BOW TO THE EVENT...

We are all feral, we are all multiple tears in fabric, tears in souls, globular eyes peer outwards and then in. Whispers can be heard behind walls, behind hands, behind the masks of faces. We open our mouths to exhale our soul, the repetition of names in incantation reverberate around death beds. The five walls seal us in. We are entombed within our indifference to be other than. We live with the eyes of others, mirrors to our fate...to our soul. A cycle that never ends, never releases, but always dependent, always contained, contrite - the cycle of eternity. Heads burst with untold knowledge, while hearts and lungs fill with the names of the many. The incantations of the spell, the rhythmic mumble of the lists of names. We are generations without end, we are bone and gristle, we are dust and white ash. The islands of the soul turn within the great wheel. They give us visions of happenstance and accident, they give us masks of the illusion of self-determination. But there is no freedom of choice, there is no movement of will on the great water - there is only eyes wide open, there is only fate pre-planned, pre-arranged, pre-ordained. And while we dream our life, they stand and they wait, as we sit and delay - it is the natural order of events. As we sit, we feel the faint breeze of a dark leather wing, we feel the slightness of a long bony finger as it travels along our arm, there is a rasp across our cheek from a long dry tongue filled with lust. We are pawns believing they are kings, we are the creatures singing the song of the elohim. We are the man that is named, and we are the man that is numbered. We bow to the event, concede to the game. We struggle to stand as we embrace our angel in fate.