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￭ in return for your navy blue shirt
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2008-04-16 | |
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By the interior air of anchoress hang I -- from dream like state. Artificially illuminated is my sight. Dragging my‚Ä¶ ashes through dreary seconds - fading. Fading even more. Dusk. Our Sun is our Moon.
On caliginous paths with dirge their bones they gnaw ‚Äď grinning; not aware of that smile so bright like blooming roses. One flame took birth, and then another from it, another ‚Äď and then another which gave the shape of the ocean of inferno. Waves married with the clouds, and the sky with that perpetual hideous light that came from the gray tight street. In this masquerade flames on pages practiced their ritual; with grotesque paces on all symphonies of thought. The air dry mixed with the vapors of the wounded papers did not provoke the men to stop; their covered mouths and nostrils with oxygen masks permitted them to stay. ‚ÄúOff!‚ÄĚ said I fuming, faint-hearted‚Ä¶ by what the present seemed to be. Then he, this unreal young man, wearing a blue suit, with African skin, that stood near me instantaneous dissolved. The ritual continued until the moribund books removed the last breath over the sand that remained from their sisters.
The ultraviolet rain hits the ground like bullets used; falls through hours - loud. A horizontal ocean of glass on tempest I scaled, but few do today.
Lazy inside the shivering city where gasping serpents soak in damp miniature connected buildings ‚Äď I meditating upon the vast liquid cosmos -- the thumping God with pallid eyes over us is king.
I began to set a new language in my journal, new, even though platonic thoughts. A private language, a language which none can understand if he exists only to exist. Exists only to exist....
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