In the Realm Bind your feet. Step out to the red iron sand.

The air is rippling hot. The sunblast cripples the eyes. You are flat blind with the horizontal disk of brightfire, a Holy Mirage. It is Vision...of the Millenium maggotry, of havoc in the Realm of Beasts. Fate has the weightless feel of memory. Spectral humanity to and through gone fever white to tear the clothes, to rub the skin. Lovers rut in rude random riot. Rump ripe, they ride the wet anvil, a towering fragrance of mindless thighs, churning... Their seed spatters the hot walls in the soft forge, in the horrible heartless hissing of conception. No Amnesty. Repetitive Folly. Lust-flung spawnscatter post pridefully to beget what they have seen. To be the ugly picture; to be named a common name; the echoes in the ego in the image of the shame. To honor the Father and the Mother because each has humped the other? To join them and rejoin them in fatherhood and motherhood, puppetry coupling hurly burly aimlessly and for good. By the commandment, in human words, they shove and spurt, cracked and hurt. They have no worth but this. By the commandment, in human words, their spitted members weep, too wanton and too willing in relentless Sleep. From the common swollen exit, the ripe and splitting fig, born again this icon squirming, comes again it's wrinkly face... comes a' crying and a' crapping to replace them. O this helpless hopeless habitual Race. O vision... Your sun-ravished eyes shudder at the overwrought pollen. You kneel for the steelkiss and steelbite and sanctity... Better this clean clip't life in the red iron sand, better to die in the savory dust and blood. The waters break, no one will survive the flood.

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