The small, skeletal remnants of what’s been acknowledged as a centuries-old vampiric child has been unearthed somewhere in Italy, which probably means that Barron Trump does not survive long after being pitched into the hellmouth underneath the Washington monument in DC in years to come. The writing was on the wall after all, in cheap crayon.
Perhaps it is in response to the misbegotten ability for Kentucky blogging essayists to post such statements online that prompted the voluptuous Amazon corporation, makers of pee-filled soda pop bottles and broken marriages, to randomly reiterate its lustful business relationship with the producers of the Mother Of All Bombs. When nowhere anywhere has war accomplished anything even vaguely construable as beneficent does angel-investing in its savageness make a cowlick of sense. Squirmy worms of wires are crossed, when trying to unscramble cable porn as the giantess and the priestess, the governess and the actress, readies her archetypal warpaint.
But what really motivates these feckless fear-mongers of inseparable Industry and State, is the invisible college-level of secret knowledge their stations are privy to, such as Chrysta Bell probably in broad daylight being the product of a modern Babalon Working as rendered by David Lynch himself, and friends. Harry Dean Stanton was likely there as well, but I bet he stayed in the truck, smoking up Lynch’s hand-rolled cigarettes, eyes tired but with occasional flashes of mirth, flashes of bled steel. It seems so obvious a thing once we stop to consider its plausibility. And I suffer no fools, but knowledge will set you free, basing.
And perhaps again, all of these stories together are yet deeper hidden truths. almost comparable as a linguistic response to Aronofsky’s numerical Pi, with the phantasmagoria of obscured truth being not the name for god, but warning of the goddess, who at long last is readied for her fair revenge. Patriarchal leaders of history’s wealthiest corporation are having their own greens proving wrong their arguments on behalf of Creationism. Mother Nature is strapping, and she’ll be driving six white horses when she comes.
A sexdoll manufacturer is now offering for grieving spouses to rent sexable replicas of their lost love. For one last mighty go at cold, mechanical climax, as well for the curious co-workers of the dearly departed. This is the same alternate reality that gave us landlubber-eating sexbot pirates, in natural response to vibrating dildos like the biological clockwork FemiNazis of long ago Lesbos in Laurasia, laterally lowering love’s labours lost, to languish in lament. Because only electric sheeple dream of androids, but lunar lupines lustfully linger lasciviously.