It was a sublime moment, a second of thought, a third of light and a fourth of a message and a vision beyond comprehension, it was a feeling, a strange sense, some sort of emotion that felt like a memory which was a dream, an immense pleasure like some sort of re-assurance.
Further than that, beyond and above unto eternity roaring into infinity, blooming from the throne of some maleficent unreality which captivates the unconscious desire ti escape the surety of the mundane, to ascertain the nature of the fantastic, and find that it is neither but both the same.
The cold is pure, the wind is piercing, it cools my cheeks, it clears my head, it opens my eyes. The darkness cools the fever in my head, glory to the sun and all of my ancestors living with the lidless dead. Away, and forward to all things, what thoughts does the future brings, O Oracle sings of the Sybyll and the nine muses, all the money goes to the makers of fireworks fuses.
Nostradamus slept for a thousand years, I would sleep for a day and sleep forever to wake forlorn again and thereafter to my eventual ruin, I would offer a spoon to the Devil for even a gram of salt, for my luck is not my fault. My compassion is greed, that is my empathy, to want more than you, I could not hate you without feeling you, or rather compensate you for your lack of acting the way I want you to, or rather any other way. My fork for Jesus so he could know that Lucifer feels inadequate, and a Gun for the holy spirit to send the sinners to eternal damnation, so suffer contagiousness in the grave, the ghosts tell me, that is punishment, to be buried alive forever, and to feel the hunger for flesh. 2 Score was all i ever wanted, or 1 score, or no score, but that is better than this empty beauty of timelessness.
It is for my Brother's that I right, they come and sit with me and watch me from their golden thrones in the fantasy of paradisaical fantastical heaven, thronged with the heathen's with their pure lust for nature, and destruction.
A bib for the emperor's, a gift for the explorer's, a final nuance, a hieroglyphic conundrum scraping along the sea floor, through the wardrobe door to Mordor.
I consider Murder almost every day, a silent urge, just to experience a feeling, a forbidden desire is like the purging fire of the matrys, do you hear them scream as there flesh burned? DO you smell the fucking bacon? The Cannibalistic urge to master suffering makes no sense.