She Comes in Colours
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 26
*
The words and minds of all the
strangers anchor them to gormless norms, rejecting gifts of psychic presence,
shrinking them to local forms. The satyr’s touch has left a stark imbalance in
its turgid wake; disharmonies that warp the mood that lovers always give and make
and rendering all artistry and synchrony a fraud, a fake.
The world remains
a lyric theatre - a performance witnessed from firelit wings of a shadowy
stage by blissful lovers slipping and sliding through cackling cantata in an
immortal kata; conjoined at hips and breasts and brows and lips while brilliant
stars and fey chimera giddily wheel round the central axle of their heartfelt
fusion
The
wheezing satyr melds into the shadow of the Lady Racheal’s dancing tresses and
transforms into a particlad harlequin creature; a spectral phantom with
glimmering fangs and gleaming eyes affixed upon the psychedelic psychic
priestess’ bobbing, mashing, rollicking breasts. It licks its lips and speaks; “S’no
hassle, man, no worries, no strife.”
The shapeshifter’s
long-nailed knobbly hand squeezes all the way round the trance-riding priestess’
silken arm as her prince looks on, bemusedly stunned but unamused as his lover
continues to ride, regardless. Their lovemaking is completely unstoppable,
emotion in motion, fuelled by passion and high grade acid, ethanol, hash and
the Lord Kha-Aan’s chalice of mysterious offerings.
The
tripping teens are completely enmeshed in a slippery jumble of limbs and images
- walls of sound, entire zoologies of smells and sensations, all molten and
cooked in a synaesthetic soup - far, far out and unnervingly close they loose
all boundaries, completely absorbed in the moment of wonder, united and
sundered with each tender touch and deep stabbing thrust.
The
satyr’s touch is the merest, faintest, meagre portion of the Lady Racheal’s
transmogrification. Her ongoing climax throbs inside her loving lover’s
translucent meat. It screams right through his springing bones as lyrics and
voices mingle and warp in twinkling galaxies of dazzling darkness. She’s a
wilful extension of her mate’s lusty will; he’s a vision she brings into incarnate
being, reflecting desire through love’s refraction as they writhe and twine in undying
attraction. He rides within the unchartable form of his Lady Racheal’s
supersensory storm as she rides him through planes of dizzying shadow - riding
each other through shimmering realms of multiplex meaning and meaningful
wonder.
Hypnotised
by visceral motions, heavenly scents, stunning sights and ecstatic emotions, her
absorbed young man scarcely notes the mundane intrusion of matter’s illusion. His
tricksy bride seems unperturbed by the shaggy stranger’s uncalled for proximity
or importune manhandling, or the windy sigh of drunken breath that shifts
across her silken skin. She soars and rides in an inner dance through oblivious
heights of ecstatic trance, communing with a deeper part of her psychedelic
psychic psyche.
He catches
a glimpse of another mind, the spirited soul of an ancient self who rides with
and within her exultant being - a wise and canny antecedent reclaiming reality
through the teenage priestess’s vesicle flesh. She wraps and winds her rhind
around him, melds her blazing need to his, calling forth his inner guide to
complement her yearning love with a striving, writhing needful tug that draws
his guardian forth as bid.
A blast of
wordless poesy fills their bright resplendent streaming souls as the sightless
veil that separates them simply fades and falls apart. Minds unite and scenes
ignite inside their paranormal sight and all the world reverts to light and all
within it living art – each splendid scene an endless moment, a liquid, limpid,
languid brushstroke revealing and replacing dreams in streaming waves of teeming
schemes. The rider and the willing ridden show themselves as they are bidden to
the eyes of all those hidden in the fire lighted hall, revelling in naked play while
others stare or glance their way to watch the stark revealed display of lusty
sex’s siren call.
The
stranger’s grabbing, grappling hand is a slight distracting band of transience
that fades before their blinding act of binding love - the only living truth
amidst pervasive human hubbub thrall that fills the tribal house and hall as
gabbling sounds abound above. They recombine in dancing time to the rhythmic rhyming
chanting chime that streams through all the tripping minds and bodies in the dark
longhall. Racheal is pneumatic, gracious, automatically tenacious, bold and
brazen and bodacious, skyclad idol of them all.
She reels
and moans, eyes flashing bright, alighting on her man’s delight, strangely roused
by all the fright and unforgotten sights of rites as her lover raises her to
heights of passion at her call. He cups her breasts, she grips him tight,
enraptured raptors in full flight through the fancy chancy psychic night, while
those about them crawl.
She’s locked
around the blooming locus of her senses, mind unfocused, drifting off through
hocus pocus realms as rider and the ridden, cleft to hilt as flesh is bidden by
an ancient force that’s hidden in her form’s encasing midden, a mesmerising
inner call. An ancient elder moves within her, guiding the naïve beginner,
mounting her as a lover in her body-mind, like a piercing awl - freed from a
cyst by the catalyst and bold defying sexy tryst of youthful spirits that persist
beyond their ancient fall.
Their
mating dance is paean and prayer, a sacred rite in the tribal lair, enacting joy
that all may share their immortalising Tantric tryst; a point most guests have surely
missed as they weave and waver, stoned and pissed, though many think they’ve
caught the gist when the satyr grabs the girl’s slim wrist – she sloughs him
off with a simple twist and the satyr forms a knobby fist as he exits up the
stair.
“Where’s
the bong?”
“Turn up
the volume!”
“I always
call ’em ‘she’, jussin’ case…”
“Fuck this
hippy shit!”
“Rock ’n’ Roll!”
“Fuckin’ doll allright!”
“I’ll be back,” the beast declares through
drunken rants and glistening stares as it slinks and slithers off upstairs - a satyr
seeking better luck; someone to drink or thing to suck or preferably to fondle
and fuck as he searches for an unsealed door. A darkling mass of human shapes fills
the hippy hall with jests and japes, heaving to music it hears and makes in hooting
cries through blacked-out breaks, and those who have the knack to stare while
they dance and tack toward the pair of lovers whose every move is bare to their
gaze see ever more. The quartet of teens is half-hid inside a flickering darkness
far offside the blazing hearth where flames abide, yet slashes of light pierce
their joyful hide through weaving cracks as dancers glide and weave through
slack gyrations on the crowded longhall’s floor.
“Welcome,
strangers – enter the Realm of Centraxis and freedom!”
“Ooh,
look! They’ve got a fire going!”
“She’s all
waxed ‘n’ buffed ‘n’ oiled ‘n’ all – fully lubed ‘n’ ready t’ rip…”
“What’s
‘baba nam kevalam’ mean?”
“Avert
thine unworthy gaze, varlet!”
“Can’t
wait to floor ’er – take ’er all the way!”
“Turn up
the music!”
“’Sa
fuckin’ free cunt innit?”
“Summun
turn on the lights…”
“But she’s the cat’s mother…”
“Fuck
that’s strong!”
The shaman prince plunges deep and
deeper with every second swollen thrust, retrieving his love from her
Neverland to satisfy his mounting lust while Racheal returns to keep and keeper
of her keenest, deepest trust, retrieving her flesh from the elder spirit, who flows
aside as she knows she must from the young girl’s living clay. Ram’s lover gives
him what he asks, responding with rhythmic moans and gasps she grips his shaft
with viscid grasps and female masticating clasps of membranes, muscle and secret
arcs of flesh made bliss on a florid barque; makes love on a lotus ’midst
circling sharks their love must hold at bay.
“ ‘Don’t
worry, be happy.’ ”
“Oh Arnie,
Arnie…”
“Mayhap
’tis time to turn them on; one at least
- dost ye reckon?”
“Yer want
summa these?
“Told ya this’d be a great party…”
“Jesus is
your best friend in all the world, sister…”
“Nah, want
summa that!”
The entire
building, street, city, the wide, wild world and multiplex universe share in
the screaming annihilation of their rampaging climax. The blown away lovers are
vaguely aware that Arné and Crystal are flying and singing from the same
celestial libretto, vibrating and soaring through the same immortalising
eternity of psychedelic Tantric immolation alongside and within their quivering
beings.
The
afterglow continues for an aeon of nirvana as they meld into a unity of
unutterable bliss…
They slowly
drift down the face of a receding wave, unreeling from hypnotic heights of utterly
synchronous higher consciousness and the marvellous, intimately magical world gradually
loses a layer of poise and poetry as flashes of light blind their faraway eyes.
Colours dim and thoughts stop booming through the cavernous canyons of their
intertwined minds as the sounds of the party bust through their reverie,
bursting their bubble of mutual absorption with an audible POP as a champagne
bottle lands somewhere nearby in the clotted darkness.
The young shaman’s
eyes sliver open and he watches the Lady Racheal’s fey familiars revert to
snakes which circle both her flushed pink breasts in shrinking spirals, poised
to take a nibble on her shining nipples with an addiction no lesser taste can
slake; juveniles entranced by mother, source of sauces - to life, love and each
other as they orbit and twine round her silvery lunar orbs.
Racheal’s
breasts are perfect satellites for her radiant face and her solar halo of firelit
hair. He reaches to cup those orbiting orbs in supplicant upraised open palms
and feels serpents entwine through his spreading fingers as her shockingly soft
skin swells into his grasp. Conversations sail round the hall to skim through
the orchestral chaos of minds and bodies and carom through the semiconscious
chorus of singing bloodstreams - a rhythmic dance that imbues them all with
unseen unity in a jostling, bustling, buzzing hive whose intricate harmony few
can perceive and fewer believe.
“…doncha
worry, that lamb knew what it was doin’...”
“Poodit
away – you’ll avta fine wunnuya own.”
“We need
to be staunch, man – we gotta hold
the hardest line.”
“How
much?”
“Less go
home, darl – I don’ wanno more, less go t’bed.”
“…really,
actually ban the bomb…”
“Hey, Bogart! Over here!”
“Y’got a
nempty room?”
“All of it.”
“Fuck me
dead!”
“Wow!”
His Lady Racheal
is more than a priestess, or even High Priestess; the White Goddess incarnate
rears above him, a flowing glow of white gold in the shape of his woman. Her
brow ignites in a glowing blue orb, a perfect match for the sapphire glints
that gleam down at him from sockets of shadow in the lambent semidarkness. His
mind’s eye fills in the darkest places, wreathing Her form with lines of energy,
swirls of colour and webs of encoded meaning.
She keeps slowly
riding, gliding down and upward through a psychedelic rapture of perpetual
fulfilment, ribcage heaving and nostrils flaring with every deep breath. Her
molten image doubles and redoubles with stroboscopic motion in his dazzled
sight as her puckered aureoles swirl and ignite into spinning scarlet
cartwheels - faithful mirror images of the blue-centred indigo orb that emerges
at the centre of her fulsome brow. Paisley leaves shimmer through fluorescing
rainbows that sprout from her margins and twist into turbulent tongues of multihued
flame.
Her body reignites
into motion and returns to its natural rhythm as Racheal strives for endless release
from the lissom leash of tumultuous flesh. She bounces and squeezes ever more
rapidly in an ascendant series of gasping breaths that guide her young man’s
rhythmic impalements as he thrusts upward to meet each gripping, ringing,
clenching grasp. Her hair is a writhing, living flame and fernery scrolls
unwind and untwist through her vellum skin while perfect rolling fulsome breasts
cartwheel toward his parted lips.
“Any
munchies?”
“You’re not my judge, mister, or anyone
else’s.”
“How much
d’ya wannit?”
Fingernails
scratch past Ram’s ribs and scrape into his hips as his beloved forcibly pulls
his crown right up through the gates of her unopened womb. Her cry is muffled
by resonating blasts from overhead speakers that vibrate inside their deepest
marrow as his eyes scrunch shut with overwhelming ecstasy; “Fulfil me!”
“Thy word
is my command,” he thinks he says, then realises his mouth is crammed with a
slippery tongue not his own, nor hers. A
brilliant flash shines right through his eyelids, outlining an intricate
tracery of blood-red webbing on a background of glowing carmine.
Like when you died, he tells
himself.
Don’t think of that, he
replies. Not now…
As another
girl’s mouth slips away from Ram’s lips his eyes open to tripartite flags that spit
flaming sparks in dizzying spirals around Racheal’s outstanding barber pole
nipples; mesmeric icons that completely absorb his expanded attention… he
forgets about wondering who he’d been kissing.
“Fuck me
dead!”
“I still
reckon she’s better in the dirt…”
“Less jus’
do it here.”
“Not on
yer life!”
“Got the
grunt fer it, that’s fer sure.”
“Turn up
afuckin’ music!”
“Now
wouldst be fitting.”
“We can
crash here…”
Racheal
releases a deep-seated groan that rears up from her loins to rip through her ramrod-filled
belly, pours through the untamed tips of her flaming breasts and emerges through
her wide open, swollen, blood-flushed lips in the full-throated rumble of a roaring
lioness. Through deafening heartbeats all the noise in the outer world is
stilled by her full throated roar.
It’s
impossible to tell where word and thought end, where flesh and intention begin
anew in the maelstrom of unbecoming. Everyone is an aspect of every one and
every one is All. The cosmos is filled with onlooking eyes that witness each
fleeing moment from unnumbered perspectives. As Ram’yana swims and swarms
through his bride’s very marrow he can feel the attentive focus of lusty men
and horny women slip to and fro round the liquid heat of their conjoined loins.
He knows their teenage flesh shimmers and gleams with tantalising visibility in
the crowded dimness of the Centraxian longhall.
When he
glances over Racheal’s shoulder it’s immediately obvious that myriad eyes are
affixed to her sleek erect frame. Other eyes flicker to and fro between Racheal
and the younger red haired girl who crouches beside her, stroked and stoked by
her lover in the chamber’s dark corner. Some frankly stare at the perfectly
formed girls with unabashed longing or shocked arousal. Randomly overheard
sentences mingle with crackling pops of blazing timber from a broken stack of
borrowed fence palings while the intro to Atom Heart Mother blasts from
overhead speakers.
“Upstairs
is quieter… We could do it there…”
“I wouldna
take ’er in the dirt i’ I was you, laddie.”
“What day
is it?”
“I just
want to give you a tarot reading, honest…”
“Freedom
isn’t free ya know.”
“It’s just
his karma…”
“…still in
Cambodia…”
“Or the I
Ching…”
The wills
of multiple minds guide his hands around her supple, attractive shapeliness. He
caresses her breasts at their behest while her torso bounces around the
rolling, tugging spherical masses that bulge inside his grasping hands. His
priestess/goddess reaches down to stroke his smooth chest. Fingertips tickle
his belly and wander further to guide his thrusts. Her other hand guides his
palm around the wondrous topology of her sensitive body. She seems fully
recovered from all recent injury, miraculously aroused and utterly arousing –
and strangely immune to all embarrassment in her almost unprecedented public
carousing.
“Can’t
help myself.”
“Munchkins,
maybe.”
“Itching?”
“Yeah,
I’ll have some…”
“Saints
preserve us!”
“You got
any smoko?”
“They’re
still there – they never left.”
“You
wish.”
The
priestess’s skin shines from within with preternatural gloaming as her lips
curl into a dazzling smile. He watches the electric blue serpents descend her
slim torso to twirl toward the torrid juncture where he’s melded into her, body
and being. Her cylindrical clitoris stands erect as a miniature penis, tiny
glans swelling beneath its foreskin’s little pink hood, flaring with magenta
glows and radiant streaks of fiery crimson. Her sex is a blazing liquid orchid
that flowers in darkness beneath her sparse mantle of closely cropped hair.
“Injectors?”
“…scratch
that itch…”
‘Fuck her brains out…’
‘Fuck his brains out…’
‘Fuck my brains out!’
It’s impossible to tell whether
thoughts or words are spoken or simply intended, or even merely
imagined. Ram’s cock is a rearing lance thrusting all the way up into the solar
furnace of his beloved bride-to-be’s innermost core. Her entire body pivots
around it; the fulcrum centre of all her existence. Her panting breath becomes
a torrid stream of wordless moans as she vibrates in motionless quivering heat
– and he takes her by the hips and starts fucking her brains out.
“…an’ en’
’e said ‘Wadya mean? Thass my daughter…”
“…a long
drink of water…”
“She
really makes a fuckin’ racket when she’s goin’ full throttle but.”
“Yeah – I
could eat a munchkin or two.”
Racheal’s
hands pull Ram’s palms upward and cup his fingers around her breasts. She
totters forward to peck his lips and then heaves backward, sliding and bouncing
as she regains her balance athwart his familiar well-oiled ramrod.
“As ye
wish.”
“Hey man,
far out! They got strippers at this
fuckin’ party!”
*
“She comes in colours everywhere
She combs her hair
She’s like a rainbow
Come in colours in the air
Everywhere
She comes in colours…”
*
A surging
rush swells in the roots of his spine and contracts all the orbs in his tightening
scrotum. At that instant a grinding noise descends from above through a chorus
of angelic choirs. A blinding indigo ray pours onto the floor in the centre of
the room, limning half a dozen dancers in a blindingly brilliant thousand watt
blaze.
“Yay!”
“Nah,
dumbo, I toll ya. But I still gotta mess with ’er alla time – can’t resist it…”
“Whoee!”
“Play the
other side!”
“Can I
take ’er for a spin after?”
The shaman
prince’s eyes scrunch shut as a purple haze shifts through peachy hues to a
bloodier shade of scarlet. By signs seen and unseen (but deeply felt) it’s
obvious Racheal is coming astride him again, oblivious to the beast with a
hundred eyes that caress her naked rainbow skin from all sides and angles in
the sudden wash of bright electric light.
*
“Have you seen her dressed in blue?
Seen the sky in front of you?
And her face is like the a sail
In the bright sun white and pale
Have you seen a lady fairer?
She comes in colours everywhere
She combs her hair
She’s like a rainbow
Come in colours in the air
Everywhere
She comes in colours …”
*
Barely
cognisant of the other nude couple revealed beside them, the teenage mage covers
his lover’s flaming nipples within gently cupped palms while she moans and
cries out in the unbridled throes of tripping, gripping, sheer flaming rush of
utterly exposed ecstasy.
“Not strippers, man, trippers!”
“Fuck… lookit… wow…”
“Aaiiaahhh! Ohheeyahhh!”
Racheal’s
wild ululation is all but drowned out by an impromptu orchestra of appreciative
yells, wolf whistles and ribald unpleasantries.
“Hookers, ya mean!”
“Get outta
my way. I want what he’s havin’!”
Ram
automatically circles their mingling auras with a ring of white fire when a
ragged cheer erupts from a teetering mass of barely clothed flesh - a singleton
unisex piebald beast composed of varying shades of pink, tan and white that shivers
atop a forest of sapling legs in the off-centre hub of the longhall.
*
“Have you
seen her all in gold
Like the
queen in days of old?
She shoots
colours all around
Like the
sunset going down
Have you
seen a lady fairer?
She comes
in colours everywhere
She combs
her hair
She’s like
a rainbow
Come in
colours in the air
Oh
Everywhere
She comes
in colours…” +
*
Time slips and slides all over the
place, a racing locomotive and a trackless crawl, impossible to gauge.
“I’m
fuckin’ next!”
“Yer
already fucked!”
The pubs
and bars have spilled their effluent into the streets and a goodly amount has
poured through the wide open squatters’ stronghold doors to wash up on the
shores of the Centraxians’ post-initiation party.
“Fuckin’
hippies got their own fuckin’ brothel in
’ere!”
“Wheresa
keg?”
As a stark
cerulean image of his beloved firms and resolves in Ram’s hallucinatory vision
he blinks into the slowly shifting hues of the electric colour wheel he’d
earlier set in place in the hall – before the LSD had transfigured all sense of
time and space - and attempts to restrain the impending orgasm that threatens
to stir from his roots as his lady crams his blazing engorgement right up into
her hungry womb and screams as she comes, and comes, and screams again.
“Fuckin’ trippy in here, man!”
Another
blistering flash lashes Ram’s eyes.
“Is this real real or trip real?”
Racheal’s
ingrained image melts around the wondrous actuality of her nakedly bobbing form
as she bucks higher, more deeply, more furiously.
“The keg’s
in the kitchen – right through here, guys...”
“Plenty
out back for everyone.”
The lovers ignore the thumping footsteps and
flapping thongs that circle around them in a slow stampede towards a promised
oasis of beer. Racheal’s mind is obviously blown into a hallucinatory torrent
of orgasmic cinders. Her prince watches electric fireworks explode from her
every pore and blaze through her tightly sealed eyelids as she fucks him like a
frenzied animal. He closes his eyes to focus completely on the fantastic
sensation of sliding and squeezing and thrusting within her; lost in the heavenly
haven of Her.
“Put on
the Stones!”
His shaft
is sunk all the way into a living, livid, steamy vice that attempts to milk him
utterly dry, and his only wish is to keep slipping and sliding through the
absolute bliss of Racheal’s sweet flesh for unending eternity. He opens his
eyes to drink in her beauty as she bounces and grinds in transfiguration, far
gone in the thrall of sweet surrender to their magical animal mating rite.
“Too
bright, man…”
“We can’t have run out yet!”
Ram keeps
his eyes fixed on her pulsating eyelids and swallows a knot of tension into his
belly. He concentrates only on pleasuring his climaxing girl - without coming
and spoiling their ongoing reverie.
“Oh love! Ohh, fuck!”
He can’t
tell if the words are his or hers, Arné’s or Crystal’s. He revels in Racheal’s
onrushing ecstasy and in his goddess-given power to provide her with this undying
eternity of bliss.
Making her come…
“Nah,
mate, there’s only one fella who’s gonna get ta spin those wheels – too
powerful, mate, too much -she’d just spin out on ya...”
“Let’s
have more candles instead of the blinders.”
“…and the
aliens don’t want to hurt us…”
“What
happened to the dance music?”
“You can
dance to anything.”
He follows
each subtle cue provided by the extraordinarily sexual girl’s agile body,
paying obeisance to her splendour with the attentive zeal of a true devotee.
His pelvis rocks and thrusts in perfectly phased synchrony with the wondrously
articulated requirements of his leonine High Priestess’s magical loins. Ram’yana is barely aware of the music that
thrums and sweeps through the tunnelled-out rabbit warrens of the Centraxian
squat in counterpoint to their continuous humping and bumping.
“Oh, oh, uh, uh, ahh, uhh…”
Again…
He’s
entranced by the sudden bright sight and unparalleled feel of his lovely girl -
completely intent on accelerating the oncoming. frenzy of her next glorious,
mind-bending ultrafeminine climax.
For all to see…
When the fractiously
challenging thought arrives he struggles to maintain his rhythmic plunging
while a stony rockface of implied self-accusation reverberates through plasm
and plasma, brain and bone. He moves through his beloved’s flesh with the
familiar ease of a longstanding lover, impaling her to the beat of the music
and the obvious thrill of all the voyeurs who sit or slouch or stand or dance
in the suddenly illumined longhall.
“Maybe
that’s a mite too much after all…”
“Nah, not enough…”
“…they
just want to borrow out bodies…”
“Watch out
for the bong!”
His hands
grasp Racheal’s narrow waist to loft her higher, only stopping when her elastic
entryway is balanced athwart his purpling crown - and immediately pulls her all
the way back down until her pubic bone mashes against his to the accompaniment
of her uninhibited primal scream.
“More Stones!”
“Prithee
make up thine mind.”
“Yanks’re
a real pain inna friggin’ arse.”
“Come
inside, it’s cold out there…”
“Fuck the
Yanks.”
Racheal’s
cheeks blaze through rainbow tattoos of labyrinthine curlicues that cover her
face and glide down her throat and over her shoulders. Her agile body begins
fucking for both of them, squatting astride her horny beau and racing up and
down his full thick length with a rapid bombardment of grasping strokes.
Tendrils weave criss-cross maypole patterns around her throat, twisting into
resurgent snakes that drive downward and inward to surround her bouncing,
rolling, transforming breasts with intricate Celtic knot patterns.
“Y’wanna
join in, darl?”
“Come on,
I won’t wreck ’er or nothin’.”
“They can
only borrow mine if they look like that.”
Thought
forms spiral about the dazzling brightness of the prince’s paramour as
blithering partygoers continue pronouncing sentences around and about their
interlocked rollicking forms.
“The Tree
of Life bears many fruits…”
“Satan’s throbbing
fucking nuts!” a deep voice booms from behind and above, “I’m gonna get some! Hold
on, I’m comin’!”
*
A True Story
- R. A.
Images – author’s
+
She Comes in Colours lyrics copyright
The Rolling Stones
Further
true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
AND
And for
further enlightenment see
The New
Illuminati – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com
The Her(m)etic
Hermit http://hermetic.blog.com/
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites - you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a small donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…
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Please add your perspective to the collective mind NOW! - Prince Ram'yana