Arrows of water 'gainst phalanxes green;
Night launches ambush i'th'middle of day.
Heavenquake fissures eat cities unseen
And bellow in anguish at all in the way.

A lashing, a crashing, a self-stripping bare,
A thunderous revolt 'gainst th'infringement of air
Whose cloak glazes land in a trod-warpath sheen,
And then
Whose parting grants silence, yet far more to say.

Life grows the greener where th'elements play.

真っ暗しかありません。そうすれば、光はなかったら、人類が建てていた大建築も全部見えなくて、全然あっていません。

"How be'th you like wind with the sand at thy feet
That in their swell number doth chorus defeat?"
"Find th'King of but land in his shadow: ask he! Who
Pinch'd water from air, who steals salt from the sea,

Who finds shelter in light, who serves love at a feast,
Who knows and knows not that the hav-er has least,
That better is nothing, that nothing is best, that
Th'fortuned he falls; the un-fortuned rest."

I despise the way society churns on. I hate it.

That to "change society" is to correct a blemish in an inherited structure, that we blindly celebrate that we build on top of, and that we build on.

That we erect pillar after pillar under a prehistoric rock and think to boast "look, we are holding up better than before".

That we have unthinkingly laid our ground so thickly that to change would mean yanking it from under our feet.

Society has become a monster that even the brightest and most intelligent of us helplessly feed through inaction and compliance and, in doing so, are starved by for a decent living.

I hate that the verbs "to mold" and "to shape" have taken on positive connotations despite the implication of an objective (and, truthfully, horribly wrong) standard of perfection.

I hate that society has pressed its members into its building blocks instead of its builders, that we have allowed built on ourselves a heavy, heaving monstrosity, and let develop its uncooperative nature.

I hate that society is no longer defined by its individuals; society now does the individual mass-produce and define.

Call me a futurist. Today is not mine.

Aflurry, aflame, adrift are cast
The sutured yearnings of torture past;

In a world without grief, suffering, tragedy or pain,
Where peace is of nature and justice has reign,
Where little can fall, not much can remain:
Humanity lives not where lives not th'inhumane.

The mind is all-empty, the heart is red hot,
The troubled spirit 'twixt two thoughts is taut.

Oh, my depression! I, rampant, hath wrought that
Which holds me a slave, a peasant who kneels
To chance at the slightest of spice-sugared meals;
That makes a mere child I a gentleman thought.

What daggers have I 'gainst these corpses you've brought
Back from graveyards and hallways and ages thought past, the
Green demons I'd thought had been vanquished at last
But were, 'stead, but banished by battles unfought.

What armies have I to conquer my soul?
Even in triumph, am I to be whole?
You are the answer, th'salvation I sought; yet
You were the silence, the question I got.


//what a game.

Azazyl

Stench of humanity,
The rot of those fair.
Despair!
Of lost sanity and
Dreams never there.