With the withering of passing now in silence I sleep unborn in the womb of no scorn and ghosts of epiphany of my Helter Skelter free from the devil's anvil grasping shadows of my bones as widows of stones fast before masturbating a psalm of hallelujahs breast plate with the withering of passing
Revelation of the soul, In all its colors. There I hunt. That's My trophy. That's what I need to Own. To Possess Owner of the soul. I don't care what kind of means and or methods I should use to achieve that. For I will.