Suite and end (proposed another purpose)
Why bother?
I wanted to be the unseen demiurge a kaleidoscopic abyss, a cathedral-geode, with a thousand shades of light, the taste of real raw, palpable, oozing, vibrating, sour, bitter, sweet. I wanted to transcend the ink, paper, and these mysterious signs coming to hit him, rape him in order to carve, to engrave the movement. I wanted to build abyss lined with many treasures, dizziness wonderful dream stone. Qu'enfantent but my words? I do meaning that the acrid sweat of my fear incapable of mute despair my face at all, given the Ultimate Beautiful face. I do taste more words - Switch off the night, switch off the night - I only see lines, footprints, shadows and silhouettes, disjointed phenomena. My heart shook Babel - switch off the night-darkened all my "I" choked on the edge of the universe. And if that does not work? I do not want their journey is an infinite path in a country desperate for a platitude - it's not Belgium, which have no smell, no color, no emotion to give. And if the letters do not aggregating more, and does not model these worlds, lives bleeding, throbbing, only to be encouraging results of immateriality of ghosts? If they were not fooled by the hoax? Blessed little trick, pretty little wonder. This failure to me stomach clenches. They say, "How boring, even a ladybug who sees himself as the Milky Way" and I will be ashamed, and I would hide in a corner, but there will not, because it's my eyes that I will watch. It is I who shed the tears of disgust - disgust tearful, sweet, love to own this small vanity. I will revert to a small pile of nothing. I'm afraid - and this fear is fleeting, ghostly, it comes and goes - is the tide of doubt, I must be a titan to silence, and my increased efforts, plowing, clearing, turn the world up to sweat in all that I know / am.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around, but I do not see anyone. There is nobody, but I feel there is a hand on my shoulder, I feel this warm hand, that supports living on my shoulder. I close my eyes. Top
heart.
Black. The die.
("Notice" Reading this text weird: The quotes that sometimes the "I" that talks are not really addressed to the reader, but more a kind of body, presence best - like when you (or I 'm the only one?) shows a "they" invisible things of course no national human action, the rain, bad luck, in short, that depends on the unknown that believers will call God). Here he talks about his dream of puppeteers, the sadist who will play with his nerves ... I wanted here-that is zero to talk like that, but even more if no one does anything - try to put black on white if this kind of discourse-specific dream, deconstructing it, the strange logic that drive etc..).
As for the title, this is a verse of the Aeneid, well known for the fine example of hypallage it offers, for those who feel insulted, this is the hypallage figure of speech which reverses Qualifying (I explain very badly), the translation will make perhaps the clearest thing> "They go, dark, lonely in the night." (That night is dark and they are lonely ...) It's nice eh? It is fute-fute this Virgil!
I wanted to be the unseen demiurge a kaleidoscopic abyss, a cathedral-geode, with a thousand shades of light, the taste of real raw, palpable, oozing, vibrating, sour, bitter, sweet. I wanted to transcend the ink, paper, and these mysterious signs coming to hit him, rape him in order to carve, to engrave the movement. I wanted to build abyss lined with many treasures, dizziness wonderful dream stone. Qu'enfantent but my words? I do meaning that the acrid sweat of my fear incapable of mute despair my face at all, given the Ultimate Beautiful face. I do taste more words - Switch off the night, switch off the night - I only see lines, footprints, shadows and silhouettes, disjointed phenomena. My heart shook Babel - switch off the night-darkened all my "I" choked on the edge of the universe. And if that does not work? I do not want their journey is an infinite path in a country desperate for a platitude - it's not Belgium, which have no smell, no color, no emotion to give. And if the letters do not aggregating more, and does not model these worlds, lives bleeding, throbbing, only to be encouraging results of immateriality of ghosts? If they were not fooled by the hoax? Blessed little trick, pretty little wonder. This failure to me stomach clenches. They say, "How boring, even a ladybug who sees himself as the Milky Way" and I will be ashamed, and I would hide in a corner, but there will not, because it's my eyes that I will watch. It is I who shed the tears of disgust - disgust tearful, sweet, love to own this small vanity. I will revert to a small pile of nothing. I'm afraid - and this fear is fleeting, ghostly, it comes and goes - is the tide of doubt, I must be a titan to silence, and my increased efforts, plowing, clearing, turn the world up to sweat in all that I know / am.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around, but I do not see anyone. There is nobody, but I feel there is a hand on my shoulder, I feel this warm hand, that supports living on my shoulder. I close my eyes. Top
heart.
Black. The die.
("Notice" Reading this text weird: The quotes that sometimes the "I" that talks are not really addressed to the reader, but more a kind of body, presence best - like when you (or I 'm the only one?) shows a "they" invisible things of course no national human action, the rain, bad luck, in short, that depends on the unknown that believers will call God). Here he talks about his dream of puppeteers, the sadist who will play with his nerves ... I wanted here-that is zero to talk like that, but even more if no one does anything - try to put black on white if this kind of discourse-specific dream, deconstructing it, the strange logic that drive etc..).
As for the title, this is a verse of the Aeneid, well known for the fine example of hypallage it offers, for those who feel insulted, this is the hypallage figure of speech which reverses Qualifying (I explain very badly), the translation will make perhaps the clearest thing> "They go, dark, lonely in the night." (That night is dark and they are lonely ...) It's nice eh? It is fute-fute this Virgil!
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