Forty years of drawing circles in the salt,
While checking the $pH$ of the soil and the fault.
He cites the Second Law—how everything must fray—
Then lights a black candle to keep the heat-death at bay.
A Capricorn’s rigor; a cynic’s sharp tongue,
Collecting the soot where the censers have swung.
He knows that the sigil is just a cognitive hack,
A glitch in the grey matter, painting it black."Placebo,"
he whispers, while etching the floor,
Then invokes a demon he claims to ignore.
It’s a statistical outlier, a ghost in the code,
A shortcut through logic on a very dark road.
The grimoire is leather, the laptop is chrome,
He’s mapped out the stars and the human genome.
He doesn't "believe"—that’s a word for the weak;
He simply observes the results that he seeks.
For if gravity’s constant, and light has a speed,
Then surely a curse is just a focused-ion need.
He’s fifty, he’s tired, his joints hum with rain,
A lifetime of seeking the ghost in the brain.
He pours out the wine, though he knows it’s just grape,
To the dark, silent forces that give matter its shape.
Science is how the grand engine is greased,
But Magick? That’s just... how you talk to the beast.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 10:16 PM UTC
Forty years of drawing circles in the salt,
While checking the $pH$ of the soil and the fault.
He cites the Second Law—how everything must fray—
Then lights a black candle to keep the heat-death at bay.
A Capricorn’s rigor; a cynic’s sharp tongue,
Collecting the soot where the censers have swung.
He knows that the sigil is just a cognitive hack,
A glitch in the grey matter, painting it black."Placebo,"
he whispers, while etching the floor,
Then invokes a demon he claims to ignore.
It’s a statistical outlier, a ghost in the code,
A shortcut through logic on a very dark road.
The grimoire is leather, the laptop is chrome,
He’s mapped out the stars and the human genome.
He doesn't "believe"—that’s a word for the weak;
He simply observes the results that he seeks.
For if gravity’s constant, and light has a speed,
Then surely a curse is just a focused-ion need.
He’s fifty, he’s tired, his joints hum with rain,
A lifetime of seeking the ghost in the brain.
He pours out the wine, though he knows it’s just grape,
To the dark, silent forces that give matter its shape.
Science is how the grand engine is greased,
But Magick? That’s just... how you talk to the beast.
