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The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Sunday, September 8, 2013


That which, by its presence alone, can disarm my motives and hold its own dearer to me,
Is your lingering thought.
That which, upon seeing me, turns frightfully enchanting and with tremulous bounty pours into my widening gaze,
Is your outrageous innocence.
So deep am I drunk with your everlasting spontaneity that all moments seem to flit past like eternal memories.
Hold on.
Hold my hand, here, once and say to me that you're real.
Let me have that lie from your truthful lips again.
Let me brush my sanity again against your insanely severe absence.
Let me worship you again.
Let me be that plaything again.
For I have known too long
This distance,
This reason,
This common sense,
This sense of commonness,
This perspective,
This life of creeping deaths.
Let me live
Where living is certain,
Where you are life,
Where you are not death,
Where absolute is something,
Where something is absolute.

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