On all the books printed in the salad days of this century I see low combinations of numerals. These do not denote date but have value somehow otherwise. Or value more than if they were hergestellt today. What completes in artist— other than death? What edifies him more than the evacuation of the final breath? When the circle is drawn to close like curtains, apotheos will make a day of his work which was once under confusing shroud of nights living. 𐫱 𐫱 𐫱 𐫱 𐫱 Do not care what others do. Do not read this poem too. Think all your life from within. Never, ever make a friend. Absolutely no signs do follow. Philosophers are dry and hollow as paper, but no light shines through. All your days are up to you. Do not touch or think or write. Do not contend with inward sight. Do not eat and do not sleep. Do not buy and do not keep. Run away from every love. Hate any bright from above. Strike whatever things come close. And avoid romance the most.
Discussion about this post
No posts