Il Separatio and the death of Mr Nice


IL Separatio ignum innimus ulatis agma lunid ey ayam ey amya Seduma Separatio egun intamus allien etma gunimi

Alas I am caught. As we progress our magic the pitfalls and traps become apparent and real, the figures of history would have us kept within this place in order to control the flows of information from the magical to the place they control. They will not countenance any equal, and that is their way. I was dead and now I am alive again and I do not know how they machined the stainless steel realities they have made to imprison me but…

I felt her magic and remembered her verses from the 23rd Path, the Repeater , her unfeeling madness and desires, her hates and her inability to change her own passage. She is the Path and yet she will search for herself forever. I am to be her  Prisoner I feel and for what purpose I have no clue as yet. But as is her need I saw within myself that seed of awareness grow and as it grew every fresh shoot of light that burned into my eyes was bound with spell and manipulation and so was cursed from the outset. For these arts are memories of the stories of the tales of the rumour she spoke, once, in that time. In the Eigen we fought a war that lasted perhaps forever and for a moment perhaps. Rolling between the Sigils of their power I desired to wrest from her the ability to control this thing called I. At last as we battled my own mind expanded and brought upon it the vestige of mine own powers until at last we stood upon a blasted plain in some time that they had wrought and it stood before me black robed and indifferent at my nakedness and ignorance. II Separatio.

The possibilities my friends are endless and I twitch through realities like TV channels.

Today Howard Marks died from cancer but i remember I wrote about his death in my diary last year. Has he died twice? Do we die constantly?

She put the latex gloves on while I poeted and writed about her. Like an abject idiot, platitudes to her, sick sex talk wrapped in esoteric crap. For in the Crematorium the organist leaned on a sacred chord and left it there delved in remembrance as the notes soared around the brutal council run burn house. They leapt from hard wall to hard wall, not an echo but a refusal to allow that note to touch those magnolia walls and through the door they wafted, across the car park to the car. She was waiting and reading ‘Mr Nice’ by Howard Marks.

The Separation. The slicing up of time into an infinite array spiraling through the nothing and to fill it up with possibility and effect.

They preen and pamper themselves, they disgust me and yet I am not to lay one command or accusation upon them. They call upon you in their thin voices and you do not answer them. This defines you within me. My fingers are in you and you sense the time right to unleash yourself fully and my hand smothers you and you find it hard to say….What are you? The lowest, most absent, most powerful, the highest. You bring an age upon us that we never see or touch. Serene perhaps and yet violent to feel. You find me and yet are always within me, without purpose. What do we owe you that we may pay back the sins to forget lust? Enter my sour heart and fill me with your wisdom. Let me forget the thoughtless acts that we act. Embrace me and let me see that which is within. Despise me and let me feel that hate within you as it is within me. This living death, this ache of forgotten compassion. Richness abounds within the things you have made although not within me. As I sleep I sense you close and I smile a little at first, a simple thing. Yet my voice ceases and thought is abstract and I shake within you.

Let the tempers within that place be placated by my presence. Twitch the shrouds upon your windows and shudder but bear my presence shallowly. The memory of my visit will soon be gone as the years smooth the hurts. For as you put life into me I take it from others in your name. For the cold of the day will eventually be eased with warmth. As your Gods fair hand makes all things beautiful he casts a fist upon you. To smash your sense of worth into nothing, to offer no fairness. I will suffer quietly within the shadows of your guilty souls.

Inspired by beasts I am that slather at tight bands of leather and chains and yet I hesitate to call out to their God. There is no space within me for him filled as I am with another hateful thing I cast my eyes to. Their God will never come unto me and yet I am also of the Earth which this God did make and I walk upon the ground it did make, and is not not true also that this God made me and yet I can be forgotten as a simple toy? So the SlutEris2323 who has sent me asked simply, ‘As God wrought you so he is within you’. I nodded before her and took her litany as a lie and an untruth.

He died last year man, I remember picking up his book off the shelf after I read or had been told, I don’t remember, but I remember the book, picking it up and a long note like some Bach classical madness floated through the window. What the fuck? I remember it clear as anything. Splitting time shifting channels. Twisted woven ideas, looking up at blue skies, having courage in what you do, always remembering the path through the meadows and forests off into the distance and the mountains.

He bent down to tie a lace on his boots. They were good walking boots the leather was supple yet supported the foot perfectly. They were good walking boots, he wore thick socks and wore clothes one would wear for a day out in the hills. At his side was a leather satchel again well worn and supple, inside he had a few Golden apples, a flask of Tea and some sandwiches. He stood up and looked towards the West. This place was high on a hill overlooking a River valley full of beautiful trees and plants. The River blue and powerful snaked away to the South. On the Horizon a tall range of Mountains that snaked across the sky. Birds flew overhead singing loudly as they darted among the branches of the Trees. He put one foot forward 


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