In tune with crone energy, inspiring disgusted rage at the mere sight of her covered up with shadow and sackcloth, yet loved now in her mouldering, abandoned cathedral loft, for her arts and the expressions of her mind, perched up there, the old hagwhore.

”’ She is watched. An ageless woman with tangled hair,  and a face of a fantastical landscape.
    Slowly she folds her body closer to the black water girl. The water is not freezing. It lumps around her skirt as she enters, like the muscles and guts of a night-beast. The crone reaches under in the murk, steadies her drifting parts, rests her forehead on hers. She takes the large rag from around her neck and winds it round the girl’s body. With surprising strength she moves her legs through the complex life of the bog  and lifts her up. The water’s sound crashes melodically behind her, bubbling like pagan bells under the surface of the world.
    The amalgamation of biology in the person of the crone travels away, through secret pathways and thick green tendrils woven resolutely fast. Her bundle is lifted up and down along rocks and moss. She relies on stamina and determination , not without a certain care.  Dragged as the crone crawls, up slippery mud slopes, and down to her passages.
She cooked the womb, sperm inside, very gently, for many months.

The squid witch, her cave is filled with jews in glass jars. Every month she releases dead eggs, it being so long since she reached menopause.

STarfish’s eyes open. SHe smiles. “I feel moisturised inside! With blood!” she gasped.
“Not just blood, girl’, says the squid-witch.

Shaman,clawing towards her face, is disturbingly delusioned and unpredictable. Evil characters profess open-minded tending to one perspective on life. Life-flourishers perhaps. Don’t be dickensian. Evil chars jump about the complex environment, (creepers, and roots wrapped round ruins) their bodies tools, the chaos controllable. They enjoy reducing abstractional overflowing, spiritual zeal, unpredictable individualistic illusions, games inconstancy. [Vision jumps you to different perspectives – telescopes, mountain-abysses, gods the size of caterpillars, doors in shallow pools.]
Skinning a  human leg – blood on the floor might make the spirit linger. Nemain – skinning, water
The foxes collecting fetusses inside little icecubes which they rubbed on their nipples in order to give an early start to the oral phase and usher in a race of advanced super-foxes.

Perhaps a blind old woman that was decent and looked human, unlike the demonic old woman she chased down the street, fighting with while I tried to catch up. Demon crone had rags around her legs, which were bone plus raw flesh  – like muscles underneath skin, or meat in a butchers shop stuck on to dirty bone. An eye was ripped from her.
Blind people ripping at each other. Torn off hands, still fighting with the wet red stump of cracked bone.

White plaster, glass protected by rusted grille, ivy and weeds pushing against the window.
Exorcise her spirit.
Smashing her fleshy bones in, breaking the glass of her home. Trying to crush the bit of flesh and bone with a big piece of wood. Before the police stop me, rushing through the front door in slow motion. I don’t seem to manage to break it at all.

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