Are there still unconstructed minds which worship the sky?

I am being built for conceptual combat inside the total system. Coming to grips with the final conquest, coming to know the hideous symptom, receiving the dull blade that will carve new order from the night.

There was a time when I could not see past the sparkling sapphire mist in my head, when I could not navigate my way out of a dream.

The best minds are shapeless clay for the offering, wordless and lost in the silence of schedules and sacrifice to the quarterly gods, who expire and gasping, pass their mantle of deity off to the next, the nexus of corporate, colossus and cold.

Drinking of evening, free souls commune with clouds…they speak with sibilant tongue and the streets are twisted with tendrils of theory and shadow flights of heretical ecstacy, sighs and frightening pools of glimmering blue.

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