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.