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A worthless island in the lake of cold, the wholeness
broken by the power of higher laws. If unable to grow, a
one is sentenced into depths, into endless dark night
when the other self must awake

All I see and seem is but a dream within streams of creation
- sediments of falsities growing upon the well of illusion.
The shapeless eternity reflects in a soul (the seed of
essence) and yet the ramifying spring of artificial being
perceive what once was before the alpha, the genesis and
the aeon per se.

The essence trapped in a body remains blind to
manifestations of great cycles and deaf to a voice of
numinous. Struck mute by the horror of the great other,
unfeeling of the vibrations divine, Murder your senses
and read from the books that have never been written,
seen and tainted. Accept fruits from the tree of ideas
forbidden to the sane that grows in the aphotic
nether world nourished by despair of all that has ever
lived and will live.

Is the awareness of one`s self necessary for the creation?
And does it therefore precede time and matter? Or
everything governed by the neuron`s calculations (a
holonomic illusion upon a wall of senses and dualities)? If
so, the extinction is necessar, the void calls…

In the cyclic atrocity of the new world we are buried
alive in decaying bodies. As we gaze into the fractal
nothingness we are still flooded by perception of our
fellow parasites.

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