What I cannot hate, I cannot love, therefore I overlook the rest, is this true friendship?

I'm perpetuating the contemplation of presence in now, now.

That moment.

There is no more Abbaddon.

Meditations on mortality inspires with the joy of finality, egress of suffering in euphoria secreted by torment.

every window is a mirror, and every room is visualy expanding, which is the only way to formulate the collapse, accomodating a hyperawareness that is the only true way to live.

We live in a world of sleepwalking gluttons, blind bigots, deaf and glib squares.

Most people never transverse the pyramid of possibility because they are told it is impossible, and because they accept the statutes of limitation in stead of substanant life.

these people shuffle papers written in a dead language to validate other papers equally as dead.

And if we do not see things as they are, but rather see them as we are, then what shall become of the narcissist and the critic? the cynic and the preacher?

we will all sing the same song. To sing instead of pray, and to sing just to sing. To be sung out and rung out like a painters rag selected at random for the cleansing of brushes soaked in mineral spirits. we dry out, we are flamable. we are a gas so dense that we create the sensation of liquid.

every man's personality is formed from the ashes from which he ressurects himself.

My pheonix feathers are fanning the coals of a new fire.

one lives, one thinks, one dies.