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It is that spectacular night sky that, shameless, spread before the eyes of the Lord, lures me to all the corners of the cosmos that I've yet to touch, bound by a sense of child-like innocence. It is in the secretive whispers of trees, or the stars in their forceful domination of Eastern shores, it is in a dream that, until now, I have profoundly mistaken for life.

The creak of a desolate door is declaring that I only need look through its keyhole, and I shall arise as a new conception. I am invited, by all, to experience you. I am being held hostage in freedom. I am being pulled in every direction towards every place I've ever regretted parting from, those locations as facets of my cognition which I still visit in my dreams, as if I never really left. This Procrustean bed, my tomb, signals my future as a budding flower, thawing on a Victorian veranda. I stand before myself as if to say ‘It is me, and I never truly left!’

I breathe because my lungs can hold no more, operating on the assumption that they will learn the same easy-going stagnancy as the featherbed that I am being engulfed by in these winter shadows.

I find I never truly dream until my eyelids part ways. Dreaming is the act of recalling, the melting fragments that you cling to, with a certain inherent knowing that the key to understanding yourself lies in remembrance.

The adventure of sleep, however, is what constitutes living. I am no more alive now than I was last night, in a deep, elusive slumber. I ought to admit, I was far more alive, for nothing had imposed restrictions upon my perception, unlike the forces of the waking present.

I am bound by chains to a material plane that I experience on an immaterial level. Everything I see is the inauguration of the laws of the universe, which can be cold and unloving in their poignant monotony. Dreams are omnipotent, and we can choose to be their slaves or their masters. In waking life, one has nothing but the cold chains of a servant binding one’s wrists in grief. What a night… What a night, dear friends, to choose omnipotence!

like god

The promise of betterment, a night owl’s talons drawing blood, The haze of tomorrow, milky eyes of a predator that slept too little The haunting in a house of cards, packing vermilion onto dewy cheeks

Dissolute Sanguine

To perceive is to digest, and to digest is to warp beyond repair; Do not perceive that which you do not wish to be warped. i) Cessation of self prompts the veiling of mirrors, And a vampiric urge to l


Carnage, carnage. My soul wants carnage. My mind wants bacchic excellence and my sacrilege demands a justification. What I desire, however, is my total condemnation. A form of arithmetic christening,


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