2003-06-28 - 11:17 p.m.
As you stand by the lacquer of your writhing pride your stamp of credibility vanishes and the crimson hand of vanity and the irreverent vain of gods and monsters bellow forth a handle for the sinking songs of mourning that escape your lips and penetrate your sagging hyde. The anvils shun your breath as they lay waste to the embers of the glowing sword brought forth from the lac de lune while the hammer of Man maleates and permeates the bowels and the senses of your fears. You ask wherefore and whitherto, for at the end of time, when life is gained and life is lost, the pollen of infirmary and the reflections of former sanity pave the landscapes of the ages and the graduations of your measure are brimming with the fruitlessness of yours and everyone's dilapidated gourds of knowledge, whilst the notables fuel the couldren stewing all that is dastardly and meaningless. The villains in blood and the heroes in earthen hues placate the outraged cries of the deceased, bestride the beaten path, consume the flesh of honour and magnanimity, and convince the valiant of their dishonorable gravity. Fellows of love, sacrifice and the mendicants revert to the savage beast within, the living worth of self preservation, and begin the consumption of the flesh of beast and man, the trampling of god and angels, the championing of the quintessence of that within which evades death by the selling of lovers' souls. Besmirched, the tainted blood boils and rides the heat of dispassion to the viscerae of hell, returning healed and purified by a new meaning of existence, evading the very hand of that which created it, that which nurtured it, and that which was, at its latter, the humilated hunter of its own opus and of itself in its own image, the irony running deep. No other stands in your way, and the ghastly beneficence of the yearlings that pervade the daylight, the glowing light irradiating from the window to the world, humble before you as the new king of their world, the new shining path, and the return of the saviour, that of books on high, and those of thoughts never recorded and revealed. The new colossus is you, and the world trembles at the pride of its own insignificance, and yet the smell of lacquer and camphor and frankincense runs deep and is recorded anew, as you are spewed forth from the ghouls of fire and evil, and are cherished as thus. Never forget the ride of bastardly fortune, and never forget the sacrifice, for at the end of time, when the yearlings are dawned upon the new wisdom of time and universal misfortune, that which you sold and that which the anvil maleated to penetrate your soul and to lay humiliation to your creator, will be seized and twisted in the bowels of your mind, and you will know the guilded cadeaux which lay at your limbs when you gave it for its depravitous exchange. And as your essence is scorched and boiled, you will have but the wisdom of your folly to accompany you to the end of time.
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"We don't receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us."
"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."
-- Marcel Proust
"Confidence in the goodness of another is good proof of one's own goodness."
"He who fears he shall suffer, already suffers what he fears."
"I prefer the company of peasants because they have not been educated sufficiently to reason incorrectly."
"We can be knowledgable with other men's knowledge but we cannot be wise with other men's wisdom."
-- Michel de Montaigne
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