en clay tablets would have caught me unawares, unwrapped in line | n anew and covered in sleep's dewey remnant. There was a time wh | nds and burned in the fires of a thousand armies' failed battles |
this sewage, tower-keeper; there are no paths which lead to tha | times, there is no good way to say I love you). And death, I thi | t and rotten to the core. There are no rains which can wash away |
ight and yawning; the ghosts and mysteries of night long fled. T | here is something to waking, a fresh start in the same world bor | cks for another day. The garden, in the morning, is thick with l |
a splintered tree, growing for years and now trampled underfoot, | esperate act of duty, leading eventually to the manifestations w | he facets of our cognates, fuelled by the wax of the bees dronin |
beaten into the earth and devoured by sightless creatures. For | nk, is no parenthesis, placing upon life's branches an oft delic | t house. There are only scraps of knowledge, scattered to the wi |
tered, the universe, in the beginning, folded upon itself in a d | I discover no great thing, recover a tattered flag, wind the clo | g in jazz in our minds. Quite unlike anything we have yet encoun |
e all take for granted. A drier sentence has never been written. | orld, we are living memories that act, animate ideas exploring t | , broken bodies lying at the edges of vision (these are the haun |
ts you feel but do not see). Truth is not a shining thread, but | n, fire of the burning library bakes books to perfect (in these | that is what we have and they lack, is it not? A vision of the w |
ately balanced golden fruit, rotting from the inside out, corrup |