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￭ in return for your navy blue shirt
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2010-03-23 | |
Do you know? â€“ there are places on the verge of the world, hidden between two mirrors of existence, which are filled with the fume of solitary calm; and as you enter the path, leading through the tortuous tongues â€“ shadowy boughs â€“ to the magical heart of the town within city frames, you consider yourself being a part of an even mirage, a pilgrim to the mysterious apparition, emerging from the veil of echoing stream to the vast vague creation of unconscious thought and beauteous sub-reality. There, amidst blurring trees and still heroin waters, old gargoyle tower hovers above the opposite bank of the liquefied alley, intently watching your moves, shedding mutterinâ€™ goblins from haematite gorges to deter stranger souls from the clandestine valley. But if you listen attentively, secretly, to the rustle and bubble, and hiss, you shall find these hypogene sounds terrifying no more, fancying them as an ambient music which accompanies those who dare cross the ambiguous verge of the world.
Bare heaven is marshy opal â€“ motionless foams of sea, where the haunted moon is consumed, overwhelmed by the haze reverie. Gazing into its pale obscurity is like scrying, lost in empathic vines, touching features of fey reminiscence â€“ the essence of fathomless fever stealing by your quivering cheeks. Tasting whiskey lips, the phantoms do subdue intoxication, and forgetting prostration, youâ€™re heading to the huge iron doors of ancient Saxon fort â€“ abandoned it looks, but live with emanations from the eerie source, the beyond, as they guard their worldâ€™s foundation. Watchful they are and possessed by the visions of savage delirium, waiting for you to come closer â€“ to get into body and thrill, then capture and torture with madness, then pitiless kill. But show them your deep adoration and bow before ritual doors, tell them you have no intention of breaking perennial lock, trespassing into neglected, fragile line, where they save their clock from the stretching deleterious hands of a man, whose desire for fingering things dominates the intention of brain. Then if sincere, youâ€™ll discover the rain-colour bridge â€“ the center of esoteric place sprung on the verge of the world.
Resting against railings of the bridge, a great period of splendiferous concord comes with observation of the whole mystical site. From the very commencement, where the entering occurred, along the path to the ancient fort â€“ the valley lays betrothed to night in her sombre shape of majestic tranquility. Beyond the banks of the paralyzed vein shimmer repelling sparks â€“ electric fireflies fall upon clattering worm rushing past the billowing tides of the city tomb. And cardboard houses bend to the curious verge setting off the ingenious marvel of dithering sight whither might disappear for aeon.
What is that sound, wafting to the fibers of skin â€“ like a shamanic dancer hops around the railing beating in Sumerian drums? â€“ Tremble of the rocking bridge, cradled by the spiritâ€™al cantoes. And dreamer thou art on the swings, singing guttural tune, recollecting the pictures bygone in the odor of dusty serenity.
Then the bridge is concealed, as you die away in the overseas vapours, though youâ€™re allowed to return anytime â€“ by thought or afoot. And again old gargoyle tower will be watching intently your shadowy moves through the thickening rhymes of nocturnal procession to the secretive cores of the town on the verge of the world.
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