Camus cheated on his wife perpetually until she attempted suicide and there no dispute that this is the sexual fantasy he was trying to attain the entire time. While cheating on his wife Camus was stalked by Arab terrorist and White imperialist assassins at the same time, all of them together squirrelling into the same bar or brothel like Kobe Bryant's extended posse. Within elite circles this was viewed as a haute and avant-garde way to live at the time. It was several years before a full retinue of Arab and White imperial assassins were assigned to follow all of us from birth awaiting Franz Beckenbauer's subliminal command to strike.
There is a place in southern Italy, perhaps Sicily or maybe the so-called mainland of the occupying power. In this place anyhow are limestone caves where corpses naturally mummify and locals could get this treatment for themselves or a beloved for a fee, with priority for clerics and children. In these caves lie virgins by the multiscore, we know this because on their gravestones is written such as
(Here maybe a Latin Bible verse)
A dirty stone witch house in a village of some hundred with Manhattanite density.
In history time everyone you saw in the morning knew when you had or hadn't had sex the night before. In history time you slept six feet away from mom and dad until you got married yourself and then moved with your spouse to the opposite corner of the room. In history time everyone was always a bit hungry hungover and infected.
A dirty stone witch house in a village of some hundred with Manhattinite density.
In history time there was power and control. Not of a superior scale to be sure but certainly of a superior focus and direction. Plow the motherfucking field if you wanna fucking eat. Dig the motherfucking mine if you wanna fucking eat. Sew the motherfucking shirts if you wanna fucking eat and most of all let the right and proper blood decide the if of when we allow you out of history time if you wanna fucking eat. Stop flooding the ballot with support for heathen wizard Smoke-Lords financed by the Rothschilds if you wanna fucking eat.
A stone witch house in a village of some hundred where the port is frozed for eight months and the bread arrives by parachute.