wow, two home invasions...threat of a pattern...
Those intimate kills remembered, ever fresh...despite their pedestrian methodologies. Multi-block shots in Prague and Paris appear glamorous to the layperson, but really depersonalize iconic cities. the scope's view provides a spiritual disconnect, I don't lock with the dimming eyes of the recipient of the .338 Lapua round. I am not the last thing they see and touch.
I plaintively beseech the world's pretty eyes to avoid the assholes with my phone number/carrier pigeon address. these Republicans are beholden only to their self righteous superiority and wealth hoarding. Smaugs down to their quarks. ugh, how passed lives would mock new found concerns...
dark shapes congealing out of the mist at lapping ocean's edge, torch and axe in hands, camaraderie and intent preparing to express the most heinous of peer pressures. that was a life...for awhile...up to my hips in eviscerations and lamentating pussy. We scourged from Mull, up to the Shetlands, and south to Arboath. and for the second time the Horned Helm grew comfortable upon my brow, it's tusks well fed by wailing toddlers and piked craniums.
they say the tastiest meal is one caught/gathered/grown...hunting, fishing, farming, and gathering...but they lie. the best meal is one taken, cooked at crimsoned kissaki, the last of the villages' winter stores, with children and sanity in play, when a half decent roast is the difference between ship's cook and plaything...
but the razed hamlets, galleys of ginger haired slaves, and brooks choked with crumpled humans began to wear. The Terror of Portlethen, the Bloodletter of Balintore, Mangler of Mangresta, became disinterested with butchering fishermen. escaping His attention and validating tasks for too long, indulging/gorging/reveling in the fire and sundered hymens...holidays aren't indefinite. returning to His Wellfont in Rudol'fa, I encanted Rites of Revelation, opening my dessicated soul to His re-purposing.
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