The visualization of hell.

The door pressure. There has been none here before. A cloud stared. Cream advice. The filthy glare. A step of stones. Destined to adore. The fictive wounds. A bell ringing. The place was empty.

Spitting images. Hollow. The chilly creep of birds. Soon we’ll be home. To sit a while. Shadow’s leaping crowns. The taste of retribution. In dirty deeds. The victimized. No reasons. Innocence. The bleak Sunday morning sobriety. A fiction vapour. The clouds. To an enigmatic score of late tendencies the pride taken in art. No words. What desire in dreams. The scare token of stairs. A lean procreated mist. No shadows only feet. Deny me this. Fervent leisure condensations of apologetic scarcely fathomed hunger. Therapeutic honesty. The instance we are gone. A shared loners wind. The cry of rain. A drop of lingering lust. To inhibit the morbid sensuality of papers. Newly found fortune in the rapid eye movement. Craving exhumed intolerance and the empiric touch of reality. As it sways wicked postures of blindness across the ceiling. An unsolved rarely increased sentiment of shoes. The naked and alone. The darkness shone. Caved insults of command. Shared beauty. A vision deep as the ocean. Astonished pretty broke fingerpuppies learning to smoke. The myriad famed mortality and morality of frogs. Climbing to fall. A doomed wall. Leaning on black stolen words. Released.

The reattained pursuit of happiness. What I saw there. A figment of paranoid delusion. The clarity of it all.

To be home again.

Self obsessed maniac. Lean on no shoulders. To cry. The relief of adoration. The thing is my dears. A victim of supposition to be disdained. The factual hippocracy of tides. An instigated manner. The mortal swing of touch.  What little known of these. The probable passion. A drummer boy.

Deep sunken coherency in time. The vision near. Of what I found. My lizard shoes swarming. Conventual memory. The informality of such.

Fear the insolence of autocratic surveys. A lesson learned. The process of too much ado about nothing. Invictions of grief. The morality is naked truth. Astounded reason to improve behaviour. No insults. In command.

At peace. The momentual joy of Iscariot. A group flees against the image of Christ. Was he not a man of peace? The obscure tendency of late. A supposed enigma. I wen’t to hell for two minutes. I whom lost my belief. The scarce cathegory of denial. A wink as pleased. To fathom the riot of opposition. The place was empty.

In this vision deep I found grace. The tokens wild. There was a roundhouse there. There was smoke and a mild humming of symphonies. No demons or fallen angels. I guess they are all on earth.

The introvert habitual liar. An  evidently sane boy. The procreation of mind. The instant solvent property of denial. A cloud. My dreams are stolen. A take it or leave it. An instant betrayal shown in her eyes. The priority of none.

A fictive reason to debts. The vile distance. An horizon.

Astounded evidently assured policies of the insolent brave. Where comes these reasons to demnify attribution of complexity. What is the true nature of things?

I remember the wardens.

This devious slogan was thought upon in my crazy teens. It literally means somehow waking up to reality where there is none. The presumed evident nature of sleep is really wasted time. While at night you close your eyes and give in to your dreams. Bring them with you at day. It is indeed pseudo intellectualist adventures. The abyss is as told of. You sink into your dreams. Sunken. Then on your bed of flowers a clock is ticking. If you can not awaken seize not to dream. Dreaming of life. Thus a tree represents reaching for the sky. Allthough you may fall in your dreams. Don’t let them get to ya!

As a token of surprise the next level in which I dwelve. The latter sake horizon. Winding up upside down in a treshold of good and evil. The effect of fair findings. Reason or not. When you dream and orient in your dreams as if you were awake. The border is broken. You will no longer need to be awake. A slave to sleep. I used to be that dreamer. When all of the sudden some folk started to see I was sleep walking and sleep talking the alarm clock should have rung. I did simply not need to be awake. Somehow this escape from reality proved unhealthy. I call it devout dreamer.

You may however find inspiration in the land of dreams. My late night psychotic binge drinking didn’t solve any reality issues. The honesty of a drunk is humiliating. Forget about morality. Forget about two-faced mentality. Nothing as releaving as giving in to sleep. This daze. Amazed. Maze. Of oblivious tendencies to flee. The dreams might soon turn nightmares. Surrealist existencialist reality of late.  Do a dream at what it takes. Surrounded!

Dense. Intense. The syndicate errors of cynical reality. I see now what I am. An attempt to educate myself. The decomposition of thought. Pinched! Out late. For pity sake! Dream on!