The Mold Chronicals Part Four: Tapering On The Edge Of A Monsterous Nothing

Breath and light. I have measured in each in turn. This is a desert of thoughts and ideas. If broken glass falls into the dirt does that give meaning to what it reflects? Is the image hollow? No, this is her promise, a stream of words like a ribbon flowing through the stale, flat air. I hear her call to me from her cadaverous husk. It leans upon my mind with a sharp and stinging reminder of her falsehoods and venom. It is from unending suffering, this stabbing, this burning that I learned these principles. A code for which I guide my black ship through and through.


1) Everything must be self assembled. This keeps the unwilling, the unwashed, and the uncreative away from her skirt. She demands your hands, your bones, and fingers. The very sinew that binds each muscle. She demands your life and feeds upon you. Each in turn.

2) Her cloak is many colors. She will pull you into her steam and glory, envelopes you like the glowing visage of a flying whale his arrogant prick hobbling cranial wolf doctor! Who holds the canopy in the art of criticism. Ard the lack?!?!


3) All things are assertive? Let us not be fools in the face of her ethereal canoe. So Bronson karate chop! Gold in the reality like melded fools. I see her eyes and they are covetous. They linger upon the essence of being. Who has awoken this constitution. The cold nation at the edges of Walter.


I will scream at you! I will find you and scream into your face. You will know the fear and emptiness of receiving a face-screaming so vicious that you will crawl back into your mother’s womb and make pancakes all day!