why do you leave that story unfinished...
There should be no gifts exchanged. Christmas day is one day we should spend on our knees, a moment when all of us ought to revel to others the innermost substance of the heart. yes, then there would be such a fund of love that the worship of everything else would crumble. how long--how long until this happens? i sit here listening but i only hear a vast promise of destruction. conquest, slaughter, famine and death! galloping toward us i behold the four horsemen of the apocalypse. therefore, who should be amazed that i've done what i have done? who could possibly be amazed?
sick with my own importance i go on and on lke a musician who is never satisfied but continues stringing and unstringing his instrument. could it be that because we are born in misery we spend our lives in such a futile search?
yes the hour's near at hand, the hold is loose, signs multiply, all things turn to barrenness. wrongdoings shall be written of those who have done it. the age that now is passing shall be sealed, great books gradually open against the firmament. infants one year old shall speak, sown ground will not yield, friends destroy each other, roses wither.
down the street the wind blows, and paper bells are torn apart. grateful for this night during which there was no interuption. grateful for the utter silence that encloses me, i've painted a story on the walls and ceiling of my room. nobody else has seen it but the significance is clear: we have underestimated the nature of man. yes, circles and crosses, conduits of beneficence join. thus the mind arrives at the desired conclusion.
morning, noon, finally this evening. i believe that only among shadows have i grown visible in my glory. by daylight i think i would save myself from the ignorance, from the violence, from the limitless hypocrisy upon which we are founded. morning, noon, and finally the border of eternity past which there's neither hope, despair, nor happiness, beyond which nothing exists and nothing dissolves. when the ashes of my body have been scattered there will be people who say i've one, but i will be among them, listening as they talk. let them protest, i will be here. now weigh me a weight of fire, measure me a measure of wind, call back a single day that has passed. leaf of a green plant, touch of a child's hand. so enters the darkness, so helpless are we.
sick with my own importance i go on and on lke a musician who is never satisfied but continues stringing and unstringing his instrument. could it be that because we are born in misery we spend our lives in such a futile search?
yes the hour's near at hand, the hold is loose, signs multiply, all things turn to barrenness. wrongdoings shall be written of those who have done it. the age that now is passing shall be sealed, great books gradually open against the firmament. infants one year old shall speak, sown ground will not yield, friends destroy each other, roses wither.
down the street the wind blows, and paper bells are torn apart. grateful for this night during which there was no interuption. grateful for the utter silence that encloses me, i've painted a story on the walls and ceiling of my room. nobody else has seen it but the significance is clear: we have underestimated the nature of man. yes, circles and crosses, conduits of beneficence join. thus the mind arrives at the desired conclusion.
morning, noon, finally this evening. i believe that only among shadows have i grown visible in my glory. by daylight i think i would save myself from the ignorance, from the violence, from the limitless hypocrisy upon which we are founded. morning, noon, and finally the border of eternity past which there's neither hope, despair, nor happiness, beyond which nothing exists and nothing dissolves. when the ashes of my body have been scattered there will be people who say i've one, but i will be among them, listening as they talk. let them protest, i will be here. now weigh me a weight of fire, measure me a measure of wind, call back a single day that has passed. leaf of a green plant, touch of a child's hand. so enters the darkness, so helpless are we.