The Fog and The Shapes in It

Mathew has dragged behind himself a long, floating, vaporous trail, fluffed and dense, light and ubiquitous. And thus, after the promised rain and floods failed to be delievered, a veil of freezing rain beads delicately from swollen skies of luxuriant silver fox furs and the dense fog descends upon us, like over a bride who walks blindly, wrapped in blissful ignorance regarding the good the bad, the delightful and the rotten scattered around her. Taking pictures becomes a futile exercise, clicking away at the furls of white immaterial halo, a milky solution splashed across the air, much like the slow, frozen breath of a man peacefully sleeping in a cold hut.

From the floor where everything was seen, nothing was seen, Argus Panoptes lost his one hundred eyes under a cosmic bridal trail. Helios, God of Watchfulness and Wisdom turns inside, and as light blinds and blends outside, opens Argos Panoptes' one hundred eyes to the insides, where the Styx flows alive, and carries death and life alive in a stream of humanity and the specks of nephilimic nature mingled in every man and woman. And thus eyes that can't see outside, turn inside, to a darkness that's no darkness, but fleshful richness.

Darkness sets heavy darkness in hearts up North, where the cold winds that cooled Annabel Lee's cheeks threaten to shun away the sparkle of life in their eyes. Paper words, bit and byte words tell me so. But in here the Algea do not touch our hearts, do not come with the change of the skies, the plunge of mercury bars. After much to see, much to picture, a swap of blank that erases the world before our eyes, leaving us on the fringe of material reality, introspection is the new place to go. In here the inner thoughts find other voices to conference with, and as banned pages flop softly, the words once prohibited, now hightened, flood faster inside and the artist leans heavily on the table before you, and as the pages wane away, the book reaches the end, his hand stretches forward fisting into your sleeve, pulling you closer to his face, and his wine stinky breath breaks on your nose in waves, spit splashing on your cheeks as his emotions climb excitement, formalities never observed as the confessions slowly come to the inevitable conclusion, remarks and anecdotes add up, and the bits and pieces that stick out slowly drip into the same bowl.

No big mysteries to be uncovered. Hatred, desdain, mockery, seedy sneers, dirt. No race is worth, no woman is worth, no person is worth, no ideal is worth, no religion is worth, no man is worth, no art is worth. And peppered over it words that collide into the matter perfect quotes are lifted from. Deep disrespect towards everything, in perfect anti-Einsteinian absolutism. Absolute hatred in the middle of which the nest of thorns has been found where the fishy can live to his heart's content.

Argos Panoptes widens his many eyes in realisation of the well known fact: wisdom often doesn't have to come from satisfaction, simply from thinking.