Apocalypse Doctrine

 
The cyclones of hope have tempted us each time on the heights of the spirals of Being. Each time we try to leap, to confess, to endure the daily toil of tomorrow.

Hoodless cities are shunned and even in our evacuated dreams we cannot be fully equal and independent. An orphaned flower-stalk might endure on the windswept shore - its petal flesh like our repressed bodies.

Every crypt-face with cryptic hieroglyphic gazes back at us like a moon. The tender, unselfish devotion is as beautiful as a child's hair. In many cases, the present becomes a silent destroyer of faces: a desolate hive, a refuge where only the privileged can gain sufficient admittance.

Snowfall, hustle and bustle, menace, the ruin-dwellers of the underground world are soon revealed by the desolate, desolate darkness of the seasons, ever cut off by the mischievous light of the seasons, playing hide-and-seek in the tunnels of the chip tunnels.

In a sunless horizon, the guidance of compasses can't be enough to navigate a desert. To the right and left, the initial fear of the exiled always veers off in some intermediate, temporary direction, from which the powerful men usually enrich themselves. He who holds others in bondage is sooner or later overtaken by his selfish, murderous fate.

The pleas of bodies who have fled to suicide are anonymously gleaming in the crowds of petty, petty human surrogates. It would be better not to go to Nineveh, so as not to have to slavishly and ostentatiously utter prophetic words that the more feeble will not accept. Crying, defenceless babies to be nurtured rather than incubators in artificially fed harbour-oil.