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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."

Wednesday, February 3, 2016


This is a prayer.
My soul has contracted and retreated into itself
From having gone round and round too long.
Too much birth has it suffered,
Now it begs for everlasting death.
Too many questions have run into each other
And withered, waiting, without answers.
They haunt my world, cursed and curdled,
Whispering confusion and commotion,
Unquenchable, inescapable.
They torment my soul,
It is tired of wandering and asking
It has sought and sought
But rejected everything it ever got,
Now it is desperate to accept.
It has gone out enough,
Now it wants to let in,
To just be, without further becoming.
Perfection keeps calling from the beyond
But just lies there,
Conspicuous and absent.
Let it fill my empty vessel; it is weary of its own noise.
I have searched so long,
Now find me.
I’m on my knees, praying,


  1. We are a creature, always searching, seeking, and hope is our fuel.

    1. and i hate this sometimes...it feels like a fucking disease.

  2. the burden of being alive? we wish everything would pass by without affecting us.

    too much birth it has suffered...nice.