The deafening of mothers abruptly halts the flow of milk. Indeed the view is nothing more than a pinecone emerging as a new sprout of vegetation into a world polluted.
Return to the swing, your cradle is the garden of youth. Apples gleaming golden and delicious in orchards packed by heavy undergrowth and bushes specked with berries ripe and plum—waiting to be plucked off their withering branches.
Turn in the direction of the wind and feel the breeze over the slope of your skull, whistling with great indignation at your continued existence, you are eternity’s final bastion; fortitude thwarted by nature.
Delve deep into the realm of understanding and you will find nothing less than ignorance and even more ignorance shall follow. Greatly may thy doubt increase as the wilful flowering of summer beckons to complete and end the circle.
March out into the moors, towards the raven rocks, the protrusions robbing the sea of a final resting place; naïve we can only gaze rightly into the future that lies in the horizon. Rest assured, the unknown provides in time novelty and novelty indeed time.
Esteemed are we the moribund, whose only fortune is death and decay; the lapsing of our span a ridiculous testimony to the purpose we fatuously define as a maxim—in time, time will come.
We live for tomorrow, the reaping of the sown is a reaping of the future; the crops forgotten, life becomes vacant and transparent.
The vestige of faith upon which you cling, to its collar, pin the badge of no form and colour.
