Tuesday, 17 January 2017

You have no right. I know that now.
The world should be eradicated of scum like you. Forgive me for failing to see the shining button on your cloak of filth. You reek, like the stench of stale breath the morning after a night of debauchery. You reek. A bath would do you well, some toothpaste would work well to erode against the nicotine stained teeth. But nothing can cleanse the stench that comes from within, that seeps out every pore. From the inside out, you rot in moral decay, breeding maggots of immoralities that beget darker disgusts. You disgust me.
#Amazon

“If you go into the woods today, you are in for a big surprise.”
The teddy bear picnics. Do you know them?
Teddy bear picnics are like the game known as numbers. Except these are highly paid for games played by the sick people with a taste for youth and blood. And not for conditioning of the child slave. They are less frequent than auctions and not the normal snuff party. These are not caught on camera. Or at least they never used to be, I don’t know about the games they play these days out there.
Teddy bear picnics are played in large areas, normally a forest or bush setting, sometimes a farm. People pay to hunt and kill children. By any means they choose. And some people choose a death that does not come quickly.

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A place where black rock towers above like jagged teeth of the engulfing darkness that gloats. The rock sweats, its perspiration trickles thickly down its smoothly jagged sides. It appears as a dark deep red when light is shone upon it, thick and slow it answers gravities call like the last of the blood that slowly seeps out from the cut on the inner thigh of the strung up men, woman or children. Too often have my eyes averted from such sights. The skin trade. Human skin fetches a price. The more “in tact” the higher the sell. Bodies sporadically are strung upside down off a wire cable. Two cuts on inner thighs, one on each. Two cuts on the neck. One on each side. The feet will be sliced later. The points of the fingers too.
Some call it the blood stone for it appears to bleed. I guess it could be said to be the one place you can squeeze blood from a stone. They certainly squeeze here. Painfully.

TICK TOCK An Awareness of Satanic Ritual Abuse, now available in e-book and paperback on Amazon.

Things better left unspoken, but they riddle within, everything I wish not to know, yet everything I cannot forget.
There is a world out there. One that perhaps you are not aware exists. Yet, it is playing out in your backyard. Its a world so real and so large, yet so unknown. How can that be? Cloaked. The cloak of secrecy that they cover themselves in.
It’s like a padlock inside me. So desperate to be free of the secrets. It’s like standing in a room full of heavy crates containing everything that needs to be released. The door is open and the freedom of not being burdened with secrets lurks just beyond. I stand behind a crate and push with all my strength edging it closer and closer to the door. But inches from freeing myself from the burden, the door slams shut and the padlock locks into its chamber. And once again I am alone in the darkness with their secrets that I can no longer bear to hold onto. Will I ever be free?
TICK TOCK - An Awareness of Satanic Ritual Abuse now available on Amazon!


Because there is a tale to tell.
There is a tale to tell of snakes and dragons, the red dragon. Of the mincing of meat and the stringing of words. Of dark agendas that echo through the tunnels below. Of spinning lights, shocks and induced distortions. Of children. Of caves and candles and vile lusts of the flesh and desires of the spirit. The breaking of bones within the circle and its hidden cages. Of mutton cloth and midnight ventures. Of authorities that bind and secrets kept. Possessing and possessed. It’s a tale of those parallel, those intertwined, those physical and that which binds. That which is hidden, that which is purposed and the eye that sees.
http://a.co/8a5H0Z6
Healing from DID is intensely humiliating. Everything about it seems like a contradiction. DID is a survival mechanism. Without the identities created to cope, we would not have survived childhood. Therefore DID is supposedly considered a gift. Yet the very gift that helped you survive childhood is the very same thing that threatens to destroy you when the time comes for healing
There is a tale to tell of snakes and dragons, the red dragon. Of the mincing of meat and the stringing of words. Of dark agendas that echo through the tunnels below. Of spinning lights, shocks and induced distortions. Of children. Of caves…
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So tell me, do you know of what I speak? Do you know of the words that fill the corridors betweens the cracked bricks holding back the vile stench of fear, spilt urine and feces mixed with what was once scarlet but is now just stained blood puddles scattering the cold concrete floor of the tiny inner dwelling. The small room, chamber, where children’s dreams are stolen and their minds flushed with the acid dripped poisonous terror.
Do you know know?
No.
No. I didn’t think you would.
That’s ok.
You are a lucky one.
We are a good one.
None of this will make sense to you. None of it needs to. For sense is not what you come to seek, for sense is not what you are able to accept. That’s ok. We blame you, yet we know you can’t cope with that which we must cope with.
See, the difference between you and me, the difference is you choose to see what you see, we choose to not see what we have to see

Tick Tock - An Awareness of Satanic Ritual Abuse
Now available on Amazon
http://a.co/0gmuoDp


Cages for those poor children wait to be sold or sacrifice. It's a sick world out there that few. are aware of


















Because there is a tale to tell.
There is a tale to tell of snakes and dragons, the red dragon. Of the mincing of meat and the stringing of words. Of dark agendas that echo through the tunnels below. Of spinning lights, shocks and induced distortions. Of children. Of caves and candles and vile lusts of the flesh and desires of the spirit. The breaking of bones within the circle and its hidden cages. Of mutton cloth and midnight ventures. Of authorities that bind and secrets kept. Possessing and possessed. It’s a tale of those parallel, those intertwined, those physical and that which binds. That which is hidden, that which is purposed and the eye that sees.


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