Mr. Crowley
From Crowley’s Cairo to a yellow house in Tromsø, possession takes flesh.
Before LaVey tried to tidy His words into something clean, almost safe, with his mock bible and quest for righteousness, there was Aleister Crowley. Not a preacher but a prophet of ruin, not a churchman but a beast. His Magick was never the staged theatre of black robes and sermons, but sweat, blood, and sex—symbols carved not into flesh but into the mind, into the soul of those who followed. Or thought they followed. Tha...