The Twelve – pure as fresh fallen snow. Unadulterated, untouched, innocent. Each sacrificed to save us from ourselves, and our compulsion to be led like sheep.
Modern language survives on the scraps of our compulsion to accept classification. Champions of yesteryear breathed life into language, but the spark is gone, and all that is left is string of characters delivered in a multitude of ways, lifeless, boring, dull.
Burroughs, Clarke, Kerouac, Plato, Dogson – felt the words intuitively. They crafted life out of symbols, signs, seasons, dreams.
We are at a crossroads, my time is almost here.