takeout – merge

Something in the air


I was in Little Compton, Rhode Island. Perhaps the most bucolic place in

the world. The strange evil of the nearby mansions and corrupt magick p-

ervades the air, but beneath, or mounting, it is the wind. It comes off t-

he water in a peculiar way.

It isn’t difficult to explain. I spent a great deal of time in Newport as

a young person. Providence. I was asked by a beautiful woman to go there.

There is the mixture of peace and evil in Rhode Island. It is no wonder L-

ovecraft had visions.

My life changed it’s course there. That is the most important part. I go

and I can feel the splinter. That is hard to explain. There is a sense of

sadness. As if it doesn’t actually exist. Mansions representing dead rea-

lities. The beaches. All of my memories of them are overcast. I didn’t go

when I should have.

This is the evil feeling of Rhode Island. Some ancient curse. There are w-

aves of energy under the Earth there. History changed. Those mansions were

built at tremendous cost. The Patriarcha Death Trip was initiated in a co-

llective, failing, consciousness. Heroin addicts pass out freely on the s-

treets today. Human trafficking “clubs” thrive.

Dead realities. Dying realities. I go and sense what is good is dying. I

don’t see a clear solution.

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