once in a while, you just need to massacre someone. you need to render him undeniably extinct, defunct, expired. you need to personally see to it that he crosses the threshold between ephemeral pain and endless torment, that he has undeniably been erased from the face of this universe.
but then, once in a while there stroms into your life a singular entity for whom, that alone is not enough. terminating his life, asphyxiating his soul fragment by insignificant fragment sometimes is simply insufficient, because it spectacularly fails to convey the intensity of your intentions.
no, death cannot be the end of his ordeal. special pains must be taken to guarantee that his damnation be etched upon his immortal being, such that the annals of eternity resound with diapasons of his infinite spiritual dessication. his gangrenous cadaver must be made to regurgitate his undead essence, and both must be subjected to the nonpareil of brutality, the paragon of pernicious misery and wrath. he cannot be allowed any glimmer of redemption, for he deserves none - the only fate befitting of a bane of reality such as him is one of resplendent destruction and macabre evisceration.
keep in mind that the harrowing nature of his post-mortal experience does not translate to a mitigating of the circumstances of his death. so, by all means, immerse him in white-hot magma, but ensure that he is lowered into it feet-first at the most excrutiatingly slow pace possibly. go ahead, spray him with acid and immolate him, but remember to remove his outer epidermal layer and plunge a burning stake into his groin. whats that? cut him open and leave him for the vultures? great, but dont forget to dissect him and string his still-beating vital organs on his limbs. oh, and cover him with south american fire ants.
i hope the devil himself drags you screaming into the gates of hell, you withered husk of flesh.
taika told you a secret at
11:32 PM
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okay enough with the fucking pleasantries already, im gonna get straight to the point.
to you : how the fuck are you able to call yourself a human being, when you obviously adopt the appearance of a bipedal primordial amoeba, and have the mental fortitude to match? you are so painfully transparent, because truly, slugs of your lofty calibre aren't that hard to decipher, save for the instances you grace our universe with those uluating guttural incantations that i deign to call words. i can see right into your miniscule mind, and even then i catch no glimpse of any legitimate activity, unless you count brain cells slowly dissolving in their own murky pile of insouciance, as 'activity'. you accomplish nothing by being present in this reality, and your life is nothing but a miserable testament to the foibles of the prehistoric midden you and your ilk crawled from, like macabre misshapen sludge forms given life by some nefarious demonic force. please tell me : what the fuck is your purpose in life? is it to inflict misery and interminable feelings of frustration in all you come into contact with? or is it to infect the masses with the most ignoble disease of incompetence that you wield, like some gruesome oriflamme to your rancid cause? or maybe thats just it - you have no purpose. your life here has no inherent meaning, your soul [i am stretching the limits of my imagination here by evein contemplating that you have something so complex as a soul, much less INDIVIDUALITY and CONSCIOUSNESS] has no chance of redemption or absolution, and as such you have been consigned to the most ignominous fate of squelching over the earth, awaiting the time when your satanic, and may i add perverse, master acquiesces to re-integrating you into his being.
and so, who are you to challenge me, to tell me anything at all? WHO ARE YOU TO LORD OVER ME, LIKE SOME MASOCHISTIC HOMOSEXUAL SLAVEDRIVER OVER HIS PATHETIC, SNIVELLING, UNWILLING CHARGE? do you even comprehend the significance of your actions? wait, do you even COMPREHEND, you maladroit, dysfunctional, remnant of worm dung? stop wasting my time and my brain with your pseudo-orotund oratories, your pointless prosaic pontifications. you are incapable of performing a task that requires a smidgeon of effort, becuase your gasping corpse of a body is pulsating with sloth, with the very quintessence of indolence and inanity. to assign you the pronoun 'you' is to deify your putrid presence and give you three letters more than you deserve. insects such as you should not be eradicated, should not be crushed nor eviscerated nor mutilated; you should be negated, nullified to the point of nondescript nonexistence, because you have earned no less than the total assimilation of your self into the burgeoning heap of nothings that have preceded you. i honestly cannot be bothered with you any longer - just retreat like the atavistic dunce you are, into isolation, until you shrivel up and revert to nothingness.
more blatantly put, fuck off, son of a bitch. you can stick your head so far up your ass you drown in your own bile. but there is some difficulty in that task, because your head and your ass are so alike, excrement can spew forth from both orifices and i wouldnt be able to distinguish one from the other! i sincerely, earnestly, and ardently with all my blessed heart and soul, hope rabid vultures descend upon you and pick your flesh, fresh from your still-breathing body, piece by sordid piece, until your excuse for a heart realizes what it should have surmised the moment you were born, and terminates your puny lifestream from the universe. good riddance, maggot brain.
taika told you a secret at
10:45 PM
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im so sick of it.
taika told you a secret at
2:03 PM
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'It was when the war was pulling its hardest on the continent, when Europeans were streaming hither and thither from their smashed-open homes and villages and fields like ants from a disturbed hill-nest, and official letters to mothers and wives were flowing with regularity through the letter boxes around the bay, that another wonder was bestowed upon Morecambe. If not for harmony's sake then for counterplay. The pavilion fire of that same year was all but eclipsed by this new and celestial beauty. Aurora Borealis. The nothern bloodlights.
'It was not the crowded spectable of the fire, nor and occasion of mass mesmerism, with al seats sold out for the peromance. It was to be a private show. The town had long since known that it held one of the best positions in the country for observing this display, the tourist leaflets listing local attractions and entertainments made great mention of it, it was almost as compulsory a geature as leaving Blackpool off every local map and out of every visitor handbook. Aurora was not a stranger to the bay, for all her being the classiest acta round. She was not the rarest sight, though many may have missed her that night, coming unannounced nd under a dark cloak as she always did. Cy was almost sleeping when his mother knocked softly on his door and entered. Her face was softer than he had ever seen it, her eyes contained light stolen from every scrap and corner of the room it seemed, so it was dim about them, so at first his mind went out to thoughts of witchery, to her capabilities of subversion and collaboration in the parlour room. As if some sinister rite of passage bequeathed him was about to take place. Perhaps he never left his slumber, and hsi dreaming memory deluded him into his coming vision. But she took the covers back off him, reached for his hand and led him to the window.
'OUtside there was nothing but a red sky. Red long past sunset and long before sunrise. Red of an impossible hour. Red, and behind that struggling green, and behind that trapped and gentlest white, It was light that had neither the impatience of fire, nor the snap of electricity, nor the fluttering sway of a candle. It was light that was nature's grace, unhurried, the slowest, seeping effulgence. Lesser and greater than all light. Blood of the sky.
'Cyril Parks left himself then. Perhaps it was the solitary quietude of this occurrence, which was kept under glass for they did not step outside to aplaud Miss Borealis, thoufh she was intensely lovely, or his condition, resting on the swaying anchor of sleep, ready ahoy, soon to be sent down to the depth and so susceptible to any form of sublimation. Perhaps it was holding his mother's hand at the window as though she were a guide, neither witch nor widow nor nagel at that moment, but simply a guide on the wasteland sand of the shore, and when she took her hand softly away from his he felt arrived. Perhaps this is what ended that first part of his life. He stepped out of it willingly. And for all his remaining youth and curiosity, the full store of energy set to keep him beating on until it finally wound down and fluttered out in his heart, he would have taken death right then, under Aurora's beauty, and gone happily, knowing he had seen the last and brightest of all miracles.'
-Sarah Hall, 'The Electric Michelangelo'
taika told you a secret at
5:14 PM
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