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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."

Saturday, January 30, 2016


    This is the journey of the nameless through himself,
    The unraveling of his secret,
    The picking of particles that make up his being,
    Diving into perpetual becoming,
    Fabricated by stimulant fear,
    The primal push.

    The first stage,
    Undifferentiated nullness,
    Too scared to be.

    From the first vibrations,
    The second stage was stirred,
    Birth of the first elements,
    Scared to stone,
    Too afraid to breathe.

    In the third heave,
    Those particles dared to breathe,
    But stunned by impulse,
    Immediately shut their eyes
    And died.

    Subsequent stages
    Saw the gradual purging of fear
    And the thrill of prolonged awakening,
    The transformation of will into fate,
    Creation of this,
    From photons to faces,
    From cell to seed.
    The gentle knitting of consciousness
    That could conceive history,
    Remember the source it was to fill,
    Hear the nameless calling it.
    And fulfill the purpose of this becoming,
    The becoming of the being
    That chooses to be to not to be.

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