Hello old friends! I’ve been on hiatus. My invalid computer is convalescing, and has mitigated capabilities right now. My blog has gathered dust in the wake of near tech-death, felicitous visitations, and strange happenings at work. It took a fit of insomnia to persuade me to write something. Here is the fruit of my labor:

The Astronomer’s Cirrus 9

Opera glass sees the extinction of the planetesimals: they are small rheophiles who are caught in the pillory of time. They’ve been set free by life in retrograde, they are dinosaurs.

The oogenesis of oolong night distends over fjelds. Afterglow bleeds into the pages of an everlasting circumstellar enchiridion.

Night is a turning, circadian compass; it’s read like a ciphertext atlas; it’s written in ichor; and slain like a firedrake by the gods; it’s made out of the most abecedarian of building materials–the silver bellwether of the monad.

The foxing stars are God’s abettors: they make ontological arguments; they make human beings wonder at the bewitching semiotics of the Shakespearean word “be.”

 

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