Warm weft a’foot;
Moving onwards to the bleak of day,
And under-night,
Morphic compulsions move me forwards and spin me around to look,
Back upon whence I came,

A sting of dissatisfaction enters, penetrating,
The back of my skull,
A bullet,
Unsoundness, unconformity,
Upset, upheaval,
Unimpressed by breath and sense,
The reactive No calls forth and beckons me unto slumber once again,
Before the Before-Beginning.
Singularity approaches no matter actions,
All is but in transit to the inevitable center,
The middle-abode,
This wretched mortal place,
The middle of the tree is its dullest point, and up or down both mean confusion,
A disruption of clarity — the clear dull grey,
In all its death, but not quite life
Being; becoming;
The moon comes over again,
Another lupic nothingness.


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