poem
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Awnings…serve no structural purpose, and many fine buildings are aesthetically pleasing without them. Yet they act as a kind of way station, a place to pause while between an inside and an outside.
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You call yourself Monster, Primal, Menace, Other. Not in metaphor. In invocation. You were not built for the mundane. You were made for Worship.
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The Season of Reckoning arrives with muddy boots and dirty hands shouting: Pleasure is sacred!
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Myth, more language than history, is a living thing. It breathes through retelling, shifts with culture, and reshapes itself to reflect the fears, values, and questions of the people who carry it forward.
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Before taste becomes instinctual, before repeated technique evolves into voice, before vision finds coherence, before you become good, you must be terrible.
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We do not live inside reality first. We live inside language about reality.
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What survived the Long Cold is not immediately welcomed back.
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Vigilance is watching the eyes. Tracking the breath. Knowing the exact moment tension turns from fear to hunger.
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The wheel turns. And we rise with it.
The Cyrenaian Hedonic church 