1st 18-06-18

 The sickness I feel is not a bodily one.

The waterfalls I see are purely fictional.

The soul that thirsts doesn't belong to me.

The mountain is only another mount of dirt.

My own self created darkness is acute, and made for me, I feel at ease and peace in it, when I close my eyes I am alone with my sickness, in the waterfalls, filling my soul, atop of a mountain, in it I see the not self created darkness of the night.

And the night shines bright of dark blues and the moon shivers cold in warmish red lights, so cold it seeks for red lights and these exist to provide heat and warm to the colds of soul in the exposure of the moon, the ones that cold out in their own darkness.

Isn't it just magnific? In the best of ways, in the most amazing of them, isn't this just and plainly, great?

I hope it is, because my sickness is feeling steady already and it's dreamy faculties start to fade into a new found everglades space of fortune and gold, of moisturized perfumes and humid incenses, and the burners hang low and swing over all covering in this deep white smog and smoke the every same palace of magnitude, where the infinite libraries between libraries beneath libraries above books hide in their pages and the stairs grow tall as the smoke can show, possibly I don't get lost. I might return to tell a tale that I've possibly have already read in my travel. But for that moment just to burn slowly.