Prostituert og Slutten av Verdenen (believe it or not- Prostitutes and the end of the world)

Sloping hills drive and slide to look for her most carnal death, yet her self-indulgent precedence coerces her on, on to the end of a terminal world at the end of its perseverance. Short gone but waiting are the beasts of sensibility who invoke demons to her throne of mercenary bone and nails. Those nails slash freely at thine corpse of humanity, further slipping down that slope, further sliding down to become what you despise with passions aloof that star you know. You know them, for aeons they have burned in the hells of exuberance, and never to extinguish their beings even after her being, our being, and your being is gone.

Oh cease this reckless cycle! For lustful whores to drag her down, our minds are playthings to their fancies! Bleeding white statues of marble chip crash upon the crème de la crème of perceivèd beauty, whose eyes, mouths, bodies, limbs shall smash against the sordid shore of mankind to urr terror upon the inane, fear among the wretched and cast away the damned.

The damned are my muses, they twirl and spiral in versatile wraths all covered in gold, trickery and lies at their highest levels, bound for a prideless, cold and hateful hell where eyeless hounds bark and bleed for forgiveness of the master. Their howls cannot save their souls, for their souls are lost forever. Devour restless equations of unravelling shapes of integrity; take from them the very core of sleeping on justice to make ends, beginning and middles meet, each till the end of our story.

Send us to a blissful abyss of nothing ness from whence we came, rather than to a fiery mouthful of hateful reveries and terrors of the night where that creature would bind us to gaols in visionless chasms for massacre. Follow her to her chamber, ah but not meet her purity, for innocence cannot be met in the chamber of a whore, at an evanescent terminal of our world. Not ours. But on the second coming we'll see the innocence unfurl.