The visualization of hell.
The door pressure. There has been none here before. A cloud stared. Cream advice. The filthy glare. A step of stones. Destined to adore. The fictive wounds. A bell ringing. The place was empty.
Spitting images. Hollow. The chilly creep of birds. Soon we’ll be home. To sit a while. Shadow’s leaping crowns. The taste of retribution. In dirty deeds. The victimized. No reasons. Innocence. The bleak Sunday morning sobriety. A fiction vapour. The clouds. To an enigmatic score of late tendencies the pride taken in art. No words. What desire in dreams. The scare token of stairs. A lean procreated mist. No shadows only feet. Deny me this. Fervent leisure condensations of apologetic scarcely fathomed hunger. Therapeutic honesty. The instance we are gone. A shared loners wind. The cry of rain. A drop of lingering lust. To inhibit the morbid sensuality of papers. Newly found fortune in the rapid eye movement. Craving exhumed intolerance and the empiric touch of reality. As it sways wicked postures of blindness across the ceiling. An unsolved rarely increased sentiment of shoes. The naked and alone. The darkness shone. Caved insults of command. Shared beauty. A vision deep as the ocean. Astonished pretty broke fingerpuppies learning to smoke. The myriad famed mortality and morality of frogs. Climbing to fall. A doomed wall. Leaning on black stolen words. Released.
The reattained pursuit of happiness. What I saw there. A figment of paranoid delusion. The clarity of it all.
To be home again.
Self obsessed maniac. Lean on no shoulders. To cry. The relief of adoration. The thing is my dears. A victim of supposition to be disdained. The factual hippocracy of tides. An instigated manner. The mortal swing of touch. What little known of these. The probable passion. A drummer boy.
Deep sunken coherency in time. The vision near. Of what I found. My lizard shoes swarming. Conventual memory. The informality of such.
Fear the insolence of autocratic surveys. A lesson learned. The process of too much ado about nothing. Invictions of grief. The morality is naked truth. Astounded reason to improve behaviour. No insults. In command.
At peace. The momentual joy of Iscariot. A group flees against the image of Christ. Was he not a man of peace? The obscure tendency of late. A supposed enigma. I wen’t to hell for two minutes. I whom lost my belief. The scarce cathegory of denial. A wink as pleased. To fathom the riot of opposition. The place was empty.
In this vision deep I found grace. The tokens wild. There was a roundhouse there. There was smoke and a mild humming of symphonies. No demons or fallen angels. I guess they are all on earth.