Red, green, and purple perfumes coil around us so thick. Fucking her from behind, we co-non-mingle.
Handing out a little fold out book, Apocalypse Map. Disaster facts. Doom math. The plagues Holidays. The terrible storm. The year of no ripe corn. They look right at you wearing a wooden beak. Their testimony, the beasts pf the Fruited Plain. Animals of the African grassland introduced to the American prairie.
Brass lions out for death on them, fire proceedeth out the secret mouth, as if their Cult Meeting it where in the sun. Before your soylent masters the air smelled burnt. Screaming balls of flame leaving the building in a hurry. A bad day to worship the wrong god.
In the Candy Barn Mapping Disturbing dreams as waves break. But the Midnight Doors Soda Stampede of Night brings Dark Times. Fists that shall clench, fingers never to unfold. God's big eraser undoing the road between me and you. Be Soylent til the spider God weaving a great Celestial awakening.
I prepare a Lantern mask of the Veil Fog mummy shaman under the mound. Warns me of mad3 death in centapede in maize food.