A declamation:  I will write out these prognastications and tell you what I find at the end of the world, where all paths end- silence now, I am in the grey chasm

flash i
a street in New York, where all is spilling over with the pit-pat run-array of black-suited men rushing to the buildings and beyond. A clamour of grey horses- Arabians, of crazed eye and silver manes- rush across the path, their hoofs suspended in obeisance to an unknown entity. They bow with their eyes, each hair shivering in mute horror. In the strained daylight, no one sees them but me: they are phantoms. Phantoms of a ghost reality now turned archaic and ancient.

flash ii

a girl giant of mad hair spilling over a brick building that clasps her bosom in some obscene deformity. it surrounds her, starting where flesh ends. the colours are grey, crumbling concrete and rumbled brick debris. in between the dirt, little people run over silently, insignificantly, part of an empire forgotten, yet seemingly unaware of the significance of their non-existence.

flash iii
there is a rose at the end of the path which bleeds blue blood down thorny tangles. each torn grasps a piece of mind-flesh, each bramble embracing the intricate net of arteries and channels that comprise the head and reach down to the pulpy mass of the heart. the eyes that stare beyond are mad with an unseen fury, the hands trembling, the whole body a tremble of forgotten earthquakes stampeding across the mind's skull like a crowd of shivering grey horses. all this occurs because of this rose- the sickly rose which bleeds blue blood down pale flesh.

It rains. A grisly rain of reality. We get wet, soaked.
Truth melts on fingertips with each droplet. The sun tips upside-down, the horizon blurs
into a faded rainbow.

Silence, now. The end is near. 

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