o pale moonlit eyesof ebon depth,I beg we meetfor still you make me dumband I am dumb for you,still dumb,and taken from the noise,taken like The King of Thule

so merry is the sagesince mercy made theefor the grave

Without love, one is dust, in a perpetual state of longing and desire. No matter how much you love someone, if the feeling isn’t mutual, love will have no reception.

I’ve always been enchanted by the show of electrical abstractions, within one’s mind; so colourful, myriad and seemingly contingent, which appear, sparkle, glimmer and dissolve into that infinite gloom which one is trying to vanquish with sleep.

my head is full of black spaceand light bluefluorescent shapesimploding

My swarthy banner’s downand burning in the flamesof hoplelessness afar

It’s that feeling like vertigo of being on the edge of the precipice, suffering the fear of the void into which one might fall. We are damnedly balanced on the thread, with the great voluminous despair beneath us and the terrible fate of knowing that the love of beauty can never be satisfied.

Oh moon, I have begunto envy youyour terrifyingpowers

There is a network beneath the surface of our consciousness in which a far more powerful force flows. These intimations of the underlying knowledge, these intimations of the soul, of the Divine, are vital for the survival of humankind.

Everything relies on the idea. The idea is paramount. The idea is all powerful. Art is the vanguard of developments in thoughts and ideas.