The eye (pt. 4)

[Sepia]

Let the heart here carry, let the nausea overwhelm you, give in to your fanatasies of fever, think of them as real and something that belongs and live life like that

Why? Why not? Every fantasy is true anyhow and none of this was made to last, the heart is not the disorder, the mind is not the disorder, no special part is, they say a chain isnt stronger than its weakest link and once there was a man who bound sticks together and gazed out to the italian alps, those majestic mountains, stirring and we weep

Everything is in disorder, everything is in order, we hear the story being told and we can see its contours but it is something different now, a heart pierced together by a stray thought, a bullet in the right place can change the world

but it has no equivalence when faced with the real thing, they say sticks and stones can break bones but words

words

are not a weapon but the pen is mightier than the sword like the number 8 so characterless but so eternal, brother I am sorry but we were growing, we are growing arent we, I hope so, I hope we have begun our descent, our ascent

we have no thoughts, they but flicker before they are gone, our concepts our minds our ideas bursting, with ignorance but we will make it before they do

They worked hard for this, it will come to pass, it will turn where it needs to turn, it will become what is needed, faith manages. Faith manages, my religious mantra stolen from babylon five, my illumination found in television in the 90s, a decade none will remember for its spiritual revival but the sum of what i have seen, the one thing not twisted to your own sick fucking ends

is a religious ideal in a fictional universe but I would vote for the minbari any day of the week

These are chronicles, like his but not in a form he would prefer, our sweet uncle Jens, bound but I think so of his own free will, bound to something he wanted to be bound to, attached to and I think he understood other peoples lives easier than he did his own if any of us ever did

three lullabies in an ancient tongue, three whispers never heard like a tree in the woods, like a face seen before unborn, unlife, this life, these heartbeats and rhythms, this happening here, this unlife turning to life and back again, a symphony of sorts, a sordid life, a heart hollering without a mouth but where a moth appears, fighting the eternal fight against the light

Hunger hums in our hearts,  we are here again, weve been here before, it feels like home but looks like something else but weve been here, weve been here before weve smelled this before but we always turn away

to the fear, to the darkness that we fuel with our wills minds and ego, no longer restricted but being allowed a few seconds with our head above the water

feeling the hum, being in the zone, given perpetual understanding while it lasts, here, moth, come fly to me, find me here in this stream, long forgotten but like any house Ive been to it has a desk and it is the desk of slothrop

I sit at slothrops desk, I know where this idea crept up from and it is nasty but it is an idea and I have done it, I have recreated his desk, there is no difference here between the fictionverse and reality, this reality

I have wings and a bottle of port, a shelf from ikea, purchased aeons ago still unpacked, still flat and very swedish, like witnessing the second thermodynamical miracle, right before your eyes and then taking that idea as your islay whiskey is derived of smokiness and flavour, being replaced by cold and water

taking that idea and applying to every thought about every process you ever had, friendships, love, work, ethics, morality hearts minds souls

yourself

I