– Max Mckloud from “Weather Prolix for Butterfly”
What amelioration is mine affable friend lethargy; for in him we escape life’s tragedy for death’s untruths. Probably the most common and approved philosophical lie is the basis that nap time is our haven. But heretofore people were slightly sane (as opposed to the fatuous insanity claiming mankind’s feeble existence). How hypocritical! I love dreaming!!! But I dare not state that it is anything but foul.
We have a history and I am he who is deemed to declare such evilly dark information. But this tale is not really a tragedy; ‘tis merely a chimerical coincidence pertaining to our need for awakening.
Listen to mine tale – is it really all I must tell? Listen to silence:
Ҥ There is a cadence to cacophony. Mayhap it is of the drip drip of the leaf spore coagulation; perhaps the crunch crunch of crushing ice particles; or maybe even the faint whispering of voices about the snowland define it. But our world, a flatland of dying frost, is but a drum Рa teardrop into an oceanic playground. Thence is artwork.
§ From the lush-with-cadavers soil of snowfall minaret monoliths of ancient relics; forgotten remnant remains of the elder era. And our world, a cemetery for the lifeless anatomy of antediluvian palaces, is but a garden – a graveyard for flowers forgotten. Oh, that I might have subsisted in those times of harmony, not cacophony!
§ And herein is found pain. As the awkward mortification you receive whilst your ubiety is about a prison camp, so the steel bite of barbwire, the radically jagged architectural structure, and especially the cage essence inspire fear. Still, our world, the nuisance for which I fight, becomes clear – like one espying oneself in a mirror from a cross the urban environment. Love is lost.”
– Max Mckloud from “Winter Hellland”
(This picture is the closest I might have uncovered so closely resembling the wasteland of snow within mine story)
