Salem

Literature written by astute women is my gusto reverent, such zealousness igniting ustulation to the pusillanimous inertia I am plagued by.

The ephemerality of proclivities wane amongst the flow of time, though, I remain steadfast in my proclivities for impelling and enamouring archaic ornamentation, Gothic/Victorian macabre oeuvres, tenebrous reverie, labyrinthine inquisition, inquisitive philosophical afflatus evoking cerebration afterthought, virtuoso vespers, obfuscate lypophrenia, acumen abstemious, esoteric circuitous, amorphous anatomical decay, allegorical sapphic voracious anthropophagite ache, sapphic limerence, behemoth sapphic wretched lamentation, engrossing realms imbued with existential dread, viscerally metaphors tethered to the duality of beauty and the grotesque, the ephemerality of existence, moral ambiguity, eldritch malevolent women, evocative, and ambiguous epilogues.

Oh, to acquire a anciently Victorian house and replenish it with ornate antique chestnut furniture and dyed obsolete crimson, fern, and apricot drapes and carpets. 

Kaala Bauna and Argus from Reverse: 1999 are the ambers that ignite my eking penchant vehemence for erudite, queer, platitudinous women. 

Desire is an infallible devourer. 

The thorns yearn for plasma. 

My vessel, a harbinger of disquietude and malcontent, enos of dolour seeping beneath sinew, besmirching the cardiovascular system, veins, venules, capillaries, arterioles, and arteries are befouled—the viscous profane anchors itself to visceral cleaving to the marrow. Besmirched be the flesh, sullied by tenebrous Sisyphean animosity, such finite vitality and mortality pulsating kindred to ichor, a divine tragic motif transuding sweven—animosity is rather indifferent to the notion of sanctuary, not even phantasmagoric malingering is unfettered from its secernment.

Since my inception, I have always lacked the wherewithal for romanticism, nor have I ever experienced a myriad of romantic gravitation pulling me towards dramatis personae, though I must admit, Homura Akemi & Madoka Kaname, Anthy Himemiya & Utena Tenjo, Maomao & Shisui, Falin & Marcille, Vertin & Sonetto, Isolde & Kakania, Marianne & Marsha, are my alderliefest that bring forth glee to my phantasm sapphic heart.

Writers who feign the cogitate wherewithal for rhetorical prose, yet they simultaneously scribe the very thing they claim to lack; how caitiff, pusillanimous, prosaic can one possibly be to negate their gusto for literature? What a recreant, ignominious, flagitious, and platitude deed is it to nullify and forgo such prodigious attributes. 

For one such as myself, to cogitate upon the novice notion of acquiring the knowledge suitable for the profession of a physician, only to negate this prospect in favor of a Ph.D in thanatology, paleontology/taphonomy, and forensic anthropology, for the epithet Morana, psychopomp, Santa Muerte are far more alluringly intriguing.