...The mystic-man joined the gathering for the gentry, priviliged fauna of the Mother Russia and its bald steppes. Bald of its cold and bald of its wind. Bald of its hunger and bald of its mystic. ...Out, at the suburbs, the silvery city, built for all the Russian saints, beholds itself, the tall-yellow grasses dance combed by the frozen winds of the autumn: the days when October falls are here. Out, at the suburbs.Inside, meanwhile, the gathering of the love is meeting the mystic-dervish's flesh, with the anal tepidness of the grand ladies: the astral illumination coming from Rasputin, regent of all the Russias.Sex, sex, sex, sex; just Russian sex as cosmic illumination; sex as key for the flesh that drives insane the mind; sex without an end: vésanie noire.
Into the Imperial bedchambers that despise the suburbian and tall-yellow grasses, a Russian tango is danced: fatal, cold, as all the tangos are: the snow is yet a terrible promise whitewashing the spectral dolls’ face.
In the Imperial bedchambers, where the children are served alive in banquet: the mystic-man smiles like a sinister night fowl, the sweet liquor and the red meat stain his teeth: hidden behind the tablecloth, a grand lady in all fours, blowjobs him in the name of all the Russias.
Now, the sequence shows him horribly mutilated: the shadow of the magic-man lies deep down on the bottom of their October’s river.
Now, the sequences run, astrologically insane, this second is one second ago, today is tomorrow and tomorrow is yesterday: diapositives without a chronological order: everything is at the same time.
Now, the imposing battalions of the World’s Peoples come, marching.
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