dunedin. friday, three, afternoon.
set from home under a blue sky
with full& prepared pack,
a somewhat empty stomach,
and a necessity to get away from the city.
hiking boots tread asphalt down to the depot,
where, in thirty-seven minutes punctuated
by plastic seats grafted to a wall
and a mildly disjunct group of small or
big-time travellers, the naked bus
pulled in, a hematite centipede
crawling into the lot. it was a bus,
no complaints. all others' bags
stowed, twenty seven bucks outta pocket
and swung into the front-right-window seat,
bid a farewell to the beat-down
pub across the road and onto the one-way
merging into a highway and outta
town the dark bug skittered, on
schedule or something resembling it.
behind the driver, the sun came through
around the beam in the window. warm patterns
laid on skin, the countryside's broad expanse:

cylindrical bales of hay scattered about
paddocks, dark late-autumn florets of flax
on roadsides, plumes of white smoke from
bonfires in townships as small as a thumbnail,
hedgelines of eucalyptus, pine; russet streaks
through bark of single gum trees stood
off-centre in fields. sticky-wooded hillsides
punctured by fire breaks roll almost forever
and back. the rushing sound of passing cars
through the 3/4-golden ratio of the driver's
ajar window; twenty-first century mansions
verging on out-of-place. saplings emerging,
bracketed, through verdant grass patches.
museum abbatoirs. toitoi like hen's plumage
lining drainage ditches. another Elizabeth st-
(how many could be counted out by now?) tidy
front yards and milton liquorland through this
small town. an everpresent tilting sun. fields
of flowered nettle. s-bends through pancake layers
of hills. a delapidated gravel quarry at stony
creek. deer farms, sheep farms, bovine farms, alpaca
farms (favourite); another bonfire seen down a
long gulley; a power substation, all organized
tangles. a two-four 300m before the bridge into

balclutha. 4.40pm.
across the road into the i-site
two friendly ladies circle locations
to make (got a car) or try to make (on foot),
offering a ride in half an hour,
leave it to chance.
across another road, drifter's emporium
(that's the name, no joke) got a knife
to open up cans- bought no cans, brought
no cans, still nice to have one anyway.
down the road, 200ml from unichem, waste
no time, turn ninety degrees, cross a
railway, then outta town in a sec. first
photo: half highway, half clutha river. fine
shot. sit down, watch the water couple mins,
head down the road. red-black ferns radiate
under willows down the riverbank. metal
bumper-bars keep legs on, the road rolls
gentle turns, diverges from the river. stick
to the former, faster that way. no intentions
of hitching. just wanna walk. and walk. and
walk. guy yells out a car window. envy,
likely. who cares. apple tree hangs over
a dry ditch. pick a small one, gone in
a minute. probably ain't sprayed. been
eating ice-cream dinners more often'n
not the last coupla weeks- isn't much
the stomach won't or can't handle anymore,
anyway.

odours of decay from the freezing works.
seagulls sound out nearby.
typical.

down the road, the reek of death fades
out. back to grass. sit in some of the
tall stuff, under a spindly tree. put down
some ink, a handful of asst. nuts. 'bout
thirteen fingers of daylight left. no idea
if the coast is further than that. little
care. down the road the land flattens out,
decent sign. the junction was a fair bit
past reckoned, though. flipped a chunk
of bark (too lazy to get a coin out) to
figure whether the coast was worth it. bark
said no, went out anyway. gotta see the sea,
keeps you sane. past a lush native
acre or two- some lucky ******'s front lawn-
changed mentality, slung out a thumb (first
time). beginner's luck, kid straight outta
seventh form pulls over in a mustard-yellow
*******' kinda beach-van. was headin' out
to the coast, funnily enough. had been up
in raglan (surf central, nz), back down with
the 'rents now, though. out kaka point, only
one of his age, he reckoned, no schoolhouse
there, just olds. was going to surf academy,
pretty apt. little envious.

the plains spread out and out, ocean just
rose up out of a field. there's nothing
more perfect. gentle waves stroke the sands,
houses stare intently out at the mingling of
blues. one cloud hovers so far away it doesn't
even exist. down the other end of kaka point,
back on solid ground, walking into a gorge, laments
about not choosing the coastal route. but owaka
is the new destination, bout 11ks, give or take
(5ks later, sign says another 15.. some give). nothing
coulda beat that sight anyway, stepping outta
a van onto that pristine beach.

entry: gorge route to owaka. seven.
late light painted the tops of hills absolute
gold. thought maybe this way ain't so bad. beside a
converging valley, phone got enough reception
for dad to get through. said in balclutha coulda
got a room with a colleague. too far out now. lost
him in the middle of a sentence about camera film.
surprised to have even got that far. road wound
troughlike through the bottom of the gorge, became
parallel to a cute little stream. climbed down chickenwire
holding the road in place, ****** in it (had to).
clambered back up, continued walking as the occasional
campervan rolled on by. took a photo of the sun perched
on a hilltop, sent it to mel. dunno why. anxieties
over the perfect sunrise picture came frequently,
a goal become turmoil. the gorge flattened out,
and soon in countryside my fears allayed. round
a corner in picturesque nowhere, found my shot.
sat in long grass. stole it. sighed. ate a handful
of nuts. moved on. {about eight}

dark consumed the surrounding gentle-rolling hills,
nowhere near owaka, which was probably the tiny bundle
of lights nestling a little below the foot of a
mountain in the distance (not too far off, in
reality). near the turnoff to surat bay (was heading
there, plans change) a ute honks. taken as friendly.
a right turn instead of a left, farmsteads lit
up in fireplace tones, the sound cows make at
dusk. it got colder. would one jersey be sufficient?
hoepfully. stars began pinpricking the royal blues of the
night sky in its opening hues. eight-fourty-ish slugged
back about 3/4 of the syrup, along with half of a box
of fruit medley (so **** delicious), in light of dull
calf aches becoming increasingly apparent. needed
to walk a helluva lot more. ain't one for lettin'
nothing get in the way of that. lights in the distance
became the entry sign for a camp-site. no interest,
head on. past another farmhouse, stars came out in
packs. three cows upon a slight hilltop. next junction
pulled left a good eighty degrees and was on the
straight to owaka. less than two minutes later,
a dog-ute pulled to a halt and offers up a ride down
most of the stretch. didn't say no.

still stable, as two pig-hunters tell
of their drive back from picking up a couple
pig-dogs somewhere north. they were heading
out bush to shoot, thought they'd seen
another guy they'd picked up a couple weeks
ago, who'd taken 'em out somewhere they
couldn't remember. paranoia grips, but
the lads are fairly innocuous. they say it's
dangerous out here, gotta be ballsy walking
middle of the night, no gun, no dog,
all by yourself. wasn't worried, got nothing
to lose anyway (still, this sets helluva
mood). by a turnoff a k outta owaka, dropped
off. said probably all that'll be open there
is a pub, if that. bid luck and set their way.
above, the whole sky is covered with shining
glitter. down a dip and turn, **** in the
middle of the road. an ominous sign indicating
the outskirts of

owaka. approximately 9.40pm

my head loosens as i approach. the lights
form across a small valley i can't verify
exists or not between dog barks i mistake
for the yells of drunkards and lights
pirouetting from cars behind me. i slow
down i don't want to do this.

owaka is terrifying. plastic.

the street corners thud like cardboard. i
walk past a garden of teapots, a computer
screen inside the house glares through the
window pane bending breathing outward. there
is nobody here, still there is a feeling
like there's people everywhere, flocking
in shadows. a silhouette moving in a
distant cafe doorway. the sound of teeth,
of darkness fallen. thick russian tones
sound from a shelf of a motel. eyes
everywhere, mostly mine. i stop only round
a bend and down near a police station, yet
feeling no more safe, sitting in a gutter to
send mel my plans, to tell myself my plans.
i want to be nowhere again. i am soon nowhere.

out of breath, out the other end of owaka,
the sick streetlights fade into comforting
dark nestled between bunches of indistinct
treelines. the feeling of safety lasts but
twenty minutes, where another dip in the
road leads through a patch of bush, in which
gunshots ring periodically and laughter and
barking rings through. breaking down, it takes
five minutes to resolve and keep going. ain't
got nothing to lose, anyway. boots squeak like
diseased hinges all down the road. hadn't
noticed beforehand, the only thing noticed
now. an impending doom hangs thick like fog,
the thought of being strung up like an
underweight hog. walking faster and
not much quieter, the other side of the
bush couldn't have come sooner. the fear
lasts until the gunshots are distant nothing.
still alive, still out of breath, still
fairly ****** up, there's no comfort like the
sound of nothing but the occasional insect's
chirp. vestiges of still water came around
a corner and just kept coming as the golden
moon sung serenity all over. finally, a peace
came to rest over the landscape. sitting by
the road with a clear view of the moon's light
sheathed in the waters, the stars above wreath
a cirrus eye to watch over the marshland
plants leading into the placid waters of

catlins lake, west. ten fifty-one.
crossing a one-way bridge over a river winding
its way into the lake, another turning point
decision arose: continue down the highway
along the river, or head straight out and
toward the coast again. having resolved to
make it to a waterfall by dawn, and the latter
offering a possibility of this, the decision
made itself. turning back around the other side
of the lake, the road wound a couple times
up a gentle ***** out and up from the valley
at the tail of the lake, and into a slightly
more elevated valley. the country roads ran
easily and smooth, paved roughly but solid.
not a car came by for kilometers at a time.
lay on the road past a turnoff for quarter
of an hour letting serenity wash over, the
hills miniscule in comparison to home, the
sky motionless, massive thin halo about the
moon. walking on, night-birds called from
time to time (no moreporks, though. not until
dawn), figuring out how to whistle them back.
a turnoff to purakaunui bay strongly
considered and ultimately ignored; retrospectively
a great call, considering the size of the detour.
hedgerows of macrocarpa, limbs clearly cut
haphazard where once they'd hung over the
road. occasional 4wd passing, always a 4wd,
be it flash new or trusty old. you'd need
one out here. have no fun, otherwise.
monolithic pine-ish hedge bushes, squatting
giants. once, a glimmering in the sky, a
plane from queenstown (assumedly) almost
way too far to make out. the colossus of
the one human-shaped shadow cast down
from the moon to my boots. how small
a thing in this place. swamped out by
the beauty of this neverending valley.
breathless.

the road turned, not quite a hairpin,
but not entirely bluntly, a welcome
break from the straight or gentle
sway, and five minutes turned to dirt.
had to lay down again- legs screaming
by this point for rest. still, they
had nothing against pressing on. dad
taught me to just keep going. that's
the thing about walking. stop for a
little bit and you're good to go
again. pushing for the fall was probably
overkill, but no worry now. dirt road
felt so right after a good 20+ks of
asphalt, only infrequently punctuated
by roadside moss or thin grass. it
was as if beginning again (well,
kinda, if only with as much energy).
having downed only a litre of water
(leaving only half a litre more), a
litre of fruit juice and about 100
grams of assorted nuts since more
than twelve hours ago by this point,
it should have been a shock to
still be going by this point. don't
really need that much anyway, though.
gone on less for longer. hydration,
anyway, was the least of all worries,
the air being thick with water, ground
fog having been laid down hours ago.

up the dirt track, more cows. they make strange
sounds at night. didn't know anything yet,
though. that's still to come. a ute swang past
going the other way, indiscriminate hollers
from the passenger-side window. waved back
cheerily. so far from anything to be anything
but upbeat now. not even the heavy shroud of
tiredness could touch that, yet. the track wound
on forever. was stopping every half-kilometer
to stand and stretch, warding off the oncoming
aches. the onset was unwieldy, though. didn't
have long. past a B&B;, wondered whether anyone
actually ever stayed there (surely would, who'd
not revisit this place over and over once they'd
discovered it?)- certainly would've, having the
cash (apparently parts of "lion, witch and the
wardrobe" were filmed here. huh). further on, the
road turned back to seal, unfortunately, but
with small promise- surely, at least fairly
close by this point. turning a corner, a small
and infinitely beautiful indent against the bush,
a small paddock bunched up against it, stream
wound against the bases of trees, all lit by
the clear tones of a now unswathed moon, sat
aside the road. it was distilled perfection.
it was too much, just had to keep goin' or
risk shattering that image. next turn was
a set of DOC toilets, an excellent sign. must be
basically sitting on the path entry now. searched
all 'round the back for it, up the road, nothing.
not entirely despondent but bewildered, moved
forward and found a signpost. the falls were now
behind? turned around and searched even more
thoroughly, quiet hope turning to desperation
by the silent light of the moon. finally,
straight across the road from the toilets,
was the green and gold sign, cloaked in
darkness under clustering trees, professing
a ten-minute bushwalk to the

purakaunui falls. saturday. 1.32 am.**
venturing into the bush by the dull light
of a screen of a dying phone, the breeze
made small movements through the canopy. it
couldn't have been any more tranquil. edging
way through the winding cliffish track through
dense brush, the sound of a trickling stream
engorged into a lush symphony of water. crossing
a single-sided bridge across an unseeable chasm,
twinkling from the ferns behind became apparent.
turning off the dull light, the tiny neon bulbs of
glow-worms littered the dirt wall risen up about
half a metre, where the track had been cut out.
my heart soared. all heights of beauty come
together. continuing down the path, glow-worms
litter the surroundings and the rushing of
water comes to a roar. at a look-out platform
above the falls, nothing can be seen save a
slight glisten. down perilous steps (wouldn't
be too bad if you could actually see 'em) the
final viewing platform lay at level with the
bottom of the falls. they stood like a statue
in the dark, winding trails of thin white wash
through the shadows hung under trees. left
speechless from something hardly made out, turned
around and back up the stairs to where the
glowing dots seemed their most concentrated.
into the ferns above, clambered through and
around moss-painted tree trunks and came to rest
a couple hundred metres from the trail, under
a fern, under a rata. packed everything but
a blanket from nan into the bag, laid it out
on curled leaf litter and folded up into it,
feet too sore to remove 'em from boots, curling
knees up into the blanket and tucking a hand
between 'em to keep it warm. only face and
ankles exposed, watched the moon's light trickle
through canopy layers for a few hours, readjusting
tendons in legs as they came to ache. sleep (or
something resembling it) set in, somewhere
around four.

some time slightly before six, the realisation
that my legs had extended and become so cold that
they'd started cramping all the way through hit,
coupled with the sounds coming through the bush.

Fire Agate

Rendered at last,
  with seamless lines
    of every shade
  and layer on top of layer

As we know,
  one burning tree
    can set
      it's forest aglow

and so came her soul
  with fire's inside

    But with fire comes chaos

Birches chirp
  for consequential change
    for her edge's
      to chip away
Then a Maple
  , through sweet rustles,
     asks for more
Willows fume
  fatal wishes
    for the forest
    to surrender,
  for water over embers
A Cypress follows
  , with deep concern,
      and begs to stand
Ashes whisper
  for another
    just one more day
But an Elm
  seeks that same color
    but within her
  and to stay

It's dangerous to dance
  with this many tree's

"One day,
  maybe I'll break,
and maybe someone,
  maybe you,
    will see

between the waves
  that meet at peak,
    that fold into another,
see why the cold sky
  shy's behind the hot sun
    but are drawn together,
see below the clear surface
  that deceives
    by gifting you assumptions,
see how clear agate
  over hematite
    gives you iridescence,
see beyond the points
  we know,
    and please see
  where a circle stops.

Maybe you'll see
  what I can't

    , me"

As I sit in silence, so crystal and serene,
I knew at that very moment, I was only in a dream.

The texture was too sticky, the contrast not quite right,
I have to force myself into the breaking of the light.

The place not bound simple movement or defined by restricted equations,
But the purest forms of love, found only in true elation.

I take a draw of haze, to batter my frustrations,
I begin to realize, anger is only a manifestation.

Of aspects taken to heart, in the mornings aspirations,
Were merely broken dreams in a morbid mental *******.

But I take no solace, no entertaining rapport,
In the blinded manipulations that were intruded on the floor.

It is not the isolation of a soul too old for its line,
It is lost in the constant segregation of a love forgotten in time.

Now I witness the horror, before the breaking of the light,
my love is just a memory, in clichéic hematite.

Or is it too much for this world, this reality, this dimension.....maybe I am...another universal contradiction.

fall asleep in a strange place,
the moths are quivering
beyond a thin membrane of glass,
mistaking fluorescent light
for that of the moon

devour the air of an unforeseen tragedy
unfolding within your aura,
lying silent beneath the sheets.
the sun will kiss you in the morning,
in mourning, as you clutch the banister
for a pseudo-sense of balance
as the rug is pulled from under your feet
and colors meld together
until you can't see straight
and your mind is dumb as hematite.

strangle the doubts bubbling up
inside your brain
and fill the void with lithium
and mindless chatter,
an ******* onslaught of stuttering normality.
you are Atlas
shedding the weight of the earth.

**** it, you may as well be
another faceless face in the sea of glimmering
white noise and chemical delirium.

give in, give up,
assimilate
with your filthy brethren..
living is so much easier
when your head is empty.

No force of nature, no divination of the corners
Nor the tea leaves, spread out loosely
Conveying chaos in their spiral form
Nor your heart line, dipping down deeply
Into the territory of water, selfish and wandering
Nor your telling Capricorn birth
Ruled by rigid grounding, your father the earth
Nor the eight of swords, repeated in every reading
Blindfolded and reaching forward
None of these can deter the velocity of my falling
Towards the pull of your body's gravity, refractory
Freed from any other want or need than the divination of your sheets
I'm puppet on a string, held low above your lust's steady flame
Leaning down low, dipping my toes into your karmic fire
Transported to a future drenched in the color of your gaze
Regardless of hexed hematite or rabbits foot
Lost sight of all pink candle and rosehip, all mundane and esoteric
My soul is yours, to save or spend sordidly
To toss into the shallow waters of the fountain of fate

This is the story of a singular.
A story of a loner; stoner, a solitary lover
An isolated dreamer that sleeps with thoughts of a **** killer
This is the story of the smile stealer; grin eater; mood killer, sadness keeper
He is the self-professed love-hater.

This is the story of the secret admirer whose iron heart is filled with empty desires.
A womanizer who appears to the blind as a pure semblance of an ideal lover.
This is the story about a game-changer; king-maker
The story of a feminine murderer who shall smolder your rapture and abandon you bitter

This is a story about a man
A man who once fatally feebly fell in the fingertips of a felicitous femme fatale
Fragile
He fell unreciprocated love to a lass whose response was a heart-ravaging silence whenever the dishes brought to the table.

"It's unsaleable. I am unavailable", with fear she opined.
"But it's unstoppable ", inconsolably he uttered. "And I'm capable to unscramble your wounded soul a path for love invariable".

"We rather not go out on the limb", she sighed. "See, intermingled feelings are not tangible And when one because the other she whines and weeps; salt shall ascend upon the other
Will you not be unable?".
Little did she know of his hematite tenderness. Unbreakable!

pictures full of smiling Ghosts.
reminding of all that's Lost.
drowsy clouds encased in Glass.
deep cracks that shall never Pass.
reflecting eyes of Despair.
possessing a painful Stare.
belonging to tired Pulse.
of good intentions - bad Results.
foolish veins that like to Trust.
beautiful mind crushed to Dust.
perhaps made from Hematite.
smart, but never quite Refined.
filled by thoughts so bitter Sweet.
merciful, yet guilt-filled Deed.
memories that taste like Lead.
and wedding vows left Unsaid,
to fading smell in Pillows -
of Widowers and Widows....

Are you crying right now?



It is a funny thing, how fleeting certain feelings are.
As I am left with your absence, my fingers tremble under the moonlight, trying to grasp what is left of you before the sun rise erases the shadows you left me with.
I wrap my arms around myself to stop the butterflies from flying away, but my love, trying to keep you is like trying to catch clouds.

You are a memory, etched on the back of my mind, floating around me like a thick smother. Oh, how I wish you were.
I urgently attempt to inhale you, my darling. The taste of your lips still linger on my tongue, i am still hanging at your lips, swallowing each and every word you verse into my mouth; i swallow, i swallow. I swallow all the knives you throw, slitting my throat, i become silent. I look up, the moon still shining, I smile; how foolish of me to think I could have wanted you forever.

There are nights where I shut my eyes, and I see you; eyes darker than hematite, your skin was earth and your smile was sun. I let you become my entire world, my center, my source. I wanted it.

Now that you’re gone, I am struck by what seems to be reality: a life before you, a life after you. You brought color to my world. A shooting star. A wisp of fresh air. A long awaited breath out of water. And now I sink. Every inch of my flesh used to be teeming with life for you. You made roses bloom in my lungs, thorns scraping my insides with every breath I take. Now I walk alone, in the garden you planted for me.

You are the nectar, I am the bee.

Too beautiful, it was painful. Too short, it was beautiful.

Your lips are magical,
the beauty of your eyes
are like specular hematite,
reeling me into the night skies
of your timeless paradise,
your flowing beard
a gateway to various worlds
that takes me deeper
inside your astonishing universe.

I discover great joy
in the open doors
of your sculpted shape,
longing to drag my tongue
down your naked chest,
slowly stroke your neck,
shoulders, and hands,
playing with the strands
of hair in your head,
rubbing your eyebrows,
nose, and ears,
getting lost in it all.

I want to bathe you
in passionate flames
of fragrant ecstasy,
clasping in togetherness,
your solid body
the only area
I want to solve
and dissolve
in all the parts
of your masculinity.

to see you is like someone lost a bulldog
and the dark side of the moon, bathing in night
is all the fingers I have to grasp your leash
to tether a star to your ice wolves
and sandstone.

to touch you is like someone lost an odd spark.
and the heart collides with an afternoon,
laden with Hematite and
Doll’s Eyes

All the wrinkles of a rampant peace
besieged afterdark with your knives cool
and your limbs
numb.

To see You is like Someone-
Lost Someone.

mint julep landscape.
fink whistle barking at dead weight.
charm ***** farce laden in eighth grade.
stuck like chuck on a farm
in the best dark
but dismayed.

stung by a star.
vespers in a twist
where the average
surpasses
and all strange
is par for the
coarse.

hematite in the stitches
where your earth won’t move
is how the moon gets
in.

as she is want
to do.

I am the name of the eternal night.
I am the love that permeates the air.
I am the desire that desireth itself.
I, to love loving and yet not loving.

Upon my name let it be forever written:
    Noire, the multitude of perspectives.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

From a cold sweat I wake from dreams of fear and wrath, to the darkness that embrace me.
To this, I hate.
From this discomforting bed I rise, in the consuming black around, forward to another path.
To this, I despise.
Nameless tears yearn to see the light of night, guided to the mirror that reveals my flesh.
To this, I cower.
Ripping flesh from bones, I dream of the day coming forth that would rid me of my corporeal being.
To this, my beloved self, I yearn.

What lies ahead? “Ruin.”
What ruin? “Ruin of your soul.”
What soul? “…”
Answer me. “…Sorry.”

The sins I committed are not my own.
This meat stuck upon my Self is not I.
What have I become?
In the wake of the beast.
Another victim to COMPLETE AND UTTER DESTRUCTION?

Complete and without hope and in the depth and before the door,
    I am.
In the inconceivable form of the flesh, through veins of blood and strains of nerves,
    I was.
Through and through without Self and with neither dreams nor ambitions,
    I shall be.
Yet ascension is the worse fate one could give to oneself.
    I.

How many times have I looked into the mirror and wished it was not my face that I saw?

How many times have I wished to be someone else?

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

This is the dream we call living
    With the settings of a world of wonders and amazing creations,
    With the backdrop of a field of blooming sunflowers,
    With the scene of a million people trampling over them,
    With the plot of experiencing other people,
    With the ****** of that which we call “love,”
    With the fallout of our own lives, into nothingness.

This is the dream we call dreaming
    Let there be the settings of a world of canvas,
    Let there be the backdrop of the whiteness of an unborn soul,
    Let there be the scene of the singular person, existing and not existing,
    Let there be the plot of painting this canvas, stretching infinitely,
    Let there be the ****** of finding the other person, drawing and not drawing,
    Let there be the fallout of that which we call “love,” into totality.

This is the dream we call dreaming of dreaming
    See the settings of a kaleidoscope,
    See the backdrop of the abstraction of one’s soul,
    See the scene of the world, changing twice in one time,
    See the plot of the change, that which the world creates,
    See the ****** of finding the collapse of colors,
    See the fallout of the collapse of dreams.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

Mine is the name of everything, that which I am not.

Ponder: What is love? What is good? What is evil? What is death? What is God? What is life? What is me? What is he? What is she? What is? What is the Purpose? What is the Meaning? What is anything? What are you? What is Art? What is Music? What is Expression? What is a legacy? What is this? What is the Sublime?

Answer: Naught.

Rebuke: That which is naught cannot be answered.

Answer: Yet that which is naught cannot be grasped in its entirety.

Affirm, ponder: Thus, for what am I?

Answer: Nothing at all.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

Those smart fools who claim to have even a fraction of a revelation.
Claiming for themselves a unity unto life.
Notwithstanding their erroneous methods.
For none can behold the [Night/Nature] of the absurd.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

If only. If only, if only.

Give unto me a singular more chance.
    Refused.
Give unto me a hope of continuance.
    Refused.
Give unto me a reason for permanence.
    Refused.
Give unto me an answer.
    Refused.
Give unto me I.
    Granted.
Yet what am I?
    Refused.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

This is a cruel world, this you cannot reject.
    For I have lived one thousand lives, I have seen the infantile self enough.
    Yet it would please God none to grant me salvation.
    Still in earth, I have tasted the punishment of the forest of self destroyers.

I am the name of the God above, in me is the eternal forgiveness.
    Yet what cruel tricks I play on my self.
    For playing God is not in my nature.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

The star above shine with the radiance of 3.8 * 10^26 units.
What magnificence it conjures into this orb!
Bringing life and hopes and dreams alike.
Creation would be to no avail if it did not exist!

What ridiculous optimism, I cannot stand this hypocracy.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

I dream.
    To be all that I am not.
    To be all that I am.

I have collected 120 perspectives, imprinted and engraved on my heart.
    They are etched into my eyes, carved into my soul.
    If I can see my self in perfect clarity, I would not be myself.
    The name of that creature would be indeed…

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

Who am I?
In the plainest words I may utter, this is my composition:
    The eyes of sapphire.
    The hands of opal.
    The arms of amethyst.
    The feet of quartz.
    The leg of hematite.
    The heart of fire.
    The flesh of me.
    The soul of you.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

I am the name of the eternal night, singing quietly under the glory of the moon.
    I am the name of the universe.
    I am the name of the dream you call living.
I am the love that permeates the air, in dissonance without any understanding of self.
    To permeate is not to be rid of identity.
    To permeate is not to be like everyone else.
I am the desire that desireth itself, the love that love loving.
    To desire is not to indulge.
    To desire is not to expunge.
I, to love loving yet not loving, in loving do I love loving loving, yet loving is not in my nature.
    To love is not lovingly giving.
    To love is not lovingly taking.

I am the name of the eternal night, the everlasting impression of you.
I am the name of the universe, the quiet grandeur.
I am the name of the dream you call living, the dream of dreaming.
I am the name of the love of loving, the longing of connection.
I am the name of the existence of existing, the paradox of permanence.
I am the name of the hopeful reverie, the approaching daybreak.
I am the name of the perfect hatred, the emotion directed at the synthesis.
I am the name of the prison of flesh, the rememberer of the soul.

Carry on, ye who carry my name, and lose you of your fear.
    Say out the prayer of the final day.
And, at last, upon the souls of ye who yearn for freedom, let there be etched:
    Noire, the multitude of perspectives.