The darkness beckons. Cthulhu calls. I can't sleep so I write. The scent of incense drifts down in lazy spirals to the simple pad upon the floor I call my bed. The monastery stirs and I wait for the bells...but wait...I don't live in a monastery. I never have, must have been another dream in exile. The recurrent theme of reams of hazy madness scribbled by a shaking hand. What monster lies naked here beneath the covers? Is it not the one we all fear in every mirror? I know what makes me tremble: the terrible warmth, the frozen staccato thunder, the beautiful dancing horror.


God:"What do you ask of me?"


Me:"I ask everything and nothing less."


The stars burst like fireworks behind my eyes, behind the covered lids of my soul, and darkness falls. Who has fathomed that profound emptiness that terrifies even as it entices, luring me nearer the edge of the abyss, or at least my false notions of such a thing. I write this in the dark. The dark that does not judge my own dark exploits, my relatively improper fascinations. Dark nights, dark souls, dark insights, and dark myths collected in the corners of dark minds brave enough to shine a light on nightly terrors and what repels in the harsh morning dawn.


Stranger:"What song do you sing?"


Me:"I sing the only song I know."


I dance, I spin, I twist haphazard in the wind. I twirl with the exuberance of a child.

Me:"Where does the energy come from?"

Child:"It comes from here."

He points with certainty to his heart.

Only old men and philosophers like me smile when a child makes fools of us all and pricks with a single honest utterance all our complex theories on life.

Rise my angels and demons, shake the foundations of my certainty in nothing. The theurgist life is lonely and rugged searching for that which you cannot seek to find. Can you resolve the enigma that is mind? Light does not lose its speed but who has measured the darkness. I would not say no to wealth but I would settle for hunger not to gnaw my belly like an open wound. And what is worse? To see those around me hunger. I die each moment eternally but life goes on blithely unaware, not sparing a glance to the gutter where lies the husk of my soul. Gods punish me for my sins. Devils deride me for my virtues. In the end we damn ourselves to eternal oblivion with the worst company in the world: the monster we made of ourselves.

I will settle for nothing less than madness and death, crucified by the mob who cheered my name on yesterdays wind. Why settle on account of propriety? Good guys finish last. The good die young. No good deed goes unpunished. Being bad seems not so bad after all but I find it far from easy. Is there somewhere between killer on the road and victim in the ditch? How do you take what is not yours and give what you do not have? I would give you lines of genius but I'm fresh out. I would take your hearts and minds to far seas and distant stars but you won't get out of bed. I would kill your god and your devil, meaningless nomenclature, crucifix crutches and saving saints. And fill you with in between the spaces. But you guard these corpses with your souls which I will not destroy to save. Concepts meet anti-concepts and are mutually annihilated leaving behind the empty space needed to be filled with what is. Existence is more than a word but never less than what it is. I am spinning this web of connections linking nothing to everything and everything to nothing. This is an exultation of love, an exultation of passion, an exultation of everything pure and new and beautiful. I breath in the universe with my eyes with my soul and I am exhaled. I am an explorer born in a land of gridded fences, of barbed wire and hostile stares, of remorseless sentiment and jaded opinions, of listless lines of rhetoric and wounded wit. I can give you only my misunderstanding. In the sweat dripping jungle heat, sweet passions flower, inflamed and yearning. Will you take it? I'm dreaming in this dream and everything is real. My insanity hangs by a thin thread from the depleted faith of God Himself.