the healing of our malign

When you fi­nal­ly be­come so in­sane
that you scratch and tear the heart out of every moral fi­bre of this so­ci­ety,
or have the au­dac­i­ty to do that with in­san­i­ty,
you fi­nal­ly get your feel­ings back from the most cor­rupt im­be­ciles who try to keep na­ture down with their tidy bour­geois cat­tle breed­ing hive.

Peo­ple will then add a sec­ond de­gree of crazy,
the EMO­TION­AL UN­BAL­ANCED,
he who is PAS­SION­ATE,
and does NOT STAND WITH THE DE­STRUC­TION OR SIT IDLE OR SMIRK ETC,
and NOT GIVE IN TO THOU­SANDS OF WAYS THEY TRIED TO COR­RUPT HIM,
and he is,
AN­GRY,
at mankind,
in­flu­enced by Dr. Seuss be­fore the purge,
an IN­STINCT JUST TO BE­HOLD SOME­THING IS WRONG,
but the true crim­i­nal,
the true psy­chi­atric pa­tient here,

wants just one more cook book in a dy­ing world with all the chil­drens and fu­ture chil­drens car­cass­es un­der their liv­ing room din­ing ta­ble be­fore the tel­ly watch­ing one WAN­DAVI­SION af­ter an­oth­er DE­STROY­ING ANY POW­ER THEY COULD HAVE HAD.

—tris­ti­tia lan­guorem

Flom­mist Tris­ti­tia Lan­guorem eats tragedy. They have many names but it doesn’t change much the whole premise of the ideals. Antwerp, Bel­gium is where home is. It’s time for a fresh start. Copy­right © 2021 Tris­ti­tia Lan­guorem. Im­age source.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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gone thru for pa­tience you are not alone my open let­ter to pyschi­a­try well, the chain maille ba­si­cal­ly open sea­son i feel blue most days