The bell is tolling and there is nothing you can do, your time has been called.
Pat down the apocalypse ash. Empty the urns they are too heavy to take. A last glimpse at the
remnants by the alter of what you have held most dear.
What does the skyline look like?
It is brilliant in its savagery. Inimitable in its endlessness. Mocking towards the survivors.
Its light pervades the ground. Even the shadows are pregnant with it by its absence.
You have entertained the darkness one too many times and now it has set in to stay.
How much we resist the changeability of things. How much we yearn for what doesn´t exist. Our stability´s. Our bourgeoise longing for order.
Love seems to ask for attachment, to take hold truly and dearly and forever. Is that why we are so in love with love? That it consistently mounts the greatest, most dashing, most futile challenge to time´s irresistible march?
Do we love love because it necessarily must die, yet dies so beautifully? Love is the greatest martyr. When it dies it becomes more powerful, more transcendent than time itself.
When love becomes idea it becomes eternal. But it doesn´t stop the pain, that it necessarily and consistently dies. Its human form perishes. Its memory dwindles.
Yes still it finds new ways to be reborn, new ways to conquer, new ways to revitalize itself. The more it is crushed the greater it becomes. The more it is found scarce the greater its return.
Love. Love love love.
Forgive me if I am attached. Forgive me for my manifold delusions, for my pitiful insights.
Because before somethings we are naked. And even in the face of the most ineffable evil, love stands unbroken.
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