/lit/ - Literature

(There: kneels a man in an endless landscape of grey rain on the black grass with the white light of circling sylphs ) : BOOHOBOOHOBOOHOBOOHOBOOHOBOOHOBOOHOBOOHOBOOHOBOO
The tenebrous movements of my thoughts in a hallway and the cracking crepitant wafture of my shadow-like soul: a tainture of dusk and an endless dirge where the darkness never truly dies, not even at dawn: I saw a landscape in those eyes: daggers like steeples in the belly of the sky and the clouds bleeding viscera from the red – the sagging tubular steam of a dyeworks and the rose-cheeked rivers running violet; twin birches and 14 blanched branches; a child’s cold heart sparrow hits glass in a frozen bucket; a hermit with a silver cup, a hag with her gold; the belated pewling from the thing on your fork – grave ashen, an endless graveyard falling faint like a dandruff from that cracked-mirror sky, steeply dissolving to a squelch, from the sky, from a field to a bog, steeped and submerged like a palm of bread atop a sink of fluid and hair-ends = the bold blacks + the podgy whites – I tasted it; I snorted it all through my eyes – I saw a vision of how I felt; that is most certainly what it was; yes, you’ll embrace and bleed me; and I wished to return to reality, to that world which seemed my home; to live, to die, to sleep, to be reborn; to become immortal, and then die.
This is the torso of the santa in the top right