This is the Blue eon. The Green has passed away.
The blue circadian rhythms define the Enochian contours of brevity and life. Such as it is, such as it were, life like breath on the cusp of eve-ons, dreaming such profundity beyond my reckoning is only gibberish. Shall you take the wave to the next Epoch? I can't come away with you; would that I could but I am stuck in an age of depravity. Gone round the bend with a metallic gleam; shan't wait any longer, they'll catch up to me.
Blue eons take precedence, Blue eons take. Stretch, possess, envelope. This is the Blue eon. The Green has passed away.
---
Rose colored domes of glass sparkle in a stuffy grandmother's room, smelling of dried flowers and mothballs. Sunlight beams through the moldy curtains, lighting up the dust motes in the air, tiny floating fairies. Under the domes the little colored glass minarets keep turning, turning, turning, a dance for all eternity. No master to lay them to rest.
Up to the attic now; and here the child-like puppeteer is ever dancing with his creation, the red and white harlequin, last in a pocket of memory, in that same beam of sunlight, those same dust-lit fairies. His eyes are ever-wistful.
---
Showing through the curtains, a slick gleaming, like a snail's trail of light, a path to the moon, soft and meandering. If I follow, will it lead me home? It's only the sun and the moon that avenge each other's souls by noon and night. Soon the causeway will collapse and the whole project will fall through and that's the end of it. Red threads gleam like blood in the dark, a color that should disappear without the light. Curling around my finger a worm of tiny Ouroboros. You're only the second one to say that. Sleep it off. Can't grow old in dreams but by illusion. What does grandmother dream? I can't recall she ever once said...
Blue eons take precedence, Blue eons take. Stretch, possess, envelope. This is the Blue eon. The Green has passed away.
---
Rose colored domes of glass sparkle in a stuffy grandmother's room, smelling of dried flowers and mothballs. Sunlight beams through the moldy curtains, lighting up the dust motes in the air, tiny floating fairies. Under the domes the little colored glass minarets keep turning, turning, turning, a dance for all eternity. No master to lay them to rest.
Up to the attic now; and here the child-like puppeteer is ever dancing with his creation, the red and white harlequin, last in a pocket of memory, in that same beam of sunlight, those same dust-lit fairies. His eyes are ever-wistful.
---
Showing through the curtains, a slick gleaming, like a snail's trail of light, a path to the moon, soft and meandering. If I follow, will it lead me home? It's only the sun and the moon that avenge each other's souls by noon and night. Soon the causeway will collapse and the whole project will fall through and that's the end of it. Red threads gleam like blood in the dark, a color that should disappear without the light. Curling around my finger a worm of tiny Ouroboros. You're only the second one to say that. Sleep it off. Can't grow old in dreams but by illusion. What does grandmother dream? I can't recall she ever once said...