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A worthless island in the lake of cold, the wholeness

broken by the power of higher laws. If unable to grow, a

one is sentenced into depths, into endless dark night

when the other self must awake

All I see and seem is but a dream within streams of creation

- sediments of falsities growing upon the well of illusion.

The shapeless eternity reflects in a soul (the seed of

essence) and yet the ramifying spring of artificial being

perceive what once was before the alpha, the genesis and

the aeon per se.

The essence trapped in a body remains blind to

manifestations of great cycles and deaf to a voice of

numinous. Struck mute by the horror of the great other,

unfeeling of the vibrations divine, Murder your senses

and read from the books that have never been written,

seen and tainted. Accept fruits from the tree of ideas

forbidden to the sane that grows in the aphotic

nether world nourished by despair of all that has ever

lived and will live.

Is the awareness of one`s self necessary for the creation?

And does it therefore precede time and matter? Or

everything governed by the neuron`s calculations (a

holonomic illusion upon a wall of senses and dualities)? If

so, the extinction is necessar, the void calls…

In the cyclic atrocity of the new world we are buried

alive in decaying bodies. As we gaze into the fractal

nothingness we are still flooded by perception of our

fellow parasites.