Hear me, hear me!

I stood in the Garden of the Night, among snowy mien of winter, and the winged pigs were shouting one over the other, not seeing the ancient saints and masters, figures of great mistresses gazing from the lunar Isle of the Blessed, from the Spheres and Stars, observing closely how these winged swine busy themselves ruining humanity in their self-love and contempt for anything else than their own kind.

Where do your ideas take you? Where does your mind find dwelling? Where does your heart rest? What does your soul long for? Whereabout your spirit?

That is all you. Your mirror wouldn’t tell you that. If you never questioned yourself, think about things you are running towards, or circling around like a vulture.

I won’t mix with pigs that appetize for commonalities. I don’t believe in equality that is forced upon me.

Throughout life, from the slums district I won what the privilaged couldn’t dream about. In that is my repose.

People of influence and power in their deluded houses that have acquintance people only per statistics are parasites in the eternities sure presage,

They haven’t won their character, their command, the charisma, the haven’t coined it, like the Aurelian Beast of God of the House of Ausel, herein pardon for evoking the grand Marcus Aurelius, I wouldn’t dare to mingle him with such miserable company as it is foresaid.

I know of their swinery too, I’ve met a few and I wasn’t impressed. Their filth is of petty sort, imposing to the petty only, intimidating to the foolish, and craved for by idiots.

People that are roles for the epitome of shit of the modern day, that are apotheized by greater idiots than themselves and they are cherished only because they excel in vice that appears as goodness.

Goodness is fair and far to simple to be respected in this age. It doesn’t come with power, virtue, influence as in the golden ages. If you don’t remember you are a prisoner of the present and lady history banishes you to your own cage! Wretched as I am, I have enough patience to respect her with Peithian restraint. Akin to a devil bowing to something filigree just because it is delicate and easily broken.

Write a book – I wrote a few, this is not a time for ideas. This is a time for sustaining the machinery with recycled ideas that feed of the hunger of a voluptous whore, that wants to prostitute herself in front of a mass of old folk that are more foolish than children, that are immature enough to raise children more foolish than themselves and call it a new generation.

Yet, I’ve built an Altar of Victory, therein rest my wreaths of laurels, there all the battles lost and won, titanomachy of virtue and vice, of greatness and pettiness. I haven’t built this temple for myself, I’ve built it for Gods to preserve what I may of desolate grounds of modernity. To them I offer my life’s toil, as sworn, all the jewels of hells and underworld that I wear on my hands, the diadems of heavens and crowns of sphers that I’ve won. Caesarized – is that what they mentioned? Once, when I still had hope. Immortalized heart – that’s what they carried on the wind – mine is black now, devoid of ruined love.

Wisdom of ancients repetitive and clear – whom listens grows in heart, whom lives by it makes a valorous person, and slowly becomes a misanthrope, a castaway, detesting the ugliness of this world. It is not his fault for refusing to swim in the mud of swine, it is not his fault for receiving hatred of pigs, he ignores them high-browed.

Eaglesighted are few, serpentlike rarely. Yet if the eagle will be pulled into the mud he will suffer, if a serpent is among swine, swine go on an insane rampage, terrorized by its presence.

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