upon a grandfather clock, watching time, slipping into darkness; the
woes of the furnace, the ghosts watching, that feeling that doesn’t move.
mastery of the condition, pure existential plight, the round-and-round
about it. to become the warmth of the solace—some privilege in essence,
participating in the conundrum. the daily Exercises must work. the Flowing
Light must examine the soul; as appointed in spirit—to tend to spirit. some
strange island, a face in a mountain, the communion is the commission. so many
fieldtrips, so many passing as we go, so many needing affection. it seems the
chef of the socialites is weaving; the maestro is consoling anxiety; and the
symphony is soaring into excellence. as trains come to pass, and life is an
umbrella of affairs, while dishonesty seems to exist; some pivotal exhibit,
some required furniture, some type of studying of itself. soft, palatial lenses; phantom palms;
every word mustn’t be authenticated, but it seldom isn’t. the brokers of
society, become emotional accountants, drained of the beauty built on lies—such
gorgeous, radiant lies, such necessary to love in times, sweet nectar made
ingenious through lies; as faulting a soul for the love bestowed upon spirits
with lies; the lifegiving lie, the sole transgression, as never so ecstatic as
when the lie was delivered. the noetic capacity, of a treatise on lies, such
different mysticism, such iridescent religiosity.
