... shoulders shrug, "well, we must."


And if he who,
entrusted with knowing
the world,
is not first known himself
by Him who gave the knowing,
it will cry
and we
will rage as one
in a thousand different songs
and a million sunless dawns
behind mask untold
and pride unbold
not to slack nor cease
until the house-deceased
and toppled-low
all we’ve built
to silt and dust
and reclaims the day our rust
and shoulders shrug, “well, we must.”


To truly commune with God, if even possible, The Self must be obliterated.


I write only to be known.

Indeed, to the extent that I continue to find myself unknown and heart-undisturbed, my skill as a wordsman grows ever more powerful — and ravenous.

(The irony is not lost on the fact no one ever has nor probably ever will actually read my work.)