In the dream it was fall and overcast and grey with that murky sort of twilight and the grass was long and dry and yellow and the trees were bare and rattled like bones in the sighing wind and the horned animals were unaware we were walking among them, and we were escaping from somewhere, but never truly escaping, just finding another path, and the deep wisdom of the Forrest surrounded us in it’s horrifying oppressive majesty.

Pinned under the weight of conciousness of our own fate carved by our own hand.
No wonder the Greeks invented myths to put the scissors in someone else’s hands.
It was calypso in the drawing room with your dwindling sands of time.

I’m lost at sea is a saying. I’ve never been to sea. So I feel wrong saying it. But I’ve never been to space either. I’m certainly lost.

What he didn’t account for was being lost you love no one. You are so entirely alone how could you begin to feel such things? everything is done out of sheer necessity for survival, the same instinct that tell animals to eat their young.

In the end I’m not sure it will matter how much or how greatly you have loved.

I want to be a leviathan with single purpose destruction and all knowing wisdom, beautiful black scales, sleeping power.

we are all our own messiah.
The message is wasted on the messenger.

There was something important in the dream about culling the flock. individuals serving the greater purpose. it was still macbre but it made sense. It meant we needed to keep going. it was so insidiously perfect you don’t think to remember it because how could you forget that you’ve always known this one small thing?

Hope is an illusion of perception only true so long as nothing has happened yet.