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2012: Immanentize the eschaton and join the Black Parade

Started by Sepia, November 08, 2007, 01:26:35 AM

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Sepia

We drive these days down to the daisies, we hear old cassettes from a cassette player we stole at the last gas station and we smoke much and don't really talk much but we just watch the scenery, we're feeling sortof happy blue about it, there's something in our minds and wombs that has begun tingling, it was always there but under so many covers and veils. Here we see you now America, three strangers in a strange land finding the man in the high castle, revealing his secrets and we see you covering our roads and shitting up our food and we begin to loathe you all, you're a nuisance to us, you're the slow walkers on a busy street and you're already late

Where are your monsters now, America? Where is the glare that you willingly let yourself be blinded by? Where are all the layers of protection? Most importantly, where is your beautiful soul and where is your dark, blue heart?

I drive past the illusion that was America and we're some time before 1849 and there's so many dangers that lurk ahead in this deserted country, this horrible plateau. Here you are america, here is your soul laid waste to and here you stand and will stand for another thousand years before you become closer and closer to complete extinction. Some time in the future, archaeologists will come and they will give mythical names, las vegas, the city of glass will throne and there will be a story for it and they'll find it somewhere else where two tribals have a rite of initiation in a desert somewhere where they walk for a day and camp when it gets dark and the older one sends the younger out to look for something he'll know when he finds it and the young one returns with a shard of glass and the man tells a tale of dreams.

We stop by universities and colleges, frap houses looking for the most laura ashely decorated houses and we go inside and drink their shitty sugarcoated drinks and snort their cocaine and we play some 80s music from the car jumping around in our pyjamas having pillowfights and we talk about superficial stuff and there's much silence but there's severed love for this, this was part of us when we were growing up, these were dreams we used to have
Everyone will always be too late

Sepia

The words felt like gibberish when he headed out beyond the pale frontier, we'd never been here, we'd never seen this world before and everything else was going, everything was washing out beyond a last look in the palace of dreams, every little inch we'd given they'd received and the columns stretched their limbs towards the sky, in the city of freedom they built their hopes and dreams into stone so that the world could see what they had seen so many times, so that the world could understand the love they'd given away to everyone, so that everyone could see the sacrifice they made

so that everyone could remember who they were and why they'd been and the rebels became the institutions of old and grew old themselves, smiles hanging off angry faces, tears streaming down an old cheek, saltwater streaming down and colouring the granite yellow and the stains only grew older, the stains grew so that all could see and you were always born in the middle of something, all of us were but the eyes of the world was upon you, the holy fucking terror seeping through every crack in society and seething on the inside of your broken teeth and the concept of the american dream was always what we put to our hearts, the retarded romantics flocking together in the streets of paris talking on the subway in gibberish languages, the city of lights and the city of love and like we who loved the american dream the lovers saw paris but the lovers were always tourists in that city like our ventures into the dream were from a tourist point of view because like the lovers who went to paris never believed in the true love and copied what they had seen and learned from everyone else, all but their mistakes for you'll have to delve deeper to find the dream

or find the love

still the statues weep in every city and town we pass through, so many unknown soldiers and so many families left and abandoned by reasons they never understood, never wanted to understand and everything was at half-mast, every flag and every dream and every abandoned little township and village and we grit our teeth passing through the shit and the filth and everytime we stopped to think the depression got us for we were in a new no man's land, there was no longer fourteen year old boys around us, destroyed by bullets, bombs and nervegas and we left the sommes and verdun a long time ago for the future was bright and they told us the sun would come and the professors still went on talking about time and we drifted out and away and only got back when he started talking about freuds cocaine habits and dubious sexual moral and there was a hand in the air, derailing our education talking about current events and there was this grin all over the theatre and we saw madness in the eyes of those that passed, we saw tom talking to us, face to face, that glint of madness in his eyes, a zealot wanting to bring back the good old days with the good old mentality and we'd have a new war but this time around it wasn't about oil, it wasn't about information, territory or a face that sank a thousand ships

they were continuing our education, they were giving us more lessons, REALPOLITIK was the new sound and we'd graduated from the schoolbench of old, we'd been standing in the corner for long enough with our pointed hat and we'd written it fifty times on the blackboard and our faces were white, our masks were like the deathmasks of old and we built our own sarcophaguses like they had dug their own graves in the sommes, in the verdun, in the old world


mozart was buried in a shallow unmarked grave and who knows where emperor norton rests?
Everyone will always be too late

Sepia

The smoke is blue and we're sitting around the hearth in an old mansion on top of a hill. There should be crows circling around us, birds style rows and rows of mad birds having grown a hivemind, eating children. We've been coming down lately, the drugs having less and less effect and we knew it'd be like that, everyone knows you build a tolerance and it'll fry your brain and yesterday we sat in the living room and drank the whole night through, we were tired of the drugs and needed something to bring us back, our last inch of morale and decency telling us to take a break and now we sit here, cold sweat running our foreheads and lining up like pretty little beads on our upper lips, we're trying to go cold turkey.

The generator is out in the back and we hear it over the soaps we watch, collected editions of shit we'd never touch but which we understand now, which we understand and see so clearly now. It doesn't matter if the world ended, it doesn't matter if we're the last remaining humans on earth and it doesn't matter if we die tomorrow as long as we discover who killed JR.

It didn't matter when we were alive because we didn't live our lives like you did. We didn't embrace it and there was no fire in our eyes, life was a dream, an initiation we'd grown weary of in our mid-teens. We grew tired of the catchphrases and memetics of the net, we grew tired of the advertising world attempts to scam us, we grew tired of our parents telling us the same things over and over but where you prevailed and came out as a victor, we had stopped caring.
Like a comedian, understanding but not caring. We were smart, reflected people and we knew our shit but we were so tired of listening to these old things and we hated ourselves when we told the same story twice, we never liked you and we never loved ourselves and we knew the diseases we were suffering from but we saw so little point in trying to fix ourselves, whether it was turning into decent people or shooting ourselves in the mouth. We didn't care to rectify, we were just visiting. We had no connection to this world when we were born and as we grew older and more skeptic the umbilical cord was fading more and more until all was severed some time in our twenties, perhaps we had some halfassed education that would slip through the cracks.

For some of us, it was always hard enough to breathe and we didn't want you and your ambitions, we steered away and got ourselves another manhattan unless we felt unusually chipper after being asked the question so, what do you do?
Our doing was in living, our doing was in floating around. We were born into a world of friction and we always tried to escape the friction but as everyone escaped life by watching reruns we tried to find hope and something to hang onto in our books, our movies and our drugs. We tried to find a home inside there and some of us did, some of us found the sweet embrace of heroin and we lived our lives through it and ended it through it and for those of us it was a good run, we lived our lives in a way that made us happy and we died happily, drugged out of our fried out brains.
We were the ones that wanted to be left alone, we were the ones tirelessly searching for something that could give us more than our daily fix, be it our fix of weed, our fix of pynchon or our fix of tarkovsky. We wanted a reason that would stay with us for longer than that, longer than the duration of any of our drugs themselves and it didn't really matter if the lives we lived were lies, we stopped caring so long ago. Our only goal was to survive till the end and most of us did, all save for us and now we're here again.

Waiting for the end.
Everyone will always be too late

Sepia

The leaves are a perfect pale now as if some trees have broken out of the stranglehold whatever it is is holding us under, this sway, this grip. I remember that the flowers and plants felt like frozen, put in a stasis of sorts with ever-vibrant colours and a feeling of artificial life. Some of the trees look like bleached polaroids, found twixt the images of your parents wedding and the first glance of your head popping out into the world, covered in blood, saltwater and slime. Someone told the trees they couldn't die here but then they stopped caring and went ahead.

We went into a zoo, the three of us. It was an old zoo, had it's heyday for so long ago, fossilized dinosaurs covering the walls and in the middle of the sprawling octopussian place was this giant ball of make-believe amber, a few meters in diameter and inside it, hard to see without the sun or giant spotlights illuminating it there is a big fetus with an umbilical cord fading gradually towards the top but we see the fingers, we see the toes and that little face, molded, melted and frozen in a neverending cycle of birth, there's a shallow sheen in the construct's eyes and even though the amber has grown dull from fat fingers touching it, the eyes reach out towards us, pierce us with it's animal gaze. Here is the tombstone of humanity, here is the the desire we kept at bay through all these years of civilization, here are the dreams of us all, the pedestal we all want to be put up on in a state of awakened stasis so we can watch everyone around us go oh ah, ohmygosh that's just beautiful.

The dolphins are still alive. Their pools are clogged with filth and it smells horrible, a rank smell of death covering the area and it feels like those dreams you have, where you wake up still sleeping and you begin to brew a cup of coffee, talk to your mother as you pour the water and measure the coffee and she says something or there's a pause and you throw your head around and see her standing there, rotting, small pieces of meat falling from her human frame, revealing small dark spots underneath the skin and her words become hazy and without any waking logic and the words fall into eachother and there are no more discernible oratory sounds but a projection of feelings, intuitions and images, unloading her mind into yours, filling it up as the organs wither and fall away, black blood dripping and covering the floor, going upwards, covering the ceiling and inside her ribcage you see this little creature, it's quite small but it's got a fat belly and small feet, broken wings pulled towards its back and it radiates the dread feeling of the abyss and you feel impotent, completely without power and even though you never were, it feels like someone raping you when you were a kid and you could do nothing but accept for you hadn't the taste for pain resistance brings.

They watch us with their eyes, their noses barely out of the black water and they're simply floating like crocodiles, knowing something we don't, surviving in this little hell with their cool, cruel and calvinist egos. We're frozen sitting where we sit on the old popcorn stands, people around us having melted through the plastic seats, unmentionable blobs of bizarre configurations and the dolphins begin to make their sounds, communicating with eachother, I begin to sweat and I see my two companions are getting more and more shitscared of these monstrous cuties, going slowly back and forth and to them, we're mice and to us they're cats with all the time in the world. We stand up, slowly, start moving away from here and while they chatter they don't seem to mind, we aren't important to them, we never were important to them and as we get further and further away from these creatures we get into our car and as we get in we hear this distant sound, not made by anything we've ever heard save in the worst of nightmares and it grows closer and we hear it now. Tekeli-li.
Everyone will always be too late

Sepia

Nothing smells anything anymore. There are no scents, nothing to crawl off the magnolia in bloom, nothing to feel on our unwashed hands and fingers, there are no distinctions between the differences. We're not heading somewhere but stuck in old foggy memories of skirmishes and wars fought long ago which defined ourselves, defined our civilization. Problem was, we always saw it as history, something looming over us and the horizon and time was crawling slowly for us and it took us this time to realize they'd just been people doing what they had to, an illusion we created for ourselves as we walked home from the movie theatres, inspired but disappointed.

We remember our thoughts and our stories, we see this, we watch and grab and grief but all of life's been passing through lately, flickering over our eyes, fate decided in small seconds as we've been crawling our way and I know I've gone mad for I've been off drugs for the last couple of days but there's still this nagging sensation, this little something tugging my sleeves and while I turn I still catch the one riding shotgun in the corner of my eye but we're hollow.
Dreary and treading on dry grass we move but leave no footprints, we're plot devices in series with no planned end, open for interpretation and definition, unable to act and will in fear of leaving a mark on the ground we walk, fearing an external catalyst seeing through me, through us and watching us curiously as a dead little creature on a vat, floating in formaldehyde in the great grey corridor, its' doors marking the roads to and fro, the smell of linoleum lingering through the echoes as our boots pound down the rows of creatures and critters, life preserved for eternity just the way life immortal should be.

Our noses have grown blind while our eyes have sharpened, the opposite of blindness we sniff through it but we move forever in this fog, there is no escaping this dreaded mist for every day brings us further inside it, every day brings compromises in our minds and every day we accept the mist for real. Our thoughts wade through the mud and quicksand to where we want them and our dreams lose their potency while hope is a dull light twinkling in a believers eye. We grow stale in the rancid air as we dry up and further the hollowness of who we are and we thought we'd smell burning at this point in time as we wrap our Hillman in magnolias but there's nothing.
Everyone will always be too late

Sepia

The house is filled with sadness and the King is empty. Our lives when we lived them were on the fringes, we never came close to the comfortable homes that felt likes homes, makeshift rent spaces where we doodled our lives for a few years before moving on but we were that new generation. By default, not design. No children nor husband but many friends who knew people and we were always in the position to know but our fear kept us back from the act.
We knew in our guts that if we ever got children, they'd be the most perfect children the world has seen and we knew in our minds that the children we'd get would be like any other children, subject to randomness and chaos and not how we wanted them to grow up but we discarded this as we knew in our hearts that we would love them no matter what they were but on the other side of that was the abyss, that which we always stared into with half an eye and it showed us who we are, who we were and we dreaded it. We chose what seemed to be chaos and it was chaos but we learned to swim and maneuver it and it was where we'd be and had always been.

The kind strangers would talk to us as we sat alone in the bars and pubs or as we'd wait on the bus or tram, standing in line for borrowing a book or renting a movie or as we waited for our takeaway pizza, they would attempt to understand us but they'd stop behind the initial, borrowing time from us as we talked to them about their problems, ours not really that way and we'd ache, we'd ache in our sleep as the dramas unfolded and we were caught amongst it, no longer safe behind our masks or scaffolds but out in the open where the sun would light everything as it was and this was our fear, that they'd see us and live us and we would be seen. Through our shrouds of chaos they would cut and they'd find us there, on our coach eating takeaway and watching bob saget with smiling apathy, seeing something there so that we wouldn't have to rearrange and redefine ourselves for we had tired from that game so long ago and we were so tired of ourselves and we could have done something but let it be as we sat there and dreamt and hoped with our bellies filled with fear.

Three weeks have gone away into the ether since we woke up and the world is different. There is a noise that has disappeared, white noise but there is nothing to replace it, there are no internal sounds to make it work, there is just us without the eeeeep noise that should have been there, instead there's a silence we've grown accustomed too but like your new mom or your new dad it feels out of place, it feels wrong as we slowly realize through the curtain of our drugs that our highly held chaos has vanished from our lives.
Everyone will always be too late

Sepia

It was an old, recurring dream. Some dreams attach themselves to one another and continue the stories if one could call them that, build on to them and branch them out further and this dream was that dream. I had it rarely, perhaps ten times in an equal number of years and it always unnerved me and I couldn't understand it in any way, a feeling more than a story.

I am in a white corridor and there's a mirror at the end of it. The image itself is clear but the distance is not, seemingly rows and rows of doors or perhaps other equally white corridors yet I never turn to watch the sides, my gaze is fixed straight forward and I see myself running wearing a trench coat or a similar dark coat or cloak, the colours aren't clear for it is hard to see in the white light what other shade than black I am, still running and as I get nearer or as I feel I get nearer I extend a hand or a hand is extended for me and I do not know if it is my own but it is a hand, I can't see if it's a left or a right but it's a hand. The ring and the pinky are bent, parallel with the angle of the hand while the index and the middle finger are stretching upwards, closely gathered and I feel a strain like a cramp shooting through them. The thumb is hidden underneath the hand and I have always felt the touch of it against the ring finger awkwardly like the first time fingering someone. I reach the mirror with the extended hand and time goes weird.The middle finger is the first to hit the mirror and I'm dressed in white light as it shatters, I move at the same pace, this little chain reaction spreading like a virus across the surface, cracking it open like ice

This is where I wake up or the dream morphs into something else but it's always there when I wake up
Everyone will always be too late

Sepia

We are the walking dead, we are not alive. We were perhaps never alive. No, we were never alive. We didn't want much from life, a part of a generation growing up in a rich middle class where everyone's aims was to get as entertained as possible before we died and possibly to survive until we died. We didn't desire more than that and this wasn't our whine because we'd stopped caring at some point where the nerves that connected our brains and souls to the world had been abruptly shut off, burned out and this wasn't our generation as a whole, this was us, the three of us. We cared very much in our infancy, too much might be the idea here, we cared and believed so much that when we finally met the real world everything shattered instead of falling into place and making sense.
Where we once had tried so hard to combat the desire to sit in front of the television and die every death imaginable, we tried to catch up to all the useless hours we'd lost trying to look for meaning and insight. Gullible we'd been and not used to fighting or standing up to ourselves and still wouldn't be for too many years, grabbing the lowest rung of jobs trying to get away from responsibility, get a couple of years just on thinking what we are to do, here, where we landed with gysins words fresh in our minds. Wrong time, wrong colour, wrong shape.

It was when we got to gladiator we discovered why most of our friends had it in their shelves, more than the usual blockbuster but we bored ourselves to tears until we finally understood it and our situation in the one quote from the hero himself as he ask us whether or not we are entertained. Disillusioned and on the verge of being drunk we staggered along to the nearest pub, the three of us in my head and discussed that one part of the movie over and over, the unintentional definition of everyone we saw around us and it was an argument that grew over the years in this here thing we named our life and it would become very clear to us, it became very clear to me that we were being trained or built would be the more appropriate word. By ourselves, for ourselves to grow into a niche, to grow into a place where we'd feel natural and this gust of fresh air would provide. An invisible drive to become something we didn't know what was but we knew it was better than what we had, passive aggressive pussies as we were, slipping further underneath the covers. It was a new faith and we built it into ourselves, never spoke about it and just kept going as it made us going. We'd never answer whats the meaning with life with a straight face but we knew there was something, had to be something that would make this worthwhile.

Abdul alhazred spoke to us about the machine. Where we had perceived the conspiracies to be among the men and women of the upper echelons of power, the machine and its soul was planted deep inside everything. The dolphins, one of the earlier experiments and still seething with primordial evil. The forerunners. There was no big conspiracy and had never been. The elite was as ignorant as the masses and had no hidden agenda, were not worshipping goat gods long since expired and did not drink blood. They did not think they would be granted eternal life or other blockbuster plots, they were just living their lives. The Mad Arab spoke about this planet, how it had been a silent planet for long, desolate of any lifeforms before the great old ones settled here when the time was right. They had formed the planet in their fashion as to escape what they themselves deemed as death, the long silent slumber where they could not act nor think but lie still in their deathbeds, alive.
Then there had been the war, war had followed them to their heaven and they had gone back to what they were, trapped in the belly of the world with the invisible machine working to free them, the polluted spirit creating an array of memetic bombs.
Everyone will always be too late

Honey

Awesome talent you have Sepia.  I am bowled over, knocked out by it (as is usual with your words)   :)  !
Fuck the status quo!

The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure & the intelligent are full of doubt.
-Bertrand Russell

Sepia

Thank you Honey. :digtbk:


~

The Mad Arab tells us the story, the story of our planet and the story of our lives, how it all connects so beautifully. The machine is what they called it, the first of the ancient gods that settled here because it wasn't theirs, it wasn't made of their flesh and it wasn't sentient in any grade. It would survive the inevitable slumber these gods would be forced into and would work forever with none knowing about its existence. The god machine they created was to free them from their bonds and set them free when the time was right.
The machine was built on practicality, it was built on a desire to survive, one could say that survival was it's primary objective and like the laws of fictional robots, survival was everything. The big picture and the devil's little details rolled into one directive and this was the essence of the machine, a desire of survival, something that it would instill in all the world's small creatures. The maintenance of your race was the idea, the same idea the slumbering gods had held and even though these gods never died and never knew the fear of death, it was still an unknown part in the equation they were rolling with.
Everyone will always be too late

Sepia

He stayed inside and waited for death to come

Death was odourless at first, filled with feelings of texture, sniffing a shot of cheap vodka and feeling its oil running down the throat but then, Death smelled like pigs, squealing and screaming from the inside of a burning barn. Like retarded children, swimming towards the ball of light we saw under the water, not knowing what way is up
or what way is down

There were dolphins there, among us, a pack or whatever one call them and they were sleek, made of silver, floating through the water and like the old albatross rules the winds above the waves, the dolphins are the kings of what is underneath them

Taboo is why we don't eat the dolphin, our fascination stems from how we view them, picture them like us but in water, communicating and having some purpose, the same emotions we distill upon ourselves when we think of cats and dogs

Guardians of something. With their eyes they see, they view this world as we watch this world, we find more kinship among these species than those they say we are derived from, but there is a stupidity among the dolphins, amongst the dogs and cats that is not shared by the primates in the jungle for while we built cities and strived to become Ozymandias, the same primates we have mutated from, or survived from, stayed in their trees and sought not to cast the devils out

In a lab at an american university, a professor in philosophy wanders past a petri dish with a human ear, grown from a rat. Before he jumps from the roof of the building, he is blessed with the understanding that this world is nothing but a factory and all of humankind are products

In a surgical theatre in canada, where a mother has given birth to twins, where the father was with her the whole time, held her hand and gave her all his support, a cleaner is given an understanding as the scents of blood and sex mingles with the scent of chlorine, as he sees that this world is nothing but a factory and all of humankind are self-sustaing products

In a flophouse in mexico, an aging writer understands the partial truth under the influence of tequila and amphetamine, he sees through time as he sees the chair on the other side of the room and he remembers his dead wife with a bullet through her head, with her head in the gas oven or dangling from the ceiling. He understands that this world is nothing but a factory and all of our language is a virus

The dolphins whisper to us and we hear words that aren't words, but sounds coming out of their mouths. They smile at us, we see them and their beauty and we are in awe of them, they seem so intelligent, they appear to be so benign and we can hear their hearts beating through the waves and it is a calm beat, it is sedate and beautiful and we relax. We listen more closely to the voices, the perverted high-pitched sound and we drown in it, floating towards the surface with our bellies down but they don't prod us, they don't wake us up from our nightmares for something evil has stirred in them

Something evil has stirred the hearts of the dolphins

Their master is the oldest master, the oldest god that never walked the earth together with us, he isn't one of the gods that walk in our minds and souls, he isn't a part of the religions proclaiming that ourselves are battlefields with an everlasting tug of war between angels and demons

This is the old testament, this god isn't part of us, this god stands on the outside. We dream of him in his city, the mausoleum of Atlantis where he dreams of us and sometimes he see us as we sleep and we are lucky if we wake from the nightmares

I wake up and the air smells like summer isle, stale seawater and a clinging smell of torched wickermen





~~~
How's this for a first chapter?
Everyone will always be too late

Kai

If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water. --Loren Eisley, The Immense Journey

Her Royal Majesty's Chief of Insect Genitalia Dissection
Grand Visser of the Six Legged Class
Chanticleer of the Holometabola Clade Church, Diptera Parish

The Dark Monk

I thought this is all there is,
but now I know you are so much more.
I want to upgrade from my simple eight bits,
but will you still love me when I'm sixty-four?
~MIAB~

Sepia

Did you see the dream? Did you feel it as it connected you to reality, through channels unexplored by you and everyone not in the weirdest conspiracies. The most unbelievable, telephone cords ruining the moment of alien vivisection showing us that we are the monkeys we are, blueprints from rice burroughs, our father the dominater and our mother the dominated. Here was truth and we saw it the way pink floyd told it to us. Here were the dreams we had when we were kids, agents protecting our country, agents from a country different than ours but it was so shining, so filled with wonderful pink plastic while the concrete was hard still. Something shivered through the world and our hearts were there, every night in the dreaming. Every night in Langley.

I didn't walk the halls that often in the beginning. It started when I was around sixteen, an ego growing but not quite developed, self-conscious but filled with hope and inside hope was a pillar of fear. I ventured slowly. Toilets, closets, janitor's breakroom. The doctors lab and even in here, the people were categorized and filed. The men of the machine or god, the men of something more than us. Not smarter but more, sleeping but still the instincts kicking in, preserving its life and collecting information, watching in the dreams, seeing the stars and seeing the conspirators, musing that those who are right, those who listened to the prophet was of those who were locked up, silenced as the men protesting around the Langley itself and pentagon, wanting to change the shapes of buildings and in their minds the future. The ones who had read the prophet and not giggled at his work had seen it in the dead of the night.

The corridors of Langley were god. His mind, his understanding, his view of this world formed so much of it but it was never what happened on the surface that was this ones goal, that was always the humans' doing, paranoid as they were in its presence or not. The cabinets once only held life but were now filled with civillizations, political beliefs and religions. Everything was written in these files, everything was catalogued here, everything was assigned a barcode and a number, one set of electronic records with backups together with printed versions of each file. There was a god peering from the basement once. They saw him all of those who were in that day and like the sun setting ten seconds after it rose, such was that beam. That crude awakening.

The linoleum was alive, at least in our dreams. It was porting us distances, to different file cabinets and different lives and we saw what we had done but we did it still, it was the only thing that made sense in our dreams, the fear was always on us, small rodents living on our shoulders and nibbling our ears

but the lino was clean, it was perfect and we saw our reflections as we stared down into it, into a beetle rolling a ball of dung as the sun rises in the country were some of our older gods come from, some of the earlier gods we feared, the land where death is still welcomed with open arms and we sat with the pharaohs and they told us of the moon and the seven plagues

but most of all they spoke of the book which had not yet been written and they spoke gods name but he was dead

The host of angels were dead. Everything was dead except those who were alive and those who could never die, immortality being an unknown concept to them but we saw them in our dreams, we saw their faces and knew their names, their madness and we always met them in the Langley of dreams but they had another name for it

and we thought about it every time we climbed the hills that lead to the plateau of Leng
Everyone will always be too late