Money is my endless death. And yours too. We cry in this hell of burnt money (ashes!) with Jack Pickles, Satan, and all the sick angels - blood streaming from the eyes! This is the darkness we try to avoid. And this darkness, it takes us away to a world of pain that we love too much. A world of evil gold that weighs us down and torments us.
But we must remember. There is a better place.
O Stacy-Marie Ishmael, just like a beautiful little butterfly, you hover there on the astral plane. Smile for us sinners. O priestess of the holy cash, come to me!
