28 August '16
Over the horizon is a world that we cannot see. We are drawn to it by our insatiable thirst for new vistas beyond the worlds we know today, which are here and gone. And so the search is never ending and draws us on a quest that proves our aspirations will live forever.
Ostrich oligarch, numinous, the passive nugget cremator, on satin robes to Zephyr’s haven, I tether my sandles heel to oblique destns of narrow backs of sparrows, flow to vestibules, incline store of Rasputin tail chasers. Sinz is not the character to rasp. I alone make the coiner part of my invent, relase the gay Doe to frolicsome minces, restless tidings of endearest to the mint of Orandus. Goade time of the usurper. I grovel in the cane, sheered of knowing, follwing deal makers to an anxious recision, the water of the bench, the salient and the deceived.
Automations of firmaments. I am the wrangler Osimion. Hava that I have. Fair tides fisher. I wish not of this swell. I note the treasured veggamite’s confluence. I am didstorted in duplucty. But let contusion reign!
For nothing is not anothers passage, it is reslolve in temperence for the prescribed. Live as truth and prosper.
The anecdotal regime has but to vest times trodden path to requiem’s stone gate. Bereaved mothers of stolen childs breath know of less, but speak of more. To actuate my point of discernment validates a fish bowls obtuse vision to a cradle cat’s eye.
If I, as man, mortally corrupt in al nature, wounded in soulless introspect, consider that a thought or gesture of kindness or timidity might conquer the rath of cruel intention, see only the benefit of escape from a moment’s trivial conviviality with the harsh underbrush of discernment of right or wrong, then I have failed to connect the path to the doorway of all peace. I am guided to the well. I am not thirsty for inane self dillusion. I am the trickster of concept. I know. I am aware. I lead to acura’ repose. Follow my instinct, all who should. That is the dissoluble force of my freedom. I do not know. I am not the Catcher In The Rye. I am lead to the trough of good by my amazed, bewildered, quite mad disposition of loyalty to the oath of remonstrance. All that is known, is unknwn. I fear nothing, for I know nothing.