Juliette des esprits

Julieta swims mentally in a sea of dulce de leche & incests lit by the tricolore crystals of her jardín, o invernadero where the branlettes live.

At the white of her calves, the denim skirt floats like a wombat, and afloats, surrounded by the astral void absolute.

Possibly her conchal vaginality devours a bit the pale oranje knickers, while Juli eats tangerine cookies with drinkable youhghourth: she is seated, and her nates say no to the chair.

An usual habit of her afternoons is her conversations with the spirits of those who have walked away before, housed on the aquiline nest of her clitoris, her fingers make her sex see fantasmas: 

Giulietta degli spiriti.

Is horryble, really horryble and horryd to visit Giulietta in her house, all haunted by family ghosts that fly like creatures of semen in the inchanted hydrogen of that mansion.

She killed her family

one by one

and ate their hearts

she painted her lips with thee blod of her little brother Giulettino, and devoured thee testicles of her father and the tits of her mother, all fried in olive oyl?

Notwithstanding her repugnant habits are all forgiven by the angels of wool, who dwell in the cusp of the house: at evening they lick her peach of honey over the crimsonwhite bed

Julieta de los espíritus.

All her spiders and her fuckboys are dead and gone: Iulietta weeps a bit like an adolescent, though she's 30 and more: by the street, a manifestation of dead Italian people passes by screaming out loud and protesting about politics and such

the denouement of the scene shows Juliette des Vampires wanking sumptuously over a catafalque, using exotic birds and fruits to her vaginitis, like a Phrygian or Minoan Rhea-Cybele, burning in her self-fucking ipso facto:

meanwhile, under a purpley sun descending at the twilight's air of Libra, Demeter calls for the sirens on the hill.