Undying

Let not the air you breathe be your guide, for fairest breathes are taken in suspended exasperation.

Let not your eyes deceive you with fateful findings and such visual expressions of dull color that would render ones soul reaped.

Let not your nose steal even a wisp of the scent of death, for the tendons of the fell creatures that envelope such corpses are full of hasty hunger.

Let only your hands be your brace against the brisk winds of labor.

Let only your hands hold steadfast the weight of your genius in its gloriously hefty stature.

Lest you grow old and wither, your hands cannot unleash an imagination lesser than god.

For god is a man with pencil in hand and a heart in his palm.

For our deepest concupiscence lies wrapped in our tongues, begging with all remorseful greed to be unraveled and splayed upon the very grandeur of crafted sheet.

To smell the scent of printed elixir, to beseech upon thee the vision of fattened ink, to breathe in the thickened vapor of inspiration, such is the means by which we remain immortal.

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