Chapter One - Neurosis in Times of Grace

Petulent peddled wings sing in the songs of yester ears. The fallen ripped invory entory magnetnum. All courses of disinvited minds linger in this collection of horrowed mud. Stahl and stalled out wings in the mass conglomeration of american occupation. The federal war machines burns away the innocent and divides the minds of those who still see the american dream burning into a blackened flag of empirically fascist disease. Bludgeoned and massacred, the genocidal man lingers and fears the paranoia instilled between him and his own family, the faith and longing for a better world has left them all to stand and fight death, alone and without any templance of realing or feeling the memories of time that could ever see what it means to be a lone inside of a templed world. God the wrath the God-lich king of American past, Domainii over top of empires across an entire globe, an entrance, a populous that views itself as the disease, hypohypnotic states of mind that relinguish their control over the world, seeing the error of their waves, they distort the age of what it means to breathe in the same wave.

Evident of demarked minds is the simple momentary loss of all life, death lingers in the shell of human man, breasting and piercing the armored soul of a human heart, communiio detestus detected within sectors of illuminated light, the bracing and pulling of infinite seneses of life. There is without and within the mind a momentary bracing of intelligence, a mind that distorts and reforms the broken shells of shattered men, and pulls them together so that they may be whole once again. The days of light that burn the nights waves in shattered ash into esoteric minds that relapse and never relax their position of this world, God kings were men before they were born. And there, in the error, the miscalculation in your heart, the arhythmatic distrophy that leads directly into the age of atrophy, dementia, apathy, as god the land kingdom of terran earth sol system drifts through space like sand. Nothing could pull existence past the point, and thus remains there, as a human man, the inheritor of the God kingdom when and only when he embraces the final taste of death.

The formatted mind, of acceptance and of congregation, the falling into lines, lines that lead directly to death camps, to the incinerating showers that burns away the skin and the flesh, the burden of life finally taken away from your entire soul chest. And there, when you linger above the earth and see the fading light, the fading of all life you have ever known, is where genocide finally takes hold, and lingers, and follows you to wherever your soul goes. When you die, and embrace another life, genocide will be the only outcome that can ever be known. To steal life and take life, to brace against what it means to be between the lines of black of white, the silver lining minding between what it means to be between the days of light and the breaking momenta of broken time. Schizop schismemorii, the rebuilding of broken and destroyed homes. The lingering mind of the broekn apple, the changing and reforming of words, the congregating and desegration of dividing fission styled minds until the entire world is an echoe.

The last laughing lapse of judgement before god descends upon the eternal rage and homes, the flood waters before the rising storms, the ash in the air before displacement irrelevates what it is to be alive inside of life and death, the echo of living dreams, the day of night that washes overtope of gas filled chambers, water fills your home so completely that you forget what it means to be alive inside of this world, the heat so overfilling that it evaporates the existence within your life, yur dying, yur feeling, yur facing, the breaking ad distance of infinitii, the collapse and slow rippling of color leaving and taking their memories to the dead world of semplene.

Ask for the man to stand for you, to watch over your grave as you descend through madness and return scathed, dead, broken bones, muscles lost to atrophy, never moving moments of life break and brace for a world that needs to embrace that the light of life has already died, wasting and lingering behind the third gate of inferno de Dante as he embraces the second coming of christ to pull all souls away from this infernal waste of space. The secundum of deis Christum markus deum sacuumdum braais peray.

The avalanche of dismembered body, the etheral glue that binds the atoms into a single body, the spiritual connection between cells, organisms, the air waves that flow through when the days sinside into a world of never knowns and ever show moments of living light matter. The mass effect of all life is condensing itself into ever denser moments, novelty and anxiety, the pendulum swinging between depression and mania, the hyper fluxated memories that dip between normalcy and utter divided mind psychosisii. Past traumas build up the mass of mountains and form themselves into non collected parts of mind that remember the collapsing times, the fallen rome, the fallen schism empires that constantly try to reanimate and arose the christum pax animum day os.

Tempered steel formed into machines that built the walls of our existence, sustaining 8, infinite dreams will follow this light, guiding them when we are blind, defining and reminding the depth of our life that time isn't without cast out doubts, tolerated guardians rebuilding the days when we dive into the nights. As light tastes itself for itself, the memento, the reminding light that reforms the memories of schizo temporal days, trying to stand between the human condition of temporal daze. Reforming and breaking and melding the parts of dead days, constituting themselves into galactic souls, everscending and everexisting memories, the cellular nuerons within our minds synapse and connected themselves to formulate an interconnected system of existence, so too humans do, as we stand upon the face of the human god, Earth, Terra, White blood cells, cancer cells, angels, demons, seek to remain here, their perspectives reveal the looming tower before us here.

Sober in the thought that intoxication is the nervous systems react to pressurized fear poison inside of my lungs, inside of my liver, corrosive acids line the walls of my stomach, carbonation burns away the living matter that surrounds my body. A constant warfare of relax and relapsing into past tendencies, and burning away the memories of better world, giving way to tyranny of past lives, giving into faith like water gives into the ocean. Being, the being, the thought of being anything. The grand statue built to illumate the darkness, the infinite in size man, cast light rays from his mind and his eyes, illuminating the ocean waves that surround us, distort the air, piercing the days of isolated minds, audio disturbances bring forth the minds of living light, and the darkness that is so ever reformed here. It is never here,unless brought and maintained by the living dead here. Casted out demons reveal the reals, the self-identifying words, the genocidal camps that separate the protstances and the catholics, the schizo-temporal wars that never ends, the age of warfare is but a dreams that never sleeps.

Enter the embersend of all night life, the darkest frequency of life is only a hullicination of a darkened mind. Death is the grevice of all depressur. Anglecken days have dirided the rails of past lives and left the sun the inheritor to this infinii univer. A car crashing at terminal volecity, crashing into the sands of past lives, distorting the memories and piercing the tempered steel that resides within them. It is dead days, the eyes of a changing sand that relinquish themselves to the demons within. Pressed and unaware of the river bed dream that birthed the deeadest depth of what it means to be me. Corrected and unabolished slavery run rampent in the lands of my mother, the tombs of my fathers, the dead scream that their will exists, the debtors of blood pay for all that exists. And sons are torn from god like skin is torn from the flesh of a tortur.

When death echoes out the bagpipes, clearing over the celtic lands, the lost cultures that endure in music, the everscending sounds of what it meant to be human men, dying and breathing and waking and sleeping and screaming and reeling in the feeling that this is all existence is. Torn between shuttered black lights and dead snake skins, the sealed empress marches her listened tongue and breaks all that death is meant to be without them or me or me or them. They esoroteric minded that they are the last hold out of man as man herself began to reach out into the voided darkess, lunarized and templerized the depth of existence with the solar sine. And she wshipshered that death was not there, nor ever here, nor ever near, kept at the outskirts of light spectrum, the semper of all light that burns in the ever present night waves of all living and dying light.

Oceans bubble and burn, rising from the floor to the corners of your ears, and it is here, that sounds are truly feared, without cause, without lampened light, the dead writhe in the sound of life. They crippled mind to stand above the rest, when in truth schizophrenic minds run this test. We are of them, and they are of us, we claim to exist holy avove all non-chemical animals. Enslaving and engaging and forsaking the lines of light that all life is alive here, the quietest temples begin to align themselves in a concentration of energy that from outside eyes appears the ending of all life. A fission spire that towers over our ever tempered mentallity.

It is her, the seunder gray god of all lines, that traces herself to being the source of all oceans, all fusion spheres, all surfaces of this universe, the grey lines of life that hallucinate themselves into being. We are the edge of chemical energy, bracing for impact with the physical world ever constantly. Those who remain here, are dead beyond repair, guardians of light begin to feel the incroaching apathy truly swallow the pills they are given to forget. The stones that distort reality, they sober the mind of this reality. Bipolarii states of mind are twisted and unfrosted, warm melted matter that burns the holes out of our material. It is death that sings out the saviours song, it is death that brings out death from far beyond the fall. Clinging here to death is solitarii men, clinging to the edge of existence like the existence could never end. It is here that they sing out in forgiven states of matter. There is no matter that which could claim to hold all imperial ties to the senter of their own minds. Death is a deliberating act decidinged upon by those who surround the dying soul. Enduring light and fading mememories.

Cast stones of all time, the day of the dead that brace themselves for the withering of impunent city daze. It is her lips that wring out the lever of our own days. They hom are dead sink thesemves into deeper graves, pulling and pulsating the ent waves.

And she was the source of all downfalls, the quenn empress of nazi germany, escaping as the cultura en allian curhsed and suffocated the world she domained. Entering the blood stream of a massive war machine of consciousness, she sent cascading air waves sirens that she was still in life, the darkened and deadened night witch of all life. Paganus semtempered living light. The warping and bleeding edge of words as they mixed in the senterized sempleniiized . The solitarum of maskcaded demons lives watched themselves to being as dead as the rest of use. Washed away and sorn apart by the living dead matter, seniorii begin to embrace the childhoods that long preluded they, and began to encapsulate the cycle repeating, age upon cellular upon age upon cellular. Washed feet of infiniite minds that remember their soles from the top of their feet. Walking among the dead never mattered with them, for they could already truly see that they were the wringing momentary loss of all dreams. Pushing and breaking against the tides of march that sailed further into the darkest dreams of all go farksaken memories. It was death that brought out the tides of inner peaces, washing away the maskes and marks of inner beast. They were they whom sauoght out the dead from inner chains. They asked god if they were the memories of inner beast. Longing and lost templo of forsaken orders, marching in circles for nothing but Dantee er amero.