Writings of a Geomantic Nature

Day:.001

[I am facing 523 degrees South East.]

My hands and feet are cold.

Day:.002

[I am facing 237 degrees South West.]

I feel complete in the midst of debris.

Day:.003

[I am facing 120 degrees South East.]

I do not want to be hairy on the inside anymore.

Day:.004

[I am facing 173 degrees South.]

I have a strange taste of blood in my mouth.

Day:.005

[I am facing 73 degrees East.]

My star has fallen. I am tip-toeing across the floor so my nails will not click on the wood.

Day:.006

[I am facing 73 degrees East.]

My friend had a dream about brutally killing a shark. I cannot get the image out of my head. I told her that she had murdered a part of herself and it was a mercy killing.

Day:.007

[I am facing 299 degrees North West.]

I am looking for drawings about war. I am weary of answering questions.

Day:.008

[I am facing 313 degrees North West.] I am NOT an agent of chaos, but I might be a puppet.

Day:.009

[I am facing 112 degrees East.]

My house shoes are missing. I have noticed lately that various items are moved or lost for small amounts of time and returned to the place I left them and already looked. Dials, buttons and other mechanisms are moved, pushed back, etc. I thought it was me being forgetful, preoccupied or for drinking too much in the evening after work. I do not want to fuel these occurrences, but I am keeping a close eye on the small things. I also sleep with three alarm clocks as of late.

Day:.010

[I am facing 172 degrees South.]

I am hairy on the inside, but silver armor encases it. I wear golden armor on the outside and silver on the inside.

Day:.011

[I am facing 274 degrees West.] It is the armored warrior who forever battles the fanged and clawed, hairy Beast. Both are wrong and both are right.

Day:.012

[I am facing 42 degrees North East.]

I do not feel well. The front of my mind is numb and I cannot concentrate. I have washed my face three times today and changed my clothes four times. I feel obliterated. A small black hole is pushing on the inside of my skull and trying to get out.

Day:.013

[I am facing 182 degrees South.]

A star "can not breathe without noise."

Day:.014

[I am facing 306 degrees North West.]

Last night, I did find a nozzle left open on purpose closed. I am seriously monitoring these phenomena and leaving simple devices with dials, switches and levers at certain noted positions. This activity seems to be isolated to these types of apparatuses.

Day:.015

[I am facing 103 degrees East.]

She always talks to the bus driver every day, even though it is usually a different person. I find this strange, as though she is paying him homage for transporting her. She is very beautiful.

Day:.016

[I am facing 0 degrees North.]

My GOD is Chaos and I hate Him. I am not His servant, but I am forced to knell before Him.

Day:.017

[I am facing 120 degrees East.]

I do not like being alone.

Day:.018

[I am facing 215 degrees North.]

I am attempting to eradicate all signs of my daily activities, like erasing your footprints in the cold dirt.

Day:.019

[I am facing 112 degrees East.]

I am mutating prayers.

Day:.020

[I am facing 306 degrees North West.]

There is a significant difference between a house and a home. A house is an empty shell. A home is a feeling that encases you when you are away. I am very anxious about these words.

Day:.021

[I am facing 0 degrees South.]

Today, I am allowing you to see these words for the first time. The End.

Nullify Intellect with the Pure Hostility of Instinct

Abandon the lawful and sacrifice everything to walk on all fours again. Obtain the secrets of the ninth point at the centre of the eight-sided cross, as the snake struggles against its crucified station upon the crux. The burning, iron box that  holds the secret animal, keeps it senseless and drunk. The cuffs that bind its legs to the cement and concrete dulls its powers and makes it impotent with a rage for all that humans make and touch. Remember your lustful longings that rise from the scent of wet leaves and moist dirt and soaked stone. You want to run until your lungs burn. You want to run until your feet bleed. Climb the city walls and cast yourself into the deep damp dark of the unexplored outside, immune to the trespasses of sentries, soldiers and even spies. You want to sleep in the forbidden tree beneath an open sky of stars in the silence of light. You want to discard your camouflage of weak, man flesh that allows you to hide beneath the Earth’s star. You want to tear out that which is hairy on the inside and speak in the tongues of the hoary. Like a falling star pretending to be the Devil. Like the decapitated head of an ancient king pretending to be God. Remember and put out the burning box. Loose the bindings and stealth yourself back into the wet forest of the forgotten. Sleep with angels and demons and see in the day and night. I could write to you forever and ever, but you need to sleep to dream.