In the head lies the child

[Sepia]

I'm waiting for the buildup that will come before the crescendo. After it, comes the silence which I love but it is not my place, it was never my domain. In the chaos preceding, I live. The wrath and the fury is where my head is on the right way, where it works the way it should. I feel like on a threshold, except it's not mine, I observe it, I see it happening but I can't interfere, there is nothing I can do that will change the outcome because it's one of those deeper feelings of change that is a part of your reality but it is the eldest of machines. Our quarrel lies in the technique our quarrel is older than that, our quarrel, our thumb biting is what fuels this machine and the machine is changed and it brings change and they are the people who wait for the silence and know what to do then.

After, we turn to gods, turn to immortal- beings, being able to comprehend that we are dogs at best, cats at our worst, two goldfish in the fishbowl two goldfish down the drain two goldfish surviving the sewer, two goldfish, animated and turned hyperrrrreal is what we see when we wake up with our children, sitting there at 0600 saturday watching something very trippy but very real and we hear the buildup as we lull our child to sleep in the court of the crimson king. How long were we in his antechamber?

The children sing to us the heretics dreams, we hear it imploding in our being, millions of cells bursting and we feel we turn to water turn to dust and while we die we feel enhanced and elated and we're setting the controls for the heart of the sun and we sing along them as we feel it, we feel the the rhythm, the modulation, the peak, the choir, the orgasm before we end and time begins anew and we are here and new and now, we lost our focus as we often do and we made mistakes and took penance but we can feel it now, we can stand in our dancing shoes, two numbers too tight and we can atleast wriggle, cripples that we are.

We can hear the howls on the outside, we can hear the rustling of the wind and we have no embers that crack, there is no calm here, no safety but we stay here, we lay no plans and we never speak of it again for this is our home, our brethren may be free but we'd rather live in bondage and secrecy, carrying our curse with us through the ages as we move from town to town, protected by the sun and knives, we grow to be warlords of age within our walls, we grow wiser and closer to the seven thrones and we will show the howls and the wind what ten thousand swords will do to them. We will kill them off and we will build cities on their shrines a newer places to worship older gods, eldest king.

The silence we spoke of, briefly in hushed moment, the idea we were having simultaneously connected through the nothing but everything is ending as does our conversation and we drink in silence. The coffee is old and the whiskey is cheap and the cream is manufactured but we have cigarettes and there's this old band playing next door and we get this elated feeling as they drone forward, slowly but with skill and thought and heart and soul and passion and most likely drugs and love or lack of but it's there man and it's fucking beautiful like these fingers stroking this keyboard, like the maestro plays the mozart.

The jester is dying, his life is bleeding through him and he is scared, he does not feel it, the return of the light the definitive 1 in an ocean of 0 but he is merely dying. We observe and we see it and are interested, our curiosity piqued but once his rattle begins we run away frightened as we join him in his ceremony of shitting and pissing himself yet we scream like schoolgirls soon in a few more years to dance around with pompoms but the court is soon to be held and we will glide through his doors to his choir into his hall and we will be held in the chamber no more.

[BadBeast]

Sweet.     Love reading your stuff.