08/06/2015

why are we obsessed with nostalgia

 we’re not
 I mean, I’m not. what

i don’t know, I sometimes get really sad. I’ll go on youtube and look at videos and feel like that time was sooo much better than it is now

  lol
  isn’t that just called growing up

Do you think so?

  yeah, like, you always look backk fondly on your childhood or something.

I guesss
but then why do I get so sad then
I feel like those times are gone forever. I’ll probs then spend an evening trying to “reintegrate” myself back into them or something

  god you’re so bleeding heart

fuck you

  listen lol. it’s cuz back then everything was “new” and “wooo exciting” because you were like 12 or  something.

I guess. It just sucks

 well there we go
 plenty of things just suck
 being a child prostitute “just sucks”
 i think in the grand scheme of things
 being a lil sad because you remeber when Crazy fucking Frog came out and when you rewatched it on youtube it was balls but you still liked it
 and read all the awful youtube comments
 it’s really not that bad.

i guess

Rev 22:20

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. The walls folded into red and pooled around the feet and the sky turned black. The hands shook and bled, gripping a branch of thorns. Feathers crept across the smouldering skin as she saddled the body. The mouth cries and she leans in, the devil glaring from behind her eyes, behind two moons, behind two empty sinful suns, and the tongue screamed.

Screaming woke him, fists stirred him, scratching aroused him. His sister was hissing and spitting at him, the words of the Lord in her mouth like hot oil. She clawed between his legs and struck his face. Behind her stood his mother in her nightgown clutching her book and crossing her hands and his father’s car thundered, below his window. The maid was blushing and her face was a throbbing heartbeat, pumping hot wine through his veins.

She had witnessed his sins and called his sister. His arousal was plain beneath the discarded covers and red lines were now painted across his thighs. She grabbed his erection and twisted it until he screamed.

He saw the devil staring at him on the ceiling. It was bloody and its grin was terrible.

The doctor’s knife whispered in his ear; it begged him to scream, cajoled him into voicing his pleasure. Red hands gripped it tightly against his member and the devil’s face was pressed against his own, breathing deeply. It smelt of roses and sweat. It crushed his face, pressing its fat white eye against his own eyes, engulfing his sight.

The maid’s feathers were black and red like the feathers of a raven carelessly covered with wine. It looked higher and higher for dust. His blood flowed as she exposed her indecency beneath her skirts, and soon the wine was spilt all over his legs and tasted like blood. The maid’s face was passive and her teeth were sharp and her were red and the empty moonlit sun was screaming at him.

The skin was splitting and the bones were bending. The sky was black and red and a black figure hung above the flesh and bones, nailed to its ceiling. The eyes began to offer up tears towards it and the devil was standing by its side, holding the crumpled hand
They were all staring at him. Everyone was staring openly at his sins.