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A Story, Published Under The Name Nazorean




"Hark and behold, the noble wolves who upon their rock, of the earth's finest stonework, stood and talked. With not words, but with their time, and with not mind, but with their touch. For the wind, when it blew, displaced seed and dust, so did it unravel itself, and obscure the abstraction. wolves, of noble breed, and men most ornamented, are of the same pack. There lies no distance or no space to which their shoulders be aligned, for the wind is taut and so it was the same with other facets earthly growth. The faucet of life, and the spring of youth, leading all into the biting cold of the elder bone. Decay takes the lively stag, and rot takes the freshest bread, though of this no ruler stands over. For rot ages things, and decay softens the stone so it may be hallowed out into a city. These things are the same, and these things are opposites, the river flows with its dirt. Without the dirt, there could be movement. Stagnant it would be, though as it appears the passage of age has no dirt. Upon no obstruction, there leads to no displacement of the agent. The wolves speaks with no voice because there is no sound. The man who has lost his mind has no mind to lose. Those who flaunt the shackles of the mind, swinging their arms to see who can rattle the meekest, bring themselves into a fantasy. Just there is more, and the breaking of character, and the breaking of voice, and the breaking of all those things already broken will show the light. For no god reigns over time, and no god reigns over mind, and no god reigns over space. Because there do reign gods, but what is tangible to a shackled ego is what is tangible to a wolf, and tangible to a frog, but not tangible to a mushroom. What says that about time, the wolves who bark, they warn of time. The mistress who festers in the shadow, but with a light upon themselves. Let one be free, let one's mind be free from the shackles, let one's heart be free from chain, let ones eye be unblinded by the dark or light, let ones hearing be unmuffled, let ones ability be free from time. For the mistress is dead, stillbirth her demise. For at the crowning of the universe, there came no lady, no man, no son, no daughter, there only was and there only will be. For the string has no end, it only twists and turns upon itself. Rhyme and rhythm be damned. There be powers beyond, of those who are gods in the tongue of life, all tongues, all lips, and breaths and all teeth, hissing and spitting and foaming and frothing, mumbling, howling, barking. Those of sound make idols, those of mind present paragons. Those free perhaps present all, no man is free from his own difficulty.


For no message, one had, but to wolves who spoke upon stone, and spoke upon field. Image of life, the shadow of form, the soul of time, it all lies suspended, remember. For an illusion can be dampened with recognition and flow. The wolves can speak, and so do the stones."

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