Journals of a Psychopath

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See inside Clarkson's mind

The Shrine

Paying attention to the talk the man-woman and Lady Flarice engaged in, I grimaced.
      “Do you love me?” The gay woman asked.
      “Of course I do.”
Singing, involving my future, the black-angel chorused, and the mantra infused the agenda.
Inflamed, I danced, the cloak glittered and swished, the flames vacillated. Lady Flarice and her dyke began to sex. Watching, I was aggravated, I detested lesbians, I knew the Lady Flarice’s main inclination leaned towards men and not women. The lesbian crawled all over the Lady Flarice her hands explored the Lady Flarice’s flesh. Garbing in the black silk robe, I sang the song of death, the lesbian would know the pain of my law.
      “The man-woman is my aim,” I sang.

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