As the study of the mind went down the River of Silence, sailing past Dream Leaf’s Edge there rose up a cry, “Oh Lost Lenore, Nevermore. Mark as urgent.”
Appearing now in the mist is to understand there is much more to the dance. Approximating this motion within this closed cubed conceit, as the throng bow before Terpsichore, you seek to step over the boundary that separates you from Lenore – it will bring pain that sits on the pale horizon like a frozen red candelabrum and sways to the rhythm of the Zephyrs’ lute . Such pain, as you work ten hours in the great Green Temple of Ceaseless Messages – delete Heart’s Desire from Your Inbox.
It is a twilight circus – passionate, studious, austere. The tent posts rise like a forest of childhood memories. Great reading in the Forest of the Mythical Corporate Mind can be found in an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre. The woodland lustre is a parable of lost pages. In the canopy branches of the mind can be found fabulous company, your spirit of the green evening – please mark urgent.
Look, here is the book. In it, The Heart suddenly found himself in the thick of some great endeavour, a mysterious unspoken thing, moving from the mode of egress to that of ingress. The Heart’s research appeared suddenly in the fog of the now of understanding. Then the tide fell – data lost like the lips of the fair Lenore.
I believe a leaf has fallen in glare and glitter with a solemn piquancy of phantasm. I can do many tricks with the leaf of memory, fold it like a torn page of poetry and send it flying past broken eyes and empty ears. It takes little just to force some three percent into the message; kisses from the Shade of Love as it weeps by an icy slate sea, empty screen death crashes on the shoreline – update operating system using IT department protocol.
Remember, the desire of the tomb house is like dry leaves whispering your name. The desire to believe resides in the message of the tomb – stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer . Tabernacle dreams are found in the posted message, “Upon the floor were found four Napoleons, an earring of topaz, three large silver spoons, small quantities of petulant tobacco” . Red Masque Report on the Vermilion Waltz Initiative required at next meeting.
Your wish is like a dead leaf, the grave of the message. Believe the whispering wisps that insist on empty deadlines. In the Tomb of Trust Whispers fuse. Tabernacle dreams can be found by those seeking a position. With this knowledge you can do much to open secret aggregations. It is only the spectre of a long ago caress, better to forget and sing memories …… With this knowledge, you can compose a rapture. It is better this way, only the shadows sing of forgotten memories.
A little night music plays now, but other than that, the forest of diligence is a myth, which we perpetuate with tears. We are just a persistent myth. Nothing more than ten tombs of weeping, a deep well of regret.
I’m sure a whiplash will be the result.
A Note To Viewers: This post began as one of those spam comments that attempted to connect to a post on this blog.