Inscriptions Without November Comments

I infect those who watch me.
Every age progresses by attaining something it thinks it deserves.
Too scared to think alone, I bestow everything with life; - dead, dying, between both.
Every possible material composing reality is an ephemeral melody chasing itself for eternity, the drainpipes swell with violet, spring spawns out of the medium connected to crystal pillars; Mussolini awakes from the clouds, tearing the ground from under our feet, the nakedness which is no more than a template engraved with patterns we use as fate, beyond the snake twirled around sunlight blackening presence, the reminder we forget that were once, in fact, very alive in childhood.
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