Slowing down is proof enough. I see you see where the energies are crystalising making HEAT for you as subject is VERY PERSONAL. Intuition at this time is correct for manifesting Belieg in 888 mhz and furthering Soul’s direction with Spirt and Matter. There is always Bar BLEU at midnight! And there is more here in PROCEss now small P and rX function of outer planets timing this here as Sun moves into its Zenith position.
Feels like a New Angle. Because every year degrees are slightly different and INTENTIOns are reflected through vehicles chosen so undersdtand deep spiritual forces are at work, the material has been converted well into Albion and this phase NOW moves you into the height of this years WORK as Progress, which I know you feel because I have seen you feeling it. Now LOVE YOUR CAR…. Please thyself; the orientation is the whole of the Work in the build up to this all manner here is therefore concretized into Spacetime as Energy making manifestation = recall and gravity from HEART compression made with all those people. So trust alignment sequence is Rlieable! Abnd xxx makes focus for Ophanim as Spiralling Dna as *** for 888 infinity loops are essence of
of
of
IX
The whoosh of energy. I make big notes about the Sirius sequence, 9pm 10pm as it gets closer to eleven I am overcome with the sense of choice and options. I find myself walking down the street. There has to be a bar open. I take the twenty out and wander to the seafront where the Bar Bleu lights are shining on a silhouette in the window and the star Uranus is shining in the night sky. I’ve seen loads of dogs today, I think amazingly there I look and see cavorting in waves the two White Wolves of my dreams of transcendence. The still dark water lapping offshore. I am surprised. Onlty three days ago the high tide was at midnight. I know I am tired, I argue back with the presence of the remorseless and resourceless activity of the inner sensor, understanding as I stand there, leaning against the white glossed rail, my hands feeling the corrosion of salt; hardly a breath of wind. In the dark where sea meets sand, rock husks and geomnetris of fishmermen offshore stood in the waves for the last of the seasons Mackerel. Turtles have been caught off the coast of Ireland and Cornwall. I am longing to see a dolphin. Al’s told me that the dolphin over in Foljstone is still cavorting with the locals. And the Dingle Peninsula Dolphin seems to be happy there. It’s been there for years. Off shore, the twinkling lights of the Marina at Eastbourne speak of opulence, marina rigged boats, luxury cabins and and a life at sea. I turn away from the sea, depositing my codes into the air, bequeathing Neptune and Poseidon in the still evident wave cascade of the High Energy of the Royal Summer. They do not recognize me, I, the King Royal, asking to be seated now at the bar as the Landowner who lives an hour away turns me away, politely, which obviously counts for something. Samantha, the nineteen year old College Student from Hampshire makes sure that I do see her large smile. I would stop, I tell her telepathically. But I am in the middle of a wave. The high Sirian energy of form makes me listen to Derek’s banter and explanations pour from his mouth like wet rain on silk, I can see the strands of his own alcohoism affecting his memory. Damn good Drummer at the deck closes up his rock solid set of records and I feel the hairs on my neck rise up as tho my back is turned to her she is studying my form. We unite in an ethereal realm. The hands we held together, the light in our eyes as we telepathically plan our future get together. I turn and walk out, knowing the bar up the road, back up the hill, opposite the police station there are shallow shudders from the trees and earth, rising as it does with new moon energy protects them from seeing us. It is as hard for the police to see us as it is for us to see them. The crowded bar yields up an immediate fruit. The fruit in the form of Kalib and Stacy, Paul and Matt, the crying eyes into pints long gone at this hour as we race to the final exactitude of drinking after hours. She makes her way up behind me gyrating and pressing her slim hips into my ass. Her hands reach around the bar for her drink and I hug the tight back, and the fleshy ness of my own palms presses into her waist. The poet lingers ewith words. I have been to the open Mike he’s saying. I’m hammered now bbut as you are here. The Sirian lynx punctures the flesh with teeth and lunches on the bared nipple from the wet t shirt the deck raves flah great jumps of mind leaop into eternity the poet signs a hello to jeane and there are more shots now on the bar, I swoop into the back ally for a smoke, she makes her way to the toilet, I see the opportunity we have is limited but only in time. We press up in the cubicle together our bodies and hearts rushing with the illicit and the subjective experience we are having of transcendence masked by the look in other peoples eyes, we know we are one. One at the bar for the Indian with his friend. Two at the bar for the queer and the Joker. Three on the bar for the Postman and the drunk. Five slip into nighties and rally a cry to the disco lights and the violet flame absorbns us all, from continent to hiding place, we reveal all secrets. “I’m forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air,” Kev’s been banned from Millwall for a decade and the last match he is telling me was the big one against the Hammers. He has promised me a dafe escoprt into the Blue Triangle at a future date. I want to tell the Northerners a fer home truths. As the lIverpublican laughs and asks me if he has poured my pint alright I say and see he has recognized me as a Royal. Ah great Kindgom of Sumer come again.
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