Some Thoughts Eventually Leading to the Dread of Autumn

Empty talk



-And you say they'd rather cut down all the fields, dress up like flowers and worship the sun?

-I suppose it's more or less like that, yes.

-What a mockery of our former-selves we've become, eh? Could you pass the wine?

Beauty, Beauty, Beauty, Austerity; you Delphian temptress. From where do you hail? For what are your intentions? For why do you endure? Beauty, Beauty, Austerity, Beauty

Daylight, Dawn and Evening

“Grave Robbers”

The lights in my mind had been turned off. Conscientiousness had taken a leave of absence and the place was currently subletting. It was Winter. The hours felt austere with their inability to hold the day. I could no longer endure the melancholy of undressed trees and dry grass. The very notion of snow lacked all nostalgia and only brought a sense of loathing. I was in a rut.

Gaspare

I found a pleasant place to sit and gather my thoughts; I was listening like I meant it. And though the wind and ash scarred my face, I was at ease.

However fond of the Art of Peace, I found myself constantly struggling with the reality of cowardice.

I feel strange: like an open wound in the cold wind. In this case everything I am is the wound and emptiness is the cold wind.

Dream: Fog rolling. Trench. Dirt. Shells exploding. Whistle blows. We charge over the ridge; men around me shredded to pieces. Machine gun fire like cat eyes: demonic and esoteric. Earth like sheets of rain. Tenderness. Throbbing. Hit in the shoulder. Darkness.

Awake: Cold sweat. Awkward sense of loneliness. Blood.