Answer

I drew the pitch from the sky, sucked it out of the night sky, and I let the black pitch of the night run, thick and heavy, down the walls of my throat and I drained the black into deep blue. And from a great yawn I released, the sun spooled from my mouth, a flaming shriek that boiled into the heavens, blistering the blue of the sky, smoldering like diamonds, and dripping from the sky. Liquid white metal fell to the sun baked ground, and is it fell, it formed crystalline bones, bones that moved with an eerie harmony. The bones heard the voice from the sky. Each of them dreaming a dream inside of its marrow. And they fell, loathsome and cruel and base, a bloodied drift that became a riot of doom and red sky bleeding; the child of the sky burning aside, raging aside, the star drift of a million days that fell into the mourning chasm of the end of the universe. The eyes that spilled forth from it dried into a million bloodied flakes that rained through the heavens like crimson snow. Harmonics sound like the royal dream, the royal dream of black... black... black... what I long for is the profundity that is granted to the strangest amongst us, a sort of knowledge that I cannot begin to fathom in the current state of lucidity. In the twilight between dream and wakefulness I can sometimes feel it, sometimes it crosses over from the chasms I want to map and describe. There should be some museum to it, some museum in the corners of my brain, all the knowledge of the earth and the second earth is that there is SOME purpose to it. Some belief that transcends the cold logic of fact and breeds into a world of chocolate doves and rain that burns through the metals and woods and concrete and shale of a world ruled by numbers and cold physics. And deep in those secret moments, etched into the sidelines of the universe, the secret names of the black, the secret names of the void, I will find the scraps and clues that are stitched into something approaching genius, something approaching profundity. I CRAVE ANSWERS. Like a sickness or a hunger laced with the yellow jaundice of worry and anxiety, I let it crawl into me, a crawling thing, a crawling thing of yellow fingers and thick yellow nails. There is an answer. There is an answer. There is an answer. Amongst the differences and variations in things like tone and grass and lightning, I can see them, the stitchwork holding the various bits and scraps of the universe together; and the backwards eyes and ears of nothing scream those answers into my ears. I will find them. There is an answer. There is an answer. There is an answer.