Letters to a Fetishist Vol. 1

Letter 1:

Fuck your eternal basking in snow-clad mildew!

Your mother speaks to me in tongues I do not understand! Even though there is a part of me that loves her, some deeper faction of my soul screams, "I am the Wizard of Fire! Eat Cthulu's delicious shapes and bask in ersine semen!" That is to say, my hazardous juice-mongering has created quite a stir in the Byzantine empire...I mean, for fuck's sake, I habitually wrote letters to Corinth as if the entire city was a personal friend of mine.

Why do you hate me? I love the face meat of David Hasselhoff, just like everyone else. Why do you reject me? FEEL MY HEATED FORGE OF ABSOLUTENESS! It feels like candy tastes...bitter and cold. I really like butter. It's like a stick of death and fire. In one convenient package. And I lick rocks. And sometimes midgets. WHERE IS MY FINGERLESS GLOVES!? THE ONE'S WITH ENDLESS HEARTBREAK ATTACHED TO THE END OF A BIT OF STRING!?

I named my pager. Isn't that cute? You should too. So what's your pagers name...I'm waiting.


Electrician's day!

Letter 2:

Subjugated light horses tear off my face!

I am the wind that screams at the hooker in stark contrast to her feverish labors! I gargle the blood of saints for the orphans of chaos so that they may partake in useless endeavors. I look like the feet of a gnat with the face of an instant hobo in the hearts of men. Many fear the great musk of the almighty swine but it is of my perspiration. My stench marks the great passing of time. None can escape it.

Hearken thee to the dismal plain of angel excrement! It tastes like marshmallows and grants the powers of extrapolation! I sit and cry in the dark with no one to care for my horrid bones because it makes me violently happy. Death eater! Death eater! Sit on the window sill of spilled formaldehyde and make haste with the cookies. Fear makes me poop.

My art is the unfortunate. I sit in the Millennium Falcon steered by God and enter the smite room. It is filled with the song of a million people stubbing their toes in unison. The grumbling of misplaced car keys and broken heels. The runner in their stockings beatifies the world one loose thread at a time.

I will leap like a freak and grab the pyramids with my still smoldering hands. You are bat-shit crazy my friend. Maximum Satan.