EAT sings to me in my solitude as I recover from a drug habit. Fear is not her name but a misplaced epithet, O it and her but never she, otherwise known as our dear sweet mother Earth, daughter of our creations in her metaphysic, only audience for our great masturbatory Human race.
What is a Fearblog but an ode to an essence we cannot speak? Smoldering.
I miss talks and bardic jocks; I miss news and friendly reviews.
The Dying Man latched onto my habits long ago and forbid me from creation. That light is now absent which once could have powered a city named Dekan, a conspiracy called underscore, a planet dubbed Mum, a void of space named the Sampo, a place called the Totality. Replaced it did a darkness deep which I used to guide my hand in sculpting a series of cenotaphs of sizes varied.
What is a deadblog but a tomb for something not there? Smothering.
I miss dreams and productive schemes; I miss wings and eyeless things.
The Cold Boy will, ah he will, I know he well, visit our patch of grass. He's coming around the bend we call our Aire, sailing on a dinghy asearch for a friend he'll deem an heir, yes an endless business, yes that's all there is, yes. He'll play any game you want him to, he'll cover you in blankets and usher you into your hole, the angel to your devil, the contrast to your color, he'll play any game you want him to, and you'll wake up in a place called Sleepville.
What is a song but an arrangement of intervals webbing senses into someone else's patterns?
A thoughtless cry for help.