Vendôme

Despite committing to consistent production of sentimentalism, I feel the weight of it lace over my vision--- fine silver webs yearning to obstruct my reality. In the evening they jostle against the lunar effulgence. Yes, they are impalpable like the creatures of the night. When I am at once born unto the world, I carry these fibers of influence with me. They help me discern boundaries, embellish or degrade appearances, distort truths from untruths, restrain me from kindling fleeting sensations.

 Mourn Penelope, mourn Sita, mourn Mary--- mourn all ardent faiths The derelict cathedral of the human psyche  is bound to glimmer in reverence  in the face of futility and dismay  Foreboding prophets and their fallacious tales  an Armageddon of the youths, brightest of the civilization  blood pouring from every pore, dressed in all white a purging of all innocence--- to enjoy our grotesque nights