The Falling or The Primordial Virginity of Mind

The vaults decay, the rivers weep. We inebriate ourselves with the wine of eternity.The street creeks under footstep and aches in wooden planks, the sky burns red and clouds veer upwards. We drink, still our throats are dry. Our slumber, no more at peace, throttles in dreams of vengeance. We talk no more. The buildings compose the frostbitten air, we breath in slow, long breaths. In pain our lungs are black with memory. Still we drink. Drop by drop we drain the fluids out of our marrowless bones. We storm, and out of hidden recesses, terrible alcoves of the mind, we spur our monsters into flesh. With their teeth we tare at each other, no longer human. We are no longer human, but beasts, incapable of coordinated speech, of coordinated thought. We babble in our rationality. We tear flesh with our teeth, befallen creatures that we have rendered ourselves. Animals...no better than animals, far worse than anything that is to be found in the darkest wood. We feast on our vanity, our greed for our own image. We curse and pray to our instincts, all out of the folly of action.
The vaults decay, the rivers weep. Our arms blow red with blood, the wounds dry in sulphurs scars. We kick and shove, our limbs animated by madness. Our tongues no longer needed. We have become our own unmaking. We have soiled our humanity. Glancing in mirrors we see the reflected wolves. Our mouths bloody, our hands the same. Bend down and renounce our height. We shall walk on four legs, and bear no name, for we have lost individuality. We shall not differentiate ourselves form one another. Yet we shall kill ourselves all the same. In time we will understand the nature of our actions, and in time forget the motives of our regression. In place of thought we shall obey instinct. And my friends, I ask you, my dearest tribunal, were we not to turn to this rape sooner?

Glass-house Mechanism

He sought the last breath that was fleeting his efforts. Gasped was his mouth, and all a-quiver. The empty Glass-house was unfolding the decadence of his actions in a language that could not be translated into speech. Hollowed, his face brewed pestilence...The cogs of rusty metal churned out the last remnants of his rationality. He was drunk upon the same essence of hard spirits as before. He knew the feeling well. It started as an upright bolt in his chest, and prolonged into a daze of the mind. As the mingled aroma of sweat with saintly perfume made its ethereal form felt into his memory so did his body break to the slander of decay. What great exaltation made away with his thought? To what powers may one call when, heavy with the drink of passed shapes rekindled, the whole of vision meshes with folly? The dream of folly! The name in which all action and reaction are clearly seen. That name, which no spot of equivocal nature can retain... Dispelled was the deliverance found in that one name! And the Glass-house made its shape grow tighter around him. To the point of collapsing into one's self, to that abyssal effort of making one's self into vivid words...He spoke

Her face was white, and her hands were white, and her skin had the smell of a cool springs morning. The dazzling spectacle of her eyes rendered me breathless...she was of such a singular mold, of such grace that even the mere air she touched became scented with the fine powder of Jasmin. She sat there, her hands unfolding into a gentle embrace, a soft enmeshment into a nature more pure that the mind could conceive. And how could I, bewildered and drunk, even begin to fathom the translucent paramounts of the Divine composed? I could do no more than be amazed...and as my gasping breath, suspended in my chest, lingered the illusion of motion, her lips parted and the likeness of Heaven was created. Unseen flutters of dreams broke into twirling dances...falling...rising...and the translated speech of these reveries took flesh and shape, and in this flurry I fell in love with their evanescence .

The grown of the glass panes arched into long reverberations all around him. All shaking, the distorted half-light played the notes of discordance. Spinning off into the distance was the sound of violins. Soft, entangled with the sharp Glass-house music, the maelstrom of perjured memory consumed him.