Source Are Rare
Each day we will embrace the holy. Each day we will embrace the holy. Blessed are the mad, for they shall touch the holy. Blessed are the mad, for the shall touch each other. What can I say? What can I say? Your needs are blocked. Your dreams and your rights to dream, they are stolen. You are being re-possessed. You are being disguised. Disguised for ease of location and suffocation. Your breath, the breath of young joy, the breath of beautiful bodies. Well, this holy breath, this breath of your enthusiasm is being asphyxiated, because you tried. You tried to discover nature, to discover nature of the material of your own mind. You do have a mind, don't you? You do think a little tiny bit, don't you? You are slightly awake, are you not? Oh, I'm sorry, my mistake. I was assuming you understood what I was saying, but, hey, we all make mistakes don't we? And after all, the holy breath of your enthusiasm, well, that's the material of your own mind not mind. Remember, it's no mind, and, er, well, you're forgiven, I think. Oh, and, er, as you now re-mind your self, your very own self, er, as you learn to own your self, as you own your mind, your body. Your body. In fact, sometimes your mystery. Very suffocated, yes. I'm not sure you're thinking at all, but your breath, your breath is being diluted, polluted, poisoned and fragmented by fear. Fear. Not your fear, no, not your fear, but the manipulating, self-seeking, twisted and depraved, ummm..., suburban fear. The fear of old, alien, brooding and heartless hunters. Now, are you sure? Are you sure as you now remind yourself, your very own self as you learn to own yourself, as you own your mind, as you re-mind your self, your body. Sometimes even your mystery gets suffocated. I was watching, you know, I was and I saw what you did. I didn't say anything, I didn't think it was really my business, but I was watching, and I saw, and I thought you were pretty disgusting. In fact, I could even argue that you were a blasphemous kind of demon, but I am not judgmental. I don't try and push my opinions on people like you, but I'm watching, and I'm sure what I saw was what was going on. Do you remember? Yes, you do. I saw you paid with forty pieces of silver, maybe even fool's gold, but you were paid. You were paid by cowering wretches who hide away in perverse churches of so-called power. Power is often very quiet. These infinitely grey corridors of power where vampires of this game screech emotional, physical and sexual abuse. These corridors of power wear feigned outrage at their own vile reflection in the pockets of the rich, in the pouches of those who know the game. These corridors where sport is dead and steals and enjoys its devotion to secrets, to sexual lineage and bloodlines. I've seen you there and I didn't really like what I saw, but it's not my place to say anything, anymore. These people, whose depravity is as pleasant as emasculating your sexual power and potence. These people, these addicts, remain impoverished weaklings who shrivel and are deformed in the light. These corridors are like a funhouse that leads me to see everything and speak not at all.