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There were many bars to saw through, but we were warriors and gnashed our teeth every day as we belittled the hard place that was so dark and full of the crumbling doom of our endeavours.
We were savage and blind and onerous in our cages to be free. And free we would be, for though the monsters ruled the world, we were of the Earth, and they could not kill us, for we were of life and joy… and without that they blow away in the wind of their greed and fear in time.
The art of the warrior can only be known by the warrior, all else is vainglory and pretentious, a bag of blown to be deflated, a rotten apple in the tree.
The system will make you a maniac, if you let it, until you are breathing nothing more at all.
When you realise this it will be the time to fight back.
If you do not realise this then you have not been paying attention and your time has gone and waking up is not an option any more.
The warrior has made all their choices before the fight begins, for the warrior knows this: that of all the strengths and weaknesses prevailing against them, there is none more deadly than that of the thief who steals time like a baby goblin eating the worm.
Oh yes, doom, as you realise it, is full of all the things you regret and can never have again. Yes, that’s doom for you. But good art can cure anything, so art away and never look back
Sometimes, good art is like a pussing of the lips and is not strenuous at all, oh no.
The next best kind of art is the one that blows you away.
Some will dream of summer as the best place to be blown away to, and some will think of a beach, far away; and some will think of nothing more than the here and now; while yet others think nothing at all until the electric bill is due, and then they will have to hustle.
Yes, some warriors live in the deathless silence; while some warriors don’t live anywhere at all; and some warriors live a lot from sunup to sundown and swear by the very gods of their beliefs that the beans they eat are healthy.
Well, whatever, we were the kind of warriors that moved through it all, like the drunk with the keys to every door, or the fish fisher fishing. Yes, that is what we were like every day that drove us crazy until we could figure it out, or write on the blackboard: I must not miss class ever again, or be frustrated in every next step.
The systems were full of this kind of stuff, and hell was burning and filling the doom with warmth, as I turned tall, and thought about this kind of stuff and never wanting to turn back time at all, not even in the brave part of a minute where I was most wanting. Not even then.
I turned over another page and made myself as small as a Burgundy minnow on the turpentine and winging it all to myself, when from the doom of busty skags there came a voice that said: come over to my place, why don’t you?
I was thinking away, and zooming about the place, and had no quarrel with anyone, and so was wondering why doom fell on my shoulders so much these days to corner me and offer me so much and yet give me so little?
Doom shook its shoulders and didn’t say anything at all to my question so that I found myself talking to myself again…
We are all still trapped in the mire, but we are finding our way out of it bit by bit. And as we do we come to see that we have been asleep and drowning like a stone for so long we’ve forgotten who we really are…

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