conditionate Mar 24, 2009


en clay tablets would have caught me unawares, unwrapped in linen anew and covered in sleep's dewey remnant. There was a time whnds and burned in the fires of a thousand armies' failed battles
this sewage, tower-keeper; there are no paths which lead to thatimes, there is no good way to say I love you). And death, I thit and rotten to the core. There are no rains which can wash away
ight and yawning; the ghosts and mysteries of night long fled. There is something to waking, a fresh start in the same world borcks for another day. The garden, in the morning, is thick with l
a splintered tree, growing for years and now trampled underfoot,esperate act of duty, leading eventually to the manifestations whe facets of our cognates, fuelled by the wax of the bees dronin
beaten into the earth and devoured by sightless creatures. For nk, is no parenthesis, placing upon life's branches an oft delict house. There are only scraps of knowledge, scattered to the wi
tered, the universe, in the beginning, folded upon itself in a dI discover no great thing, recover a tattered flag, wind the clog in jazz in our minds. Quite unlike anything we have yet encoun
e all take for granted. A drier sentence has never been written.orld, we are living memories that act, animate ideas exploring t, broken bodies lying at the edges of vision (these are the haun
ts you feel but do not see). Truth is not a shining thread, but n, fire of the burning library bakes books to perfect (in these that is what we have and they lack, is it not? A vision of the w
ately balanced golden fruit, rotting from the inside out, corrup

And it is with herring in arm that I welcome you to the feast of Saint Ba'al, patron saint of forgotten gods. Have a seat, but don't stay too long. You might get lost. Unfortunately, that is the way at these sorts of meetings. Everything gets mixed around and it becomes hard to tell which way is up, the edges blur, you start to feel like you've done this before, you've seen that gaggle fly past in the night and you've got to get home, inexplicably it begins to rain and everyone is screaming for the obits (underworld umbrellas, that is, you might say remnants of a dark age. You might say the black umbrellas were opened too soon, in anticipation. You couldn't read the headline from across the room but if you could it would read Your Name Found Dead Earlier This Morning in their garden, Hofstadter in hand, a wispy smile up at Michaelangelo, across the wall, You know you really should get that fence repaired?


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