My Imaginarium

Author Crazy Dead

Deep strangled, contracted and twisted. The tree bowed, the pressure of a hundred years of smaller pressures. The gagged choke of tense muscle, the stifled protest of the lack of oxygen. The view moves ant-clockwise around the body, becoming the animation I dreamed you could be- the tendons now apparent to me- I see the outward and inward simultaneously. The prophet sacrificed. The water has been drunk. Roads are mended by the machines which break them. The way of movement is constant, it is by it’s own nature evolving. It is by its own nature confusing. Age unknown. Author crazy, dead, mute, stubborn, and the wrong kind of hermit. The sacrilege is really any refusal to destroy the monuments to the most high. The higher, the lower mankind regards it. The day will come when the sun will part with itself, separating into two bodies of fire over the two greatest of man’s cities, and the child will scream but no safe place will be found for it. Drawing in the dirt, a symbol will appear, and that ground will remain while the two cities sink below the earth.