VainApocalypse

Thoughtless, the passing of objects in hold did align the bodies to frame a tip at tumbling to unreturn. Thus behold so severely stumbled, so simple slip into infinity. O wondrous breach, what illusioned descent you might entice, into constant chasm just yonder reach. You are not once infinity but twice! I grasp you now, how so like me you are; We are perpetual self allusion circumscribed within self: a loop bizarre. Perchance I, as you, am but illusion. This is our analogy of a soul: self within self, mirage between each whole.

My love, lets share this setting autumn sun and the twilight hues in the cusp of their go. Night nigh, they are extinguished one and one, as we now don our frowns for a like woe. Dear love, I won't be unfair to you though. I've just but cared too much for you to share. Love, I will tell you what you need to know: secrets that tear my tender tongue and air. It is the utmost direly parting pair, when one is born in patches and stitching, whose ragged holes have been years past repair, and mine now start their ominous itching. They'll gape wide near the end of my story, and best advise me "Memento mori."

Where comes this reckoning of bated grip, this fierce fraud against my trusting ties? It comes at a verdant acreage tip, where azure skies beckon my prize, "rise, rise." Tail past my hold, an adieu from my eyes, That cherished, shrinking, cherry speck quit me for a bed, brighter and blue, where she now lies. Not tree nor plea could block her rising free, you see. Goodbye, sweet cherry speck! Goodbye to thee! Be not bound; be so weightless as your word. Quit troth and tie, and quit me for that sky. Goodbye to thee. Rise to what you've preferred. Quit the bittered; ascend this afternoon. Be that weightless; be that balloon.

It pangs the temples of the moralist, How this problem proves him a pretender. Of kin, picnic and pest are the subtlest, so he oft parades his due much louder. Never a fratricide has walked prouder, His gut in his hands, spiteless and sated. All behind him the messed tools of dinner, afore him his mirror, desecrated. "How can I claim right to life as stated When 'tis that I deny for my cousin, The weed, the swine, whose rights I've negated? My ethic and nature grieve this fission." Rathering ease, he has his guilt deferred whenever he fancies a soulless word.

It matters not if I sleep, wake today, Or the morrow greet. At end, the action of meat is wasted as but worms' buffet, 'Neath foot in bloated guts, gone to abstraction. Thus I quit all, favoring inaction. Pity the temporal is sans success. Feast to famine, desert from Eden, Life to death, from which there is no egress. Blunders pass, triumphs more: endless regress.   Tomorrow, fractions of me are a worm. Where's my triumph thus? To live then rot, yes? Oh! If only this passage weren't so firm. Purpose does not know temporality; Might it hide itself in infinity?

I fold this way for I am a strange loop That doth not make, but is made by what makes: A mindless mind-matrix that is a soup of dust that thinks "I," riddles thus and fakes; a quaint loop of dust thus to feign this knot, Sly and transposed loop that doth think "I am," that I am, but am not for "I" am not. Inverted to observe "self," dust engrams folly thus, gives the name "self" to legion, so sits so safe on solipsists’ sacral. So we've "I," The looping contradiction, encircling its own shape, the spiral. Lets scissor this loop, unravel its knot, And define me thus: I am all but naught.

I disfavor to say that the whole of Your scope is a tragic dichotomy, Spurred by the below, and yet the above. By want, by fear, you're lost to lunacy. Manacled to thirst, passion and fury, A crazed vortex of both zeal and rue That uproots till all is sated wholly. Oh, cloudy gale of need, the storm is you! To rape, wreck, loot, leech, soil, sunder in two, Blow out, and suck back into a chasm All that is dear, and to do what you do Like a whirlwind, is to crush mutualism Starving, fretting, heaving, blowing to, fro. Please move away, you fucking tornado.

Considering an end, we should begin, begin life like a meal, with end in mind, without excess, abating need within. The savored meal's end is never unkind. Some wouldn't dream that they should a meal's end find. They dine for their lavishment and their weight. Their mythos and their hunger intertwined, they swallow all, so truth they must forsake. Give mindful regard to what we have ate, Lest bread be folly, and wine deception. For the fat man who ravages his plate, Does not feed himself, but is fed upon. He who gorges, and in feasting does die, is swallowed down the gullet of a lie.

What tremor of sound awoke him, the child so soundly lodged in slumber? Were the mystics and priests too loud in their foolery, or were some dreams too frightful to maintain? What tremor of sound awoke the child so unapt, the howling of crumbling Gods or men? What tremor of sound, the rhythmic throb of marching boots, or the crack of gunfire? Having been so loud and sudden, it must've been the latter. Whatever the hook, it dug into his gut, cold and sharp, and it shook him! Crack! A window flooded the room with a flash, suspending images of death on bare walls for just an instant, and then relinquishing all again to shadow and silence. Crack

Glimpse into the home of my lustful nature, And observe a garden of a mind Burdened by the infectious lepers of sensualism, They having laid root in its sacred soil. Treacherous are the weeds of my adulterated nature. They with their thorns and bristles, prick and scratch at my temples, Fill me with such a travestied defect, and paint me with its denial. The lepers had approached me with a platter lined with a fleshy supper, And I detest that in my maze of a birth, I'd acquired the will to eat of it; To bend to the ground under my masculine frailty, The timid, the soft, the delicate, So that I may water the aforementioned weeds, Q