building a religion

[timelyend]

"There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of death,and one of those nights of horror or mishapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than life itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the maladie of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and coloursor things are restored to them and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been too afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us unchanged. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known, We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing , it may be. that our eelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in whick thinfs would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed,or thave other secrets, a world in which the past would hve little or no place, or survive at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the rememberance even of joy having its bitterness and memories of pleasure their pain."

to those whom left. i love you and can't wait for you to come back home