Limited edition of 111
Wait your turn, brat of a child, stay your thoughts and stamp your toes. This is adult time! We have foul ideas to execute, the ugly larvae of greater concepts; made bodily, gobbled oddly, thrashed mouthwise and fumbled sodly. Yes, here they come to be poked and penetrated, examined and spat on, deflowered and incarcerated. We are the dreadful skewers that strain the filter of enlightenment.
Come now, don’t shy away from this inexorable land of debauchery. It’s your brain in which this dark ditch dwells, my liege - all yours! Slay the amber child! Pass through the blade until there is no matter. Step into that box, sir, let the sludgy mills of gastritis be impaled. Heed not the cheeky shitter! Move on, move on, right this way - past the sacred crown rituals and transmuting genitals. This is true freedom, isn’t it? A thrill to be fated to nothing but erasure.
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