I have nothing more to express then what is rhythmic and true. Forth coming from nibble fingers that dance in flow with memories of days long gone and forgotten.
This is my vanity my futile end, the lost recesses of wisdom and sensuality. To scrape and wage against the past pretension that binds like religion to Hume.
What am I that you are mindful of me, what am I, a shell of lost thought that you consider me. What are my circumstances that bring forth your imminence?
I wish not to fight the cradle, but my deception writhes against solidarity. Listen to this, the ponderings of a pilgrim long past my destination.
A shell is hallowed and deceptive nothing more then a tomb inscribed with words that fade as the horizon.
Breathe of truer eternity then the vanity of thought provoking eloquence.
Drink of beauty deeper then the façade of vacated premises.
The secret is exposed in the grandeur of creation, it is the world else where, and the saints vision of beatitude. What it is is worth having.
