Letters to a Fetishist Vol. III

Letter 5:

Dagaz Eihwaz Fehu

The box. Fear the box. Live the box. Eat the box. Hit the moon with the faces of Odin. Rage against my pillars of truthiness for they are the undoing of man in so many lines of twisted yarn. I will build this temple from the ruins of nature and blow wind upon its feverish face. Is this not the way it was intended? To scry the meaning of pensiveness in the fires of the present? I can eat bears.

Look at the finger...the heavenly glory is unimportant. The finger is connected to the meaning behind the abstract expression of the profound individual chastising you. He is a loathsome, offensive brute. The ice of polar bears stings upon my skin before I am appropriated to the jaws begging to tear into my meaty center. What more could you want of such innate gestures of penance?

Feast upon the tired and meek. Let them fill you till you overflow. Heat the fires of the forge with their passions and insecurities alike. Let them eat cake and then, eat them. Fear the indigestion that they could cause and you will miss out on all of the good tasty giblets.

As is above, so is below.