You know.
Others may guess, stabbing lonely questions into the ever dark. Not you. The only thing relative are relatives. The absolute is you. The absolut, perhaps. A fist into a brick wall. There is a fable-tale about the energy in a brick, you let it loose, enough to shatter cities, but one thrown, just so, through a certain window, would do the trick just the same.
Everyone stopped making sense. People speak, but all words are lies. People act, but they are only marionettes to the unconscious mind within. The squamous depths, and all abysses: inward. All try journeys are inside. To travel in the outer world, to leave one place for another -- to shed a skin! -- and all that's sought is escape. We travel not to find, but to give up, to forget, to flee. The things we seek to lose more important than those we find.
And you know the secret of the Great Chiefs is that they need not be real to have influence. And you know this is the secret of God, who is the wizard in Oz. Only as real as dreams. Only as true as beauty. Metaphors carry us, wind-swept, but soon we exit, needing not to drown, hopping, and you know
what we hope to, hop to, and your silence, in your silence, is (the) only hope.
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