hot asphalt at night.
From a long distance, a flock of flying cockroaches was perceived, red and flying cockroaches with translucid carcasses. Dorian Mitchum called them "transnudens carcasses", for some strange reason.
This one was one of the few sentences his lips pronounced.
The flying and red insects shaped the line of the horizon as if it were a red dildo, surrounded by the white of the night.
This one was one of the few sentences his lips pronounced.
The flying and red insects shaped the line of the horizon as if it were a red dildo, surrounded by the white of the night.
The white of the night.
It didn't take Dorian Mitchum too long to understand that he was in Hell.
It didn't take Dorian Mitchum too long to understand that he was in Hell.
Dorian Mitchum was in Hell.
The primordial waters ran aside with luzbeline rumour: it was the so-called Lethe, the silent river of Hypnos, the waters of oblivion and forgetfulness.
The primordial waters ran aside with luzbeline rumour: it was the so-called Lethe, the silent river of Hypnos, the waters of oblivion and forgetfulness.
Oblivion and forgetfulness.
Down here, in the Asphodel Meadows, where the dawns always end before their light may illuminate: here, down here.
I observed Dorian Mitchum observing minutely the grey highway for the last time: from a distance, a flock of flying cockroaches was perceived, by my eyes.
I watched Dorian Mitchum watching them: red and translucid cockroaches, flying.
The flying and red insects shaped the line of the horizon as if it were a red dildo, surrounded by the white of the night, which hailed over our heads.
The white of the night which hailed over our heads.
It didn't take (me) too long to understand that (I) was in Hell. I was in Hell.
Down here, in the realms of Aether and Nyx, on this canicular road all covered in coagulated blood and polished by furious thunders, this zone which is enemy of Hemera, enemy of the daylight.
Down here, in the Asphodel Meadows, where the dawns always end before their light may illuminate: here, down here.
I observed Dorian Mitchum observing minutely the grey highway for the last time: from a distance, a flock of flying cockroaches was perceived, by my eyes.
I watched Dorian Mitchum watching them: red and translucid cockroaches, flying.
The flying and red insects shaped the line of the horizon as if it were a red dildo, surrounded by the white of the night, which hailed over our heads.
The white of the night which hailed over our heads.
It didn't take (me) too long to understand that (I) was in Hell. I was in Hell.
Down here, in the realms of Aether and Nyx, on this canicular road all covered in coagulated blood and polished by furious thunders, this zone which is enemy of Hemera, enemy of the daylight.
From the seven hills that surround this city, because it's a city, wolves with abnormally long craniums smile... This is the long road-city where the lightning of the sky rolls, full of furor, this is the theater of abomination where the goddess Styx embraced the love of Phlegethon, and was consumed by his flames.
Huts on fire, sweat and a (never absolute) darkness it's all that can be seen under these orange skies.
Huts on fire, sweat and a (never absolute) darkness it's all that can be seen under these orange skies.
You observed me observing Dorian Mitchum observing minutely the grey highway for the last time.
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