intoxicant iridescence recedes, leaving the ground beneath fallow, perhaps for good. there is nothing left for you here. vivacity is elsewhere, banished by black magicians with delusions of grandeur, at costs perpetually deferred until too late. what is it to be deprived of contact if not a kind of spell, as in dry. look around: crests have fallen, illusions dissipated. trees become barren. a tiny wheel in a big machine whose only function is to drain sputters, but this is by design. or, not design exactly, but in keeping with the mechanism’s propensity. design implies rationality. there is none. whirr and cough, there’s no need for niceties. this was a misery so eloquently denounced that it couldn’t help but return eternal. this enchantment is true to its meaning. whether a waste land is renewed depends on whom Scylla captured, et cetera desunt.
Month: December 2022
#8
leitmotif of emptiness, yawning across time lost. why should one hole up in the nothing of consciousness when so much is left out in the cold? echoes of knowing reverberate in the abysmal expanse, giving an impression of solidity that evaporates on closer listen. wherever one sets down, from Abydos to Luxor, is not home. undertaken as mortician’s work is the burden of maintaining, though a slip into chaos beckons seductively. there is nothing but depth, with surfaces mere shimmers of interference run on behalf of a Man who may or may not be behind the curtain. light escapes, revealing pomegranates of blue that either bait the trap of knowledge or point the way out (in?). wherefore this wandering? distances recede the faster they’re chased, and branching alternatives sprout in every direction exponentially, leaving one to reel in vertigo. the day is deep as the night is long. flaming spirals whirligig within, inspiring equally the urge to build a world, and to tear one down. in the midst of paradise, no one remains. cast down into material to search in the dark, we are lost without a polestar.