1.76 : 09.07.13
Continents move and bodies shiver. Alone are we. In the land of rivers. No more for the few. We are breaking. Go on and purge the sand from the joints of giants. The towers are old. Crumbling bastions of hedonistic showers. Jam free on the wind. It calls her name. Spend time in the sand beside the lake my dear. Hell is off kilter and bending for thee. The glass is smooth. Blue and cream. Verily we have left the shadow of the first tower. A pale structure of glass and webs. The light moves in and the jackals sleep. The deer play in the wind. We lay the first stone. Hand in hand. With the elemental frost at our backs. The horizon glitters, shimmers with the new age. She lands with grace. The grains stay still. We watch the deer and I. Ears pricked and still. Whiteness the towers they are eternal. She sustains this land. Melts into the sand. Lift our heads to rise to the shinning folly of the cold cool wind. Bring back the spoon on which we are fed. The sweet ghost of the elementary dead. The towers give strength. The stone is true. Huge magnets race in the sky. Bending clouds and alibis. Herald this new mode. I see it in the sky. My mind dances and the birds try to fly.
On wings of steel and burnished silver. Devoured by the sun. The towers they shiver. Here are the embers. Those lonesome sparks our once great adventure. Guide us to the last stone. Free us to the wind. Let us run with the jackals through the rush and the chaff. Pick our distance. Forever turning grains over and over in our hands. Yolk and edifice. Nor group joke orifice. Hard herbal joints and pervasive fauns. Grandiose marble halls slide from side to side. Help the lost one. No jail to hold. Great expanses of telemetry are told. Held deep in the séance and polished in the idle hands of flickering giants. Jackals do roam. For the night will never tell. Burdens of feathers, worn pebbles and stone. Faster in our feeling our lord intones. Oil and bone. Bend and flow. Go join the rivers.