For the set-foot-on new-found sand,
We set sail from mosaic to mosaic shore—
Our black slave-belly churning, evermore.

In the distance we saw a strange, ominous dome.
So dense it seemed,
As if crafted from molten slick!
As if crfated from an accumulated Earth-spit.
As if fashioned from one complete object.
Clearly crafted and fashioned by Futurity's hand;
He who strove upwards and did not question what He saw as progression.
Futurity: He who would compel me to free my stock of black slaves once we reached this sequestered clump of land,
For these isles seemed no place for men with torn and shackled hands.
For these isles seemed a place where shackled slaves would free themselves and feed on their masters' bone strands.

As we walked through the old church once more,
We saw little Andoni was there, sitting scared,
Asking us: have you forgotten our prayer?
He was angry and very square.

In the corner,
Shrouded by smoke,
Odilon Redon was there.
He watched on with an exalted air.

So we carried little Andoni to the aqueduct
And we sat in the aqueduct, square.
And we sat in the aqueduct until midnight,
Where we had first conceived of our prayer.

"Once he is within our custody, we shall take his life. He shall be, henceforth, survived only by the image that stains my CCTV screen."


Security is no longer watching the CCTV;
No longer watching the purchase of a rice pouch;
No longer pulsating in a sterile environment,
Simultaneously monitoring an image that was never on tape;
Focusing, so deeply, on a soul that was never on tape.

So deeply fixated on those who have committed a crime;
Those who are substantially unblemished by sunlight;
Those who are continuously touched by our Heavenly Father's sight;
Those who unceasingly scale onyx towers draped in a filthy government skin,
Waving pure flags against the night.

The Wyg burns the separate strands above a wooden pyre. The Wyg ushers in The Line.

Mixing new colours with a robotnik slave-hand, the Wyg manipulates The Line as no other in existence has done before or since, except for Exalted Steve Ditko, he who studied with Exalted Paul Rubens.

The Wyg pays credence to the commeroration of Mars, watching over its distant skies and hallowed sand dunes, which burn as only fires can; but those of us with eyes where eyes ought to be can only see the embers that scatter across the land, settling as the hallowed, red Mars-dust.

In communication with the Mars Moth-Man, on the nights where Earth-glow streaks across exalted Azuul, the Wyg scrapes Mars Moth-Man's moth wings for the powder of the scales and uses the powder for hallowed rites of manifestation. Only in the temples of Azuul can one conjure The Line, and many materials are required.

Ah Sun-flower! weary of time.
Who countest the steps of the Sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done.

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale ****** shrouded in snow:
Arise from their graves and aspire.
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

No longer in that postition.
(No longer robotnik— the robotnik man-clock.)

No longer seated there— square—
Fantasisng about The Line.

We are no longer haunted by ******* imprints—
Let it be said.

Now control the ethereal days—
When they come to pass.
Now, manipulate The Line in new ways—
If it does not break.
The Line bends but it does not break because it bends for me now!
And, at the end, decide whether or not it shall be perceived as real,
Or merely perceived as a figment of the imagination.

So now, we are in that position even when there is nothing there:
We are peddling, or writing,
Or etching a single line.
And this is how we shall expand...
Cycling past ourselves...

The world as seen on television screen
Was mistaken for ourselves,
Forming dusk from dusk-‘til-dawn.
It was a recreation of the early garden that sat atop Gravel Tower.

The Gravel Tower:
A remnant of a world enshrined
Within exalted mind and eye,
Ushered in by old Dante’s vivid verse;
Old Dante's vivid verse reborn
For an irradiated filmscape.