Into the tales of the dusted books, Torn pages of the writers dreams and nightmares, lustful desires of treasures, devotees to a crimson god in the streets of hollowed angels. If we are the dementated and inbred spawns of the things that we battle, A carrion of mortal lust, a befouled dream

It is that, a decree of discourse with Gods and Devils that makes us human.

With times and the world being ever so simplistically devoted to a concept of drip timed hate that is clotted in the veins of the human world we live in. I say human world as these things are not the way of the the natural world. Dropping the various things that make us human we are nothing more then a naked and afraid being, this is the outcome of all things yet we bask in a life time of doubt the being would ever such a thing, disgusting to natural order. From the pale to the dark, from the rich to the poor locked in the same sinking ship of coalition of force fed hate and division of matrimony of existence. Broken dreams are the fertilization of the discourse, shattered lives are the outcomes of a life that is not of thought, but that of demanded outcomes. No longer do the minds search for answers, we create answers and mutilate life to fit them.

We have become the end

We are harbingers’.

Much Love

Your Friendly Ginger From The Woods.