Boris K and Lara Croft

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Boris K. wanted to meet Lara Croft following the series’ cinematic adaption in order to capture her by the braids. Boris K. couldn’t really see Lara Croft as a female performer in the 3D platform action adventure Tomb Raider: Legend.

“She is a living lady,” Boris K. thought, dreaming: “This is the woman for me – unstoppable and constantly eager for new adventures.” Perhaps the only company I’ve ever desired… But where exactly should I meet her? He inquired, swallowing the last drops of vodka. Boris couldn’t find her despite his inexplicable superpowers.

Lara had spent some time in Peru looking for a strange relic from Kualopek’s tomb, and it was believed that she had returned from a hunting expedition in the Himalayas, where she had slain a four-meter-high yeti

“It’s simple, Boris K.,” said the local Zarathustra. “She may be found in every cemetery. She is waiting for the families of the dead to leave before picking up everything from the deceased’s table. Boris K cried with delight. Lara Croft knows the precise area of every cemetery in Belgrade, the fasting schedule… everything he ever desired as a prerequisite for his perfect life companion as he once published his marriage terms as an ad in Love Romance..

Boris K. has just begun his long-awaited job as a gravedigger when he sees a muscular female silhouette on the Phenomenal Plot of the Former Dictator of the Phenomenon of the Republic jumping on the graves of the Dead in a cat jump, light in reflection and soft in landing, holding Lancelot’s shield.

A woman with ponytails takes a coiled papyrus scroll from her bra, close to her heart. Boris K. would later discover that he holds one of the few copies of the most complete edition of the enigmatic Egyptian Book of the Dead, which has fascinated humanity for ages.

Boris K. emerges from the shadows: “I need a candle to read in the dark, miss.”

“Stay away, gravedigger; I’d better dig alone. “The scroll is visible.” “However, the candle provides illumination. “What exactly are you searching for, miss?”

“Chapter 181 sarcophagus – a mummy that assures the soul’s return to the body”

Boris K. drank from the flask. Lara looked at her with interest… and then at the enigmatic tiny man. He appeared to be known to her from somewhere…

“Boris K is my name. I work as a gravedigger. I bury the deceased in the earth like potatoes – Boris K. is perplexed by his own bad joke and shivers in terror.

“Funeral planning is a frigid job.” All those celestial funerals… But the superhero becomes accustomed to it “Lara fixed her gaze on the shovel.

As a toddler, she had gardening lessons from her scary horticulturist at the Hatfield House, who was believed to live forever and was oddly reminiscent of Boris K.

She yearned for the climbing net and the six steel, hot-dip galvanized twisted wires laced with polyamide rope as she ascended the climbers in the park that surrounding the home and older structures of the Old Court, previously possessed by Henry VIII. She also knew everything there was to know about digging, drilling, and overturning the ground.

She recalled her old children’s rake, which she had used in the autumn days, and that afternoon, when collecting fallen leaves, when she went to dig up her mother, she realized that her mother’s grave was empty, with all the remains. That’s how it all began…

They started digging together.

They dug with tenacity in the locations described by Boris K., and the earth was hard, unfriendly, and frozen, which was strange because it was May, and outside the environment was thick, humid, and scarcely tolerable heat, the true Gothic of the American South.

Boris K. began by wiping the perspiration off his brow. “Please allow me. This is not a job for a lady, Lara Croft said to Boris K.

Boris K. proposed that she be laid to rest in his graveyard on the outskirts of the central cemetery, which he was assigned to during the night shifts. “The house’s name is the Balkans.” It’s out of date, but it’s being updated soon. “Until then, I’ll keep doing exhumations,” Boris K. vowed.

Lara didn’t move…

Boris K. went to change, to collect extra equipment, a bag of riches, and everything they needed, and Lara took advantage of Boris’s absence, taking Boris’s paper with the location of the Central Cemetery and discovering that her copy was incorrect. She then grabs a hoe and gets to work.

“It’s him. It’s a creepy gardener. – While bringing the bodies out, Lara said angrily: “He most likely murdered my birth mother.” “At the very least, he knows where she is.”

Lara comes to the conclusion that Boris is one of those phenomena that should not be neglected. Or, at the very least, observe from a safe distance. It appeared familiar to her since she identified him as a bomber using surveillance camera video and eyewitness cell phones after a series of explosions on Basque Country beaches, but she is now certain she was mistaken. Boris’ trachea had no scars, despite the fact that the bomber had been shot in the throat.

She came to the conclusion that it was all Marvel’s fault. Boris was talking 19 to the dozen while digging. – “This is how he introduces himself and other characters into a slew of separate storylines before combining them into one extremely fulfilling event. He constructed his own linked universe in which he is a superhero with extraordinary abilities. Be rational, Lara. There is no such thing as a scary timeless gardener. This small man is a menace… Ah, there he is, Lara, calm… “

Boris K. reappeared, invigorated and happy, and offered that he continue digging himself. “We will dig the world’s deepest cemetery and put all our treasures there.”

“I have no option but to accept, however you will not be compensated for your labor,” Lara replied aloud, thinking to herself, “The belief in magical thinking is a clear schizotypal affliction. However, immortality is still a potential… Didn’t I discover the black holes on my own? “worms that bring eternity and wipe away people’s lives, including mine, when I went into them and came out with superhuman skills.” Perhaps my mother, Amelia, is locked in a parallel realm with an endless number of different destinies. Exactly like a gardener. Alternately, Boris K. – Boris, you will not escape me! I still need some answers! I must understand!”

Boris K. drilled tomb holes all night, and as Lara grabbed what she needed from each grave, Boris would place a rock in the hole. The grave robbing appeared to be rather straightforward.

“People allow themselves to be mummified in the expectation that they may be revived one day,” Lara explained.

“They may like company, but everyone is just as heartbroken as if they were dead.” Boris responded. “Aren’t you interested in those war veterans’ medals?” he said. “Plot 12B”

“Every bit counts,” the heroine remarked, “but my priority is a two-millennium-old woman.” Lara kept her gaze fixed on Boris’ flask. He then grabbed a hidden scroll from his quiver. Her secret trump cards were generally hidden in a button pocket of her military M65 trousers, but the secret scroll was longer than the Irish Morpet…

“What do you want for her?”

“Is it for vodka?”

“This is for the flask.” It’s a significant artifact.”

“The most ordinary stainless steel flask, I acquired it fairly inexpensively from the ancient Akkadians at the flea market,” Boris K. shrugged.

“That is where you are mistaken, Boris K.” It’s an ancient Phoenician ivory flask. The first millennium before Christ. I sipped the Qabr Hiram of Tire, the Phoenician king whose tomb I had just left, from this flask. I discovered a mummy in the sarcophagus, however it was missing the renowned flask with flower pattern.”

“Enough. Here you have it!” Boris slapped her on the back. He disliked being hampered in his efforts. “I agree provided you let me dig with you,” Lara Croft expressed gratitude. Lara pauses for a second before pulling the flask…

Lara then resolves to tell him her secret, crossing her fingers behind her back. What pleases him now will upset him later – she will rationally – so I will catch him in the act and know his identity, just as I found the secret of Phenomenization that I defy myself with… But does he as well… Lara, focus… Take precautions. The universe relies on you.

Then, with a beautiful grin, she said:

“I play games about you and your travels on a regular basis, Boris. I hold you in high regard. Wherever I go, any mummy that speaks or an artifact that demonstrates its strange power is a sign of Whom We Are Waiting for, Dead or Alive, with a biblical-like admiration for Boris K. the superhero, a seemingly drunkard and house painter, with a flask in his hand and a graph faber pencil that defies the phenomenon whose origins I am still researching… ” And we granted Boris the ability to see the origin and end of the world, as well as create and destroy it. Controlling lightning, thunder, droughts and earthquakes, storms and showers, curing illnesses… And the goddess of dawn will guard him from the dark turmoil… that goddess is me, Lara Croft”

Boris K. looked at Lara Croft, noticing that the drink had taken her under its wing.

Then he stated that he too plays games with her, that he views her as Teja, a woman of brilliance and gems, and that the Phenorepics think he’s insane because of it.

“Boris K., they’re digitophobic.” Of course, I am a living woman, but let it stay among us., superheroes”

Lara also stated that she was hungry. Boris K. joins Lara Croft at the funeral table, extolling the Scandinavian tomb.

“All we have to do is go to the Gamla Uppsala field together and dig.” There’s an even finer woman there than the one we’ve just discovered, dressed in Viking burial robes embroidered with Arabic letters.”

Boris K. spoke late into the night as they shared a flask and ate a fatty roast. Boris’ vodka was cursed in such a way that the flask could never be tested to the bottom.

When they were finished, the dead were two picks short of a load, starving in the underworld, and tomb raiders, in silence, aside from the occasional quarrel over who would eat the most Bavarian snacks from Regensburg, near the Danube, where the world’s oldest pretzels were discovered, with mouths full of charred earth from heavy digging, embark on a new campaign to desecrate the buffet on plot 12 / a.

BORIS’ DESCENT INTO HELL

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“The Adventures Of Boris K”
Leila Samarrai

Boris K. was sent by the Vatican to deliver sinners’ souls out of damnation.

“Just like Christ did once.” Do you aspire to be Christ, Boris? “To splatter the Lord’s blood on you?” Cardinal Pepe, flanked by authorities, smiled at him with a toothless smile.

(“Everyone has really long noses,” Boris K. observed.)

Boris K. wrapped his arms around the Vatican pillar. The baptismal tree fell before his eyes, as did flogging to death, a popular Roman sport…

His body burned in his wounds at the mere mention of the whip…

The cardinal frowned, smoothed the costly silk cardinal’s uniform, and poured expensive whiskey for Boris K.

“Calm down, Boris K. It is only hell.”

“I’m not going anywhere without Virgil!” “I’m a lost sheep without his guidance,” Boris K. moaned, turned on his heel, and boldly turned his back on the cardinal.

“Virgil has made it to the first round. Make your complaint to him, not to me. And now… Let’s raise a glass! “A present from the Roman Inquisition, son Boris,” Pepe smiled warmly, and the officials removed their congressional suits, revealing a Toledo-style attire.

Then he seized Boris K. and stripped him nude before putting on a penitential yellow robe with St. Andrew’s crimson crosses.

The Inquisitor then pointed at Boris while carrying a tumbler of whiskey in his other hand as the cardinal approached with a poker.

“Whiskey or the mark of the devil, Boris K. You choose.”

“God, if it’s your will… let this whiskey pass me by,” Boris K screamed. “At least if it was vodka, it would be simpler for me…” he reasoned.
To this, the cardinal replied: “Boris K., I swear to Hail Mary with three hands that if you execute your duty properly and respectfully, we will let you leave. You’re doing it for God’s sake, not mine “Cardinal Pepe gazed adoringly at the magnificent ceiling of the Apostolic Palace.

Boris K. went to hell after draining the liquid that a sadist monk had pushed down his throat, having nowhere else to go and fearing for his bare life.

In the ninth round, he awoke. He discovered Hitler conversing with an occultist at a back table, and it was the Roman Messalina.

“She has always shot high,” pondered Boris K., who reckoned the Roman Lolita deserved no higher than tenth…

“Yes, my blonde, that’s precisely where…” Jeremiah, you’re refilling now! And it all started with you, Paul! “

Hitler crossed something out in order to burrow further into the pile of documents on the table.

“Repent, O Führer – Boris K. before he went to Hell, he pulled out the paper provided to him by the Grand Inquisitor – The Sinner is Running Out of the Vatican.” Also, keep in mind:

“They shaved his mustache. He was, in fact, in the Andes. His hair has grown in hell, yet it burns too hot among the freezing horrors!”

“I can’t,” Hitler groaned. I’ll prepare them hell soup! Totalitarian cretins!”

“Hicco, return to Sodom and Gomorrah for me. – Messalina said — As the Roman Empress, the protector of public morality, I took Rome to its climax. Change marriage fornication, control intimate relationships, and prostitution. Let it simply be adultery.”

“Fine, just get rid of Chaste Joseph.”

Hitler and Messalina hugged at that point.

Boris K. scratched out Hitler’s name, wrote “Infidel,” and moved down to nine circle, towards Stalin.

“Everyone goes to jail! Jail, prison, prison! No, jail! “What… what?” He hastily turned left – right. – From where did the scream come? Is it becoming dark? Are you ringing, Љубљенка? Give me my Љубљенка, my honey! Ah, she’s finally arrived! I am content “, the dreadful commander, calmed down.
Then he spotted Boris K. He was staring at him with a cold, authoritarian gaze.

“I apologize,” Boris K. murmured. – You may leave hell if you wish. His Holiness has made you a tremendous offer.”

“Once again, the Vatican! What would the survival of the Catholic village children do to me? Surely, only the elite of Moscow!”

Boris K. scratched out Stalin’s name and moved down one circle, then down another. He was rejected for several reasons, beginning with Mussolini, who, according to Boris K.’s testimony, did well in the position of pimp. “I am a citizen of my own kin. After all, my trench was larger than Italy! “I have everything I desire.” Boris K. was also rejected by Mao Zedong and Kim Jong Il.

“We will turn China into a superpower!” A significant stride forward is unstoppable. Soon, there will be no feces for diners! That is the social strategy!”

Boris K. did not pass to Pinochet from the Fifth, nor to Margaret Thatcher, Nixon, Obama, or Bush Jr., who argued: “Who among us is the money god? “Is it me, me, or me?”

“Just as Dante said,” Boris K. sighed, caressing Pluto’s wolf, who looked in wonder at Western politicians.

Then he spoke to Boris K in a human voice: “I’ll request that I be moved to the crooks. This is overkill for me.”

Boris K. made it to the third round. Lawyers competed in the third level. It was not worth spending time for some souls.

Religious leaders fought in the second stage.

“They seem to be having a lovely time,” Boris K observed, expecting to discover what he sought in the First Round.

“Is everything all Well in hell?” Boris K. was perplexed. turning in the First Round, where TV hosts introduced a very popular show Almost everyone had crowded around the on-fire television set. Each round saw the arrival of fans of the TV show “Inferno.”

Boris K. also heard the announcer say, “Dear viewers, welcome to Inferno,” which was followed by ads, much to the pleasure of those in attendance.

The show went on eternally…

Boris K. discovered that everyone in Hell was content. The influence of the liquor wore off, and Boris K. found himself in the Vatican Palace before His Holiness.

– Your Eminence… – Boris K. said fearfully. Then submit a report to the Pope His Holiness shook his head.

Boris K was encircled by the Roman Inquisition. They extended their hands to him, as the friars moved in a circle around Boris K., carrying crosses in their palms. In a panic, the cardinal exclaimed:

“Do you mean we gave our word?”

The Pope broke out laughing, and the friars followed suit.

“Get him out!” The poor cardinal sobbed. “With a Spanish cutter, chop off his tongue!”

Borisa K. seized the hideous hands. The exquisite outfit was put on by the Pope’s fingers, which were edged with expensive jewels.

Boris K. realized there was nothing left to joke about, so he composed himself and accepted the instinctual, aggravating, and a bit confusing sense of survival.

“It isn’t everything! It isn’t everything!” Boris K. yelled. “I observed your coworkers; they sing dithyrambs in your honor, sarcastic tunes, with goat’s hooves and a nightingale’s voice… “Benedict, we miss you, Benedict!” they yell from the ekkyklema (1). “From the Vatican, our buddy!”

And thunder and lightning strike at every praise! You are a divinity to them, a hero!”

As soon as he heard that, the Pope leapt off his papal throne and locked himself in the papal toilet.

He didn’t go out for a few days. Cardinals and Inquisitors kept vigil in front of the Pope’s most private chamber, day and night.

Cardinal Pepe, the first candidate for Pope, was overcome with fear and ordered the Pope to leave chocolate mousse beverages and his favorite dessert, steeped in medical herbs, and told Boris K:

“Go inform the devil that the Pope is refusing to appear before him.”

Boris K. drank whiskey and there he was, already in front of grave sinners, via Phlegethos [2], suicides transformed into toxic branches, back to Hitler when he bid farewell to Wig Heil, which disgusted him, but he had no choice.

“Just right, then left,” Hitler said, raising his right hand at 45 degrees and tapping his heel on his heel.

Boris K. sends a hand signal and looks up. The Devil smiled at him from there.

“Good evening, Boris K.” Satan was surrounded by a bright nebula, from which he emerged. He had Angelina Jolie’s physique and Scarlett Johansson’s face.

“Do I resemble Grendel’s mother?”

Boris K. detected the odor of burning flesh. That is what Hitler burnt in hell.

“Boris K., we are not wasting time. I read your mind and drained the terror from your body. I want you to see me as an equal who can advise you on what to do. Boris K. cast an eye on Benedict after a long period. “They sold their soul to me for an eon and a half… – the devil calculated – and they haven’t come to me in a decade or two. It’s like paying a soul tax.”

Boris K. advances towards the gorgeous feminine body, tightening her hips as if mesmerized.

“Attacker!”, he was slapped by the devil, who said:

“Capture all of them and bring them to me.”

“Where will my soul go? Boris K. cried out and transformed into a wolf.

“She is currently with me. But don’t worry, I’ll return it to you “He promised Boris K. that the devil will exist outside of human dimensions and that his choices would not be understood, at least not in this story.

He filled his lips and smirked at Boris K., who was in a daze, as he poured a bottle of Russian-standard vodka down his neck, while Caiaphas’ priests and Judas cleaned up Hitler’s ashes.

“Allow him to be the new Pope. When it manifests again, he will have forgotten who he is.”

Boris K. envisioned actual hell plans. While changed into a beast, he squeezed the Pope like a piece of salted steak and took him to hell between his teeth.

On that day, Adolf Hitler was elected Pope by Cardinal Pepe’s body. Boris K. provided hell with numerous elderly Vatican souls in exchange for the devil returning his, this time in the guise of a humanoid hybrid.

Boris K. wept with delight and began to hug the devil when the demon thanked him and returned his soul…

So the devil freed Boris K. and told him:

“Go tell people that the world is a sad place where only I honor my promise.”

(1)
An ekkyklêma ( / ˌɛksɪˈkliːmə /; Greek: εκκύκλημα; “roll-out machine”) was a wheeled platform rolled out through a skênê in ancient Greek theatre. It was used to bring interior scenes out into the sight of the audience. Some ancient sources suggest that it may have been revolved or turned.
[2]
Phlegethos was the fourth layer of the Nine Hells

Hell 2


Yes. this will be my Hell now.And now we move to transcendence to Ubermensch (beware, Nietzsche beware!), we transcend the horizon – to impossible spheres where there’s something that’s there all the time, waiting all the time to be found, but it must be sought beyond the horizon at the worth of living. Cosmic insights. the great mystery of dark riddles whose resolution shines type of a diamond. A mysterious substance pulsates within the dark because it waits to be found.

Transcendence as deception

The breakthrough, in consciousness, of the earthly Quarantine-Hell-Prison, the self-liberation and overcoming of the forces that make and sustain them – must suffer from uncertainty, like most abstractions – the traveller behind the unfathomable deceptions reaches for the impossible. he or probably she is tired of living during a body that’s complex of minerals, she is chasing something more, and where she must be more aggressive than Achilles in his trip to the astral. we must not reveal what it’s … even the seeker isn’t sure. She just knows it’s something waiting to be found. maybe something… sinister, too… the seeker has neither god nor master.

Her master is blood. She lives happily in blood, ashes and dirt. On the due to the horizon, she may meet angry and horrible pirates, black, bloody galleys … and swords .. but she wants to urge there … behind .. for a lump of the sun, she’s going to kill and may probably die early.

Therefore on departure, she says that the soul for her means a degree higher and let the Iliad, Homer so on…

Let the devil carry all of them.

Let a temple be built white as a monastery for Ophelia!

Leila Samarrai.

Happy Odunde!* The Firecracker Man, Cheers to a New Year!



Boris K. has been so stressed lately. Luckily, it is New Year’s Eve, so he has easy access to smoke bombs. The neighbours can hear the hiss, thud, crash!, Whizzz, and heeeee of firecrackers Boris K. sets up and ignites one by one in the house, from the sofa. He has decided that rather than wash dishes, he will simply blow them up. So he launches rockets into the air with a loud bang that break dishes, shatter glasses, collapse walls and turn forks into shrapnel-sharp and tinny enough to pierce the roof and violate the sound barrier. While smoke and the entire colour spectrum spill onto Boris K., an event that could only happen in Neverland, Boris returns to the memory of his first marble. As the neighbours wake in horror from sweet dreams to find themselves fearfully screaming at the vision of an apocalyptic earthquake, Boris K smiles and sinks into a blissful dream.


*Happy New Year’s Eve, Odunde (means “Happy New Year” in the Yoruba Nigerian language) and other holidays! For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. – T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

For, living in fear is a death that never ceases.


Fear often recurs, fear often repeats itself, he has tact, he is musical, he likes to preen, very sure of himself, constant grooming. he gets closer and faster to our hairs and says, I’m here, I love you.
Fear is a kind tenant to us, he pays his rent on time, he truly understands us, he cares about our toothache while crying out loud he would alert us to Mrs Flamehead, the landlord, a wicked woman hooked up forever with a broom and with a cloth scarf on her head
You have to run away, says Fear, you have to run away, his words have it a great sound of reprimand, his cold sentences, like icy droplets of sweat, in search of a wet knot made of piles of weakness.
For, living in fear is a death that never ceases.

An open call to ones, an open despise to others


as an author of the maxima: human hypocrisy should be respected because virtue is not worth the effort, I’m not surprised nor should I react differently than throaty laughter, but all those who, for some reason, secretly and not publicly address me with ah: ah, you’re so talented, I have never heard of these things to exist at all .. I have learned so much from you or — your brain is a precious instrument … etc (I can corroborate all this with letters ..) or those who persistently follow my blog when I turn to them for concrete help, they remain silent .. I do not count the famous archive -1-checkup early in the morning –  from Serbia, I know one hen that gets up earlier than a rooster ..I know who it is, it is a female mental patient under control…
I am waiting for the doomsday when the psychiatrist will allow her to call me… or whoever she chose to be her tutor nowadays. –  to welcome her.
I will not be able to continue my work that would be much better and I would write more and you would enjoy my work much more if you would only give me a little help, if not materially, then in the form of technical assistance (translations, someone
to help me with marketing and procedure)
Looks like you would love to do it, but living in the dreaded fear of what I could become if I had the crumb of luck to make money the way you made it …
I cannot prevent you from spying on my blog, reading, anyone with their intentions, I tell you openly, I despise you and if it depends on me, I would ban you on reading my works. and maybe I will.
this does not apply to people who do not know me. admittedly, neither do those who claim to know me, know me at all.
but unfortunately, I got to know them by their deeds.
unfortunately, talent and money rarely go together, and today, more than ever, money determines who will publish books and who does not.

 

I am not sure what am I writing I know it must be done, in Serbian first


I started writing a horror story, starting with Serbian about what has happened and it goes well and I won’t reveal it until it is finished, be it a novel or novelette.. It doesn’t make a sense but I translated only this part to you because I heard it with all the music that I managed to remember and to write before it faded away. When I am done with this story it would be a PTSD manual modernised for I did not see googling someone had it.. ever. Or I am too creative 
Still, it is psychedelia and an occurrence above earthly understanding, therefore it will stay like that in Serbian til I get help from the professional translator)
***

Hallucinations started day Five –


This is a part when I am having “something” about evil neighbour grom Bosnia. A retard by profession – I have written down this and there was more.. I couldn’t write the music down because I do not know how to put down repercussion. (I played string instrument..)
SIMO:
I see you, I see … Damn you! Witch! Witch! ”
Simo, with The Šajkača on his head, squints, crossed his legs in front of an Ottoman Bosnian house. Several more of his tribal compatriots hold drums near the Blokbau log cabin. Sima’s cousin Mica, owner of the STR Klenak store, has his own Riegelbau, a Bosnian Muslim house of Turkish origin.
“From the garden from the yard ..”
(Sima hits the drums, followed by a chorus of percussion from the surrounding Klenak yards)
A group of refugees who fled the Turks, settled at the bottom of the valley between two major roads and they made Klenak, they made the westernmost settlement in the municipality of Grocka, Kaluđerica:

Sibislave, O lilies among thorns
in trouble let the Mater get help
It went dark, then light again … it went Klenak (his old voice cracked,)
(the rest of the tribe unison: Klenak!)
a Klenak within Klenak
There’s Klenak walking, Klenak talking, Klenak eating while you’re asleep.
Oh Serbian gentlemen!
to harden uçkur waistband
to bind ill ‘ for the Good-natured, Simo,
for lightning will not strike Simo
(tribe: And Simo begat Elijah, Elijah of Sima begottenSimo’s Elijah)

KLENAK!
we pray to the higher God
for the mother to heal
and her daughter his heart became haughty.
They owe too many bills to Simo
hoorah, hooray, hurray, and huzzah
(rhythm amplifies to deafening noise)
vertical point
brandy for the old man
and lazy pie with
hot dog
for Sima and Elijah his
for Stephen Tvrtko, the King of Bosnia
will inherit a living slave
the goods of eternally living slaves
22 years Simo walked with God
when begat Elijah
and Elijah begat Noone that made him a queer.
and Layla was begotten by those Munthir Muharem
and Elijah (Simo) of Klenak
(a spooky tribe screams in unison, with percussion:
Klenak, Elijah, let him be Elijah Elijah of Simo!)

and it goes on.. and on…my head is like of Caligula’s during migraines 

The Devil’s Eye


During a (to put it mildly) a stressful event when my mother’s life was in jeopardy, I was just going to say that I didn’t hear music, I heard an entire orchestra with all the accompanying libretto … with material for at least one book .. I wrote something down, and the rest went into oblivion. mostly – and it is the pretty articulated libretto, as well as the orchestra – After all, I had the feeling that things were happening outside my body.
the researches talk about auditory hallucinations during trauma after a stressful event, this was happening during my attempt to relive what’s going on.
what baffles me, now from this distance, is the behaviour of the cats during the occurrence …
“Neurologists report a unique case of a woman who hears music as if the radio were playing in the back of her head. The case raises” intriguing questions about memory, forgetting and access to lost memories. ”
This has never happened to me before, nor is it after. I wrote down what I was able to write as I heard it, and inspired by it I wrote something .. I only intend to write a horror story when my English is better 
they looked at something beside me and climbed to the top of my body as if they wanted to protect me from something. I did not move for 20 days except when I went to the hospital to tell the quarantine staff whether my mother was alive or dead. I was less than 57 kg (only measured once when my mother was better)
of course, no one helped me, not even the doctors or the treacherous bitch from my friend. (with integrity and creative solutions on the spot. 
Quite contrary.
What I was experiencing made me believe that everyone was just pretending to be normal. When the mother came out, they put on their masks again. But I saw them in the right edition.
I am seeing them all the time even when they try to smile, it is a gross and spooky…  But… but mostly they kind of smell like they were discovered .. haha, did you really buy this? I exaggerate of course 
the good thing about stress: I’m skinny and you are fat! Especially after devouring the holidays… Ah, hedonists!

The Devil’s Eye

Seven years old,
small and skinny
my mother taken away from me
left alone with a voice
my other self
in my head whispering and laughing
everything constant echoes

HIS VOICE

deep and dark
cackling evil
clawed words and hooked tongue
bleeding me on the inside
thriving on my pain
growing louder, growing softer
dragging me in, making me hear

Mum started to heal
and he started to fade
leaving me with scars
and memories
raw inside
like a sliced off steak
still bleeding

Father’s shadow
stained my path
insidiously oozed inside my head
sent tendrils into my heart
his fingers leaving oily traces
on my pink dress