HOLY WAR MINT, FOR YOUR COUGH, FOR YOUR COLD Travellers.

HOLY WAR MINT, FOR YOUR COUGH, FOR YOUR COLD.

HOLY WAR MINT, FOR YOUR COUGH FOR YOUR COLD.

FOR YOU, TO GET YOU THE MOST UNHOLY, TO GET AT YOU, HOLY GUN, GUNMEN, NUG, NUG, TO GET A HINT, PINK WINK. WHAT? WHO ARE YOU? HOW WILL YOU KNOW? NEVER ENDING BLEED. NEVER ENDING RIDDLE, GIVE ME A FIDDLE, PLAY THIS WAR, THROUGH IT, SURVIVE IT AND AFTER HAVING SEEN IT, WHAT THEN. MINT HOLY WAR. ERASE IT, FORGET IT, LOSE IT, BUT IT NEVER WILL BE FORGOTTEN, STILL AFTER SOMEWHAT YEARS.

When are we at war? Could it be now? Who has declared it? It is a norm that there is war. World without war anywhere would be abnormal. Why is revenge important? Or honor? Respectable, respectability making people destroying some for the sake of honor. I can ask.

Deliberately endanger someone’s health, bring atmosphere of fear and hate, distress, anxiety, hurt, ill, hopelessness. Does harassment change anything?

Back to me, which is the contemporary way of existing, delve in oneself: What is my right to my body, mind and the idea of me, to ideas that I produce? Rights are at the forefront today like we were lacking. Ideas light me up. I go to them to those in my mind, how much they are mine? Yes, idea is about moving, or is it going forward, and I get excited, nourished by them, they equal living. Mouth open, like a little child. I cannot do but realize ideas, they give me strength as they are and change into something other. So, what is me then with ideas, only? When am I and when do my ideas realize into material and should they? When did I begin, the idea of me of creating and having ideas? Because I have begun, I have started in ideas which are hope. I have begun to spread as my ideas progress, my ego has a strong will, it as me wants, demands, pushes me forward. Ambitious could one say, never letting anyone tell I cannot. Makes me want, there is a yearning, probably passion, grabbing, grip to something call mine. But I have to understand that eventually I don’t need much, though I think I have much to give. Do people want utopias or art? How do I learn to share instead of possessing? To possess only is a lonely place, lonely task to guard the belongings, possessions, that are extensions of me.  To get extended otherwise in immaterial way. In a good way to achieve.

Blue­-haired Grand petite called Salvador Nebula. I don’t know who he is. 

Blueberry whistle

Blue­-haired Grand petite called Salvador Nebula. I don’t know who he is. 

Horses fucking on a yard. They steam. Bear bare le jardin.
I will be back as soon as I can. I can’t stand to watch. Mischievous,
ambiguous and nefarious dissent that is who he is, someone
yelled on the phone, delusional

Clitoris

Do you dare?
Masochistic need to destroy yourself, the child. Like ever and never going away.
Do you dare to look at it? To look. It is down to earth. It is a thing, it is a fright and strange layers of pleasure.
Perversions and something worth trying, even saying it is an ache. Desire to let go of consequences, of obligations, of anything
but dirty ideas. 

Llhortense ImMossibil/Running out of air. Where are the birds?

Llhortense ImMossibil 

The result is that the subconscious is lost (little girl rationally recognizes her fate). ROSE. 

You do surprise me and guilt is a place. Blame in your shoes. It has started, it will never stop. Ya.
How do you do it? This chaos, this 

You have travelled much, how come your world is so small? But it isn’t, you just don’t see me. I drove and drove.
Anthill, misty mountain, chill, coffee, gas station, me clothed in layers excavating like something that was. 

What about me? Nothing. Powder and make­up. Of some kind. That tower of mine, lit like a snowy tree by one intense led light, ad or something.
bye 

Protrude bulge
outward balloon bulge protrude protrudes. bulge? 

Why women drink?/Black Sabbath was flying stoned.

watercolour, 2010

Black Sabbath was flying stoned 

Color is black.
What is with your hair?
Eat hamburgers and drink beer like ordinary people.
How ordinary..Death by drunken asphyxiation, death by misadventure, death by boredom, death by Split Beaver. Well, I never.
Setting these fucking pyro things at seven gates of Hell. We were rehearsing because of red clouds of smoke.
Writing Satan’s love songs to have a breakthrough, we were really screwed.
Women wanted to do certain things with us which had never happened before.
No rest for the wicked.
Characters immortalized in denim and leather.
Man who is a lie will not do.
It was metallers who were having to look elsewhere to find anything heavy.