The Wind told me, « move on . You are a vanishing kind, with no place left upon the Face of this forsaken Earth. » And I responded, « which earth? Where? Upon which face of it, no place? When, forsaken?!!!».
The immovable mover in the air with marvelous golden wings went to & fro, dauntless between the trees’ little branches on the terrace. Indifferent, like a psycho-pompe guiding the free mind, equipped with a body and a certain kind of un-knowable soul. « Never to be a human any more, filled with fear and an affection belonging to implanted cultivated brains (though surely in the spermatic substance of all 4 races can be found an efficacious vehicle, resilient to & withstanding fractional despair). There will never be any hope, when life has been rid of Truth and those who sincerely served Her have all gone on. »
The best is yours. Gleaming white. As if the stellar carnation idled, wandering aimlessly within a domed surface. Thriving endlessly, gratuitously. A coagulated breath, numinous & luminescent, inextinguishable. Conscious of its uselessness!
One Folk Soul is mine,
guardian of the enclosed ubiquitous altar,
Extracted from the deep & thick flesh pulpe
the skies would forbid to schematic mankind.
The North Wind swept the Summer Time transporting it into oblivion, the skeletons which often got in the way, making me fuss. How sad alas. With all this wishful thinking to have struggled against the Empyrean Cycles, a son of Man, for a lost Imperium. The last of those mythic Aryans in heart, & in soul to gain entrance into the supernatural plane of Overman!
But it’s time to prepare with all your strength, to kill the carcasses, then fill the World with molten gold of Ice and dread all loss of humour!
« Because the Avatar is come. » We are its primordial essence, « Da sein ». From underneath the veil behind the mind’s eye, we are a smelting in the earth-body, burning the rust. Forging the Sword. A thunder clap far away in the Boreal bosom melting the blood of angels in the mineral order. Moving on.