We must (all) remember our sorrows, because, one at a time, in no numbered order, the pillars of our legacy flicker and vanish, and our minds are bound to repeat always. Disgusting love, and it all culminates as one disgusting love, right there before us. We may be demons, but we have hearts. Left cloves, We're supplanted and thus abounded, left to wind through the air as the air haste fit. Sublimate me and this and it. This is it. The fruit of others we eat, as others are asked to eat from us. "EAT FROM ME," those will pronounce, bodies flared and thorned out for certain to breach, as to whomever high-powered one came along and saw, and gawk, lest it be decided they leech. In murdered order, bled, bleeding out. In bleeding Procession. We steer our own course into dead seas, us to contemplate follow-through; these notions without repel is simply babble as. We are compelled as metal is to the earths. Stagnant superstition locked when we're already perfect, made of love, a fetus hung in stillness of air; whispering and dining on our own infinitness. Our galaxial, celestial nap is of infection. Incest, In test; rose petals strewn all about in red blood brook sinews. Pond scum. All forge and engorge. Depressed, they waver, get nothing done. Acheive nothing. Further engrossed, in the swamp, get nothing else, but myre. Though, each one has a life. Living and dying, they spring forth, anew and anew. Never satiated until the bodies give out, left out under raining clouds, with watermarkedly absent eyes. Birthed from an itch, man shall die as less of one. Schemes birth more schemes, and man is a one. Frequently not coming to know their own worth, their thoughts are of superior worth. Man never sees a true mirror visage until his brood deathhood. We'll appetized the sown seed given, born from bitterness, avoiding truth and true touch, wet for life, lamenting forever, the disgusting luck. Large, voluminous, swathes of fire shall brooch and burn and wither us down. Trifle and Strife and fire, lest weigh thee down... Large, voluminous, orbs. Large, extraneous, devoid. The outfortunate, spaced groups. Outforth, superflous in black and gold trim. All will say, in eventuality, upon their golden halo, asunder their blackened hearts, in the horrid minds, the people turned red: "I want the whole deserved thing." "I won't wait. It will be mine. That eye menacing piercing goblet that I eye." The malign of man, faltering by themselves, limbs formed, forward, but moving crooked. Empty headed, made it bleak and threw the cotton with so much as a galumph and thudded with none on the ground and was empty, born a plague, nothing, naught, human, an empty egg. Sometimes it is hard to understand it, or even remember. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In the air was the bubble as it grew and formed from dream into node into mode. It was transluscent, the blue sky of day showing through it, in the end. It reflected the fields of muted grasses around it. Falling leaves swirled in light winds, and arpeggiated through the simple, grassy plains. It landed silently on a slab of rock. It shifted very minutely, it lulled within itself. Through thoughts of subconscious it processed what it was and it thought now that it was a boy. The consciousness sluggishly rolled and opened its eyes from the deep thought and came out from its dank, blue, cocoon. It had emergence. It was fresh, and the light winds glided about it. The air was soft, the fields were silent, the skies were clear and calm. The bubble opened its eyes. The lashes softly parted, rippling the bubble. Air disentegrate the outer edge, intertwining languidly. Small pieces of clouds drifted above in the clear sky. The tall grasses russeled and bowed. The breeze halted, shifting a few times more. Chasing itself a couple bursts more, followed to a quietness. The child opened his eyes. Blurred, the land. Everything. Hazed, he had his first glance, and his vision jumped, receded and poured delta of strife forward out of whiteness and tried to get its bearing. His eyes gone wild., Searching and aching. Stunned and constantly blinking, he urged and pushed himself up, slumping on a stone slab.. He purged a big mouthful of harsh breath beads, and his body rippled like water in weakness. The him, himself, itself was chattering to the eyes, rippling within them themselves, theirs, its, his; him was them, its, and they were one... though none of them realized they were. His nose hummed to his eyes, the vibration he felt. His eyes focused, and he saw flowing, muted scenery; gray grasses pushed up to and in the front of him. Grey grasses up to both sides of him as well. He noticed the plain stone. His arm was propping him up at a labored lean and he looked like a birthed dumbfounded. It was radiantly pale and gave off a harsh glow. It was all at a distant run. The distance echoed off of his skin and it radiant—an omni-illumination, soft like powder and a complacent disposition. He gawked with eyes half shut at his calves, his feet, his thighs, all plainly clothed with gray cloth. A softness now grew to be in his head. The whisper with a melody that got louder as he kept daydreaming of this fuzziness, not of the same ilk as the conflicted/ing apparitions as he had earlier. It was calming and heartening, like his mind was pregnant with a warmth that was slowly searching and would eventually get to something; relief, of a constancy. This meditation was is as in accord to his mind's eye, a complacent relief, a well being, the wellness being what it had yearned for since its stoppage into wherever he was now, a stoppage soon to lurk back and smother again/and before. There was little worrying though, since the musicality seemed to guide his warmth to liven and grow and bloom certain darknesses. Time had passed into late after noon and the sun was near the horizon. His silhouette began to sway softly to his internal melody and his mind's weaving through enlightening and pure thoughts.