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Updated: Aug 11, 2023

Blood, blood, blood, blood, blood—blood. I have stared into the candle and I have seen the flame double—I closed my eyes and a red egg formed in my vision, it was a small cherry that grew (and I see it now with my eyes open, turned turquoise).

Do you not realise that we could kill them with ease—the Jews, the blacks, the Chinese? You have forgotten that we are Gulliver in Lilliput, but all the chains have been devised by ourselves. Too busy playing games with ourselves, playing weak—lying on the floor with a wolf at our neck, supine (yet the wolf is in our imagination). They fear us, in fact—you think only about our weakness, not about how an American army can cut through a Middle Eastern state in three weeks or less (and could do so today).

You have forgotten, let the puppies play on you for too long—it is because we are too civilised ourselves, too open; we listen with sympathy to all these people—and yet they are so ugly, these outlanders that are everywhere; and all they know is how to lie. Yet like a thunderbolt from Thor we could kill them all; and they know that—and they fear it, at base.

I do not want to be trivial—I just think that life is about reduction; the more you take away from the block, the sooner the statue appears. The laziness is supreme. The self-satisfaction is supreme. Yet I see a wolf, a wolf stencilled on a helicopter’s side—it has saliva on its jaws, it has white teeth. It is time to clean them, blood.

I think the best means to do so would be blood. All I see is impudence around him—so many people so well satisfied with themselves and so ugly in their satisfaction. So self-important—and yet they have done nothing. They beg for my respect, yet they have done nothing—just to be born and to be told by the computer in the corner where the fire used to be that you are wonderful, wonderful (everything you do is wonderful).

Nothing you have done is wonderful. Yet you call to me when I pass on the station platform, you tug at my arm—and I see a brown face filled with hate, covered with a mask. It cannot speak English, the words do not sit well on the tongue—what emerges is quasi-animal, thick as if buttered with ghee. I would kill you—I would drive two pencils into your eyes and cut out your tongue. I would choke you until your impudent spittle drooled onto the concrete—I would take your hair and slam your head into the concrete again and again. I would kneel on your chest until the air is expelled.

I made this world and I can destroy it just as well—your little playpen where you sit with your whores and create ugliness. Only inside yourself lies one priority—the little image, the little chatter of self-importance. Never silent. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. How does it impinge on my comfort? Do you not know who I am? I do not know—I see your form in adverts on the bus, the adverts say that you can have it your way. That is why we live in ugliness and filth—it has all been your way for so very long.

Yet I depress this button and three million die—nay, 545 million. Why do you think you are so important? Why do you think you are more important than the stars? Always with a plot—always games within games, you have played and played since your were at primary school. Before—your parents taught you, descended from the same vile line; an abortion that learned to walk and talk.

A little Pygmalion made by the Jews—a little product from the baby whose throat was slit on a beach in California (oh yes, I know how enchantment works—I have walked Jerusalem streets, so many children disappear into the Orthodox houses; let’s say, per Freud, the Jews have a “different sexual relation to children” than other races. I mean, isn’t that what the Americans mean when they go on and on and on about about “paedophiles” and “pizzagate”? It’s about racial difference in when you deflower the child, I think—Mohammad went in at nine, the Jews, the other Semites, do too).

Hollywood is a big network, Facebook is a big network—it’s all about roots; that is, about hell—which we live in, which we made. Who do you think is in control? Satan—his servants, the Jews. All know, none say—and so they are condemned. On second fiddle, the Freemasons—various cliques, sub-cliques, followers of Crowley, chaos magicians, “AI” (which is just a fraud for the gullible—that’s not how you’ll live for ever), Nick Land, Neoreaction, blah-blah. It’s all just tricks the Jews make up to keep you from God—so the demons can take your soul.

UFOs—Hollywood tells you they’re aliens, but really they’re the gods. “Alien invasion”—it’s the last judgement, man. “Will the US military bail us out this time?” Answer: no—you will all be incinerated in a blaze of light. It’s okay—it’s happened many times, the story ravels and unravels; it’s the cosmic breath, the world gets tired—let’s snuff out the lies. Go straight to paradise—like the men who did 9/11; or don’t go there—to what you know deep down, what the propaganda exists to lock down. That Jesus was a fraud—like the fraud invented by Marx; it’s just a big game, in the end—the speciality is chess; the more you play, the higher you go—the better the (in)sanity. You’ve lost credibility now—oh, really? You think this was ever about credibility—it’s more important than that, it’s about immortality. See you on the other side.


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1 commentaire

17 juil. 2023

gud poast fren

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