music, the fantastic time machine,
weaves fabrications of oedipus into the lobes of my cerebrum
until i hear nothing but the tale of the king and queen, fool and pauper.
the romantic prophecy resounds tenderly.
and i will peek out the window to find the helmet-shaped moon (or moon-shaped helmet) and the comet a man is riding and it will make so much sense because it is a sign even if i subscribe to simulism and this is just a rewiring of my neurons. but i will go and continue this life in slumber and declare Dex & Mut as a cornerstone of humanity and it will make so much sense.
“mutter in slumber” i muttered in slumber
wallowing in poignancy
sadness is the most tender emotion. the slow, the heavy, the holy and tender. dark and dense. and cold, holy, and tender.
timeless, spaceless, like a deep deep void
all of a sudden everything is obscene but it’s no surprise
this is the non-artificial journey to truth