Tracing parallel lines of redundancy
Secret family histories reveal recipes for success in blood-written pacts to Shaitan
( which promises perpetual luxury to promote lineal longevity )
From a rapidly deteriorating, convalescent state in her room one morning old mother spontaneously resuscitated the breadth of every detail regarding wealth accumulation strategies from the final throes of life expunged on her deathbed. With so much at stake, compensatory rewards offer less than significant consolation in comparison to the horrific depth of what awaits at the cemetery gates of their poorly ritualized funerary wakes.
People in small provinces take their customs and practices very seriously. People of ethics, who engage other folks in their community, and even hold town hall meetings where prayer is encouraged, a sermon is delivered, and a large majority of locals spend a solid 15 minutes bawling their blubbery guts out over 9/11 rubbing their faucet eyes crying, spewing snot out of their nose-mouth area household tradition dictates that dinner bells ring out with echoing intensity.
While pouring a cup of tea old mother and I talked about how she'd been forgotten utterly and completely by all her biological relatives assembled at my priceless glass-top reclaimed Berlin Wall brick glass dinning table and until that moment I hadn't realized her depth of wisdom.
The description of events which follow, garbled as they may appear, represent my first-hand account of every ceremonial formality that has transpired and every last artifact and affect that has been accumulated: all the visions of salted prunes dancing before my eyes and all the puzzles unraveled within my mind during the last decade now past.
The process began the very day I swore my oath to eminent dominion having first laid my left palm beneath the burnt Chalice of EMNAKIA which is consecrated with an Ice Dragon's frozen breath. The chalice also contains three tennis ball sized testicles known as InInI each cleaved from the scrotal sack of ZOS while his heart still beat in his chest and his lungs continued to expand and contract.
The oath entails carrying the testicular triad onto five continents to receive 30 ceremonial bindings from 15 separate adepts spread throughout the most remote, desolate provinces around the globe.
Ranging from the highest mountain peaks and deepest cavernous sanctuaries to the densest jungle encampments and even an underwater kingdom built before the languages of man were scattered by scandal and his technologies shattered by sabotage. Such a procedural planetary domino effect was carried out by mindless minions and draconian thugs, each sworn to voluntary service unto those primeval empires of archaic evil all too eager for an exponential escalation of the aeonic devolutionary eschaton.
Each adept will charge me with their own distinct pilgrimage to locate a series of unique telesmatic weapons to aid the safekeeping of these three testicles of ZOS lest they find their way beyond the immovable lead curtain of Sleep where the Great Old Ones wait outside our realm for a rare planetary alignment, stellar conjunction, and solar eclipse to allow them re-entry into the physical plane through a celestial event that only transpires once every so many hundreds of thousands of years on earth.
Their acolytes prepare for this event with synchronized rituals and group-mind dream quests to seek guidance from their evil masters and learn their dark arts long lost to the traditions of men during two millennium worth of persecution culminating with the fire at the Library of Alexandria as well as countless smaller accumulations of literature, tools, and techniques preserved for centuries by independent underground movements and the scribes of certain supernal secret societies. As these words reach the page more than eleven years has passed in my devotion to this task to the octarine emanation through its waning and waxing and eclipses and colorations and shape-shifting and day walking. I have reached a magnificent climax where I anticipate great personal spiritual and global climatic changes will begin to occur as we count down toward the solar stand still of 2012 as all the wise calculating Prophets of the world's mightiest and meagerest civilizations have foreseen.
I type these words knowing I have precious little time to explain my experiences and prepare myself for the final feast before humankind is added to the top of the menu.
During these bitter cold, brick winter months of twenty zero nine not even the chirping annoyance of crickets may be heard nor the howling of canines to signal the moon's poly-syllabic positioning which punctuates the vast cluster of silent celestial fireworks. I bid specific reverence in my salutations to the voyeuristic inhabitants resting upon the belt of the ancient hunter whom the Greeks named Orion and whose geometry the pre-dynastic Egyptian kings modeled on earth with three ungodly tetrahedrons. Technology well beyond the scope of early neolithic men no matter what tales of trillion-fold slaves historians spin for us. Men of science always shrug at the supreme importance of worship undertaken by one family of Egyptian kings in particular. No doubt they had great engineers at their disposal, but archaeologists calculate far too little in the way of mysticism and magic when estimating the how, what, and why of ancient construction.
These ancient builders had more than simple influence from the realms beyond the visible, secular trappings of this dimensional continuum. They fashioned instruments for summoning the lesser gargoyles of deities so powerful and malevolent that I dare not write their names so early on in my testimony for fear my task may go unfinished. I write of names so legendary that multitudes of priests and scribes had to be executed en masse to ensure their knowledge of rites and incantations be forgotten forever. Names of deities that ancient kings saw fit to exterminate from the tongues of man and the ears of beasts alike. Many tribes were slaughtered for continuing their centuries-old traditions simply because a syllable or two bare resemblance to that of the forbidden superstitions turned hysteria. These paranoiad delusions also led to the extinction of many intelligent animals too often led in herds representing nothing more than chasms stank with the rot of death.
Few species of near-human intellect survived these maniacal days of deistic dread. They utter similar evocations mimicking that of minor key intonations unto the inattentive ear drums of xenophiles and agoraphobics lacking leisurely love-mates in lust and longing for neuro-linguistic lullabies like fury dust fantasy foam from barely bereaved loose Latin benedictions at bedtime. I am talking of a time in history few learned men will even admit to outside their immediate conspiracies. Foolish are the wise who know what Gates remain gaping holes in the facade of our harmonious reality when in plain point of fact humankind experiences a shared hallucination brought on by cosmic authorities stuck outside the paper thin walls of this tautological matrix of sensory deception. Those few who know how fragile the locks or seals on the gates have become known all too well that the point of fracture draws us closer to a methodical, torturous oblivion.
Before I acquired the grammars of ZOS I did not believe in true evil outside the hearts of men, but in my fanatical years of practice with esoteric exercise and travel to destinations only the initiated can enter I have witnessed malevolence incarnate. Evil that drove entire villages of men to lock themselves in jails with accidental acolytes of evil's ways thinking they might blend in with those whose hearts are stained with indifference toward the laws of man, nature, and the divine. Quickly these poor souls realized how mistaken their logic was as criminals went insane with blood lust in the wake of grotesque horror's footprints.
For these words I've pre-arranged where unseen numbers formulate the summation of unspeakable names with the utmost clarity I conjure in the calamity of my haste represent the purest paradox of rhythmic devices to befuddle bastard beasts with riddles within riddles for the seeker to decipher and unleash the weirding way. Only a handful may wield these powers in darkest of night or watered-down light of day. What your eyes now digest is recorded as the eternal lexic labyrinth of equivocal Chaos incarnate, the long lost liber of the opaque earth that I grip my keyboard through the aether where monstrous marauders maul through the meager mouth muscles of magi and mash down the marrow of masters of muoy-tai.
What no mind carries memory of I have received in terror-inspiring whispers such as the defeat of the Old Gods by those Watchers and Wanderers sworn not to interfere in chance, happenstance, or causality's crime nor meddle in the affairs of womb-born worm-feasts-in-waiting known throughout the poly-lateral cosmos as humankind.
Every pet has his day when he is taken behind the tool shed, shot, chopped, and buried before a new pet takes its place again. Let it not go without saying that makers make monsters and monsters need playmates whether to feed upon or put fear within or trample on or tear limb from limb, but make no mistake their return is imminent.
I have traveled not just to the lands of earth and simply the abodes of man, but also beyond the wall of sleep where you cannot tell where their whims end and your will empowered consciousness begins. It is in these places-not-places most of all that poetry and music are your only weapons, your only guides, and your only friends. In casual everyday life I too take for granted the incredible strength of the rhythmic device, scale melody, and even stranger songs, psalms, and hymns to protect our fragile forms from the unsoothable beasts who know only hate, and death, and the everlasting pains of sleeplessness as insomnia is their burden. Tranquilizers have little to no effect in these creatures.
40 days and 40 nights without 40 winks will increase any creature's poison pen so carry with you a tune wherever you go if even simply row your boat because in the realm of chess piece positioning pits the checker player's strategy of pompous pendulum hopping never ever begets a win.
The childish nature of these encryptions offer the key to the cipher with a wink, a shake, and a grin. They're not riddles to figure out like some vague mathematical self-contradiction, more like the secret art of necromancy where applied sciences must be understood to properly perform the procession that one may achieve full bodily resurrection from the dead.
Do not let spoil the idle fruits of your children or they will rot on the vine from neglect like the rest of the publicly educated rug rats, riff-raff, and hooligans. Little boys forever smothered by their mothers turned hoodlum once the teet has retired it's secure blanketed coverage and street walk strutting little girls whose fathers have prepped them for self-abusive prostitution and rape escaping drug addiction. The absence of formal rites of passage and the crisis of identity-less indemnities. Keep a close watch on your infants near strangers who fail to mention their kin as they may just be the demons I speak of in hiccuping fervor not derived from whiskey, rye, nor gin.
( which promises perpetual luxury to promote lineal longevity )
From a rapidly deteriorating, convalescent state in her room one morning old mother spontaneously resuscitated the breadth of every detail regarding wealth accumulation strategies from the final throes of life expunged on her deathbed. With so much at stake, compensatory rewards offer less than significant consolation in comparison to the horrific depth of what awaits at the cemetery gates of their poorly ritualized funerary wakes.
People in small provinces take their customs and practices very seriously. People of ethics, who engage other folks in their community, and even hold town hall meetings where prayer is encouraged, a sermon is delivered, and a large majority of locals spend a solid 15 minutes bawling their blubbery guts out over 9/11 rubbing their faucet eyes crying, spewing snot out of their nose-mouth area household tradition dictates that dinner bells ring out with echoing intensity.
While pouring a cup of tea old mother and I talked about how she'd been forgotten utterly and completely by all her biological relatives assembled at my priceless glass-top reclaimed Berlin Wall brick glass dinning table and until that moment I hadn't realized her depth of wisdom.
The description of events which follow, garbled as they may appear, represent my first-hand account of every ceremonial formality that has transpired and every last artifact and affect that has been accumulated: all the visions of salted prunes dancing before my eyes and all the puzzles unraveled within my mind during the last decade now past.
The process began the very day I swore my oath to eminent dominion having first laid my left palm beneath the burnt Chalice of EMNAKIA which is consecrated with an Ice Dragon's frozen breath. The chalice also contains three tennis ball sized testicles known as InInI each cleaved from the scrotal sack of ZOS while his heart still beat in his chest and his lungs continued to expand and contract.
The oath entails carrying the testicular triad onto five continents to receive 30 ceremonial bindings from 15 separate adepts spread throughout the most remote, desolate provinces around the globe.
Ranging from the highest mountain peaks and deepest cavernous sanctuaries to the densest jungle encampments and even an underwater kingdom built before the languages of man were scattered by scandal and his technologies shattered by sabotage. Such a procedural planetary domino effect was carried out by mindless minions and draconian thugs, each sworn to voluntary service unto those primeval empires of archaic evil all too eager for an exponential escalation of the aeonic devolutionary eschaton.
Each adept will charge me with their own distinct pilgrimage to locate a series of unique telesmatic weapons to aid the safekeeping of these three testicles of ZOS lest they find their way beyond the immovable lead curtain of Sleep where the Great Old Ones wait outside our realm for a rare planetary alignment, stellar conjunction, and solar eclipse to allow them re-entry into the physical plane through a celestial event that only transpires once every so many hundreds of thousands of years on earth.
Their acolytes prepare for this event with synchronized rituals and group-mind dream quests to seek guidance from their evil masters and learn their dark arts long lost to the traditions of men during two millennium worth of persecution culminating with the fire at the Library of Alexandria as well as countless smaller accumulations of literature, tools, and techniques preserved for centuries by independent underground movements and the scribes of certain supernal secret societies. As these words reach the page more than eleven years has passed in my devotion to this task to the octarine emanation through its waning and waxing and eclipses and colorations and shape-shifting and day walking. I have reached a magnificent climax where I anticipate great personal spiritual and global climatic changes will begin to occur as we count down toward the solar stand still of 2012 as all the wise calculating Prophets of the world's mightiest and meagerest civilizations have foreseen.
I type these words knowing I have precious little time to explain my experiences and prepare myself for the final feast before humankind is added to the top of the menu.
During these bitter cold, brick winter months of twenty zero nine not even the chirping annoyance of crickets may be heard nor the howling of canines to signal the moon's poly-syllabic positioning which punctuates the vast cluster of silent celestial fireworks. I bid specific reverence in my salutations to the voyeuristic inhabitants resting upon the belt of the ancient hunter whom the Greeks named Orion and whose geometry the pre-dynastic Egyptian kings modeled on earth with three ungodly tetrahedrons. Technology well beyond the scope of early neolithic men no matter what tales of trillion-fold slaves historians spin for us. Men of science always shrug at the supreme importance of worship undertaken by one family of Egyptian kings in particular. No doubt they had great engineers at their disposal, but archaeologists calculate far too little in the way of mysticism and magic when estimating the how, what, and why of ancient construction.
These ancient builders had more than simple influence from the realms beyond the visible, secular trappings of this dimensional continuum. They fashioned instruments for summoning the lesser gargoyles of deities so powerful and malevolent that I dare not write their names so early on in my testimony for fear my task may go unfinished. I write of names so legendary that multitudes of priests and scribes had to be executed en masse to ensure their knowledge of rites and incantations be forgotten forever. Names of deities that ancient kings saw fit to exterminate from the tongues of man and the ears of beasts alike. Many tribes were slaughtered for continuing their centuries-old traditions simply because a syllable or two bare resemblance to that of the forbidden superstitions turned hysteria. These paranoiad delusions also led to the extinction of many intelligent animals too often led in herds representing nothing more than chasms stank with the rot of death.
Few species of near-human intellect survived these maniacal days of deistic dread. They utter similar evocations mimicking that of minor key intonations unto the inattentive ear drums of xenophiles and agoraphobics lacking leisurely love-mates in lust and longing for neuro-linguistic lullabies like fury dust fantasy foam from barely bereaved loose Latin benedictions at bedtime. I am talking of a time in history few learned men will even admit to outside their immediate conspiracies. Foolish are the wise who know what Gates remain gaping holes in the facade of our harmonious reality when in plain point of fact humankind experiences a shared hallucination brought on by cosmic authorities stuck outside the paper thin walls of this tautological matrix of sensory deception. Those few who know how fragile the locks or seals on the gates have become known all too well that the point of fracture draws us closer to a methodical, torturous oblivion.
Before I acquired the grammars of ZOS I did not believe in true evil outside the hearts of men, but in my fanatical years of practice with esoteric exercise and travel to destinations only the initiated can enter I have witnessed malevolence incarnate. Evil that drove entire villages of men to lock themselves in jails with accidental acolytes of evil's ways thinking they might blend in with those whose hearts are stained with indifference toward the laws of man, nature, and the divine. Quickly these poor souls realized how mistaken their logic was as criminals went insane with blood lust in the wake of grotesque horror's footprints.
For these words I've pre-arranged where unseen numbers formulate the summation of unspeakable names with the utmost clarity I conjure in the calamity of my haste represent the purest paradox of rhythmic devices to befuddle bastard beasts with riddles within riddles for the seeker to decipher and unleash the weirding way. Only a handful may wield these powers in darkest of night or watered-down light of day. What your eyes now digest is recorded as the eternal lexic labyrinth of equivocal Chaos incarnate, the long lost liber of the opaque earth that I grip my keyboard through the aether where monstrous marauders maul through the meager mouth muscles of magi and mash down the marrow of masters of muoy-tai.
What no mind carries memory of I have received in terror-inspiring whispers such as the defeat of the Old Gods by those Watchers and Wanderers sworn not to interfere in chance, happenstance, or causality's crime nor meddle in the affairs of womb-born worm-feasts-in-waiting known throughout the poly-lateral cosmos as humankind.
Every pet has his day when he is taken behind the tool shed, shot, chopped, and buried before a new pet takes its place again. Let it not go without saying that makers make monsters and monsters need playmates whether to feed upon or put fear within or trample on or tear limb from limb, but make no mistake their return is imminent.
I have traveled not just to the lands of earth and simply the abodes of man, but also beyond the wall of sleep where you cannot tell where their whims end and your will empowered consciousness begins. It is in these places-not-places most of all that poetry and music are your only weapons, your only guides, and your only friends. In casual everyday life I too take for granted the incredible strength of the rhythmic device, scale melody, and even stranger songs, psalms, and hymns to protect our fragile forms from the unsoothable beasts who know only hate, and death, and the everlasting pains of sleeplessness as insomnia is their burden. Tranquilizers have little to no effect in these creatures.
40 days and 40 nights without 40 winks will increase any creature's poison pen so carry with you a tune wherever you go if even simply row your boat because in the realm of chess piece positioning pits the checker player's strategy of pompous pendulum hopping never ever begets a win.
The childish nature of these encryptions offer the key to the cipher with a wink, a shake, and a grin. They're not riddles to figure out like some vague mathematical self-contradiction, more like the secret art of necromancy where applied sciences must be understood to properly perform the procession that one may achieve full bodily resurrection from the dead.
Do not let spoil the idle fruits of your children or they will rot on the vine from neglect like the rest of the publicly educated rug rats, riff-raff, and hooligans. Little boys forever smothered by their mothers turned hoodlum once the teet has retired it's secure blanketed coverage and street walk strutting little girls whose fathers have prepped them for self-abusive prostitution and rape escaping drug addiction. The absence of formal rites of passage and the crisis of identity-less indemnities. Keep a close watch on your infants near strangers who fail to mention their kin as they may just be the demons I speak of in hiccuping fervor not derived from whiskey, rye, nor gin.