This Is The 944th Post, That Means This Blog Has 52 More Posts Than BD And More Than 3 Times The Posts Of The Other Side Of The Circle...
...and we've got less readers than was ever sustained on either.
So let me try to post this again and see if it can muster any of the attention it didn't get the last time.
Categories of anguish tend to merge together: the oppression of depths and the closed evoke dread of the void, the corridors of the kingdom of the dead resound in the far depths of ourselves like the idea of the infinite. This spectacle is a ritual, one infinitely despairing of solitude.
A shudder... Those few seconds, free from vibrations, are an eternity. In them, they condense the depth of interior reflections, funeral exploration of dark labyrinths, from which only the unique and irredeemable end is certain. Would the music be only punctuation and accentuation, the frame more or less hewn from an absolute silence, secretly sought after?
Every being anguished by its own existence experiences an irresistible attraction for those end of the day contemplations. Can it itself foresee what its feeling will be? Weary of life and desiring the night... Or on the contrary, sparking off internally at the sight of the last flaring? Two extreme examples, amongst others, to show the nodal character of that moment when all of each day's conflict are replayed.
So let me try to post this again and see if it can muster any of the attention it didn't get the last time.
Categories of anguish tend to merge together: the oppression of depths and the closed evoke dread of the void, the corridors of the kingdom of the dead resound in the far depths of ourselves like the idea of the infinite. This spectacle is a ritual, one infinitely despairing of solitude.
A shudder... Those few seconds, free from vibrations, are an eternity. In them, they condense the depth of interior reflections, funeral exploration of dark labyrinths, from which only the unique and irredeemable end is certain. Would the music be only punctuation and accentuation, the frame more or less hewn from an absolute silence, secretly sought after?
Every being anguished by its own existence experiences an irresistible attraction for those end of the day contemplations. Can it itself foresee what its feeling will be? Weary of life and desiring the night... Or on the contrary, sparking off internally at the sight of the last flaring? Two extreme examples, amongst others, to show the nodal character of that moment when all of each day's conflict are replayed.
1 Comments:
I'm still reading, dude. I just don't always have time to post a comment. You know, the new job at the slaughterhouse keeps me pretty busy. I don't have normal hours. When something needs killing, I just have to go in.
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