Quotes

“A murderer is simply a reminder of our innocence, even as darkness is just contrast for the light.”

“If you have never been tempted to do an evil act, then you are not truly a good person.”

This Box Contains

A cracked foundation underneath
A dazzling monochrome carrying
The weight of memories
Forgotten in their remembrance

Symphonica: Movement VIII

Cellar door. According to J.R.R. Tolkien, the most beautiful sound in all of English. He claimed so in his 1955 essay English and Welsh. I quote:

"Most English-speaking people... will admit that cellar door is 'beautiful', especially if dissociated from its sense (and from its spelling). More beautiful than, say, sky, and far more beautiful than beautiful. Well, then, in Welsh for me cellar doors are extraordinarily frequent, and moving to the higher dimension, the words in which there is pleasure in the contemplation of the association of form and sense are abundant."

Although I do agree with him, I think we should not so lightly dismiss the meaning of this euphonious compound. The world you might find behind a cellar door! Carven niches containing otherwordly secrets and shadows. Entire gardens blooming with the verdure of a lime tree in fullest ornament.
Ayah’s unfurl in the deepest reaches and crumbling corners of a makeshift mosque, even as the duhr sounds amid a sea of orisons.

No words or sounds could describe the sights you could discover at the opening of a heavy oaken door, carved with intricate designs and figurines within esoteric dances. The creaking of this hefty portal is a deiporous song of deepest reverence and beauty. You could truly find anything here, if only you dare open it.

Carpe Horas

You stand on the
Bridge between stars and
Proclaim yourself deity in
An act of faith

Symphonica: Movement VII

There exists a secret garden. Where roses devour the deathly pieces of shadowed corners, a Cohen masterpiece. A place where symbolism grows in the half-lit spaces underneath the crumbling brick walls and where silence blossoms like tumoral flowers. Hallows and mosaics of dispersed weeds are in abundance, waylaying the footsteps of a god.
Buried keys feast within a archaic and pagan hullabaloo, an apotheosis of secrecy amid a carpet of burgundy soil. Sky-blue banners errupt from this imbrued field, only to whisper the arcana of the garden. And even as the Sun impregnates the etiolated air, it does but light the planted enigmas of a fearful child.

But let us not speak evilly of secrets, for they are the tears of God’s masters.

Symphonica: Movement VI

I have the strong urge to return once more the bountiful tranquility of Le Lac, the little lakeless village located in the heart of France. No need to tell you again of its inhabitants; they have been described enough.
I will now take you just a little outside the village. In fact, we are now standing at the small signpost just by the edge of the last house, shutters firmly closed of course. It’s a little steel-gray post, with a black (white-edged) plate attached to it, with on this sign the name of the village written in boring, white letters. It is placed at the border of the modest eminence the town is built upon, the road gracefully diving into the river valley below, between large and rolling meadows of mixed grasses and patches of trees. Some of the more wilder plants and undergrowth blossom at its feet and softly sway in the often delicate winds, breezes and zephyrs that visit the hill.

Sunset would be the best time to visit this signpost, when the dying sun illuminates not only the open sky above (a few hesitant, but lambent stars appearing), but also the white letters forming the town’s name. They burst into a golden glow, fervently reflecting the dying of the skies. Even the black around the two singular words is somewhat lightened. Of course, without the dark surrounding them, the blooming letters would probably loose some of their portentous lustre. So, we should not bother too much with this shadowy cloak and enjoy the luminescent spectacle everywhere around us. The clumps of trees, a thousand shades of green, are now turning a unified orange. The nictitating meadows and fields are basking in the fierceness of a mortal and perishing star, whilst the few traipsing cows beaze to rid themselves of the day’s light rainfall. Even the concrete electricity posts seem to become things of wondrous beauty, the electrical cords hanging between them becoming straggling webs of moribund brilliance caught within, almost dropping aurulent drops of molten vividness.

Are you not pleased that you have joined me here? I see your flaxen hair blowing in the evening breeze, the cores of your eyes lit by the incandescent splendour ranging across the range of your sight. Even after the final honeycomb rays are exitinguished and die out, those deep and fathomless cores retain a radiance, one final smoldering cinder to remember a dusk never remembered before. And all this just to see a small signpost.

Walk In Beauty's Way

Darwin’s muse in the
Whispered garden; she kisses
The reddest flowers and
Walks in beauty’s way