"The sleeper cries out like one condemned to die, until he awakens and discovers that reality is three times worse than dream. I ought to finish digging this grave with my tireless spade that it may be in readiness for tomorrow. To accomplish an important task one should not do two things at once."
- "The Songs of Maldoror" by Comte de Lautréamont
"tomorrow, and tomorrow,- "The Songs of Maldoror" by Comte de Lautréamont
and tomorrow . . ."
Fire - it burns yellow, blue, red, and finally upon collapsing quicker than those temperatures colligate, black. A spark in dancing consummation of color and consensus of waters and airs, Chireal orbits swifter than light that accelerate physical existence and occasionally entire forests when wild with ease, to their base and universal constituent, as ubiquitous as lifes' shadow cast; soot.
Not indifferently, does smoke burn.
Not indifferently, does mana burn.
Not indifferently do the stars burn, nor their waxing eclipse.
Not indifferently, do the sun and moon align with the planet
and
eye eloping after lifes' waning reflections.
That vertiginous instant once again, the same moments over and over, 'always' and 'never' the same-and-different altogether, all at once.
"Two birds, one stone."
What new darkness should await the sun setting with horizons' bleeding yet?
Where did others find shy beauty within the pride of stars, whose truth could only be unveiled in the shade of moonlit night?
An other, to weigh and measure the space between those affected distances
to lose their light, heat, burning so
just maybe, such shine would mean anything at all?
to lose their light, heat, burning so
just maybe, such shine would mean anything at all?
~
And so Sytry's eye was drawn to the rising smoke unto the night's star-bright radiance, and the elevation of those moon-gazing meditations.
And so Sytry's eye was drawn to the rising smoke unto the night's star-bright radiance, and the elevation of those moon-gazing meditations.
~
And so his heart was drawn inward, a craterous plunge of an ephemeral absence unto an others' light within.
~
And so his heart was drawn inward, a craterous plunge of an ephemeral absence unto an others' light within.
~
". . . And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
and
then is heard no more.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
- Act V, Scene V: "Macbeth" by William Shakespeare