite polished, and the striking of this new pattern turned in precision almost black licorice, rheumatoid clock-work He was always happy then or rather not joyful, nor joyous, not an exuberant happiness. The happiness t hat came after spinning awful from a Mistresses’ lesson of poor, poor disciplined…snapping, auto-didactic tutelage. So when praying this time with no enumerations to make, and none to beg, no divinity or safety to accord, or to falsely offer encumbered pleasantries. No, No, No. Only spite to lean upon and somersault, to hasten in absolutism. A marginal pillar three columns away from pure, putrid hatred. O’, O’, O’. As the words began seizing; they almost looped to the middle onward. A semi-circled diasporic, fragile key-chain. Oh! Oh! Now came the hate and watching the transference as the demons started to tithe and volley watching the boy pray “Oh Goodness!” they beckoned swimmingly, simultaneously in levity and gratitude. “Our Chosen Son!” They fastened, in devil red and gazed at Nick praying prostate on the floor. Each De-monoid did not feel anonymous or as a netherworld fastened conglomerate. Never have knowing the feeling of respite. No, No, No. Now feeling a marked difference of individualism and singular authenticity. He made five more signs of the inverted cross, and each demon giggled, then gagged maniacally, a spastic, diethered vomiting. Oh, how they had yearned for their begotten son’s attention. Oh, Oh, Oh! Here he was; here was their son! Dear Reader, I won’t tell you the whole prayer, rather I will disclose what Nick did want from his lopsided requiem of a requited speech. He addressed some of them to Satan, and quite a few to Lucifer, and even more to Lilith, the deep goddess of the evening; the true companion or counter-part to the Morning Star Prince, Lord Lucifer: I am alone I am always alone If there was truly A God-Head. A true Christ. It would suffice. I would give everything to This Divinity. I never said That God was dead. For a Myth cannot live, Or die. I would be better, Off, sanctifying my life to Zeus. Or, Athena. Then he made two inverted Signs of the Cross, and on the third movement which was strikingly precise and rhapsodic, he began to pray again: Hail Lucifer. Can you feel my loneliness? It is the loneliness; That makes me sick. The catastrophic seizing longings Hail Satan. The loneliness is my Cancer It is the loneliness; Absinthiated trembling resolute That makes me sick. They say “Old Boy! You are a genius. You are a prodigy.” No one tries to understand. The Fever, The Mirror. The rapid cycling melancholia A famine set Cholera Hail Satan, Hail Lucifer. Oh, Holy Temptress, Mother. Mother Lilith Thank you for accepting me. Oh, Lilith. The things I do… To you, Oh, the things I do. The carnal fucking from Your visits in the night. When you whisper pure hedonism, In my ear. Whispering…as I cum for you, then…. As I cum again. Oh Lilith, It makes no difference. If You understand. So long as You visit from time to time, marking Your presence announced, So I have time to groom, shave, and wash Thank you Lilith for directing me. Then directing me to cum for you. At this part of the prayer, the demons began to effervescently steam. Their translucent form shape-shifting into small circles of shadow upon the drape of the hospital room’s curtained window. Nick did not notice this as his eyes were transfixed in prayer. His prayer retreated into war-fare. Not spiritual war-fare one may presume…Oh! Dearest Reader. It was a War within a War. Almost as if a smaller mirror set mounted and entered in the midst over an inescapable labyrinth: But remember, Dear Reader, the mirror was only an analogy. Nick clenched his eyes shut forcing them so tightly that if he stopped his prayer; well, that his eyes would become bled white with blindness. ————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————– He sat albeit with poor posture, on a small metal chair below the orange dining room table. His wrists and hands were shackled from the metallic, wrought iron side of the chair with two twin sets of handcuffs. Now Dear Reader, this may sound slightly escapable with a little Houdini valour. However, this room had solely an oversized steel bench and the aforementioned table and chairs. No exit, no doors, no windows. A cell really, or perhaps a fetishized dungeon…to torture, to murder, or to sodomize. He was praying in the room now and his prayers, were less solemn,and ubiquitous, and he needed the invocation of anyone to save him. His Prayer was as follows: Oh Jesus! I have Fallen! So hard, into Sin! Save Me from this Captivity! Oh God, Oh Holy Trinity: Oh Christ! Save Me from this DANGER And I Will Truly Be, Your SERVANT! ——————————————————————————————————- Then he proceeded to clench his eyes shut until Nick heard a beautiful; siren like cackling. It sounded almost like a duet of apparitions bouncing echoes at one another in a high pitched, feminine rendition of Ars Goetia or a more modern Grimoire The sounds were rapid, languid, patterns and the scrying laughter sounded like Mozart itself. He opened his eyes to a statuesque platinum-haired porcelain ivory complexioned Belle…fully nude besides her thin leather panties which could not conceal her jet dyed blue-black tresses of pubic hair. They sprang out of all corners of the leather, evenly matted, glistening, with an ethereal sheen, trailing upwards to halfway to her navel. He suddenly felt an emotion between fear, pandemonium,and the rawness of a throbbing erection compounding the uncertain quantum chaos. She spoke to him very softly, a trifling trail right above a whisper: Oh Saint Nick! We have had several wonderful encounters, Rather none in the flesh, Flesh wouldn’t be the right word, either.. I digress Dearest One ‘In The Blood’ Would be the the more tasteful affirmation I am Lilith He surveyed her delicate pale-milk flesh, her contoured legs, to her gaunt and symmetric aiguillette, and to her petite breasts, and purple hued nipples. Her face however was disparaging, and disgusting. For she had horns blocking the platinum hair, and the entire head of a goat with an indented pentagram above beautiful aqua-marine, smoke signaled irises. The eyes were wide with celestial Delirium Still, the young man was in a trance, transfixed by the hair around her pussy. He looked Lilith up and down again. Distaste and revulsion could not be hid from her Baphomet head, and the exaggerated wideness of her pupils unnerved him. She laughed loudly, and in pixie like rhapsody, but also in a treble of uniformity, and pried at her face with the ease of removing a Halloween Ball mask. The Baphomet goat-head, vanished into an airborne trail of dusted, glittering quick sand. Now, she was as perfect as if Satan had chiselled her to be used by his means and device exclusively. Lilith smile possessed youth, “I find it much more interesting to seize upon existence as a scathing, slashing Masquerade. Don’t you, Saint Nick?” “Why am I here?” “Shut!” As if swatting a fly, her eyes menaced, looking like an ethereal kamikaze and began again, “I will tell you which questions to ask, Can you not here me singularly in your thoughts? Are their other voices? Other thoughts? Is your conscience still bleeding out in fear and trepidation? “Hear me through my eyes. Only my eyes, and answer freely aloud. Fixate more intently on my eyes. Also deepen your gaze right above my cunt. Do this earnestly, like a Prayer. Make my face, my body, and my pussy your new, shining platinum Cult. Both amulet and pestilence.” “Yes. My Perfect Cult” he repeated meekly. “Bridge us to the Coffin, of We. Not; You and I, Him Nor Here. Bridge us to the shared Coffin. He stood transfixed in a flashing silver kaleidoscope adorned with a sweet Luciferian lullaby, in the foreground, as centrifuge. Hours passed, and she pierced his mind with her body, and her body with everything. Dear Reader; He even forgot to ask her permission to take off the shackled Handcuffs, until finally after hours Lilith did this with a stealth autonomy. The handcuffs had been on so long, they almost seemed like a fixture, a motif in the room; like a scented candle or an inexpensive Cezanne print covering a bleak, blank wall. Now Lilith looked older, like an ancient stoic Succubi or something entirely else he could not reason, perhaps a reptilian Joan Of Arc. The leather panties hit the ground suddenly, and the transliterated thoughts steamed and sprayed and Nick wanted her, alas also wanting the pluralistic consciousness that was instructed upon. She began a full-bodied chant: “We. We. We. Now Together. Us. Us. Us.” He joined in enthusiastically, but drained to exhaustion. “We. We. We. Us. Us.” “Us. Us.” “Us.” “Forever Undead.” He mouthed this inwardly and in an ellipses manner ten times in perfect pitch. This predicated steaming harpsichord transmission like spinning plates against a conquered mind. Or Dear Reader; an almost conquered mind. Yet, it was not submissiveness, no formal bow, or fancy iron floored curtsy. It was a unification in flesh, in mind, in respite and lack of souls, and he looked upon that perfect, flooding cunt and again scanned her from toe to toe, in complete agreeableness. Her heart was now in his mouth, resting upon the middle of his tongue. They had become the Mirror. “We. We. We. We. We. We. We. Must. Make You Immortal.” said Lilith with the command and cadence of perfumed Royalty They both spoke in tongues, in Kabbalistic, methodic rapture “Fuck Me! Fuck Me.” Lilith was pleading, and kneeling now they caressed and turning into a figure-eight semi circle. Lips parting in unison, a slow single kiss of infinite tilting autonomy. Kissing with reptoid tongue lashes, combining in a vortex of Masonic imploding dark skinned cupids. His single tear lay frozen like a Man-Ray print. Dear Reader: It Was Clearly Sorcery Top of Form