#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.