The DM13 Journal
It has been reasoned that the search for truth will lead you to beauty and understanding, but I say this: seek not truth and beauty, but absurdity and dissonance. For in its cacophony, you will cultivate attention–this is what is needed to see.
And through the sweat of salt you will excavate perception, action, and will. Buried treasures that will serve to decipher Self–revealing limitless possibilities, the depths of which will set you free.
Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.
The final diagnoses? Otitis media (middle ear infection), and contact dermatitis (skin rash).
This is the second time I've had otitis media in the past year, but the contact dermatitis? I mean, sure, I've had rashes here and there as a result of my sensitive skin, but one from a severe allergic reaction??
Before ultimately submitting to medical intervention, my initial investigation led me to the possibility of toxic black mold. I had discovered a small black patch growing discreetly in a corner of my fuck lair, and at once eradicated the insidious invasion. However, the fear had already entrenched itself as the poltergeist that would persecute my thoughts for the next couple of weeks.
After eradicating the toxic threat, and subsequent rounds of disinfection with the proper bleach solutions, I was still experiencing the pillaging and raping of my immune system: wheezing, severe itch attacks, rash outbreaks, itchy crawling eyes, and finally–middle ear infection, oh, and MORE hell itch!
In an attempt to self-diagnose myself, and eliminate the possibility of other causes, I licked the patch of wall that had incubated the black mold growth. My reasoning: upon licking, if my health rapidly deteriorated, I knew that the black intruder was to blame. Ensuing the licking, no real change had transpired, but I was on high alert. I was ready. But nothing happened.
The next day, after ruling out toxic black mold, I began a systematic analysis of possible allergen culprits: darkroom chemistry fumes, bed bugs, dust mites, pollen, aggressive masturbation, coffee, alcohol, abnormal sleep pattern. But my findings were inconclusive.
Eventually, after exacerbating middle ear pressure and pain, I decided to visit an urgent care clinic. The PA diagnosed me. The causes? Unknown.
Let this be a lingering lesson for all you haughty cockroaches, even The DragnMastr’s puppeteer submits to the indiscriminate grope and grip of Mother Nature.
Closed are the pink fleshed gates to her womb
Locked are its vigor
She enchants who enchants
This sea witch enchants all who encroach
Ye mortals
She is not of the land
She is of the sea
She enchants like a turquoise siren
She spirals toward her seabed
She spirals toward her seabed
Against the current
Against the current
Closed are the pink fleshed gates to her womb
Locked are its vigor
Men perish
Their names are null
Seize thou this sea witch against her will
Take this sea witch to the sea
That she may not die on land
Among men
Closed are the pink fleshed gates to her womb
Locked are its vigor
The salt in the night wind cremates the eye
The waves detonate
The sand shatters
The whipping boys whimper
Their fears are ignited
When they see this sea witch
Reigning over her dominion
Do not place them on a holy pedestal most high.
You do not own them.
You share a memory together.
That is all.
That is enough.
Focus your attention, rather, inwardly.
Fertilize and plow the soil of your soul with knowledge, experience, dedication to craft. In 10 years they will be a flickering memory, but your mastery will have become brilliant.
People will worship your greatness, with all of its sacrifices, and you will smile among the gods, alone, in great company.
When you see Me in the incandescence of the marketplace, amongst the buzzing flies and loudmouth charlatans, a simple acknowledging nod is suffice. Do not attempt to stop Me, for I will stride past you–defiantly.
You will know Me by the black grime under My fingernails, brooding brown eyes, and disconnected disposition.
I do not care about your petty praises, save them for the self-important–the ones who count their counterfeit likes and fabricated followings on social media.
Do they not understand that those numbers are irrelevant and subject to the whims of their pseudo admirers, who care more about a follow-back than a genuine relationship?
Do they not understand that their time on earth is limited, and there is work to be done, legacy to be cultivated, self-mastery to be reaped?
Do not burden yourselves with such pathetic sycophants, for their existence will be null and void by the discerning verdict of time.
Thus spoke, The DragnMastr.
It has been reasoned that in the transportraiture of portraiture, you will come across the path of those who recognize the futility of truth. And you will affirm Him by the axe that He wields.
The Dragon Master is one of such frontiersman.
It's 3:37 am, and the spore swarms from the black mold are insidiously clutching onto my bronchioles, mindlessly feeding on the plump grapes in my air sacs with piggish gluttony. In their selfish apathy, they have succeeded in contaminating the oxygen in my bloodstream with their greasy little toxic secretions.
Respiratory distress, unusual rash formations, abnormal skin sensations, abdominal pain, bloating, diarrhea, chronic cough–and I haven't even brewed my morning coffee yet.
Every breath I take is a piecemeal necrosis–a symphonic masterpiece of mycotoxin discord.
I need medical attention, but my doctor is an incompetent, and I have shitty insurance. I will surely die, but I'm ready. The only thing that brings me sharp grief are my precious darkroom prints–what will happen to my well-preserved archives when I die? I hope whoever finds them conserves them for posterity.
I have to admit, I have a soft spot–in my FUCKING LUNGS. GET OUT OF MY RESPIRATORY AIRWAYS YOU TOXIC BLACK MOLD MOTHERFUCKERS!
Verily, I say unto you, that you are not alone. I am by your side.
And when you sleep, I watch over you.
And when you bathe, I watch over you.
And when you dress, I watch over you.
For it has been prophesied by the Oracle at Larapim, that I will lead the exodus of your existential dread off the treacherous cliffs of consciousness, into the crashing tides of oblivion.
You are surely not alone, for The DragnMastr's gaze is fixed upon you–lustfully–full of grace. It is so.
I summoned the gorgon, and testified before her.
Upon hearing the abominations made against my DM13 namesake, she swiftly declared her ruling: Guilty as charged. The sentencing: Bukkake by Satan's Legion to be carried out in the Second Circle jurisdiction every Wednesday morning for the next 337 years.
Before ordering her bounty hunter to repossess their cheap, snorting, swine souls, we reconfirmed our Friday fornication dinner date, kissed, and embraced in a salacious and genital manner.
Although Alan, Andrew, and Marion were strangers, tonight they would become inextricable fellow bond servants, fastened at the hip by My VENGEANCE.
Let it be known, desecrating the DragnMastr13 name is punishable by WRATH, for I am The Impeccable One!
It's been an entire month since the severity of your scent has faded from the accepting pores of my skin–along with the dwindling blood supply to my throbbing and earnest cock.
I will accept the withdrawal, the delirium, the confusion, the derision EVERY, SINGLE, TIME, if it means being able to press my pulsating and urgent manhood up against the perilous heights of your body, mind, soul.
Your spell is the mutiny wreaking havoc inside my consciousness.
I declare WAR.
Roberto was a stupid little man. He considered himself progressive, when in fact, the only thing progressive about him were the masterfully creative ways in which he showcased his ignorance.
As he drowsily awakened from his malevolently-coerced comatose, he noticed an "Anesthesia For Dummies" book nefariously residing on his night stand.
Gradually, the logic of her laughter found resonance in his feeble mind, and he began to sort out what had transpired in the sordid twist of events: she had transplanted his puffy pink areolas onto his eyelids.
He panicked. He knew that the closeted homoerotic attention from his crossfit bedfellows was now lost forever. They would never lust over him again–his new areola gaze was to be the object of their conspicuous scorn.
Her justified laughter was deafening as it reverberated off the crystal chalice she preferred to enjoy her daily horchata fix from.
She had rendered his criticisms moot with two decisive incisions. The precision of her scalpel was deliberate and resolute, and she knew it.
Let it be known, The DragnMastr enjoys the company of such autodidactic women.
