Writhing somber in my dissociation. Cold comes the theophany, the sobering vantage point wherein my life transmutes into all life. And the hard fact is that we are all so small. So insignificant, as insects in one vast taxonomical display. And so it ends. “Behold the bone orchards, the mortal remains of memory. The vanity of moss stones bearing eroded inscriptions, as taxa labels and their descriptions.” As we are primed for burial, meticulous to give the semblance of life, we clip the tips of wings and let the scales of dust cascade. At last, we are dressed for our deaths, fit to be pinned in our final exhibition. “This one was a soldier, caught in the killing jar mid-flight. This one was just a child, trapped before it developed wings. This one was caught while sleeping, but it will never be known. And this one was never even born.” And it's no matter how great or small our lives are. We will all end in that box. Death is the collector, our lives but a collection of leaves falling from The Burial Tree.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
