She quivers and quakes ecstatic feeling his soulseed mushroom up his spine engulfing her, and all is fierce along the watchtower, free in bliss-growls. She blooms a thousand faces and he reclines as the Void.
"Why does the fuckhead archon machine rule?" he murmurs punk-gnostically to her fragrant tresses.
"Shitty sheep baaahhh’s the constituency," she breathes into his chest.
"We need something besides solar vampire fantasies."
"Brand recognition for Truth."
"Transcendental blood knowledge."
"Release from the brain drain of official rhetorical corruptions since time immemorial."
"Muscling of the masses into Zen instantaneity – much wailing and gnashing of teeth."
"Ha."