I read the words of an ancient puzzle. They are a virus absorbed through the iris. Each sentence infuses me with a reality of otherness. Resonating on a rare and elusive frequency; inspiration of notation. Phrases and parts structured with booming whispers and stifled shouts. An enduring sickness. A malady of improvement.
I watch a man dig his own shameful graves: one for his dreams, and one for himself. There is the silent echo of rooms all around us. In this patchwork graveyard of cloying mist and sober epiphanies.
All I can do is take notes, and watch. As I subvocalize a silent and steady stream of thanks.
Thank you. For the secrets.
10:29 p.m. - 2014-10-22
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