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To pass stupidity among us, a leaf of hearts felt in this neverending life, circle become us and turn our hearts towards heaven. You were the guiding light, a shadow streaking among the stars, a dying flow, a destruction of ebb and daring but not for us, not for hope, a dalliance with oneself, a failed romantics' dream, shattered early in youth with the discovery that love does not conquer all and love as we might have been led to believe, does not exist for while it can and might, it won't when it is to be expected for both fate and random chance have a cruel streak within them and those who deem themselves worthy of it, those who lie in bed at night and whisper to themselves in the darkness, invoking their demons but not their angels, hoping for salvation but praying for damnation, yearning to be judged and to be released from the fetters of ourselves, feeling the generations weigh upon us, it feels less set in stone now, this age, there are no wars to build upon and we keep more silent, talk about what matters but isn't important to us, somewhere along the way we forgot who we were and when we remembered, we saw our lives as shallow broken things, devoid of what we once had filled it with, information we hoped would stay with us, information we could pull out of the top-hat like a white rabbit made of straw, alas
the souls and minds we once were lost in the twilight of subconsciousness and we remembered we were not builders, we are not builders, we do not carefully erect a new palace where our minds can dwell, we tell ourselves we can live here and it reminds us of when we were young and cared about a great deal of things, too many things that we let slip as we tried to think about Lovecrafts quote about adulthood and we ourselves turned into them, into it as we were looking a different way, hoping for different things, imagining how it would be when we became what we are, orphaned children sitting outside a derelict mansion, too tired, too exhausted, lonely hearts waiting for the proprietor to shoo us off, to be forced to walk the earth for another cycle, to see it all once more in a different wrapping but with the same underlying mechanic, to see all the marvels and the wonders with weary eyes
Boasting to none, telling none the tale

Letting dreams slip, words make everything simple, makes everything easy to see and understand and we pose as powerful magicians, technicians of mystery in a world where science is the god with the old religions in their death throes, waiting for the son of god to reboot the franchise and even though so many worship the trinity they will not worship His Son if he should arrive again for they've read that story already or seen the movie and they move against him before the miracles can root and set deep, there will be no ascension, there will be no touching of the godhead

Why here and this, these hands and these hearts, sinking in its own beauty, caught in our throats, expanding like, oh

Are we truly the children Arthur Clarke saw in his minds deepest hope or are we nothing but the carriers of the civilization virus?

What more should there be than eating, drinking and fucking? These are our parametres and faith in religion or science is our crutch- science will find a  way and god keeps watching over us, the bigger picture is reserved for the hivemind of scientists or the all-seeing eye of the lord god, the enlightenment of the individual is still aeons away if it will ever arrive and thinking about it, why should it? Information is not knowledge but information comes easily while knowledge does not, there is nothing tangible to show off, there is nothing we can photograph or blog about except passages, ideas and concepts but they are intellectual in their nature and ours is not, the age of science heralded the age of anti-intellectualism where we now sit, attempting to rub rocks against dry grass to see the holy fire once more

The silence shifts in the fragrant, mists pour in the early morning, summer something different now than what was then like a familiar face growing older, I used to love the silence and feeling the discomfort of those who never got used to it, an edge or a weapon with no apparent use at that age but now, an idea even more brutal, adults feel their shame when the french angels break their tingling feet across the divine floor, tufted toes spreading over the cold cemetery soil, time is weird, a derivé in a microcosm, where those six feet under recite their obituaries like mantras, their I AMs reduced to an interpretation, their souls and lives described in a readable fashion, written well as we browse them, convenient lies to make it work with the narrative, byte-sized and single-serving like death is in this age and as elvis showed us, the smartest pr move anyone could do, the last mystery in an age of science, le grande magique

We are all bathed in the light of reason in our culture, faiths and beliefs being defended, religious notions protected by rational thought and science in itself guarded by passionate intensity, every birth the beginning of a story, the beginning of something, this life emanating from the alpha and ending at the omega, our own personal reality where we die from public eye and are reborn in our own sphere of fiction where gods once roamed but no longer do, we banished our gods and our demons, locked them away from sight and thought, contaminants we'd never want again, a law  we passed on the battlefield that are our souls, everything super-natural and non-quantifiable, everything that doesn't fit within, the monsters that need a true belief, wrapped in fairytales, shrouded in  a mystery that doesn't tell you that something will happen when the penetrator becomes the penetrated, an  idea that can never be defended, only accepted and in its acceptance, a form of transcendence is found, something bigger than us exist but unlike the gods of scrolls and tomes, the bigger picture does not care, the icons and the symbols do not care of those whoe birthed them, like the stars and the sun and the void doesn't care, like we don't care about the whys of our children, our cats and our dogs

Vampires, werewolves, weeping stones, the sanguine tears of a wooden jesus on a copper cross, trolls that operate the subway stations, our oldest religions that  only the fringe can accept and believe, the miracles only the true devout can see, mad men held a prophet's power once like they held their affliction, a curse of   madness and wisdom both, revered like messengers from a god or a pantheon but seldom envied, they had power but not the power you'd want for there was a reason they held power when they held it, they didn't hold it because it was a thing in vogue but somewhere along the line someone understood the power they held and wanted it for themselves, gods were real once and walked among us

The faithful of us hear the outcries of the dying men, wronged by fate and faith, feeling nothingin these hearts of remorse, dreamers in a shadowed country looking for a way out when all the world wants in, we call them our shattered dreams for we play the tortured artists well enough, this world and this life, governed by the gods of men, feeling the fury heave in monstrous acts, where we comment and interpret, where we become those who are not us, the ones we'd never be as we crossed our hearts and hoped to die, we sit like mice on the porch, listening to the rain, nursing our tea and joints looking out towards this difference, this that we can never conquer, this that will never care if we live or die and as we understand the gravity of it, we weep and long for a greater order in things, a god to stay our hand, a miracle to make us believe, a gentle whip to keep us in line

All are lies like all men are liars and for some there is a war going on for truth has been replaced with propaganda and they say it is the first casualty of war and the war itself is seemingly never-ending while none have a clear idea of where it began, what first ancestral human to take arms, the reasons are most likely the same it always is, resources in a way, shape or colour that one has and another wants whether it be for need or greed. Of one thing all men and religions agree; the war ends in heaven, it ends in hell, the afterlife is where they are allowed to sleep, these are the lies I tell myself in sleep. Magic is real and faeries are real and the true anarchistic commune is real but to find it one needs to lose those twentyone, twentythree skiddoo

"Life.. Life is like running when you were little and you won't remember it but when you see a toddler trying to wobble over to the smiles and cheers of their parents, that is what we're doing, we're still toddlers but we've learnt so much that we have taken other roles, some of us have tried to tell ourselves it is the meaning of life that we search for, where our lips seek when they are not sealed and some of try to map the desert or the mind but some remember the goal"

"Adulthood is hell." - HP Lovecraft

"Netley: "I just don't know where I am anymore"
Jack the Ripper: "There, there Netley. I shall tell you where we are. We're in the most extreme and utter region of the human mind, a radiant abyss where men meet themselves"
Netley: "I don't understand, sir"
Jack the Ripper: "Hell, Netley. We are in hell"" -
- From Hell, the movie




His is the fear and I try not to be him, at first it seemed impossible, the concept of his persona was so off that I didn't see nor understand and he was forgotten, remembered later in a different world and a different time where it feels like life both connects and severs and my hatred for him resurfaced, my agony of even knowing anyone of his caliber and slowly but surely and six feet deep somewhere Horselover Fat whispers the Empire never ended and even deeper, at the depths where we will find atlantis and mu HE shudders a moment in waking and sensitives the world around feel the apocalypse growing and no word is heard from the vatican. For the second where he wakes, we see his Empire


"No light is here emitted" - Austin Osman Spare, Promethea


No moorish man, not an othello, not a iago, his own. His own destiny, his own fights, his own road and like his roads it is magical, he strips the mystery from everyone but the stage magician who will still leave by the third door and reading his ideas, his interpretation of magic makes magic sense and it's weird and I never could find myself to believe heartily in something because there is too much shame in it, a fear of blindness, an instrument of a will more dedicated than yourself because there's atleast always one more dedicated and more ambitious than yourself, and the fear of the blind men that dwell in the one-eyed man's kingdom where life is very long, the fear is that I should not know myself but thinking I do and the shame of belief in an age where our idols become younger for each day and everything is watered down into something primordial that holds everything that needs to be held but nothing more and there is no soul anymore, there's an x factor, there are no balls and there is no hair, there is nothing but plastic infront and on stage and this is our hatred for reality, so deep does it descend through us that as we accept it and wake to it, we take a country and then we stripmine it and then we move on, this is our nature as we bring the subcultures into hyper-reality


They fight holy wars, still. Never-ending wars found from old texts speaking of a never-ending war. Everything profound written are empty words when spoken, giving reason to a cause that has nothing to do with theirs. I can hear their shadows even here, so far from that civillization I hear their shadow-drums through the night and their zeal overwhelms the cricket but the vibes are no longer good

I wish I could see the light but all there is, darkness. The sun is released from exile and as it explodes onto our planet and onto our faces and bodies and cocks and cunts we expect to react like we used to but we're not, something changed while we were looking the other way, something dropped or someone, the ball that keeps on rolling and while we were different, someone got a strike and it might have been me but noone knows because how do you ask about that from someone however dear, I lost something in a haze that used to make me me but now it's not there and all I can feel is the perpetual dread of never-ending existence, please help???

HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the ftaghn, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire, HIS is the empire

The last of the cold, the last of the dying season is ending and hope springs to life once more, the promise of summer, the kiss of a sun seldom seen only heard through the ages, the rock of these ages, the monsters in the living room, crept up on me when I was a wee child and something grew, something started growing then, an old cancer, a new idea, a heart stopping and waiting for the green man, we've all had days when we're just sitting there, waiting for that man, hoping and dreading his arrival, not realizing it is ourselves

The asphalt is pale and it seems like winter is still here, not feeling the full truth of spring but a make-believe a pretend and nothing really ends sinks in as we understand what is happening, we are samsa but it is the world outside us for we are caught in the belly of the whale and as we live our lives and bide our time waiting for our mother who have protected us for so long and given us food and shelter where we have found love and the meaning of life is still what georg samsa saw out of his window in the world where franz kafka wasn't a freak

Something we'll never know because we do know the devil we know and it will be our undoing and our civillization will collapse from it but then, we went out the way we lived didn't we, isn't this what we should strive for? Wouldn't that be the most just representation of who we were or who you are and if gods lightning did indeed struck and if I died as I lived, I'd die in my sleep

Not like Elvis or Hendrix who seemed to die according to a plan, pawns shifting as the sun tortures us with a few beams, surrounded by clouds and the world feels like it has little silver in it but is doused in water or kerosene leaving this membrane, unshatterable except by understanding like you walking up to tell him you love him and him saying

The last frost comes always after a period of warmth, so we shall not forget our true hearts, the lumps of ice embedded in the oil that pumps through all of us, it's not enough that we got lucky, we're being smug about it, we're being good

monsters playing to be people, before we had one god we had many, now only brought forth to explain metals of various kinds or burning churches but are we men or are we the trolls of past ages learned to walk like man? Did we come from his third way, was that our birth into this?

The 23rd path

"There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold
And she's buying the stairway to heaven.
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying the stairway to heaven."

- LED ZEPPELIN


""Light down, light down, now, True Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide and rest a little space,
And I will shew you ferlies three."

"O see ye not that narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns and briers?
That is the path of righteousness,
Tho after it but few enquires.

"And see not ye that braid braid road,
That lies across that lily leven?
That is the path to wickedness,
Tho some call it the road to heaven.

"And see not ye that bonny road,
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae."

- The ballad of Thomas the Rhymer


"hell above and heaven below
all the trees are gone
the rain makes such a lovely sound
to those who're six feet underground
the leaves will bury every year
and no one knows I'm gone
leave me golden tell me dark
hide from Graveyard John
the moon is full here every night
and I can bathe here in his light
the leaves will bury every year
and no one knows I'm gone"

- And no one knows I'm gone, T. Waits



The 32nd path

Heavy words descend upon our adams apples and knots tie in bellies and a man is said to be left standing after the invasion, he is questioned but released, never picked up by any of the locals and when the revolution comes he is the first against the wall but again he is released and is tolerated for his lack of actions. When the revolution has feasted upon its fathers and mothers and children, the revolution, now lacking what fueled the hatred turns into what it once was but more brutal, more sincere. The revolution learned alot about others pain and we are protected now, by the same gods, the same vaults and the same moat

Mother Guillotine, have you come to see me off as I escape your city and your enthralled henchmen? The skies are bloodred as is fitting with a passing like this for I shall see you never again and even though you were newly built and only recently used, you are an old monster and rarely do you stand in the sun, aye, but when you do you are horrible to look at, you are retarded compassion built for efficiency, you are the monster in the abyss but you are more importantly purpose given form, you are destiny manifested and in a world where they tell us god creates destiny, not man

You learned me alot, this is the city that never sleeps, this is the city of the morning, this is the city of the harvest, the sleight of perpetual motion, the curve as time seems to sag and then speed up and I can feel the interference and it feels like nothing else and the hum and the beat and the snare and the light, like being on e only so much more, so much more detail so much more reality stop ask yourself why and know the answer already, see, magic

Never magick or magique for those are barren words nested in hollow shells of the people that so hardly want to believe when there is not much to believe in and why would you want to believe in something so vague that few people take responsibility for what they've written about it, hiding behind dry pseudonyms, a mish of religion, philosophy and bible trying to become science as they interpret religion with science and science with religion and this is magic, when the penetrator becomes the penetrated when night becomes day and if you really want to read about magic, I'd pick up Promethea seeing it's excellent handiwork

But the city sleeps, the city doesn't yearn for me as the miles become hours and night turns into day and everything shifts and the world is hollow, there are no friendly faces among the fires, there are no warmth in the rain but we press on and after the second night of sleep we hear the sounds of the ocean, we hear the life and hope fills our bellies like the finest of champagnes and we enjoy the last night, having reached the future of what we will become, the something is planted in us, something new that most likely will fade and flicker but it is there NOW

we realize it doesn't really matter what happens now, we've seen it, we did it we lived up to our own standards, we understood the consequences of our actions.

Some men say the world ends whn two watery stones meet on dry land, some say it will be consumed by dragons, others believe a dark lord is rising in the east, some say it will happen this year, some say its already happened

Some say that in his wet tomb of R'lyeh, he weeps for the end of time as his æon begins

We were jealous of you because you were so full of life while we sat silently waithing for our own death rattle. Later in life we would descend to hell and ascend to the sacred city, we would see all the reflections in the net and gaze upon the abyss, the eternity of un-never, the eternal vague magic of truth would be revealed to us, its significance, its meaning, its purpose and we would find it as

I walked out of the seven with a pack of smokes and a bag of munch and it had gotten colder, spring was nearly here and through the din of drunken children and tourists, the men of the bridge offering their diluted goods, the surest way for those who wish to wake up at the er or not at all and as I thought this I heard in a broken norwegian dialect I love you and I've never heard anyone mean it so much, the desperation and longing equally genuine. There was no love in her voice and there was little hope, there was the hard cold guilty conscience hitting you coming down on something bad one of the boys on the bridge said would rock your world

There are no dreams anymore, there are no roses, dropped by protestors, crushed by swat, picked up by people in employ of the salvation army, there are no dreams but there is work to be done. Perhaps that is the time ending, the abscence of the youthful yearning for something more, always more and different and new and change and hope and fear and love and god and murder and all and everything of potency, the smell of rose, the multifoliate life

There is work and work is always good when it extends your being but I guess it has to when the shifts are 12, it becomes part reason of life of meaning of this, brave new world that I gaze upon with fresh eyes again, reborn once more amidst the din, making status and filling out lists, making plans for work

In lifes long corridor where we the dying men walk

I will not wait for you as I climb the steps to the abattoir, I will not wait for you as descend into hell nor will I wait for you as I ascend, I will not wait for you as we board the trains leaving for poland, I will not wait for you as you try to understand, you were always better than me, you always managed this shit so much better, I will not wait as the gate closes to the courtyard, I will not wait as I crawl into bed

The world whispers but is not heard, memories are intertwined with ideas or scenes from movies and books, life itself is merely a reference, valid according to knut hamsuns law- remembered for hundred years and that is all and Kurt Weill had it right when he damned posterity

Time, we get greedy as it passes, as damnation passes and we see as it curves the decisions leading up to it but still we yearn for it, confident we can crack the code, break the crypt and we all suffer from dunning kruger but us most of all, you and me babe, like guns and ammo

We pass through the downbelow and we walk in the suicide fields as the towers of Dis claw against the sky, pitch black but completely clear as we pass through the serene valley where the true magicians dwell, men of such a faith filled with the most barbaric personalities, forever skirmishing with themselves on the battlegrounds they are and we as arrive at the steps of the city itself, the towers still looming, the streets of despair all run to the source, a tower forever looming, a four dimensional object casting a three dimensional shadow and we are all enveloped in it

You understand why I won't wait? You understand the impossibility of that situation, you realize death, birth, rebirth transcendence are all personal, where nothing else but you exist and the world is tranquil. I will not wait for you- I will not wait for you as you try to understand, mother tomb

Of the living men, we hear naught but the dead stay up chattering all night and into the mornings before sleep also claims them as the living men go out into the world and learn its' secrets so they can live a life, prospering and doing everything they wanted and the way they first wanted it and life is filled with the dreams of the sixteen year old

Everything is dumbed down, it seems like offending someone of their ignorance is frowned upon and children are permitted to walk on their fists made of ham and there are no mysteries in the bank

The bank is the silent kid, closer to the middle than the last row, dressed nice but cheap and he raises his arm only when it is needed and speaks only when spoken to, a grey child by all accounts but here is not what he does but who he is because that's what defines him, his being  not his doing

Some of my friends say what is this world turning into and sometimes I say it's turning into what it always is, it's only the glamour that changes, only the faces that change while the hearts or lack of remain the same, that is all, that's how it works, pragma finding philo, raping him

There isn't a balance, there is nothing here except patterns, repetitions, change is always doing its' thing but so is tradition and while the name of it may transform, it still requires a cup and a wand

Here we hear the death-god's whisper, here we see the man behind the curtain, here we build the grand guignol where all our children will grow up in, all our plants, watered by us, grown by us, incubation lasting longer than previously stated, thin ice reaching like talons on black boards

Gods live in us but they are always remembered in the past, when truths change and turn to myths and as long as one mind believes nothing truly dies but in one hundred years, old knut, all will indeed be forgotten

We are the frayed men, broken bone in bleak landscapes where dry grass is like glass under our feet as we walk past the mesas and into the heart of it, the heart of the older gods and their sons and daughters, their da vincis and bathorys left here in the fields in the feeble gallows, whistling in the wind as you turn to pendulums, marking something with your movements and it seems orchestrated, it seems like something more is seeping in here from a different world, this is a soft place, where the walls are soft

We touch them as we peak and they feel so rough and alive or so soft and cuddly but we end up playing with water, feeling it, seeing it as the droplets die so we shan't smell and we go far, we go deeper, our love tunneling and propelling us further and every touch is a touch of bliss and every vision, every word every bite peaks us further from what we were and towards what we should do and we glimpse it, we see it before everything turns bad

Change, they'll ask for it and it will come, not by polls or decisions, it'll just come when it is time, the fruition of the idea, the illusion of orchestration, the veil of conspiracy being torn, misunderstood for something of importance but only the pond of Narcissus, and not himself, his honey-pot forever creeping with changelings, those who got their fifteen minutes and have now been changed, by voodoo, black magic or science into the insect-slaves of Narcissus, forever roaming hospitals, preying on those who are weak in body but rich in talent, gifted

The midwives let them roam as the midwives themselves roam the corridors, endless white halls filled with the secrets of death and life but seen as a checklist but it's ok, they're old and tired and shouldn't be here anymore, even their glamours are aging and the age of fairies is over and all that remains from it turns to dust before it turns to oblivion, to be forgotten- to be remembered once more

To think of time, to reflect upon its nature and your entanglement with it, the nature of the beast is found inside it, coventry is in there somewhere and time is the question that needn't be asked, time is the grand guignol

We should have

It feels like we are running, it feels like there is something to be found, unlocked and pulled out of its' chest and be placed once more under the sun, the task seems time-sensitive but there is no sensation of time passed nor of time itself, there is only the feeling of the task at hand forever nagging in the back of your skull, a question that always lead to more, questions and moments in life worth snapshotting for the gallery on the other side where we lie to dry with our jars and dogs and concubines, there

that is where we are, not in limbo because there is none, like there is no heaven no hell nor xenu but the concept hasnt been translated since the old gods dwelled here, in the deltas and by the fata morganas too deep into the desert like we are enveloped in dunes of skin but still do we feel it, the skin hunger, eating us, taking us back to other times and showing us how the past looks like the future but we don't know that- yet, for we are in the eternal chambers where there is no rest but the mind is intact

Did you wake up one morning with the answer or did it hit you as you walked through the graveyard smoking a joint with your best friend and it's summer and hot and green or did you read it, were you pushing yourself when it happened or weren't you, crouched on the couch, did you stop asking for more?

We weep for we do not know who we are, some of us prepared by trying to read the symbols that rearranges reality and we know what is coming to us but for those who don't know that the world ends as it begins and that the stakes are higher than what one realizes as we don't ourselves, stuck infront of a telly with a beer, stuck infront of a computer with a joint, stuck but feeling it somewhere, distant like the way it'll sound when we die and we're in the pure white light and a female voice that is the mother of all calls out after you and you let go and you find the rest that was prophesized and as her hand touches yours you explode like a thousand suns into a new universe, filled with life and light, filled with meaning

The snow falls on memories, taking them away for just long enough to let them fade, still to be cherished but not a part of the now but part of the somewhere, a piece of a shadow lingering and will not be whisked away and both of them are always there, both faces but after a while, shadow-boxing becomes tiresome even though you know and you settle for pleasant and you no longer try to fight and understand your demons but live on the grace of angels where you build your Silver City, your Jerusalem, your Babylon and you inhabit it as you listen to the angels and leave the demons only to come out when they must and what fiersome beasts they are when you no longer know them as brothers, know them by names but only by their howling

The drift thickens, black talons curse the sky and all men and women below it hoped like americans hope for their presidents that it wouldn't snow just yet, the sensation of spring in march makes it feel outlandish, different and new, like seen with fresh eyes, innocence walking out and onto the platforms and entering the City to try to learn the secrets of the virus

They sing, those who toil the earth above, they sing songs of harvest, they sing songs of the weather and their gods and trolls, their aberrations their beliefs their dreams their hopes their fears all around the earth we have heard their song- slaves sing songs of freedom and hope, words disguised in chains, housewives singing of freedom but knowing hope to be a lost cause, thinking that none give her flowers

The songs are everywhere, among all men and all women, their shadows sing the songs of lost children, demented grannies and sick old people out in the streets, crying for something different, hoping for god or somesuch to come down from above and lift us anew into the realm of our own realities, comfortable underneath the skin, feeling the skin hunger vanish, seething dreams filled with poisonous pillows and covers drenched in sweat from every night, every waking nightmare, consuming

Did someone talk to you? Was that the regression from light, was that the abandonment of the day people, were they buried there or was it something else we dragged away into the night? Burdened were our shoulders but the weight of what world was upon it? We heard the whispers ourselves sometimes when we visited you in that basement but perhaps we were too weak

Perhaps our wills bent in other directions, perhaps god himself observed us perhaps this is a petri dish, dreams coated in agar and viewed through a microscope through time and we are just this new race of pets this overlord race wants to breed and

The sickness is in us, the destruction is final, it is fatal, it is a dream kept within a song, the song that was sung to begin the world and there will come a song that will end it if there are any left to sing it but the virus is spreading and mutating and its manifestations can not be seen as connected now but the army of the twelve monkeys did its

"You will never understand
how it feels to live your life
with no meaning or control
and with nowhere left to go." - Common People by Pulp


In the holy machine where we worship the old and the few, where the dormant screams are heard for millennia across barren cities and drier lands, where the grass smothers like glass as ancient feet put one in front of the other as the holy machine opens up, reveals its rose amid the rubble, celestial shall they walk upon us, dreaming like we are as we walk through life but not believing anything for no age ends and no age begins, we are still in the dark ages, we are still in the renaissance we are still figuring out the same questions that plagued them then and will plague us till we all are dead, till the last light has been turned off till we have answered the questions ourselves

and moved on

Everyone comes into their proximity and through some unknown beam of memetic qualities, they are ideas, questions and concepts to be carried with you, some will find them by religion, others by popculture, most by philosophy, some by science some by insight others by drugs some in a downward spiral others going up but the questions remain like infatuations or a particulate pretty face or cute ass, we carry our emotions with us, we carry our questions and the answers we know in our gut but not the phonetics to describe the silver city, afloat on splendour and made holy by the machine or the city of dis, nestled close to the heart of all mankind for hell is in our hearts, hell is where rebellions will be sat into motion, hell is where those who descend ultimately will ascend, hell is chaos, hell is friction, hell is emotion while the tower, ivory white is doomed to fall to answer a question

Who am I?
A collection of meat blood and bones, an animal of intellect but an animal still- I have a craving for something more that most likely will remain with me until my death, Who I am does not matter, I like everything else has already been interpreted, weve already gone through a different machine and I am me only as far as your own skillset of references go

What was your face before you were born?
How were my emotions, how was my frame of mind before I had that shot and brew or before I smoked this joint, who was I when I woke up this morning? It was a beautiful morning and I woke ahead of time and it felt like cheating because it wasnt part of the plan, it was free time to marvel in the fog before coffee and cigarettes take it all away, I think thats the closest, those twenty minutes as the world wakes and your light isnt on and nothings on you just peer outside and you know you are invisible and none else have woken and here alone in your god-time you gaze at the unborn masses

Will the soufflé collapse?
Yes.

Here is our midlife crisis, coming onto us like mortal men twixt the monsters of Crowley and Spare battling the nephilim in the middle of our lunchdate with the girl that was quite hot back in community college and here we are brought back to Steve Reichs cave as we talk to the bartender on how much a sidecar is with the various brands and his words are wrapped around the items coming out of their mouths, one future wrapped around the face of a distant past, here

We used to have trolls here, in the old days they lived in the parts of our hearts where mystery still exist or did, like they did, by the still lakes and the waterfalls or just in a clearing, a ring of mushrooms where each witch would partake every moon, where the lesser creatures in the night would make mischief in it while every fable visited us every year, at least once we saw them, waving them good-bye like old relatives whom we are not sure will be living or somewhere else, in the nothingness or in his dreams in his belief, all will turn gray and all gray will fade and I think we are beyond ends and beginnings now, childrens tales told by damned souls working for a buck, we are onto something else, we are moving furthur along the edges of the known, where reality is newt gingrinch telling the world that in eight years if god permits the moon will be made a state in the land of the free

We had trolls for the longest time, our silent partners in the rise of our nation, from being kinda good at pillaging way back to being in unions with elder brethren who understood the world so much more than us but then it hit us and it was trolls in specially fitted scuba gear that found it, many dying and never compensated and they were around but growing uncommon as a different age dawned, with their frequency being replaced with a louder signal, never nothing but louder

Soon, the forests cleared of the elvenkind and what is actually typically norwegian but none will tell, it was in the furthest trenches the opposition was fierce, older stories and ghosts, older nisser, vetter, haugetusser and the old knight, Ridder Vold, Knight of Violence whom would haunt the graveyard, killing passers by as he did, collecting the gold to pay passage on the river styx or perhaps the cover on the houseboat

The last trolls were the trolls that ran the subway in oslo, they stayed with us into the late eighties before they also vanished, creating the ghost of their station now only seen in bigger ad campaigns


There are still trolls here, some are sleeping and waiting for warmer times, others have passed on, their stories truth on with them and some await being born and some were birthed and active now but the distillation of knowledge is something we will never see, printed in schoolbooks 70 years from now or the information is just injected into your left eyeball, giving the never-ending Empire what it wants as it seizes your temporal lobe and you lie in blissful agony in a tank filled with LCL and the world is at your fingertips and you know who you are and you know you will emerge victorious as everything emerges and you know you are their black swan and youre playing it cool and humble and there comes the seizure again and youre heading there now, you are moving through thoughtspace to the allnow where all matter is condensed into time and no shadows are cast, by some seen as a swamp, a mesa or a plateau but youre deep in the dark heart of mythologys

There is a fire in the sky and fireworks in the rain, here we were, the masses gathered to watch and participate and rejoice and be overcome by it, the sensation, the death of it us meager men and women scratching for something. Lost but none know where, there are shadows here, dreams are uneasy and uncertain but we know that god is watching, we know he sees us, we know he becomes us as our transition comes and every interpretation of death will now be sat to eary december twenties and there are probably many peope that believe it will end and more will come this year, the gathering of crows looking for their profit, smelling their pound of flesh but will there be a prophet, will there be a Promethea to usher in the end of the world?

Some say we are the shadows of four-dimensional objects, others say we are the lost colony that ventured out from kobol, some say we are the future and that the end of the world is an evolution in the sense of the mind because we use so little of it some say it is when the river of souls intersect with our reality and we meet them all, all the dead gods some say it is the wrath, the reckoning, others say it will be nuclear but all of them believe in the disintegration of our civilization

How many hope that it is the end?

At times I hope for it, I long and yearn for it but that is a passing darkness mended with coffee and cigarettes, a bite to eat or something else trivial, like ants we specialize and we are monsters now, we are shadows being trailed and now everyone might question themselves how we are going extinct but none will ask the heavens above if we deserve it

If the world ends it will end for no good factual reason at all but that will never matter, we will cease to be in that apocalyptic moment when Terim and Tarim join again

Do we deserve our death? is the question that will not be asked because it cant be sold or bartered with but just based on myself I would say yes and if I look around it feels more and more that this feeling of deja vu and it is a future memory and a bullet in the right place in the right time can change the world

The brightest smile was what held us back, was what held us- there, in place. We do not know where we are going but that has never been a point, it was never a point until we had burger king talking to us about individuality

in a whopper and in us

I can see the reflection, it works, we are it, like punk was supposed to be something different but if you want to remake jazz you have to make it unsellable- there can only be one component in it and that must be its soul

Some time in the future I will lie next to her and I will ask why me and I will remember the answer I got, sixteen and tender but in such a love, such an undying passion, filled with the broken, filled with us and their hearts

We are not ourselves, I is an illusion and the silliest of them all, tried by philosophers and sci fi authors to find and define us, what we are, what makes us us and what would in the end unify us and Philip believed too much in the human condition but in the end, the good will not prevail and it is not because greed is more than good but we were never supposed to be sentient, we should never have left the trees but like a virus

we did

We have been here for so long, who remembers the ancient history? According to some, we have been here for six thousand years, others, a lot longer but lets fly with the six thousand, lets say we had four thousand years of civilization before the son of god was born and now two thousand years later we still find his lyrics viable in our society, still people believing that the world will end in a little over a year still people who believe something is sacred in this world, still people who believe in the profound,

the love

you never showed nobody other than yourself, hi, this is us in a handbasket being enveloped rather than developed

You walk in a different street on a different continent it will work out in the end i tell myself, it will not end as prophesized, it will be different like our difference, a connection I failed but still there, passing through the world, shallow as the hearts that wear it, never forget that you are one of them and in fact, I would recommend everyone to sell their soul at least one time during their professional careers just to see, to watch what you oppose, to remember it upon your body and to see the failure that makes the cogs turn the wheels spin for mediocrity is what is, what makes but it does not really matter

like us

They are beautiful now, perhaps they have always been perhaps it was a different eye I used, perhaps I was someone else with different thoughts when I saw them for the first time, I might have changed, I might not have changed only realized that I have or should do or would do or could do

I have a recurring dream where I write a poem. The dream and the poem are always different but the title of the poem remains the same, I am a child of four, nothing more

Im going to watch my nephew as he turns four and I will answer you if it is sufficient or not but I am

a child of four, I will die a child of four and there will be no mother but no parent should outlive their child, they should never, it is the opposite of what should happen it might be me being conservative but bear with me, it might be the worst emotion I can imagine, that and or giving birth, I mean I can understand the love and the humanity of a future growing but there is also something more there, perhaps it was put there by hr giger, perhaps it wasnt but some say it is a disease

They say addiction is a disease and some say we are a virus, others will say anything so they can be portrayed as important and intelligent and some will just do something they are good at, do something good at their computers and they will be nerds but they will ask you

what can change the nature of a man?

and then they will present you with one of the most important experiences of the nineties and to me personally, it shows you only learn anything useful

there should be love, meeting us here at the threshold, the combination of worlds where men and lizards meet but the shadows are broken, the veil is true, it is true that all meetings end with departures but how those feasts will move and shatter the world and how a game of thrones will happen before we end

before we think, before we are and all dreams lie jumbled, lie sacred like lies and dreams but always closer to the lie, the lie to sleep, the lie to wake, the lie to dream, the lie to live, the lie to work the lie to exist the lie to love the lie to fear the lie to do because truth is something that hits us but it doesnt illuminate us, doesnt change us only make us into bitter comedians, thrown from windows, descending but not changing, dying, unchanged, knowing but unchanged

I know of worse deaths, I know some of the demons, they have sat with me and we have conversed and I have felt their nails like the first tendrils of mushroom making its way to where it is going feeling the tug of somethingmore, what michael bay calls the allspark that black stone down in mecca and the plateau of leng

As long as our evolution remains technology, no stories or experiences will be obsolete, everything will be the same or as solomon said, there is nothing new under the sun and you you fuckers you have said it, you have had it as a thought an idea and a concept but what if it was just a simple truth, told in the simplest of manners, where would your thoughts lead you?

What did you do when you found the abyss, when you saw the vortex and the maelstrom at the same time, watching you but with eyes more trained

There is only one road to hell and that is the one we travel and if you have to think about, what is there to fear for us in hell? A black sheep is still a sheep someone wise once said but you are allowed to choose and it is even sanctified by that dead dude who wrote the book and an ostrich or a czar can choose, it is the path with no choices that lead to a true hell

and some say the answers lie in a rock in australia, some say the queen of england has them or the bilderberg has them or mona lisa has them  just that someone has them, someone is possessing it all

like we possess the world, living ghosts kept alive by our ingenuity and our machines

Breathe. Breathe through me, you are me, I am your exhalation and the other one of us is you inhaling. Did we want a future when we sang no future, when the years didnt seem as real as they do now but now comes the exercises in breath. Here she comes, we can see her head now we can see it, the birth and the death, simultaneous creatures living in each others shadow, the same but different, yin and yang, a simple

I will die of a tumor first I think or a smoking related disease, yeah, that will fit the bill as well and it will be a hard one and it will be a struggle but as the machine fades

I will fade and there is a greater absence than when we were born and we seek the oblivion of memory, we seek the fade, the holy word and the indifferent world, the sensation of a hawk lifting from your arm, the sensation of the first plateau, this trip of life so beautifully unenhanced, so perfectly normal

Where would Crowley have gone? If he lived a couple of decades more, what if Crowley saw us through the war? Where is our world going where no one is seeing, where do we set aside our ideas ideals and concepts and play with the rest of them, giant retarded kids made of plastic, pliable

I am not who I am, I am someone different, something none have ever seen or will ever see but I am not me, I am me contained and I dont know why because all I would ever want to be is ethereal information, like gas or rain
I never woke up as myself, I was the body that Gregor Samsa once woke in, nothing more, a shattering of hearts

I was never me, I never chose to be me, I chose to be me from recollections of myself from when I was sixteen, what I wanted to be and what I remembered myself being because time is a bubble but I dont think the deja vus are memories of our future but we have those but they feel different, they feel worse, harder edges, a sense of dread and paranoia creeping up alongside them and in there the memory is found, in a flash but accurate like smell, this feeling like the first time

who is holding you except you?

When the warrior is broken, who will step in? Will it be the priest, armed with his faith or the magi, armed with his knowledge, will it be the whore, the uncorruptible, will it be the chef, the corruptible, the librarian, the waiter the assistant the janitor

Who will follow in his steps? Who will pick up the sword and continue the fight, who of me, who of us, all our aspects will accept what the warriors once did or are these traditions so watered out that when push comes to me, will reason win in the end? Even now? Is it reason that will break it as we realize we are somewhere else now and the warrior is no longer needed or is it madness that will tell us that they cannot defeat us now, now we strike those who wished for peace

but prepared for war

Like Hell attacking Heaven, here was the war born anew, within continents within unions within countries within counties, there is always something that we are looking at while doing our preordained tasks

and that is us, that is me and everyone I know, something that makes us human, a boring obersvation but a truth, no epiphanies or perfect epitaphs, no simple hits of wisdom, quotes of wit to be quoted for social redemption and popularity

it will end in grey, it will fade and blur out, it will have the effect of being cancelled out, disappearing into the shadows, mortal beings, astronomers astrologers three kings went to a barn and three men came out but this was a new god wasnt it why would the old gods want their servants those filthy stinking dirty terrist arabs to hail a new king or did the put someone else there had they given birth to a fake messiah these three men or was it witchcraft

something that didnt float, weighted down with stones, a splash is heard in the thames but never seen, what do they want to show us, intrepid ghosts of this past as they commit an atrocity to god

century after century

They chose, they made a choice, every cautionary tale you ever heard of made the bolder the stupider the riskier choice, the one with the most profit and so did every other tale you ever heard, the just landed on the flipside, the made splashes, there were no military style dives as we went for the pearls of life down the cliffs being watched by horny mothers, drunk at noon on goblets they wear twixt their fingers and they are practiced in the art of deception

but here we go, here go the ripples like when your toe shoots up through the water descending into air, growing in impossible angles but perfect

like a death

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

"What can change the nature of a man?"
- - Ravel Puzzlewell

"Mankind is kept alive by bestial acts"
- - Brecht/Weill


Dum. Dum, dudedodedudedo, chords, chords in the deep. We are in the mines, we were always in the mines, deep under the skin of our earth and our consciousness, deep we were as we heard them there in the deep. The dwarves were dead, small corpses all around us, beards and nails that kept growing longer but there was nothing holy about them, dead children in mail, stout children but children still, children with beards and wives with beards and children with beards in cities with beards and countries with beards- we were deep down, we coud hear the echo, we knew we heard what we wanted to hear to make it all go further and delve even deeper into, into the fear and the monstrosity in our belly, we sought destruction and in it salvation and revelations, we sought an end to it all but we wanted more before we ended, we wanted to be more, we wanted to be all that we could be even if it were for mere seconds. If those were the seconds we would relive, the fear the knowing the thrill the sex the transcendence the ascendance the godhood the buddha the jesus the mohammed the rooster on top of the cabin, turning as the wind turns, turning black as a black wind blows

It feels like a sandstorm, the bird making sounds as if someone was torturing it, working on it bit by bit with a dremel and the sound of sand against glass, like chalky nails on a soul, cold faith baring its teeth, giving us the music to bury friends to and we listen to the records as we gaze up on the stars, the parts of her not yet dead but soon to be as all meetings end in separation and the final movement is death. You wont feel it, wont feel a bit, not a sting because you are growing numb, we are, I am. Battle it to care, ignore it to ignore reality, a solution to living life with friction but the numbness is creeping all over, the perfect entropic horizon covering all the lands, covering us in sand

birds

The birds are on our side as we drive onto into onwards the deep, hearing the drums beat, the feet marching perfectly and the beast in the belly has awakened and we are alone and we are unarmed, torches in hand as the great hall begins to shake to the thumps of feet and we try to break the rhythm, just to see what happens, we know this part of the story, we have seen it and lived it, we have dreamed it many times but with a different ending and some say an ending doesnt matter, that it is what comes before or what comes after but everything always matters, every little piece, nothing can be ignored for we are all intertwined through the randomness of objects, to it we owe our lives

Nothing else

The world is white, spotless, free of dust and bacteria, a clean room where the future and past pass through and if man was bigger than he was he would control it. The problem with Huxley and Orwells dystopian nightmares is that it gives too much credit to us, to those who would govern, those who would hold the power and seize it but man is not bigger, rand was wrong in all but the notions of selfishness, man is less than we think we are, we are something less

We disappear between identities, label our friends in our minds phones and ims because theres so many of them now and perhaps in a few hundred years this is the time that sparked something greater than man but there is none driving the force through the ages, it moves along and is always there, in a bakers heart lies a musician dreaming and perhaps he seizes that dream and perhaps he succeeds in his dream, most likely he will fail because his concern is his audience, his peers, his images
He wants to give something back, a noble gesture birthed in him but did the same birth bring something else?

They say one should meditate upon what ones face was before they were born but I cant seem to recall what my face looked like two weeks ago, was there a beard or a stache or just a mess, three years ago, ten, how would you react if the you in the now met the you back then?

Questions tend to haunt. They grip you and shake you and toss you and you are under their thumb, they are masters of all, the key to the gate and the gate itself and as the masses break out and subjective important questions are on everyones mind, we would collapse. If everyone thought it through

Everyone is no valid tool of comparison

What do you do with the questions when they have you locked down, underneath fang and claw, an old friend seen seldom, always with a hard discourse, weird, changing because the conversations were lastly held ten years ago and things were different then but besides the mirror is the toilet and I sit crouched over it, vomit in there and my hand, searching for the little metal piece, that weird cross

that subjective truth

Open the window, let in the fresh air, feel it as you stand twixt it, for a few seconds it will last and then it will die and you will close the window, go into the bathroom, put on the shower, take a dump, groggily look at yourself in the mirror without ever before climbing into the shower where the water will bring your body to life once more and you will breathe one more, exhale, inhale, your memory will turn itself on and you will slowly and gradually become yourself and you will remember these hands, this flesh, this emotion, this will, this purpose, the reason that once was searched for but discarded once no desirable answers were found. This cold calculating intellect, this monster in the belly, growing its paws reaching from the basement, stretching towards the skies like trees, reaching the dust and the collected lives in the attic which soon will fade and give way for mystery, pieced together by the holy splendour of imagination but never pierced, simply forgotten

Like us all, having lived lives of happiness or attempted happiness, having not lived like vampires, dreading the sun, the fire that will set us all free but feeding, feeling nourished from the unwashed masses their blood tasting bland and ordinary, an idea we entertain as we dine, Lolita slides down our throats as we eat this once cow with a spoon and think of her as she stood out in the fields, grazing with those lazy eyes of hers, the mouth going in a circular motion and she had it, the thing we all eventually crave, oblivion and his brother ignorance but we know it wont happen today and the thought disappears as cut away Lolitas happiness, feeding it to ourselves, we know her name and how she lived and when her birthday was and next door are our neighbours and here we are, oblivion married with ignorance

The mirror is cloudy, steam giving the room a radiance, making it a holy chamber of preparation and on one side is a questionmark, scrawled what seems like aeons ago but you can feel the mark inside you, churning towards and unknown destination and you know the question, the banishing question that fulfills the mark that was made. When you rub the steam from the other part it is not your face youll see, it is a different face, a different shape and youll stare at it until the vapor clouds the window again and you write the question

knowing the answer without being able to say it

I used to cringe when my dad said that, no matter the context or setting, Here we are again, like every here we are were connected through something and it was, as I understood growing older, there was a connection but it was him, he was the connection, the thing that made it make sense but now, aeons later, here we are

getting drunk, hoping for redemption or damnation
getting a kebab, retelling what we will once see as mere distractions with a vividity we wil never find again
getting high, because it is what makes sense in a world where there is none
getting there, according to the plan we hatched the last time we really thought about ourselves and this world
getting dreamy, filled with tears of joy and extinction
getting head, the primal vortex closing
getting ahead, of the game, the plan and the direction

Here we are. Us. Friends. Gathered. Around a table eating good food, around a table drinking good drinks and every recollection is awesome and so much happened, it doesnt matter when we became what we became, we are it now and it is time we understood that. Of all the feelings and ideas, understanding is the one we will never need, understanding will always be the red headed nerd, understanding is the fourty year old virgin, understanding is never a prerequisite. What is understanding?

It is my curse. With my hand on my heart or on any book, I understand every little demented thing you will ever do, I will understand why you slaughtered ninety people to promote a manifesto, I will understand why we keep slaves and I will understand why the slaves revolt, I will always understand it when I hear your words, demented, broken and fucked up, I will understand you but nothing more

You shall not be turned from your road for it is your road be it thick and laid with gold or a dwindling path with torns, it is your road, for you we are just an abstract idea you might come to terms with as you see Emilys fog rising, death is the great teacher in any age, when you understand that you will die, when you know that you will die you get nothing else than that understanding. People change their lives to accomodate this sudden new truth, some embrace life and try to squeeze out the juice, others try to make it the best place and end up at the after parties asking everyone wouldnt it be ok if we all died now and is bummed by the reception

Death, I think, is something you only truly realize and understand the impulses your body sends to you and youre going to die, you feel it and I imagine it to be the ultimate catharsis but the idea of dying can be emulated, not in a very philosophical way or thought through, just the realization of that one day you will stop breathing, something as simple as that, an idea that will hit you as you take a shower or youre eating breakfast, reading the news or making breakfast to the little ones that roam your house and make your family but you have to sit down and you zone everything out, everything fades, turns to nothingness and you go blank
If you trained for that moment you are most likely buddha on the other side, if not, you have realized a truth so simple as it stares you in the face that you cant see it on the silverscreen, cant read about it in the daily news, a little wee realization like

every idea that takes root has a life of its own

truths are like dreams, we know what they symbolize but we spend the time explaining what we saw, not what we felt. its not polite

but here we are, still. Friends around a table, dreamers caught in the neverending dragon-chasing, nothing is sacred in our world, we thought it was but it isnt, not every catholic priest likes bumboys, not every loner will one day blow up and detonate part of the world

no chef will never tell you any truth except what is in his food

here we are, broken and at the end of the day something feels like it is emerging and as we go to meet it we fall asleep and as we sleep we are there with it, we have sex but like a dream, the physical is never really important compared to what we feel, who we become as we become more in our dreams, waking to the fresh autumn air and today will be a killing

we are, men and women of dignity, striving to find something, a constant, an anchor in this world as we stand on the overfilled tram, watching the outside before we step off and into our own realities and as we arrive at home we smell our hands that smell of the hands of thousands of others and we wash

yet some times, I wander, I think it is the only reality escape permitted wholly, the escape into the intellect, the creation of theories but I escape into it and feels like it is an escape because I know what I should do, I should bring the species further and in the end tht is all that matters, none will remember us in a hundred years or, in a hundred years we will compete with so many other ages that we have oh so much information on and as we drown our daughters and sons in it only a few will have been remembered and it is dumb luck if your thing caught on

are, constantly filled, overflowing cups feeling thirsty, that craving for sugar if you find yourself in a position where you drink aspartam or saccharine each day, every vegan that looks forward to a tofu burger will break within the year and every unfulfilling conversation and every unfulfilling relationship will bring you closer to the edge and perhaps you will learn that one day you will stop breathing or perhaps you will understand the difference of saccharine and sucrose and you will grasp a little bit more of the world

the world tom waits began to sing
the world where the power listened

in earnest

A word is said, a sign has appeared, the portents are in the portals and its all twisting downwards or is it up some say one others the other and its a matter of faith so noone knows, everyone just goes on the gut or their own stupidity, the fuel of believers in any cause be it filled with reason or logic or superstition, religion and politics, the belief in the system will one time create a perfect system, balanced by belief, by gut or stupidity and we will revel in ourselves as we reach the apex of who we can be before we have to leave our bodies behind and then someone utters the word

Unraveling the world like oppenheimer might have believed he did and perhaps he did perhaps he was the shatterer but the mercy seat is still burning, the truth is feeling small inside itself, hearts diminished, lies of dreams and hopes, the falseness of belonging, the sudden despair of comfort, the waking eyes of burning people, heroes being reborn as protection programs of computer mother earth, correcting or trying to correct and guide and save and protect, invisible except for in comics, fictionauts, making us living on pandora and his cashcow is our reality

all our walls break down and thoughts become shapes, concepts and stories grow into animals or men or something in-between the cracks, here is the end of the world, here is what that will come when the days seem like years because we live breathe information, injected into our eyes as we sleep or slumber in a torpor, trying to become old lord vlad, would he live? when his thoughts and stories and dreams become real to him, who will jump out of the window and who will remain calm, any ghost in a reality where good and bad are normal and both are symbiotic, a reality where

all the pretense is dropped

Here is the mouth were monsters are bred, here comes hell and heaven and all that follows, a throat filled with thick lies and tears that would dive if they could but the ducts are dry and the cold has come, come creeping and shivering through our spines, the feeling of an end but it feels like an end with no beginning in sight, it feels like the warmth has slipped from this world, under feet of mud and bones, bleached by the sun and worn by time and the sun, fading into the dark country past the september sun, here is the cold, here is the snow

look, falling from the sky

a million constellations where none are the same and when we were young we learned that it was us, we learned we were all special snowflakes and we were, we were all so different, different shapes and colours, different tastes and smells hearts minds parents but not yet life, life came later as shelter broke from the storm, the wind howling with the rain beating and it felt like all the warmth in the world slid underground, disappeared into somewhere else, somewhere unreachable but we could feel its proximity like an old love or a mistake

How long should we sing these songs, how long should this lament fall upon our ears, how long should the old bones ache before we pull the plug, before we end it, old men and women in old homes filled with old death, a different world and a different reality than any we ever saw and it seemed so hollow and it was, boring and plain and we feared the day we welcomed ourselves into that house and we feared the boring and the plain into eternity until we were so obsessed with it we became it and as we proved that when you fight the empire, you slowly become it, the positive is also the negative merely reversed and the ideologies are irrelevant, all that persists and defines are the systems working, the routines, the motions already in place and the world grows cold in spring, the colours bleak, the voices hoarse, everything washed out

smelling like chemicals, sepia-like


This world should suffice but we are dying and in our death our grasp grows hungry as the calender is closing in on us, the end is coming and is nigh, hi rorschach. Our fingers are long and bony, the cold illuminates the dark veins, ending in long nails, turning yellow from age and as we dream our final dream we see the world as is, we see it continually, all the time, every moment frozen in time, every mental picture superimposed over the darkest dreams

we dreamed that we failed

that all was for nought

"Perpetuate the storm. Still not the coming darkness. Fear is here."
- Olaus Wormius, letters to HPL


Merchants sing when they hear the news and swing when they  hear the beat, following an unknown flute throughout time as events bleed into eachother centuries apart and all that remains to grapple with it is the human intellect, shit becomes shit and the shovel the mightiest of weapons as it moves fluently through this world and is reforged as the tip of a lance, the lance that ended one life and began a movement, began the tempest, the storm, the coming winter

Shared are the fates, martyrs are being grown now, in vats, like how they used to grow boybands in the nineties as the braindrain came into effect, forcing every country to have more contact with eachother, buzzwords ring out in a neo hippie information superhighway age and none preach understanding, the world is filled with demands, childish but like a fly caught indoors in october we do not know where we are going, we are just attempting to understand while we still remain in power, with cash and oil and the military faction, how many conspiracy theorists are waiting for a military coup, how many generals, admirals, sergeants and privates are waiting for the same thing?

Where is the new world order? Hidden under the veil that was created when the orwellian nightmare became a real nightmare that people had as they spent thousands on shrinks who understood what was going on but did not want to face it and the stern face of Aldous the knowing gazed upon them and upon himself in an assorted cocktail of chemicals from the afterlife, describing and noting on the heavenly gates the formulae to unlock the minds, written in his own language, never-trusting in a world where something world-changing is only achieved post-humously

A death. A sacrifice as the bolos of russia knew when an icepick was selected for the wrong target while frida kahlo sat and gazed into the abyss and painted herself and she felt nauseous as the beat got to hear, too deep a bass and too much, feeling the tectonic plates shatter in a vision of the future and as it falls, from orbit a harpoon is released from its orbital cage and many of its brethren, these are our thoughts, this is what we learned from the son of god

The lance is holy

It is a clean death, a silent death, swift with no sounds of tapping feet being brought through from a different side, another side, another way and idea and heart and soul and here we are, watching the sacrifice unfold in front of our eyes, colliding with the visions of reality super-imposed over the hyper-truth, ripples gather and scatter through the eternal void, the eternal abyss the heart of it all, thought-planets shatter, concept-supernovas extinguish and the universe that is real to us stops expanding and in swirl of it we sit, peaking on acid and grappling with this, finding the revolution

These first few desperate hours, these suntorn hours slipping along, movements in shadow across this heathen earth, heretics wandering them, no longer fearing god after the elevation of man to godhood but there are always those left behind, those not allowed to evolve, the men and women who came as far as they could but the way was barred and see ye not that broad broad road across yon lily leven that is the path of wickedness but some call it the road to heaven and there is a narrow road thickly beset with thorns and briars - the path of righteousness, though after it but few enquire

Or somewhere does it sing, underground, locked in a vault, an artificial idea turned onto questions of life, death, destiny and the meaning of it all, an AI created from everything ever recorded, the last judgment, we put our faith into a machine to judge us, interpret us based on what we are, how will we be judged by our own creation, who did we become in this end of it all, scenarios of ending of what is before something comes and everything changes, we should do it in style next time, we should have the band of titanic playing as god sees who and what we are and decide us

It should do more than harden your heart, it should bring something more than a soul icing, easing off like a beer in the sun, feeling entropy clinging to us as the beer grows luke and we grow hotter, feeling like fog, Emilys fog, rising


We listen to the music we would have listened to if we were the children today and we see the past again and it feels off, it feels different because its like a scent memory but there is no scent, no lingering perfume only bland hard guitar based music with people singing about nothing and they are the same bands we listened to as we raged against the world, we grow some of our bands in vats and that would be something I couldve said, putting the blame on some conspiracy controlling what we listen to

The worst trait a thinker can have is to believe in conspiracies. Conspiracies make you lazy and dumb, conspiracies make your eyes glass, conspiracies are the opium for the fringe, conspiracies are the tv, a recliner and a sixer of swivel, doesnt matter what it is as long as its easy, like this world aint, like the things we know to be true because weve pieced them together, these jigsaws that have littered our lives and we are special people, we are men in a position with knowledge and we have a responsibility to tell the world about it, we love to see the reactions, the arguments, the discussions but the only reason that we go out of our internet hideouts and talk about the big uncontrollable is that were searching for just a little tit, so we can fall fast asleep

The biological imperative is always there, thought forgotten but not. A dream that is always there, a shadow in the divine heart of it. Do not believe because others do, that is not a part of the biological imperative and there is where we build, our world an empire, a colossal spire in the heart of a machine planet inside a vortex inside a dream asking what is the meaning of life

We sing songs of deeds done, we sing songs of reassurance, songs of warmth, rememberance, love- operas where the duke loves a commoner trying to overthrow slavery and bring the second coming of christ but is backstabbed by kin/lover/enemy, musicals about travelling to your terrible grandparents on a rainy sunday but before you get there the car breaks down, charitable locals lend they your barn and dress you up in farmland clothes and you eat real food and it ends with you all living on the farm forever and then we resurrect the beatles and they play every thought that ever popped into their heads

but the vortex and the the dream are not appeased and they do not know the meaning of life but we know that they know and they think us better

in their confusion

For Weill


The coffee burns our stomach, the pills, the drugs, the disconnection from reality by bringing it in hyper style- to connect is to sever

The drums snare with their beats, throbbing things making us believe they are the hearts and we hear them in the cities we hear them in the forests we hear them atop mountains we hear them in peoples homes we hear them on the street we hear them on the docks we hear they keep hanging around schools we hear they take our women and our jobs and we don't like the idea even though it's the only that will work with our way of life, we'd like to think we can do it like they did when we grew up but it's a braver new world with moores law applied to a whole society and some times I feel like time is speeding up, I swear that I can just feel time spinning faster

It's the cloud, we can see as we walk it, prophesized children in a universe we know more about than our own, one mans ideas can change everything and it seems like all gods, the force included, moves in mysterious ways but who are we to challenge the supremacy of technology- our legacy, our evolution. The only sense of evolution we will gather in our civilization

Something that separates us from the barbarians is how we treat our dead. In out peripheral visions we see the mourning, a mound of dirt soon to be placed back to where it once was but the dirt is holy because we said so and we all weep but for different reasons, some for a loss, others for a farce, others still for joy, others for custom and tradition, one does not ask what you pray to god for so none asks why their sister cries, why their brother cries, other tears will follow and your muscle memory will not remember this wake and perhaps you will and perhaps you will recall it as you grow older how to throw a wake or how not to because this world just keeps getting braver

Did you ask yourself What do I want from life and did you reply? Did you converse with yourself in your head thinking yourself partly mad but feeling so at home that your stomach churned, waiting for playful jack around next bend?

I will never admire you your station

Here is summer, decaying, dying. Here is summer, suffering from entropy, here is a cube of ice in a glass of whiskey, here is the scent that followed the centuries, that we pick up on again and again, here is death, autumn will come soon and winter. We will have forgotten the feel of summer's touch but we will yearn for it anyway like we yearn for something else we don't know, a siren song inside our hearts and sometimes we hear it, late at night or at the library or as we sit in the toilet, we hear it when the silence wraps us into a cocoon with no contact, only aloneness, that is when we hear our song. Some read it, some see it on the daytime telly, some in a bottle of scotch, others in a joint but our song was not made be sung in the same way and the song itself becomes background noise

Some say it's intuition that is our soul, the gut-feeling, the emotions, putting the mind and rational thinking to be void of soul, something of an empty shell, a broken husk doesn't remember his song because he tried to find it and he'd forgotten many things he knew in a young age, perhaps a to young age but the song is wailing further into it, this, this matter we can't really hold but only see, feeling that if we could get the jump we might be able to grab a hold and tear off

the chrome and the yellow, the tapestries, the frescoes, the billboards the images what do they hide behind closed doors

All we wanted was to be kings, to know the secret order of the world, to know how things were built up, how they were created and why why why, the eternal question, the defining question of our race if we were to talk about our good sides and we do for we are nothing but children, I keep forgetting how young we are, how young we've always been, how it must feel to be old, watching summer decaying do you feel the same thing then? Do you think it yourself, that this is you, fading from view, growing more silent in this world, should we embrace madness as it passes us by or should we shun it like an old friend from high school, clingy then and clingy still or should we remove ourselves from our soul and think it through

I have most respect for those who commit suicide by shooting themselves in the heart

Take this for it isn't mine, take this idea, this concept and make something of it, give it the birth it deserves from your pudgy loins, give birth to the dragon and its siblings, let them be carried on the sacred winds of the hivemind as you exhale the smoke, telling yourself you're chasing the dragon, telling yourself you read about it and sherlock holmes himself did it, something will come from your years, even it you don't think you sow, you do but you're doing it in a different way, an inescapable way and you think genius will come when you shut yourself in from this world but time is running out and decisions must be made- time for you is fleeting, non-existant, you have no grasp on it, here comes the Emperor and here is his Empire

Here is you, fighting it, your hands are sweaty and you're filled with fear yet underneath the fear lies intent, will and a dormant focus, is it genius? Is it enough intent, will and focus for genius? We won't ever know for the shadows will loom for quite the while and the whole of it will disappear and disperse into the twilight, into the haze where you are king and your mind is all that is left, I see words, words that are no longer a part of this, words that will be scribbled on no peoples flesh and written on no walls nor billboards

Will be written on no minds save your own and you found genius in your haze, in your dreams but how do you carry them, your concepts, your ideas? How do you bring them among us to show us what you found or don't you at all if you think it doesn't matter that anyone else found it, you've come that far into your ideaspace and you feel surrounded by a warm glow, a godhead igniting yourself, burning you with the most righteous of flames, so cold yet so nurturing- are the fires of comfort.

Zones you will leave if you wake up with a fiery wish to see the world, to educate yourself, to find yourself so you go for the biggest cultural crashes and you end up in the ghettos of the world and you've discarded your armor and your blinders and you see the world as it is, as most people see it which in our reality makes that it, everything is measured and gauged depending only on popularity. We are in an age of pop and the king of it died to give birth to it as Sir William Withey Gull once did to deliver this old age and

we're in atlantis and the sky cracks open over us, the sea parts its way and we see the aboves and it feels like we're in a hall of mirrors for we see the belows and everything is in alignment and it's the same in all the differents it can be in

a haze drowning us, silently while we chase the dragon we die more for each dream for time moves slowly in there and while we gain knowledge of that world, our presence dwindles in reality as it grows in our dream, walking the streets in india, china, driving all across south america with a bike, on a bus in north america, doing the physical motion the men and women who inspired us did it and we know we don't do it for enlightenment, we don't do it because we want to be these facilitators of inspiration, we don't even hope because we know it has nothing to do with what was written, how it was percieved and interpreted by us

we just want to see what they saw and compare it with what they created and then we'll build our world

Of the war, we do not know. We hear shots in the distance, an island filled with a different kind of columbine but the effect is the same and a nation is shocked while the wave comes crashing. Of the war, we've heard little. They say the first casualty of war is the truth and we've been in this war on terror for a few years now, we point fingers and some of us hope for a good old fashioned muslim terrorist while others of us hope for a nutjob because it would make our political environment more edible, nothing more than a can of tuna in oil poured over a bowl of spaghetti, we hope for the return of status quo but it won't come

We'll forget like we always forget the war until it's something someone can write about and we can read it, fed it. Something changed in us because shit like this usually don't happen here- someone detonating a fertilizer bomb and then executing close to a hundred people to create a buzz for his manifesto and it is a manifesto of fear though it reads like truth and for him it was. I'm of the bent that people that really want to do something will get it done, the maddest of them all will always slip through the cracks until the law is governed by robots

Of the war, we hear only screams for blood. First any muslim and then we cry out for libya and some say it's a nine eleven and in some ways it could have been had there been truth of any kind in those first few days but it was us, just us. A former prime minister said "Det er typisk norsk å være god" which translates to It's typical norwegian to be good and it's not that kind of good but the other kind, the skills, the skiing and the snow, the cooking the peacebrokering god knows what else, our brilliance, us, new-rich baby seal clubbers and now we scream for it again like we shrieked almost ten years ago for our brothers and sisters over the pond but this story is circular

From the war, we hide our faces as we see what we have done as we feel the hivemind watching down and double tapping young adults that believed in state controlled hospitals, rehabilitation and not punishment for criminals and other kind pink social democratic principles. Of the war, we build a pit and fill it with twigs and gasoline and we will burn him here, we will set him ablaze, an old viking funeral or the burning of a witch and as we feel the scent of hair in our nostrils, stinging as we cough and burn the biggest fucker since quisling, we feel relieved and tranquil, we look at each other and we all feel the same

empty

of the war, we hear whispers of things we don't know. The emptiness is lying there for us to grasp it and we will, we're allowed our rage, to lash out and perhaps another lone gunman will end him and there will be a symmetry in the lack of percieved justice and we've done this before and we'll do it again and all that is above is also below. Some say these are twilight hours but they're normal hours, these are ordinary hours where people work sleep eat fuck drink drugs and the world will resume once more but we'll tell each other something changed in our world but we'll never say it was our perception for that would give him what he wants so we'll stare out into the horizon

of the war, we hear its being fought in a padded cell

Here is there heart of summer, an idea yearned for as winter crawls into our lands like a fine mist, covering everything in a blanket, previous summers a haze, violent memories of youth cascading through these minds of ours, how far death was from our minds then, how much closer it is now, the summer is still the same, the same taste, feel and smell- the crude reminder of death every season, so far away but when we see the beauty of the sunrise and feel the warmth of a woman or man, we feel as summer itself, soon passing

As summer is, we feel the warm connections of old friends, people that were dead until recently, people who were known in a different life, in a different light, folks we never saw- only as memories or broken people, repeating the same lines in the same places they always were in, frozen, their only evolution us, our perspectives and minds warping through the ages, growing older and younger as we remember only the summer, seen from a pint of beer and a shot, in our heads it is the same beer and the same shot and like a system only changes by the replacement of cogs so do we displaced

placed in time and space, four-dimensional objects casting three-dimensional shadows and we feel like shadows as we glide through without friction, everything is silvery and mercurial and for once in our lives, a river is us, running between fingers and we meet our brethren the sand, this is our slithering time in these dunes of skin, dying deserts, oases filled with dandruff and bad habits ignored when the sun sits highest, shining down on us oh father god with your gaze, changing us

like we changed when we hopped in the car or went on the bus or sailed down here, the knowing of what we knew would and what might, like we'll change when we return but it'll go slower unless we're burnt out on the happiness and joy we find here underneath the setting sun, winter is coming, but the faces are familiar, we are all washed in the same orange haze, we are all men under gods sun, we are all holy people for a while and while we remember our differences we set them aside now and this is our worship, this is the pagan in us waking without knowing and we greet our fellow brethren, closer than they ever were, closer than us

We twitch as the hours wane as the days go by, death is moving closer and we know that our lives will only be different, will be normal again but we'd rather stay here in the light, we'd rather forget the other life and live in twilight's limbo

"The fog is rising"
- Emily Dickinson, last words

                    "Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow"
- TS Eliot, Hollow Men



The sickness, the disease. The cloud of imminent doom hanging over us, a murder of crows departing as we glide down the streets, omens follow us, symbols none know what means but it feels like a different age now, this is our age, this is what happens to us, it's happening now, coming like winter always does but in the spring is where we feel weaker as the sunlord watches us with his fiery gaze and it feels holy as the light casts long shadows and it feels like there is a lesson to be learned but here, we feel the knot inside ourselves, the darkness all men and women carry in their souls. There are many theories about the soul, whether it is inside or outside the body, contained within our dna or a useless gland, I carry my soul in my stomach and as my body decays over the years, my soul grows, the hoarder of my heart possessing all that will not disappear, creating a black ball

There is a recurring dream where I'm in the bathroom, some bathroom, it is tiled I feel the cracks on my knees and I am bending forward, calm and collected but I know this scene, I've always known this scene and I vomit, one big burst, emptying me, clearing my head and it is in that silver river I pick through cockroaches, hair, half-digested things, there is a bigger ball of hair, a bezoar, it is heavier than it looks like. I part the strands and inside is an eight pointed star, shimmering, it is solid to the touch but for the eyes it looks like mercury, gliding like it but not like an optical illusion more like love or hate

I talk to you but you do not reply, silence is permeating this place, it has grown, on me and away from me, like a cancer in the imagination, an old idea that once rooted itself but was not believed in, never removed, a part of me, a part of us, we are our own cancer. We are the darkness we bravely face when there are no other options, when Bøygen can no longer tell us to go a different route, it is when we have to die we will realize that, almost as if gods built us for the extra added dramatic effect, the violence that lies in us all, all the beasts of the world- we are animals, something that should never be forgotten but it is and we create superheroes to remind us of this but we don't understand, we don't want to understand that this is our life, our moment and seize it, we wish to be curbed and culled

We wish to see our brightest hope burn out, we wish to see the world turn its back on us, we wish to be abandoned to die but through there we will break the fourth wall and we will understand and weep as the fog keeps rising, as death marches to us to claim us and in our last moment we will see what connects it, feel the shape and contour of our lives and we will not know what we see, it'll feel like a dream and we'll treat it like a dream and not a revelation. How every dream is something being revealed, the veil that shutters deaths dream kingdom is a veil we wear as much as we wear our muscles, tissue, blood and bone. We are islands, occasionally opening trade routes or building bridges but most of our wars stem from our different points of view regarding ascension, illumination, death

The rainbows are not bridges, they are the echo of a distant future and a past long forgotten, a rememberance that none recall. Lips that would kiss and whisper tender words in a room you no longer know where exists, promises broken like bottles of glass, creaking underneath our feet in this world, this dry cellar, feeling haunted as each step releases the dust lying beneath our feet, swirling symbols, locked away from misunderstanding eyes- staring at us, silently humming to us, a bitten apple once signified our release or descent, our damnation

We grow older as the days grow bleaker, we cough dust and ashes, the world smells like an ashtray and we can't sleep for it's too hot, too humid. Tension building in the air as it grows darker, a banquet for these shadows, these answers still so hollow, containing nothing.
There he is, the burning prince, the brightest of the stars burning in the terrible morning, our morning, when the sun bathes us in this golden radiance and the air is filled with spring, all is crisp and clear- we see it clearly now, we see the importance of our situation, we feel childhood ending and adulthood beginning, reminded of Lovecrafts words as we take our first tentative steps towards an unknown infinite and every morning we all hear the alarm as we press snooze again

With great power comes great responsibility, with power comes responsibility but we see only the power of the illusion as men we feel greater than us climb taller peaks than we would ever and it is those that wield responsibility, it is only those that take it for their actions, this is how it is and it is for we are encumbered with fear, paralyzed as we come to the realization, as we gaze upon the terrible beauty of life with newer eyes

"Whatever love you can get and give, whatever happiness you can provide, every temporary measure of grace, whatever joy you can filch from this immense void of nothingness, whatever works."
- Boris Yellnikoff, Whatever Works

"... a mode of experimental behavior linked to the conditions of urban society: a technique of rapid passage through varied ambiances."
- Guy Debord on dérive

"To fight the Empire is to be infected by its derangement ... Whoever defeats the Empire becomes the Empire; it proliferates like a virus ... thereby it becomes its enemies."
- Philip K Dick, VALIS


She had henna coloured hair and was beautiful. Young, less than twenty-five she hadn't developed yet, fully, her body had grown to where it was supposed to be before the inevitable decay of years and life itself. Her mind was young and she still carried her first eighteen years with her, she was tanned with beautiful young skin you only see in dreams or when your mind is taken by desire and it was someones birthday and we didn't know each other and I didn't think there was too much to know, you were too young to know, more. You said come home with me and I said no

Here are we, one magical movement from kether to malkuth. The words of the prophet Bowie ring true in the hollowness of the city church, the outer church adopted to its natural habitat where it will thrive and unless we die out before we will take the city with us, we will carry the virus in our hearts and the aliens we encounter do not see it as a virus but something good. Babylon will be built once more and it will be a magical word, handed down from generations the word and its meaning will always change as everything we know has changed, no longer what it used to mean but it doesn't matter, our hivemind has changed it

Emerging is something new, something different, intersecting our reality from an angle we can't point towards as it would be like pointing towards the future or the past, fingers grasping air while all men and women nod approvingly. Judgement awaits in these halls, the corridors connecting the old world, the old powerhouses, now decaying as a new aeon has started- a beginning threatening the fabric of all we know, like a slumbering hand of god rearranging the chess board with heavy fists and this is where we are, where we can hear the wood cracking

embers still giving off life to all those gathered around it, the fire reflecting in the dark waters gathering around us, we walk the fields and the mountains and we gaze down the fjords, we see the old gods they spoke about, we feel them in the wind and the gravel we walk on, a road once for those who were to die and the kings that went with them, to do the deed themselves or simply to watch and feel power, thinking the same thoughts we do as we feel like rangers from an old mythic story and in every forest, every marsh we still hear the word of god

Ill we feel, with sickness in our hearts. We conquered nature but it was at a price because we saw it, we saw nature for what it was and it terrified us under the stars that everything is all so uncaring, so cold. It feels warmer to think that we're chosen, that there is a purpose behind our machinations and it's not just actions we do because that's it, something more must lie above and below our shallowness, there must be a universal truth- we wish in our hearts for it, we wish in our hearts to be free from what it means to be human

We share a dream, sometimes. We're standing with our back against a wall, our eyes are covered with burlap but through a little slit we see the faded grass bending in the win and we feel a little ray of sun before the shots ring out and some times we see each other and we smile as our bodies hit the ground, we are creatures of the ether now, we are observers gliding through life like jellyfish, watching everything and as we slide sideways through it, we see the ghost circles, we see stoned teenagers out in a field creating the most important art and here once laid Hy Brasil, Atlantis, Mu

Here once were the shining future of tomorrow, the ubermensch that were to control us in a benevolent fashion among shadows and mirrors, lost to the oceans and lost to the myths, gilgamesh and beowulf showing the way through the forest which we in our bellies hope will lead to the inn but know will lead to nothing

Nothing for nothing is the silent whisper we'll all hear as we wait for the end. We've filled our lives with things that matter to us, we enrich ourselves and those around us as we strive for more of what we love, more of where we want to go and those I've met that lead happy lives, people that are genuinely happy all the time are in their state because they are busy, they took their freedom and used it to do stuff, to always keep busy, gone are the moments when they were younger and they'd be at home and everyone you knew weren't here and you were left alone in the city and you sat inside, perhaps picking up a book, skimming for an hour but there is this feeling inside you, the feeling that you shouldn't sit still, you should do something but you're not and it feels like a hole and you walk the edge of it, feeling its contours, its power

the desire to sink ever-increasing, beating up a storm, creating a tempest, to breathe freely without the weight of the world upon all of us and we should all break our staff before the end comes- do you think the end of the world is coming? For Promethea and her world, the end was more beautiful and even more brutal. When the end of the world is in your head, are all the choices you once took and the definition of your own being where you can't escape quoting descartes but you have to go the long and narrow road and see ye not that broad broad road across yon lily leven? That is the path of wickedness though some call it the road to heaven

We will walk the broad road, paved with gold and isn't it quaint, isn't it beautiful in its own sense? Here be no illumination but what we have is enough, the narrow road is said to be too hard, too steep and the golden radiance itself is beautiful, is in itself a manifestation of the godhead and everybody else is here, like the feast you always prepared in your head and you'd invite all your old friends and all the people you've just met through gliding and drifting and they'd see, all of them, the splendour of your being

Before we figure it out, the truth behind why we live, the subconscious reality, non-tainted by our thoughts and questions, we are distracted by media because there's this thing making the rounds telling us that Lars von Trier is a nazi and digs hitler but then I read what he said and I know I'll never open my mouth to a newspaper ever because I agree with him and that makes me a nazi by default I guess. To be clear, what hitler did was horrible, the actions he were responsible for were terrible acts but the way we handled this business, the trials in Nuremberg, the painting of satan in the fair lands of sauerkraut. Never forget what we got away with from that man and the ones serving him, never forget the monstrosities and never forget that the monstrous deeds still echo in our halls to this day as we see the last shuttle depart from earth as we see big pharma reading mengele on the bed

He did something impressive, or, what he did might not be so impressive but to the extent he went was. Everything was there in place regarding the jews, ill-liked and with eugenics being there, ready to be used further. It's like a Ken Kesey thing and Bill Hicks has my favourite quote about hitler and hitler was an underachiever, kill them all

kill them all
adolf

He built himself a fucking empire in the heart of europe and everyone looked like a million dollar while they fired up the ovens and in my belief, it is the highest state of ordnung that has been created in newer times. Contrary to popular belief, they were not evil. Evil deeds, sure, but they were people like you and me and some time in the future people like you and me will do the same shit again because it's the human ride and this is how we roll. A hope might be that people learn from past mistakes but I no longer put stock into hope for hope is only the air we breathe, it is said that in the concentration camps they used the ashes as fertilizer in the soil around the camps. First they burned them, handed their remains back to their friends so they could then provide further sustenance. There is a beautiful symmetry in it, no matter how grotesque

Just here in our little country, they built much of our infrastructure for railroads. We had Hamsun, a sympathizer to the cause, senile, old and filled with hate he later said hitler was mad but still it lingers in the woods, his words: Om hundre år er allting glemt. In a hundred years, all will be forgotten- We were young then, renting a loft downtown in one of the seedier places but we got a loft and we sat there for hours talking about nazism, all of us distanced and detached, seen the camps, seen their places of power and soon the last will be revealed on the dark side of the moon. We talked about the aesthetics of the third reich and how complete it was, how perfect it was branded from banners to boots. It seemed to seamless now, like a perfect machine, not an alive one but a sentient one because that is what will suffice and the cold rules the world and the cold rules the hearts

He tried to exterminate a race. That's only one step below annihilating the world in the villain hierarchy. I don't think you can go further than willing something into extinction and then doing it or at least trying like fifty cent. What he did was horrible but you must admit he did it so fucking well that it deserves some respect, he was human after all

All too human we tell each other as we ride the rollercoaster, descending and ascending, existing in a world where there is no up nor down and we hear the valkyries riding closer to us and we are enriched in the moment, basking in the holy glory of ourselves amidst all these strangers and they're all really strangers and the moment fades as it always does and it is as the moment fades, hope tries to fill the holes, an ersatz illumination with almost the right set of feelings but nothing more, no thought, nothing more than watered down acid

Nothing more than meditation, nothing more than a fast or a feast, nothing more than the wildest debaucheries you can think yourself, nothing more will here be gained, only lost. Nothing for nothing as the saying goes. We know and as we know we turn the corner and we know what we saw, we know what will happen and for some of us it fills us with fear and others with bloodlust and anger and terror, we invoke the eldest of gods who were never human, never held our form or communicated with us, concepts as gods, subconscious desires formed into star-devouring monsters and these are our the ones we cling our hope to

shiniest of them all

It marks a day of dread, the coming of the king. In his castle he slumbers, what thoughts go through his mind before he is to meet his people? Is he at peace? Is his sleep solid or does he toss himself around and how many are watching? How many are peering through their looking glasses, their spheres of crystal and tea leaves? Is the king his kingdom, is he the embodiment, our old odin, still in the trees, gaining more ground, an old god is called by young neophytes- is this the kings dream?

His smile will reveal it he thinks as he stands there, above the human larvae crawling past him and he waves, he waves to the people, the king of all tears, the dark ones in the forest, older gods still felt through the gusts of winter, he waves to the sea, he waves to the abyss and the darkness, to the rest of the world we all wave and in all our smiles we smile our lies as we silently hum thank god for oil as we proceed out further into the day or night, always a plastic glass of champagne in our hand and all the vikings are out of their caves and their slaves as well and we remember our last mother who said it was typical of us to be good

«Enige og troe, indtil Dovre falder!».

We are to be united as one until mount Dovre is no more. The symbol of dovre held power once when we had intellectual giants and when we were pretty damn good when we didn't try to rub our backs with the giants, helping them in ways we don't need to, fuck, we don't need a military, what if we rather, as the peace nation we are with our fancy prizes, thank you sweden by the way for supplying us with this back then and as much labour as we can use now, sorry, peace- let's use that budget to build a big fucking thing dedicated to diplomacy, let's evolve and build our own brand instead of piggybacking, let's do some of the shit we talk about or let's just wave back to the king as we crawl forward turning

That old mountain range, that old whore forever imprinted in us and if nature is mother, she is it, she is our eternal babalon. Even if some crafty terrorists blew all of it up it would still be there like the dead indians permeating rushmore, old gods lie in our waters, our lakes and fjords, our forests and in the moors where nature itself lives, a place where stories were once weaved and their fabric changed our texture and among all the heathen graves accumulated in our fair land, the dead gods lie there still. It is not only cthulhu that can sleep, watching, acting through proxy, the old ways are coming back but all will be changed and we see that time is closer to a bubble, a fish than a circle

Ending, we head for the nature with our backs filled with warm clothing, blankets, food and wine, drugs and the day is glorious, it is the sun coming up for something old

Here stands the king in the garden, darkness setting in as the king understands the illusion of his position and he prays they will not understand while he lives before he sets in from the growing darkness to the brighter light, fire interpreted by humans. In his rooms he does not seek love, he found it and cared little for it and the mother of his sons sits in a barren tower somewhere for she did not seek what he sought, oblivion. The destruction, the annihilation of what you are until you're just an empty shell looking

in

on your own kingdom. the kingdom of all tears, weeping for the end of the eon, feeling guilty in the face of the inevitable but also an enlightening sensation of freedom, free from the kingdom. Free from the Empire

oblivion

People say that something shouldn't happen now in this day and age and in part they're right but it's like they're counting evolution by families, lineages and blood, poured down over the centuries, in their ignorance their hope is a beatles song and the past is a blurred sensation of big things happening, prophets singing their silent chants across the centuries and they know when the son of god was born but other than that, everything else that happens are blips they somehow learned in school or in dan browns latest scheme or on rachel ray as we learn indonesian cooking can be improved with cheese and eeeeeeeeevooo

We wear our history proudly but not as we think for we think we find pride in our heritage but it is our shame we bear and display and in the inevitability of it we feel the sensation of freedom, lingering- we wear our history because we are it, every squabble is repeated forever until someone takes it too far and the world joins hans and with flowers kind words and a good spanking we conquer the world, there are no more children dying on the battlefields, only in africa, there are no rapes, there are no more atrocities committed in the gray areas in this day and age because we've come somewhere, we've gotten somewhere

here, where there is no up nor is there no down. Anyone telling you differently is a liar but again, there is no lie and there is no truth, no black nor white no right no wrong, there are only people and so many of them act like they do on the daytime telly but they are only people, every symbol and every god was once a man or a woman or both and what happened back in the day when the oldest gods we know about were revered as living


prophet, I can feel you breaking

He looked like a kind man, in the stills. He looked like a man that knew something and he knew it would fall silent as he fell in his grave. His eyes looked kind but they had the crooked nose, the towel, the beard and the tone of his skin. His eyes should have been beady and he shouldn't have slept enough but it's okay though because apparently he tried to use his wife for a shield but I wonder how many wives he had
The tragedy of it isn't the assassination of it. It might spark possibilities for instating more western-friendly policies and now with all the uprisings, the war on qadaffi. This isn't a tragedy because they know what they're getting into and are they already planning how to benefit from the next act of terror? Do these men exist at all or did I watch too much x files when I was wee?

The tragedy is that it makes everyone american for one day or rather, everyone becomes what they think an american is. It reminded me of a Jello Biafra line, people we know who should know better howl america rules lets go to war except these people aren't american, most probably haven't been in america, all of them have a great grandfather that went there and the events beginning with nine eleven and then unfolding for the next ten years is as real to them as boardwalk empire and I try to understand this desire they have to cheer for their country for I find it most archaic. Space we have conquered on this little globe but not yet time and it doesn't really matter what age we are in, bin laden could have been crucified and would that also become a religion that would swallow up the west?

The only outcome of this is a sensation of vengeance fulfilled in those who desire to feel it and a symbol of all those who will die in his name. Who has the strongest god is the question it will amount to for it will be sold as a crusade because crusades always work, if all goes to shit atleast you had good intentions as you went hellward, with england in your heart as you conquered jerusalem and we are still here, it is still a holy war but it's grown so much bigger and we've all grown more afraid and I feel I will see my streets littered with more americans play pretending, celebrating more terror. Here is the crusade, here are seven knights sent to kill a heretic but they bury him unmarked in the sand, facing his maker and now his destroyer before

Me? I'm waiting for the creation of a police state and while your cctvs will be british, your new privately owned security forces will be let lose, anonymous men in blackwater uniforms and if Philip K Dick saw this he'd say something about the empire and if William Burroughs saw this he'd mutter words about interzone and when George Orwell saw it he laughed and drank and when Aldous Huxley saw it he'd point to his Revisited and smile a knowing smile and
when I went to school we learned that those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it and as I gaze around me and see these men and women around me I feel completely alien and it's like an acid trip or a heavy comeup on e, everything is blurred and distorted feeling heavy through the hot mud
everything is breaking up

going bad

We see the prince in his garden gazing over the lands he once will have responsibility for and as the sun appears all is bathed in golden, all is radiance. Him, shimmering and as the townsfolk see this and think of him as a kind prince he becomes one and mountains move

Loomed as a plateau looms, as shadows for that is what we see it as, the future, distorted and the ones that came through from a different era, stand in the shadows, waiting like gods of old or from paperbacks bought in transit, going. to a party, to a dictatorship, to an island, home, to the future, to the past and all we want is nothing more than what they will give us. Nothing for nothing a magician breathes as he sees the signs and portents for our age and the priests chant as above so below and the bells are struck in morse code, repeating the phrase as the kings brother says an eye for an eye and you, what is your mantra?

What is your ideal, your chant as you go to battle or the lullaby to bring you to sleep?

Here is the fire, burning redemption, the way to the above is through the below, ouroboros tells us, to value life, there must be death, a star to the void. We can feel the wilderness in our noses, the scent lingering in our nostrils, making our hairs vibrate, standing out, growing towards the sun like leaves stretching. We feel enveloped in ivy, we feel as if this world is only mud and we walk it to find the flame, the gate, the door, the question, the answer, the truth, the fuck, the drug the god the hope the prayer the touch
In the mud we walk through this country, twilight of memories and crossroads of realities, our kingdom. His kingdom, the clever and kind prince staring out over his town in the morning, taking note of who gets up in time, plotting, scheming, staving off boredom

We will never find the flame but we search every day, every second of our waking hours, we search for the fire that will redeem us, set us free. To be showed ourselves our chains, to learn of our restrictions and how they work, to tread carefully in the deep where organisms are no longer fishes are no longer leviathan are no longer god. Some say god slumbers, others say he is in a city made of silver but do they really believe in these gods, these watching entities or is it a repressed desire to be watched or watch, lady godiva still alive.

Spring is coming, summer is on its way, father sun is here to stay with us, to watch and love us, to let us bathe in him and his splendour
Before him we stand naked, charred remains kept together by will and the belief that it is what is expected of us and we wish to be expected for we have walked through the fire and come out of it, we feel enlightened and want for more, oxymoronic behavior that will forever define us. We are no longer what we used to be, the abyss looming, the conscious void, the it in us. We go through the rituals and come to the gate and we halt for there is none here, no one to guide us further and one by one we step through the portal, a castle revolving.

Seven knights does he choose as his father dies unloved and unmourned, mourning only lasting the weekend. They are sent to keep control in this moment of transit and they depart swiftly on fine steeds and the sun rises on the prince and his kingdom. Trouble comes his way, his fathers secrets coming out in the open, over two hundred bastard children was he paying for and as the prince severed all ties to the dead he brought them out in the woods where he told them they would have to build their house here and he supplied axes, flint and tinder

A tower they built and in it they fought, young men and women on the cusp of something more, taken by the lord of the flies as his disciples, warriors built from the never-ending initiation, a constant battle. The women were raped and died quickly save two furies who were rumored to have teeth in their cunts and they watched the men, their ranks thinning and a moon had gone and almost come anew when five men still alive collapsed and fought the fatigue, waking in the night, snapping the necks of nurses. Seven bastards were coming from the dark places to their calling, the prince

We'll meet in hell for the last time so be still,
my beating heart. Here is the dance we've been led to for so many years, here is the hardwood floor, recently polished and here are the sacred vessels, their eyes filled with sparkles and when they sell their souls for beads and drugs they won't think for this is their night, it is theirs by the right of possession, obsession has brought these young men and women to this place, where their fathers danced and their grandfathers built it and their fathers cleared it of indians and one could say it all happened because once upon a time someone took religion too seriously and separated from the old world. Yet, religion matters less when greed can be good to those that sought to conquer america

This is where our dance came from, its traditions are rooted in history and etched in blood, the becoming of men and women have always had rituals attached to them, some serious and some lighthearted but they are always there and here we see where the gods are the least significant as a young nervous boy steps onto the hardwood with someone he dreams will be his wife and they'll have the most beautiful wedding and he'll work hard so she has everything she could want and when he realizes the harsh truth, that a necklace isn't an automatic fuck but he is a man without time and in a way out of time but he has cash and he gets a room at a nice hotel downtown and there he begins to live his life with a new woman or man every night

The magic of that first touch, that awkward grabbing the hips and trying to keep a posture but the insane giggling just shines through and we'll know that this is the one, the one for us. We'll be separated by archaic notions of time and space but we'll meet at the important parts of life and we'll meet once at some weird theatric festival and get the feeling of fate or impending doom and we'll meet again and we'll go away together, somewhere, share and revel in who we became and we'll become something more together and we'll still be separated by careers and professional wants but we'll meet and we'll drink and we'll do and it will. Then we meet casually in our hometown, completely out of season and your mother is dead and my mother is dead and as we move in one way back in time, we turn it off and move outside of it and we see it there and it looks like one of the fishes your mother had on her car and that's the one we drive away with tin in our back and fire up front and it feels so nice because you're so happy and for you, she is there, with you

The songs go slower as the evening fades and a teacher leaning up against the wall, watching, sees his own past living in front of him and he is thankful, both to be able to see it but also to be able to say no to reliving them again for fear is one of his housegods. The fear was concieved on the hardwood and it was birthed two years later and it spoke its first words five years into the future: control. Here the teacher sees, the scholar, the pundit, the sage sees it through the wisdom of his years, the blue sullen truth, this dark decaying monster rearing its head through time through the years and he hears an old mentor say nothing for nothing and he sees that his wisdom holds no meaning save for himself and as men and women are becoming, a man stands weeping for the future

It will not help for this earth is sated with salt and it crunches delightfully as the young men and young women venture out into the night and for some it will change things for others it will affirm things for others it will be another day, one more tick off the calender until we can die or move out of here. We haven't spoke but we've been watching each other all night, you're the third prettiest on the whole damn school and I'm the one with a sock in my pants and some bourbon I stole from my dad in my pocket and we'll go to the fields and we'll kiss the stars as we kiss eachother with firewater burning in us, enhancing the experience as we nervously howl at the moon and there are no words, just eyes and hands and noses and lips and skin and tongues in the meadows by the glade

It began in the garden, it is a good story, the fall or more appropriately the setting of the fall, the tower could be seen for miles, stretching beyond the garden and the steppes outside it or so we knew, here was intuition founded in gods holy radiance and intuition yielded to free will and everything began. She was sitting in the garden, staring out the fjord. She wore some faded glasses and she didn't move her head but you saw the crinkle and as I sat down she lit cigarettes for us. We smoked in silence, enjoying the breeze, waiting for a bang. We sat and as we sat we turned into a song and that would be our story as life grew and it would be all right

We pray for darkness to answer us and our prayers, we seek the strength that lies in the shadows- anger, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony and with their kings, fear and ignorance. They ride the horses we want to, they ride what we seek, they are where we want to be, consumed but most importantly, not human. We do not wish to be a part of the story anymore, we've grown bored with it, the condition, the disease that it is and once it's begun it's not stopping, the bad animal won't lie down

We began to walk and as we passed the damned mountains and went hellwards we realized we were the zenith of the story about a man disobeying his father, eating an apple and we knew not all would make it but it didn't matter, shit like that don't matter when you're going deep into the mountains, into the mud, into the hate that burns in the shadows, where we sit getting warmth and it feels like the old caves again, memory echoing through generations and when I was littler I thought we were on top of things, nothing new to explore and I'm so glad I was wrong because jesus fuck what do we know what the fuck are we doing here anyhow what is the point of this, nothing's going to be sane and as we leap further into a globalized status and probably linked together with chips under our skin and it won't be 1984 man, it'll be like hackers from sometime in the nineties except it's set in the future and it's still the same shit so it works

It was in the mud we remembered ourselves, where we came back to who we were, dark-hearted. We heard Cohen being performed by a bunch of season slummers but we'd seen the answer in the mud, we had found what we never knew existed and we are shadows of what we could be so we walked past them and out into the ocean, the waves rolling gently on the beach and we felt the darkness as we descended, slowly pacing out into it, we found its' queen

Time would be here, trembling, waiting. A touch of humanity, quirking in forgetfulness, hearts harden as the sun rises and time is here and we're waiting for the train to tremble us through the underground. Sometimes in flashes we see shanghaied trains in ghost tracks with pirates skirmishing, sometimes we see restaurants and there is one man sitting in front of it, smoking a cigarette, drinking an espresso with one finger lifted. Some times we see our dreams here, plastered on the walls but we shrug and move into the light, thinking it wasn't reality but it is and perhaps more real than what reality is because these visions are small shocks and they prod us on our general way and as we ascend, the restaurant reminds us of something, we climb the stairs thinking about Kafka.

The correlations, their converging happening here now, at this instant and you won't lose it because it'll last forever baby, we'll set the controls for the heart of the sun and as the world turns to ash we'll be down in an old nuclear silo and as it ends we're on everything and it's the best fucking party and as we die we're leaving the light on and as we end we end with love, we end with happiness and that is the end, just a party.

The shadows will always hold us but the shadows are part of us, they are ours, fragments of us shattered around the world, perhaps Oppenheimer knows where?
Here is the hardened heart of Icarus and one tear from Leonard Cohen is all it takes and the heart will soften once more, radiate the world in golden light, revealing to us as we jump the hoops of our own making and we're damned happy to do so, this is us embracing our shadows for not all are found in the cesspools of the mind, not every shadow is about your mother and love of the lash, the subtle scent of latex and hot rubber in the air but then again, that would be easier, wouldn't it?

Her song is all that we miss, we feel our hearts wanting in, remembering it, superimposing it and we can't let her go because of that sound and we become monsters as we pursue our own thoughts and we are truly disrobed in the comfort of our home, monster. We see ourselves and we make peace and in the abyss we are calm and tranquil, we understand and we are left with the desire to hear the song once more.

The fields are hard, autumn is shaping up, moving on to winter like a furrys wet dream or a native american legend. The apples are cold to the touch, not yet frozen but soon and all life shall perish but we will remain. We've always been here and we can't stop now, there is no reason to not do anything, it's ok, it's usually not that serious unless it is and then you do what you must but those are seldom, write it out: do shit, do shit all the time, don't stop because if we stop when we're dead when everything has changed, who are we then?

We sit there, you and I, we drink port in the clearing and we feel the forest solidifying, we feel the darkness being encased in ice and we see the sun turning blue and the frost is coming but we talk and we stare at each other and we talk and we touch and we stare and we talk and we eat and we drink and god it's beautiful and everything is freezing and we feel the end and we feel good, we feel the gut, satisified as yet another home is decimated and we pick up, we move on and take what we can carry of memories before we trot further.

HI


My name is sepia and I've been hanging around here for a while but unless you browse Or kill me you'll have no idea who I am because I fraternize poorly on the internet/work too much/is lazy and I usually only post other places than ORKILLME when I need something. Except this time it seems like I'm going to quit my dayjob earlier than planned due to unforeseen consequences and some of you oldies might remember my age-old 2012 project which is all going down in america and since I've never been, I thought I should. ehm, yeah, anyhow


anyone living in or near new york that could be up for grabbing an awkward beer or show me some of the sights or whatnot, holler


thanks

!

We left the barns, we headed across the yards, our hearts sinking into the frozen fields where corn once grew. You were there with us, dreaming of a different field, a different place, a different mesa, a plateau. Our memories superimposed on each other, we were seeing the world from both our minds and reality stretched and flexed as we sang that cruel nature has won again. We were caught by the raven Fear as we crossed the old marshes, frozen but not in a wintery landscape, there was white and there was dark and the reservoir is empty. They call for the chalice, the grail, they call for a woman to aid them and one steps forward, giving her mystery to the gods at the hand of old men.

The idea came suddenly but we weren't there, the ghosts had come before us and as we descended upon them with a murder of crows they vanished and we were left with our torment, we were left in this land where no man should live or exist. Shadows move and the path is not illuminated but the light will protect us, our king will protect us and here we march for glory but our hearts weigh heavy in our chests for at home are our women and we go to find the holy grail, we march to find the cup for the wand, nothing for nothing.

The weather is strange no matter what country we travel to and people barricade when we pass them yet no warnings emerge from the air but it tastes foul, stale. No warriors are seen and people seem to know of our arrival but one of the days an archer shot a hunter in the leg and questioned him before he killed him and stole his possessions and we have been marked, the pope has called us antichrist and the arabs say something else and no one knows what is happening but everyone knows something is happening, innards are opened more often and the fortune tellers make good cash as they tell of misery. We are all cain, marked for eternal life and there rings a feeling of truth in our bones, the marrow softening like our knees as we march further.

Our king has dreams, we hear him every night, tossing about, some times screaming and we contemplate you oh god as we sit by the trees pretending to sleep, listening to our king dissolve in madness, sleeping. His weight is great but he cannot carry it all, we are infected as he becomes less with each vision, diminishing him, empowering us, balancing the desire as we hear the sirens in the forest singing to us, frail voices filled with truth and we were the most naive of them all, children marching upon the woods, having said goodbye to our mothers and fathers, passing through the terrain, into the woods or into the sea, this is where we'll find it, this is where holiness lies, in nature's major mystery.

The expectations diminish as we travel with the years, pursuing the grail further east and we think of our children, we think of our wives, her hair will have a few strands of gray in it now and we think of them as we weep ourselves to sleep, the last part of our humanity still intact, still not faded. Our dreams wander more often to the caves of old and the murals contained within, coming to life and telling stories of the age when gods walked the earth, our minds were different then, the world of gods was the same world we lived in, the laws had not yet found their way among them, they were men but more than us, retaining shape and form and they were driven by the same as we. The Law was established and that became their domain, fitting as we strive to be more than what we are, holding flat images in our heads, speculating how the gods came to be, what drove them to their actions and out of our world into the immortal one where only Law can govern them in a dimension of black and white, hard and soft with no area in between, nothing to diffuse and confuse.

We march further south and it is here we meet a castle, filled with laughter and joy, reverberating to the outside and we rest as our king and his men walk up to the gate and knock. Talk is restless, we've not seen too many people and fewer feasts, the pike men are worried this is a satanic place but we tell stories to calm them of those gods who had to venture through hell to find what they came searching for. We are not here to build jerusalem, we are here to find the keystone which all else will grow from- the symbol that will bring it all together and we march that way into the castle, disarm in the courtyard and as we are led to our baths we see the king moving towards the hostess, a beautiful persian princess and they sit together long, talking and as the dust dissolves in the clear water, we are smitten with the laughter and the joy as we drink our wine and eat our fruit, never extending beyond who we are for while others might have pillaged and raped we are content with hearing a joy that is not our own and we ask one of the maids why this has been the only house filled with pleasure and delight and they stare at us with their big lovely eyes, fluttering and they tell us that everyone has gathered to the cities, all are clinging to something for they fear the end will come for signs have been given, the king might find what he wants

he might be blessed

We have no fear of that she tells us, our god might be a different god and who ever any god touches is not important, it happens, has happened and will happen and none will understand why but men and women will always fear it like they fear their secrets coming out, the old skeletons still locked up in the closets. We have embraced our demons, we have conquered them and returned them into the fold that are us, they will always be a part of us as we have always been a part of them, the battleground for the soul, the tug of war between heaven and hell is always us, we are the instruments of the gods and the gods are our instruments and the symbiosis is everywhere, as above so below.

We spend weeks in the castle and we see our king less and less, we forage and build and help while we wait for the signal to move on again into the world, into the reality and away from this beautiful place but from the king, nothing is heard until one morning as we've taken our bath and we dress up in local garb they've sown for us, ready to go out and bring food and he sits down with all of us, giving us the grand speech.

Men! We've traveled long and sought hard for the cup of christ. It has been a strange journey and we've been marked as we've marched through europe, signs and symbols have been all around us and most people believe us to be sons of cain, most people believe we are here to end the world, not bring gods glory into it. The idea and the ideal is still to bring gods light into all hearts and nowhere have we found a place like this and I say unto you, here is the glory of god. Where holy men cower in fear as they do not understand, here is a temple devoted to the life that has been breathed into us and the men and women here are not statues of clay, they are conquerors and they have vanquished their fear. They know god loves them and god knows I love them. I have found the grail I was looking for but where I sought a cup, I found a vessel filled with knowledge and sacred splendour, where I sought the blood of christ, I found the blood of woman, coursing and filled with the sweetest song of them all. In the desolate lands we have wandered where we have been shunned by man and woman alike like lepers, this is paradise, here is heaven on earth. I will remain for a while and those that want to join me are more than welcome but anyone who wishes to travel back will be well seen to.

An end always feels missing, something feels out of it and as they throw a feast lasting a week for us who miss old england, us who miss the gray strands of old loves ones, those of us who could not free ourselves from our past, it feels strangely lonely as we ride horseback towards the colder home and as we travel we see more and more lights, few people are out still and the cold lingers but the sun is coming through and our minds wander, telling old stories to ourselves of the waiting wives in our castle, not filled with laughter and joy save on special occasions, dreary and dark, cold but like a cave it needs only to be illuminated to turn warm and filled with meaning. We traverse the channel and as we feel the earth of home underneath our feet, it feels lacking, the beaches and the trees do not welcome us, they stand where they are, watching and observing.

We return to our castle and we are welcomed as is proper, we are older men now and our daughters and sons are men and women and everything we ever thought about as we were away is untrue, the catharsis we wanted was not to be found here and as we drink the wine we rape our women in discontent and rage before we set out yet again, we seek our king and his grail and a house filled with light and laughter.
Travel is our second nature now, time flies as we ride hard and while the frost still lingers in our feet and on our horses hooves, people live their lives now and we pass them as we wave, our hearts no longer in the muddied fields or the frozen swamps. We arrive in the area, we recognize where we foraged, sat traps and built shelters. The shelters are withered and the traps, while still there have not been seen to, eerie silence fills us and the castle is nowhere to be seen and our king has vanished with it.

Another coffee

They say the highest feeling is longing, they say love is not enough for love is fleeting and over in a second, they say there is no pain in love for love like rage is all consuming, they say when you're taken by it you're not you, you're just the vessel of flesh that love or rage is driving and some others say this is the true transcendence, the ultimate transfiguration where we sit back and relax, it's a movie, it's about to start.
Others say that the highest feeling is confusion, they say when nothing means anything and everything means something you are clear and inside the layers of confusion, the tranquil eye sits and some say it is an abyss, some say it is the Empire.

They say I'm the transcendent one and I say it all began the day Amelia Earhart landed in new york city.

Reuters first recieved messages, seemingly first garbled but coded in an old code and it was old men who cracked it, pensioners sitting in others care, still seeing the world the way it used to, when it made sense. It didn't, she told the world she was returning from the beyond, she told us that she had seen death and hell and heaven, she told us that she came with a message from someone greater than us and all over the world people built bomb shelters, she told us she brought with her salvation, she brought understanding for all of us and the entirety of the world grew a hivemind and the religions smiled and soon everyone had the truth, we all had a truth and ours was right, in some countries there were riots, smaller wars and skirmishes but we were confused.

It was always the reason, we never did know what we were doing and it is an idea to encourage but only by a breed of man, men who had found their peace but it was always men of greed that stepped forth first and they acted blindly and their elbows were red and was our century birthed by jack the ripper, was the age of aquarius initiated then? A circle of stones stand there as an altar, deemed holy by those who see magic as red and they say one of them had an affair with Earhart, the beast himself in his desire for babalon and Fire he found.

We were on a beach at the time, southern europe, we were sitting among rocks at the time, listening to the waves crashing and the british tourists singing bnp songs downing the local moonshine and cans brought from tax free, we passed the joint as she passed us, that old plane screaming into the air and she was coming around the mountain and she was driving six white horses and she was coming around the mountain, she was coming around the mountain and into the air over the sea as the sun was on its way down and the sons of the second Empire lay sleeping as the waves crashed and the joints passed and we heard the silence and we were getting this feeling that something was going to happen and we all knew it, there were no words, only a sensation of understanding and as we severed we connected and as we connected we severed when she came wearing red pajamas.

In the night we build a fire and we gather around, break the silence which we came to find and tell stories. We tell the stories that spring to mind, we do not think and if it was fourty years earlier we'd so be on the same trip but this was new and unheard of now, it contained different meanings but the feeling was the same, the hum you hear alone in the woods at night with nothing alive nearby, lasting perhaps a couple of minutes before you hear her coming around the mountain and we'll kill the red rooster when she comes and we'll have one more cup of coffee when she comes up the road. We dream of her hum in the night with the rocks and the fire and if  it was a cave it would be even more symbolic, brits playing their part, almost as directed by a bard.

Listen to it, be still, turn away all noise and listen for a few minutes, get drowned in the droning of the cities, the virus we manifested, listen as they hum to eachother and know you are infected and there's no way back baby, when we are children we are measured by our first words and after that, nothing is dormant. Adapt and accept, change, for we'll all be shouting Halleluja when she comes, singing ey ey yippee yippee ey and when she comes around the mountain we'll see the road and her upon it riding down the valley below.

We reach the static plateau of the hum and they see her coming, singing, we vibrate in the sun rising from the ocean and we see the future, they see her coming in, the old biplane coming in fast and if Crowley didn't find babalon we found her and Amelia Earhart landed somewhere in new york and it took us a while before we saw it but there she was, still quite striking and still young, a couple of beautiful gray strands gave her something more, gave her experience and as the reporters and officials businessmen conspiracynuts handshakers babykissers housewives stoners flocked about her as a murder of crows we heard her singing and as the engine shut down we heard her as she came to the ending of her song

Your sister sees the future
Like your mama and yourself
You've never learned to read or write
There's no books upon your shelf
And your pleasure knows no limits
Your voice is like a meadowlark
But your heart is like an ocean
Mysterious and dark.

One more cup of coffee for the road
One more cup of coffee 'fore I go.
To the valley below.

They are the most important, to our lovers, our catalysts that work in mysterious ways when we're not there, the beauties that make us work and think and function, I've met a couple of you and you've been so important, I don't know why, I don't know if it's the feeling of a caveman being dragged towards your lovely cunts, a vulgar word I embrace wholly as not a negative word with negative connotations but a fact, a word that describes good where vagina is too medical, fanny too british, fig/rose/oyster too poetic for my tastes but a cunt, usually something for sale and many people will say that's bad but since I started working full-time with making food, I see nothing negative with the concept of a whore because a chef is the one next time line when it comes to the oldest careers in the world.

Eat drink man woman is a beautiful movie about making food because it's not about making food, it's just some chefs that muse over life and what it is, something chefs never do unless they're way too drunk and are bitter because they didn't find anything to slip their cock into. Never have I been in a line of work where they find more pride in their ignorance but I may have been unlucky with where I work because it's still just people but damn, the percentage of people in this business that have no interest at all in challenging themselves with books or movies or something that's different culturally is quite astounding.

This is supposed to be about the women, not me, not cooks and chefs. I think this will be the first chapter, the first rant of the book that is getting there, through procrastination but most importantly through the women. It was inspired and made through you, my muses, my darling beautifuls. So much time I've spent thinking about you, so much time and space spent on you and almost every second of it has been worth it, some of it not but that has been a part of my terror, my fears and it's not been about you at all, it's been me. Navel-gazing never brought anything of worth into this world no matter how interesting a person it is that's been gazing.

I'm sorry for you my darlings but I'll mention you by name because your presence in my life has changed something, made it different. Synnøve, Cecilie, Alice, Sheila and Bryn. I know I shouldn't do this, I know I should name someone because there's always some that will be left out and feel rejected and while I love you too, your impact was different, not a part of this and it's not been orchestrated, these are just the random cases that have hit me with a hammer filled with emotions, thoughts and concepts, you've marked me in ways that work through my writing while you others have marked me in other ways. Do not feel left out because you aren't and you are too women that have affected me that I care for and saying sorry was always my problem.

You've awakened me many times, you've made me remember things I had forgotten, all of you different, different things that build me into what I am because love is always narcissistic. In the end it's all about the me but there you were, teaching me we could transcend that and you were right but even as I give head I feel it's about me. I don't expect anything in return, my pleasure in giving you pleasure, hopefully, is enough for me, I've never been one to cherish the receiving. Which would make me halfways a magician if I believed in it.

See? We always return to me but then again, this is me talking, writing. This is me being inspired by you, You. YOU were my catalyst and I'll remember you as that and you'll know who you are if you ever read this. You are the one I have freshest in my memory, you were the one that drove me to this and I think it is the memory of you that will drive me further. You all drove me further, at a time, you all pushed these boundaries beyond, for me and everything I've written I've given a damn about, you were the reason, you were the ones at a positive fault, you were the ones that made me do this because it's the only way I could do it, the only way I could treasure and cherish you was always through my keystrokes, always through the pen hitting the paper, always through this form of art that is like any other art, founded in the past tense and like memories this is where I'll always find you.

Under a tilted mirror I'll see you, all of you, I'll feel you and remember your smells and scents, so wonderfully linked, my muses. My calliopes I'll never bind because that would take away what you are, your beings, filled with freedom and the lack of fear, the things in your minds that touch me and teach me the old forgotten secrets. Parts of my heart I have shattered and left to you because you will always be in my hearts, you will always be missing parts that make it whole, phantom feelings without pains, phantom hearts pumping phantom blood through my phantom emotions, turning real whenever I meet one of you, one, a ghost living a half-life, you gave me the most of all of them, memory might obscure, memory might be rose-tinted but you gave me something I needed so much, the I in me, not the us, not the we.

I am I now, I am remembering and I will forget but now I am remembering and I remember the future, every deja vu I've had and will have, future memory, future you, we will have breakfasts in this future and it will always be my favorite meal with you, I'll be grumpy and hungry, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee before we eat and I'll drown in your eyes, the abyss of your eyes but drowning in beauty doesn't sound too bad, it sounds nice, like a nice death, a fine enough death and while I promised myself these would be about the women, I'm too fascinated about you, woman, not really certain what I am-
in love, love, infatuated, curious, interested. I'll meet you again the the knowledge of that is enough, tilted mirrors make everything I write public knowledge, a wall is being breached but it's far away from here and I'm getting drunk off good german beer, remembering you and what we will share in the future because you are it.

The future, darling, the future. In the future I'll kiss your mind and while physical you is perfect, it is your mind I'm attached to, it is what keeps it going and the future is your mind. and breakfast.

Nothing to see, move along.


Seems like the easiest

The Abyss & The City



"He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee." - Friedrich Nietzsche

"To fight the Empire is to be infected by its derangement ... Whoever defeats the Empire becomes the Empire; it proliferates like a virus ... thereby it becomes its enemies." - Phillip K Dick


"Language is a virus from outer space." - William S Burroughs


The truth be told: Here we are. There is nothing more told in sentences, books, movies or smileys, there is nothing to add to our situation, we have become nothing more than what we used to- beings of light elude us as we try to grab them with our crude matter, the wings soar away as we try to chain them so we can study them and learn what they are, what it means to be them because we've forgotten how to know or our desire to know and know it in our souls as our knowledge of the unbroken circle of zerthimon guides our clandestine hands.

The rhythm is breaking and this is important because the rhythm is important, the rhythm in things is its scaffold, what glues it together and makes us able to recognize what it is. The rhythm breaks when we travel in time, either in memory or in deja vu, the rhythm breaks when we stand in an epiphany, the crossroads illuminated, a cold blue sky but it isn't, late august, crickets making the twilight sound and their rhythm breaks as yours break.

Sartre called it nausea and Dick called it the empire that never ended, marilyn manson said it was a hole in his soul that he filled with dope but this sensation, the black hole of our very soul, the black cliche of artists and other sensitives, like an idea planted three stories below it spreads through the classes, races and we will all be hole. The abyss can be said to be a tool of enlightenment, a battle to be won valiantly like in the modern mythology but who has time in this society to learn enough from qabbalah to be able to traverse qlippoth but the ideas infect us and spread, not malignant, not controlled and time does not exist for a virus.

Like language, the abyss or the empire is a virus, an idea, a concept spreading by random chance like the concept itself is spread through the lovely eyes of Leonardo DiCaprio and the empire is alive and well in us now. We are god, as far as we can prove but we do not know what god is, we try to see and live by the rules and the laws, we go to church every sunday to try to be filled with god so we can become god, something is missing from the equation before we can become god so our scientists run simulations, trying to create an ai so we can become god, perhaps that's the way god became god when he created something. We should have kept the old monster alive and his father, the moral and ethical problems the idea presents should have been catalogued, every emotion, every thought should have been bottled for us

so we could become god. Longinus, did he become god as he pierced the son of god, did Judas become god for thirty silver, did the daggers of Longinus and Brutus make the gods, is god made in death and birth? In that instant, is god made and judged upon us?

Dying is what we are, an understanding seen in Da'at as we became infected with the eldest of virii when we saw beyond the veil, understanding and knowing it just standing gazing at the threshold, the world underneath us, twixt a naked woman and a slithering snake in an ocean of stars and beyond the fabric of space and time sits an englishman and as his beard gives off serene swooshes as he types he writes us all into existing here beyond the veil where we all live all the time, where we are when we are the degree of far out that we are, not knowing anything and we sometimes say that confusion is the highest mental state and buckminster fuller is not captain and the people we used to deem sane run around on lawns yelling at the stars with towels around their heads.

It all fell, fell apart like a beautiful nail from the nineties. It seeped hope. We felt an old man falling down on his knees on his lawn with the smell of burnt hair on his nostrils and empire ending and an abyss emerging out in the hallway where our children can see it and be affected by it and to help them avoid it we barricade the hallways and we build around it just like old Peer Gynt did and we build, slithering past responsibility, past freedom to more glorious futures and corporations will become nations will become kings before they further evolve and Hamsun had it right that in a hundred years all will be forgotten.

No stone will be here erected.

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.

Or: On death

Or: Food

Turn away the flags, let them down off their sunset trees. Set us down, carry us into oblivion. Curse us, gift us before you turn us out into this. Churn us out, cry us in, lock it up. Sing the song you used to sing, the one you used to hum but you've forgotten, remember it again, remember it and carry it in your heart forever now, let us die here, let our eyes turn pale, let us see this world with newfound apathy unlike the fire in the eyes of those who found that new land, let them remember they come from us, drive them down and into us, let them know the umbilical cord will always be there, let your children know they will only inherit your bad genes, your bad traits and ticks before you send them out into the world before you turn away from yourself as you go out back and you let the flag down and there you rise.

It would be a good death but not good enough- I dream about batman and in my dreams he is not the new one, not the reboot frank miller did earlier, not nolans interpretation, not the truly dark knight but he is the one he used to be back when they deputized them, in an age where vampires didn't shine, in an age when we didn't talk about paris. Catch our heart in this fire, let it play and sizzle, see it as it turns brown and know that if it wasn't for old maillard we'd never really understand and like cavemen we would still be standing there over the fire telling each other that we're sealing in the juices before some fucker draws up an isi canister making meat foam and the bubbles fly up into the air, like retarded moths or drunken cowboys trying to hit the moon.

We are weird now, weirder still that we're still alive. I remember when I was 23, planning to die at 32 and how fitting that when I remember this I am 5 years from dying, five years from oblivion and I wonder if it ever was worth it, this train we got on with Bill Hicks but he's not here. The tide turns and we look back, hours and years filled up but we can't hold it. We don't want to hold it, we want to be here, now, not then or there- centuries have passed with wisdom gained and it doesn't matter with us as a society because we're all fucking alienated and we don't want no more. None of my coworkers read a book, none of my coworkers try to see something else than what is given to us from hollywood, none of my coworkers try. None of them are cooks that want to learn to amass more knowledge and KNOW, they are all always cooks that want to learn enough to get by, to not exceed anything and to die together with your dog or your loved one, fulfilled because you didn't want anymore, you accepted us as we are, you accepted that you were only an animal and you are a grave reminder

that there's nothing else here but this, this crude matter. Ibsen said that life is unbearable and not because it is a tragedy but because it is a comedy. What young norwegian authors should think most about is how he paved the way, the brand was already established a hundred years ago and to coke we add a zero and we know what we're getting but we're never getting anything more from this country, the cold and the skis and all the fucking rosebuds parked on the upper east side are a testament to us, and as former prime minister gro harlem brundtland said, it's typical norwegian to be good which then lead americas ambassador to make the observation that the norwegian people believe they are born good. Do we change it or do we kill ourselves or just move up into the mountain, living off the grid as much as we can? Will anarchistic communes work now that we have tv and the information superhighway? Circus, Circe?

By Circe we find Hecate and from her we hear the first chthonic whispers and this is when we were very young, when we were filled with a feeling of being fresh like an unopened box of crisp sneakers. We walk on his earth and it was he who defined the most valuable truth, nothing else than your loved ones care about you or what happens to you, for everyone else within your race, you are a name or perhaps a reference, not a cog or an ant but something abstract, a feeling in the gut

fuck it, it was the wrong tangent, the wrong train but we boarded the one with Bill Hicks and we're safe and he's young and he's dancing with police officers. This is all there is, one good scene before the actor jumps off the train into oblivion. We see the sun set and it's always setting here and on the hill there will always hang niggers and holding the ropes will always be houseniggers, no matter what race they are, what beliefs they hold, they're always there and will always be because that's who we are. Morning, here is your death, let your flag loose.

Ondina, where do you break the shore? Where was it broken, your sacred heart and why did they do it, were you part of their plan, the gods sitting by altars in the ever-shining city, surrounded by clouds or just smoke coming from their cigars, old men around a poker table, dividing europe after the fuhrer. A leader most fondly remembered by bill hicks in a burst of outrage- a birth machine? We are driven by the daily toil and secretly we wish we could be the people that lose themselves from everything, be it drugs or religion- Just to dive deep into the ocean, hearing Her song.

A song we're hearing increasingly as every day goes by but we think of it as something else but it's really there, underneath the surface of words, our own attempts to compartmentalize our souls to the 2d format. In that abstract, chains linger as we hear the swan song every day, on the way to work, while working, whilst leaving, shopping, drinking, drugging and spiritual transcendental experiences changing everything about and this is what we speak about, we can talk about everything but we still can't talk about our dreams, old freud sitting there in his chair with those cold coked up eyes staring, stripping down your soul and your dress. The dreams we can't explain and no one can relate- these images are only worth something to us, our selves and we should begin here and we should understand that this is what interpretation should be.

We hear the sirens in this dream we have where we're pirates or perhaps it's just the movie because when we wake up we hear sirens again, a more wagnerian approach to that question. They do not lure you in nor do they lull you to sleep but still in this age of fearlessness, these sirens work like a pavlovian command and we are struck down but we still try to think. On the mountain she sits, mourning herself deeply, her fate. A calliope caught and trapped by a binding word and it is more than a scroll that burns, it is also our innocence. We become men then, an initiation, nothing more.

A hollowness is upon as parts of us are trapped in qlippoth, we phase out of existence and into husks and we hear her song over here, stronger. We let despair take us as we feel the only desire we have is to fade out, burn out of all of it, leaving nothing but ashes not to be spread in the wind but to sink deeper and form more mud, there is no transcendence and there is no god for we are nothing more than this, we are animals and have always been, we have always been the bad animal but lo! how we sing.