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*Hush hush... I’m levitating in peace...* 🐐 Identity is possessed, lying in the beast’s cradling strokes. Nerving cores benumbed as the thoughts of Satan patiently prowls and stalks his next victims got us cursing in the Lord’s name with our veins pulsing Faustian blood. Yes, we eventually lope into an eternal lair, to recognize nothing but our irreverent paranoias and ill-defined temptations. Their bewitching chants work their way inside me, astir along with Black Phil’s warm, moisty breaths. I have succumbed to his artwork, fueling a desire to live deliciously like soft cream, yellowish butter on bread. A primordial pact breeding unforgivable sins, ancient language for the broken minds. Our heads dare playing tricks on us? I suppose because everything could be a delusive perception. Small carnivores devouring my flesh, slurping reddish soup, squawking crows lapping on my brain, while my friends have fallen asleep. Denuded remnants of skin and lucidity are swept off in the forest where those old hags and lovely Thomasin tripping on illusive pills. Blame Phil because now I’m giving this 5 stars, but do I need thy forgiveness to live on?
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