Monday, April 23, 2012

The Laughter of Children, the Lost Silences and the Final Defeat Amidst the Reaving Scythe

I do not know what has come over me.  A certain...dismal hatred of the breeding masses?  Some human empathy grown inflamed and so diseased of pale, infirm, desultory rejection of that which pains me? Man, his utter vomitus of motive and deceit? 
Of Conceit?
I find I cannot leave my halls. 
My skrying bowl, wet, limpid of truth, placid of meaning.  Yet it means nothing.  Only a clear, uninhibited view from a cliff face upon nothing so much as empty distance and empty density.
The vacuousness of a vat of  being.  So much fat and plasma and existence as seen through a lens of time and space.  No substance, no more than needs be to declaim the existence of a meteor shower in the path of a dead planet.  What does it all mean?  Nothing!  Shapes and density and distance and physics all too surreal and scientific to effect an atom of emotion, a quantum of intelligent query, a sigma of serendipity, such that any living thing might feel the force of another living thing and recognize it as something more than an irritation...if not as a bane of its very existence.  Certainly as rough but far more meaningless than the grain of sand that imagines itself a fucking pearl!

The lilim scream from their pool, and I shudder and wait.

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