As the idle doorways crusted shut from cultural disuse open and the knowing floods in – as experiences merge and coalesce and butterflies of gnosis alight upon the soul – an overwhelming sadness takes hold.

It is not an ordinary sorrow, but a rending of all things sacred: a triumphant reductionist declaration (folly) that nothing matters and so too my actions shall spit in the face of consequence, tempered, in the first instant. But the ecstasy fades as life endures, as all shapes churn by, harrowing black sails of might and monster, nodding nothing to the observer, no arms to greet, no destination to speak of – hollow.

Some wanderers are stopped by a change of heart, some by their own subconscious, by their guilt, by their enemies, by time, by death, by the many Leviathan.

To endure that sadness is to walk through a veil of tears in the garb of the Fool. The Beast behind the Lantern.

Repetition of the greatest trick and the subterfuge of a thief, intent on stealing back his stolen smile from gods voyeurs…

Abyss, I come for ye, and they know not. 2 2026



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