Sleepwalking through life.
Sleepwalking through strife.
Daydreaming about happier times,
Then you came into my life.

I've never known this joy
Stemmed from the love of a boy,
Who holds me close and makes me smile--
My heart he won't destroy.

Stay in my life. Keep me awake.
My heart is yours; it's yours to take.

My reviver-- that's what you are.
My awakener-- brighter than any star.

Sleepwalking is no more because of who you are.

For me, love has always been like sleepwalking. I never remember how I get there but there are always footprints behind me in the snow that appear to be the same size as my own. Somehow I ended up there again, with my face turned upward and the wind kissing it. Whoever compared love to warmth was lying. It is cold. It is the inch between solid ground and frozen lake that you can't see. It is the fog that clings to the tops of trees and softly whispers your name. It is the frost on your window that reminds you how easily things can break. The worst part of falling in love is falling out of love. The worst part of sleepwalking is waking up.
You woke up.

I

She’s sleepwalking again,
my nine-year-old daughter,
who shares the bedroom
with her sister down the hall.
She’s kicked off the covers
and wandered downstairs,
somnambulant, her bare feet
moving as though in a dream
across the kitchen’s linoleum
floor to the back of the house.
The porch door smacks shut—
a gunshot—and she is gone.

For a time, I watch her from
the open bedroom window.
Her diaphanous nightgown
absorbs August moonlight.
She steps slowly, a pale flame
floating across the back field,
the wiregrass up to her knees,
avoiding a copse of redbuds,
skirting shrubs and stones.

When her small figure succumbs
to shadow at the edge of the trees,
I put on my bathrobe and follow.

II

At first, she is lost to me.
I break into a delirious run,
scratched on my cheek
by a redbud branch.
Reaching the tree line,
I see her standing still,
shoulders stooped,
a luminous cattail
bending down.

She hovers above a sleeping fawn,
the warm bundle curled at her feet.
I contemplate the white spots
scattered on fur, thinking, velvet stars.

But when I place a hand
on my daughter’s shoulder
I see blood flowing fresh
from the doe’s abdomen;
red entrails slipping out,
pooling on pine needles.
Stepping closer, I remember a moment
earlier that evening: a jar of preserves
spilled carelessly on the kitchen’s stone counter,
the soft dishtowel soaking scarlet in my hand.

At the edge of the creek, a second doe
watches us with opaque, joyless eyes.
My daughter puts her finger to her lips;
the doe tenses, blinks, and bolts away.

I lift my daughter and carry her carefully
home, her head buried in my shoulder,
blades of grass clinging to my bare feet.

III

My daughters' room:
holding her in weak arms, poised
to lay her on top bedcovers,
I notice her sister’s empty bed,
neatly made, the blankets smooth
and tight across the mattress.

An anemic moth bangs
against the window pane.

The light flicks on and suddenly
I am awake, remembering all of it:
the dry diagnosis, the slow whir
of hospital machines, the smell
of old flowers, and somewhere
in my daughter’s stomach,
the cruel mathematics
of cells metastasizing.

My wife stands in the doorway,
her hand on the light switch.
My arms are empty. I gaze
down and see our daughter
nestled under covers,
breathing softly, asleep.

I see the pale white skin of my clean bare feet.

You’re sleepwalking again, my wife says.
She touches my unsullied cheek, hooks her
fingers through mine, and shuffles me down
the hall to bed. Head sinking into the pillow,
I gaze out the open bedroom window and weep.

The moonless sky cradles its constellations:
bright grains of salt scattered on soapstone;
my hand trembles, unable to wipe them away.

there was  little cow he was black and white
and he used to sleep walk whenever it was night
he wandered all around walking in his sleep
all around the meadow then in among the sheep
he wandered through the dale and all along the glen
then he would turn around and walk back home again
back in to his bed the little cow would creep
the he would settle down and fall back fast asleep

I awake to the midnight morning

of sleepwalking



the thumping of my soul deep in the

morning twilight



children slumber under their

dark covers as I emerge



from dreams of hope and despair

under my bittersweet tongue



their slumber

and mine



expectant and hopeful

anxiety ridden in our own way



blessed am I to unfold

during the AM hours



of morning radio

cold floors and



oil black

coffee of the watchman’s variety



alive to hear my strange thoughts

and my children safe but for a moment



as I sleepwalk

in darkness

You’re searching through my bloodshot eyes, trying to find me.
You’re staring right into me,
but you can’t see me clearly.
Knocking on my door,
there’s no one home
and there hasn't been for a while.
I left a long time ago,
slowly faded away without a single soul noticing
until it was too late.  
You’re right in front of me
so why don’t you reach out and pull me back in?
Can you hear my desperate cries for help?
I think you’re touching my face now,
it feels like you’re trying to reach into my brain;
you’re trying to figure what’s going on inside my mind
but there’s something in the way.
Something’s taking me over and not letting you in.
Who am I?
Baby, do you know?
Do you remember who I really am,
the person I was before the poison,
the man behind the mask?
You’re staring into me with those eyes glazed over
and I die a little more with each passing moment.
Baby, I'm begging you to please save me
but I know all your efforts will go to waste.
I’m stuck sleepwalking
and no matter how hard you try,
you can’t wake me up.

i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.

i'm sleepwalking
through my youth,
touching things
that don't touch me back,
wanting people
that break my heart
long before
i can break theirs.
and i wish
i could just disappear,
wouldn't make
any difference at all,
'cause i'm wrong
in so many ways,
telling lies
to pretend i'm whole.
what's the point?
was there one that i missed?
lost the interest
halfway through,
turned to nothing
by half past noon.
i'm so sorry;
i've been sleepwalking
through my youth.

It's funny.
How your bed can be your best friend or your worst enemy
How it contains your worst nightmares and most splendid dreams
And how awful it is.
That people don't know how you feel
when you wake up and you still think the demons are real

Morning after morning I'm in fear when I wake
Trying to calm down fearing what it will take
and when I look back on what i did while I slept
I shake.

Because I cannot trust myself
While I am asleep.

"One lie weakens a thousand truths."

"Karma finishes what revenge neglects."

"Time heals, steals and reveals."

"The future is uncertain, but we play a part in its design."

"Help when you can. Pray when you can't."

"If your life is out of focus, it's time to change the lens."

"Instincts over impulse, always."

"The only thing better than a second chance is never needing one."

"Fear is a light sleeper."

"The devil is always looking for a dance partner."

"You can't change the past, but it can change you."

"Some are born with a silver spoon, others with a pitchfork."

"Even the smallest of pebbles has its place in the sand."

"Every tear has a name."

"Write your failures in pencil; your triumphs in ink."

"Hope is always listening."

"The best companion is your imagination."

"Two things you should always trust: your gut and your God."

"Scars speak every language."

"Only I think like me."

"We're remembered for three things: the times we did good, the times we did bad and the times we did nothing."

"Every underdog wants to be top cat."

"Love never travels alone."

"Hindsight teaches when the test is over."

"Dreams reveal what memories conceal."

"The problem with the world is the wolves outnumber the sheep."

"You can't spell tragedy without rage."

"Intuition is your strongest ally."

"Focus on the valley and the hills will disappear."

"Never trust an idle thought."

"A wounded animal always shows its teeth."

"When you ignore pain, it ignores you."

"The past and future are distant cousins."

"We're all buried treasures waiting to be found."

"Moonlight is for lovers and devils."

"Temptation always invites itself to the party."

"Everyone's story has a secret."

"Scents and songs are nostalgic reminders."

"Time is a tattletale."

"There's a special place in heaven for those who suffer on earth."

"We're connected by smiles and tears."

"Sometimes all that's left is a penny and a wish."

"The mirror mimics what the mind imagines."

"Tomorrow is a wild card."

"My favorite exercise is sleepwalking."

"What the blind man sees, the sighted man seeks."

"The ego is a phony friend."

"Luck will take you as far as fate allows."

"Two things that never forget: elephants and broken hearts."

"My train of thought has no conductor."

They hate the shadow of the bird
over the high water of the white cheek
and the conflict of light and wind
in the salon of the cold snow.

They hate the bodiless arrow,
the precise handkerchief's farewell,
the needle that keeps the pressure and the rose
in the cereal blush of the smile.

They love the blue desert,
the swaying bovine expressions,
the lying moon of the poles,
the water's curved dance at the shore.

With the science of tree trunk and street market
they fill the  clay with luminous nerves
and lewdly skate on waters and sands
tasting the bitter freshness of their millennial spit.

It's through the crackling blue,
blue without worm or a sleeping footprint,
where the ostrich eggs remain eternal
and the dancing rains wander untouched.

It's through the blue without history,
blue of a night without fear of day,
blue where the **** of the wind goes splitting
the sleepwalking camels of the empty clouds.

It's there where the torsos dream under the gluttony of grass.
There the corals soak the ink's despair,
the sleepers erase their profiles under the skein of snails
and the space of the dance remains over the final ashes.

Independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
We are all separated by countries and oceans,
but our mindset is one and the same.

The concept of change, we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
but the awareness that our home is binding our thoughts
remains as our threshold away from the darkness.

You board the plane, begin to set sail, put on your best shoes and run
away from the chaos, breaking the chains, stating your name to be free.
Your heart is racing as the grasp of new land is just miles within your reach
the only words your mind can make up in that moment are “¡Libre soy alfin!”

The moment is just minutes away now, you can almost feel la tierra
El momento is almost here and you just want to chant “¡LIBERTAD!”
But you can’t. You’re not there yet, only growing more eager.
You’re impatient now; what happened to the claridad?

What happened to that clarity in your mind when you were so sure of what you wanted?
It has been replaced by the fear of not being enough.
It has been replaced by the fear of getting sent back to that confinement you once called home.
Now you realize this new life will be tough.

You step foot en la tierra libre,
the anxiety gets to your bones.
Thoughts race through your mind
there’s disbelief that this is your new home.

The sensation of wandering on clouds,
sleepwalking your life away is overwhelming;
your eyes now resemble that oceanic pathway
whilst los abrazos de abuela you are yearning

The concept of change we fear;
the idea of an altered lifestyle haunts us,
and the awareness that our family is still stitched at the lips
has become our allure back into the darkness.

But independence is our cry,
pride is our name.
Precincts may separate us,
yet our mindset remains one and the same:
¡Que viva la libertad!

i used to lay on the snowed-in flowerbeds
of nan's backyard. once it snowed enough,
you couldn't tell that a ****** of perrenials
slept peacefully there: all crushed
and crooked beneath
dirt and ice.

some days she'd come and join me
if the ground was soft enough:
we'd stargaze up into the cosmos
of pine trees overhead and listen
for the stillness of winter - the hush
of silence that lingered in the air.

ivy and henbit writhed
gingerly underfoot:
a quiet dogfight
of frozen earth
that begged a
sluggish spring
to come out of
hiding.

you can ******* a man with accusations of insanity and destroy him instantly, or over a few years... but that only shows the collective approach is insane and, including the man in question the prefix added to the collective: self-destructive... it's no good implying a man faked a coherent use of language, when the western model attached paranoiac iconoclasm of certain pronoun and noun usage - one man had more coherence in language than a million reduced to Emoticons - but no one minded that affair - they simply accepted it - it was once making the populace literate then the unmaking of literacy with technological advances - as ever the lax aristocracy - we don't philosophise in western society, we simply imply logistics of psychology - a Chinese model for the eradication of the unit of indestructibility - a soul, but what happens in China is a success story, the number in question are too man, our experiment is a failure in this eradication of the unit of indestructibility is a failure, excess individuation processes with too few example of coherence and grey matter - the family model is primarily the one source we have no coherent grey matter populace - with its failure no person will strive to wear the mask of father, grandfather, uncle... there's no investment in society of a family, western hands said: freedom to clone, freedoms for L.G.B.T. communities to flourish - surrogacy prostitution... care homes and tattoos of ***** bed-wetting on the skin - individuation's aggressiveness and objectivity's passiveness reduced to a criticism of a book rather than a project of collective cohesion... Communism came across the greatest antisemitism known to man - capitalistic zenith of the holocaust - now slang in populist propaganda - V for Vendetta realism i approach - i don't think i want to go to a pub these days, whether with Scot, Irishman or Anglo - i don't think watching rats scuttle is much fun over a pint of beer... schizophrenia of the collective, from theorem and other additives you can see the reverse chirality - some way or another you become involved - globalisation did that, you want to be un-involved and yet you become involved - you want the village life but are forced into an abstract urbanity - you have the urban life but are discouraged from an abstract village-life although in deepest desire, you wish for it... the day when two speakers of the same tongue undermine each other's speech - by way of constructing the perfect Ypres' replicas of entrenching validations to stand opposite each other on the basis of argument per se, and so the argument comes... how then contend between masochism on one side and sadism on the other, when the former traps himself in a panic room and does it to himself, and the latter is kept repeating a knock-knock joke with no answer?*

England has become a place where
i don't want to socialise -
i wouldn't want to be in a pub
full of Irish or English -
i've become marginalised as a user
of the tongue - i'm a user
but hardly the attaché - the "where you from"
question is always asked, i'm here,
but where from seems to matter more -
it's not fun anymore - London is
slightly confused at it all,
they said the European Union experiment
is a failure akin to the Communist Plot -
but of course both were pre-readied failures,
the former was tackled by puppetry of the
American president, the latter by the Pope -
both were ****** - the populist assertion
of the dream of Nebuchadnezzar -
if history is hardly a hindsight, it certainly
is a way of sleepwalking -
the failure from places not formerly conquered -
the anger of north africa and the elsewhere
encompassing the Mediterranean -
invigorating a force of conquerors by the once conquered
by goose-pimple buttocks of the Romans not
heading north on the continent (islands are insulators
of the cold) - hence the once former conquered
trying to scold and try out their post-colonial
authority - white v. white won't work -
Scandinavians and the Baltic States weren't
ready for ***** Gaul or ***** Britannia setting
orders - the Roman didn't go that far -
the failure was imminent from a single dream -
history is nothing about hindsight -
the hindsight default is nothing but the wrong
of the waking hour for many a man,
to take a dream as a vector for forward only sent
as backward - never make history from the interpretation
of a resting body - from a dream -
to make history from a dream is to give more men
unrest in the waking hour - to make history from
dreams is to make history without hindsight
but with sleepwalking, and few men are given
the anti-psyche drugs for a sober approach,
they say: but i didn't drink... but their intoxication
came from dreams... a drunk man will stumble and fall,
but a man intoxicated by dreams will make more
horrors outside the realm of cinema than is already
there with an eager audience - indeed, a cinema with
an un-eager audience - residues of symbolism,
the quote: for king and country and such baffling e.g. plural.
Ukraine was almost ready to join... you could say
Russia and Britain pulled the project apart...
i just don't think you'll like this aggravated German
with the expulsion of Jews from Poland -
the Visegrad Group - partly because this is the undercurrent -
so when will the channel tunnel become a plot-line
for Guy Fawkes? it's already rearranging itself -
a new chapter - a new nothing - it never worked in
the first place because there was no respect for the diversity,
we shared a single phonetic encoding, sure, some of us
used diacritical stresses, one particular didn't -
but it was anti-representing the diversity, this was
supposed to be an European Union -
not the Post-Colonial-Pseudo-African Union -
the great colonial states ruined it, that's why the greatest
of them has left - the European Union should have
excluded Britain, France and the Iberian peninsula -
it was intended as the revival of the Holy Roman Empire,
but including post-colonial states invoked the realisation
of their colonial past, thereby necessitating an integration
of their past colonial subjects into Europe -
Britain left because they heard the news... Turkey is going
to join... well... never mind Rotherham, eh?

What’s up,
what’s going on with you these days,
how have you been where have you been
just wanted to let you know that I still love you,
because I know it’s been awhile,
some would even say forever or at least that's what it feels like,
but forever feels like only a moment when you're immortal,
as an Endless Infinite Being living in Infinity,

tell me,
what’s your truth,
why do you rise in the morning what're the motives for your motions,
do you pray & if you do how do you pray & to whom do you pray to,
& how do you handle the hate & do you always make room for the love,
& why do you struggle at all I mean seriously what’s the use,
stress isn't worth the stress so why subject yourself to what feels incorrect,
instead of this try to relax find some perspective & learn to listen to you,

we've been misled by the stimulants that we're fed,
to believe that material things are more important than human beings,
we worship inanimate objects like they have a life of their own,
which is why instead of making eye contact we just look down at a screen,

checking Facebook Messenger & our Twitter feeds,
preferring to live life vicariously through tweets than to live the real thing,

living life & doing things not for the experience but for the likes it gets,
our only vice is being guided by the eye of the Public's biases,
victims of our own timelines we traded away our sovereignty for notoriety,
what is this society what happened to the days of Prince Ra & Princess Isis,

or more correctly The Days of The God Ra & The Goddess Isis.

Where have the Gods gone?
Are all the Gods gone?

Are we living in a Post-Religion-Apocalyptic Epoch of Existence?

Everything’s possible I guess,

I guess,
either way it isn't worth the stress,
I guess just be blessed & let everything click & fall into place,
because one must confess we are the honest embodiment of much success.

& success comes,
after lots of yes,
so say yes,
just say yes.

& hey Bless what’s up,
what’s going on with you these days,
how have you been where have you been
just wanted to let you know that I still love you,
because I know it’s been awhile,
some would even say forever or at least that's what it feels like,,
but forever feels like only a moment when you're immortal,
as an Endless Infinite Being living in Infinity,

& all these words offer us up everything except apologies,

actually,
fck it,
apologies as well,

there,
I said it,
might as well say I'm sorry because it seems I've said everything else,

so I apologize.

“I apologize on behalf of all men we messed up & I accept that,
but honestly we didn't know what else we were supposed to do,
& please don't misconstrue this apology as an excuse,
because there is no excuse for the way we gave away all this abuse,
it's just we were fatherless all our were leaders lacked commonsense,
& this miscreants mislead us into thinking that is was cool to mistreat you,
so we lost our morals & all common decency as we lost our commonsense,
& you didn't bother to tell us either because you're as lost as us too,
so on behalf of all men I apologize in all my honestness,
but honestly we didn't know what to do see we were as lost as you.”,

in this microcosm somewhat awesome mini-universe called Los Angeles,

in this mini-universe called Los Angeles,
we lost our angel wings,
in a place where everything seems easy,
but then again nothing is what it seems,
navigating through the soulless glows of low neon egos,
plastic smiles & absent minded sidetracks with high self esteem,
where good ideas meet bad company & they make a movie out of it,
& you can sign a contract for millions but can't buy backs your dreams,

see its seems,
we are all sleepwalking in this day dream,
& truth be told sometimes all I want to do,
is walk down the hill I'm on from Mulholland to Hollywood Blvd. & scream,

“AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH HAHAHAHAHAH!”,

it must be so liberating to be a mad man,

but these days,
in most cases crazy is dismissed as lost,
meanwhile Madmen on Television make bad decisions,
while still portraying the American Dream slogan that “Money is Boss.”,
& therefore you should make more at all costs,
but what good is made if while your getting paid but your soul is getting lost?

What good is money,
without peace of mind,
because you can’t escape yourself no matter how much money you make,
or how many drugs you take because you can't get away no matter how high,

so even if you forget all of this because of short term memory loss,
remember that fact even if you don't remember why,

see before I had money,
& I’d complain about inequality & they'd  call me bitter,
& after I got money,
& complained about inequality they called me hypocritical,

well,
you can make some of the people happy all the time,
& all of the people happy some of the time,
but you can’t make all the people happy all the time,

ah well,
I never asked to be their abused Muse anyways,
nevertheless I became a slave to my art was consumed too soon,
& the same thing that had freed me made me enslaved,

& I've got so much more to say,
but I'm simply exhausted right now & can't continue to elaborate,
because it's been a long night I'm tired,
& I just want to find a place to lay my God what a day,

what a day,
what a day it’s been,
feels like it’s been days since I’ve seen you,
lifetimes even,

please come see me,
I've got so many reasons for you to visit,
& you've got not one reason not to,
so please come at once I insist that you come this instant,

come check in before we both check out,
& when you arrive I will only have one question & it's this,

“What's up?”,

what’s up,
what’s going on with you these days,
how have you been where have you been
just wanted to let you know that I still love you,
because I know it’s been awhile,
some would even say forever or at least that's what it feels like,
but forever feels like only a moment when you're immortal,
as an Endless Infinite Being living in Infinity...
∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

I'm way past my bedtime
Losing balance, veering to the right
Before I hit the wall
Or the cabinet or the floor
Where did this jelly come from?
I thought I had it down
It wants to come up
So let's help him up
He's already drowned
Twice we drowned him
But they kept coming up

A man I once knew
...he was a professional man...
He should have known what he was talking about
I thought he did
More often than not
I trusted him
Law and natural fact
I could see the love in his eyes
He was convinced the cessation of my problem
Was it's light dying and silently slipping off
Into the air
My, oh my, I must not have been paying attention

Another hour passed
My mind was worked up
Worked up professionally
With pure quality workmanship
But it's not gonna last
I don't care
If they invested millions of dollars
You god, Oh Mighty Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick
I'm just gonna fall asleep
I'm a-gonna sleep until I wake
And I ain't a-gonna wake up until
I'm good and ready

He seemed to know what he spoke of
He was, after all, wearing a doctor's coat
After all, he had a silver-pearl stethoscope hanging around his neck
I was tempted to believe he was a great physician
But I wasn't so sure he was a Good Doctor
Not a very good one
The only sawbones I could afford
He told me that I'm very selfish
But not to worry, he said
"All bipolars are like that
All that they see is filtered through
ME ME ME ME ME".

So I had to think about it for awhile
I had to rub it in my clay-hands brain
Until I understood it to be truth
My hardening heart beats only for me
Prayers found me on my knees
Knelt
Until my legs fell asleep
Circulation staunched, the numbness
I tried to rise and walk
I tried to rise and walk
"Come forth!" I heard. "Rise and WALK!"
I tried to rise and walk
I TRIED
Fell down three times
It was like skating in an ice rink
The pulsating music of KISS throbbing through the loudspeakers
(It was that disco knock-off they took to the charts)
I was the kid who got knocked down
I know that funny man didn't mean to run over my hand with his skate
Accidents happen
(Even if the Good Doctor says that's all a bunch of crap)
I lifted my hand to my face
I felt nothing
I thought perhaps it would take some time to kick in, that there would come a moment when the pain would crash over me tsunami-style. It would overcome me, and at that point I would not be screaming at myself anymore but at everyone. I'd curse them because they were there. I'd **** them for no good reason whatsoever. Wrong place, wrong time. Unlucky twins. God knows them not, nor vouches them for His. One is chosen. The Other refused. ME ME ME ME ME. It is more cruel to be told this secret than to be kept in the dark.
Keep me in the dark.
Leave me alone.
Silence your Teaching Voice and let me sleep
Let me sleep in disbelief
Forget the part where I said,
"I ain't a-gonna wake up until I'm good and ready"

I've been put down
I'm held down to drown
Jelly air to fill my gills
No longer screaming
Abandoned my temple
To the banks of the Ohio
I gave the Good Doctor something interesting
To write in his reports

She had that sleepy dreamy-eyed glow to her
And I fell as Icarus
She was my Daedalus
My parachute catalyst
As I fell from the light of sun
With my melted wax wings
I fell and and I fell deep
In to her quiet seas
The sense of a sneeze or incoming flash back brought you to your knees
Murky deeps in which I found myself so enthralled with you
That I saw our story as a definite artifact
More precious than the pearls at the bottom of your seas
I found comfort in between your smile lipped teeth
( as I made a nest in between the nook of your face and neck)

as we move on through our day to day
heading who knows where
the hustle and bustle of the there about
seemingly without a care

the ups and down in this show of life
the taking of the offering
if we could see i think we'd find
that we mostly are sleepwalking

we slip and slide the routine
one foot in front of the other
along the way we eat and breath
so as not to blow our cover

making sense in all of this
mumbling as if talking
doing it like nobody's biz
the artful art of sleepwalking

wheeling as we're dealing
faking savoir faire
the sleepy path that we are on
is filled with our nightmares

we make our way through drowsy days
no hesitation in the balking
all we have made in this display
effortlessly sleepwalking

just like you
could feel my fever
when it broke

i could feel
your fever
when it broke

i wept
like the ocean
for a few nights

you told me
to tell you
the truth

that's
what i'm
craving too

we're far
but i hear
your consciousness tonight

these bodies are broken down boats
our souls though
are still being

held
above
water

Everyone’s sleepwalking through city square
It’s twelve fifty seven
And seventy families have bled black against Israel’s rockets

Come Sunday morning
The drunks in my hometown
Will be too hungover to recognise their own faces
While Palestinians across the world
Will have to sort through the bones of dead relatives

This country was built on colonial empathy
Freedom from suffering through self-absorbed apathy

We’re all sewn to our seats
Caring for nothing

Explaining My Depression to My Mother: A Conversation
Mom, my depression is a shape shifter.
One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear,
The next, it’s the bear.
On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone.
I call the bad days: “the Dark Days.”
Mom says, “Try lighting candles.”
When I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame,
Sparks of a memory younger than noon.
I am standing beside her open casket.
It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die.
Besides Mom, I’m not afraid of the dark.
Perhaps, that’s part of the problem.
Mom says, “I thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed.”
I can’t.
Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head.
Mom says, “Where did anxiety come from?”
Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out-of-town depression felt obligated to bring to the party.
Mom, I am the party.
Only I am a party I don’t want to be at.
Mom says, “Why don’t you try going to actual parties, see your friends?”
Sure, I make plans. I make plans but I don’t want to go.
I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go.
It’s just not that fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun, Mom.
You see, Mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light.
Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company.
Mom says, “Try counting sheep.”
But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake;
So I go for walks; but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists.
They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in.
Mom says, “Happy is a decision.”
But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg.
My happy is a high fever that will break.
Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat-out asks me if I am afraid of dying.
No.
I am afraid of living.
Mom, I am lonely.
I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely —
The lonely into busy;
So when I tell you, “I’ve been super busy lately,” I mean I’ve been falling asleep watching Sports Center on the couch
To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed.
But my depression always drags me back to my bed
Until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city,
My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves.
The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat,
But I am a careless tourist here.
I will never truly know everywhere I have been.
Mom still doesn’t understand.
Mom! Can’t you see that neither can I?

I slept until 4pm today
Dreaming of things the fingers of my memory
Can only scrape at.

Real life:
Phone rings. Belly aches. Cat bites. Siren howls.
Nothing matters.

Dream life:
Airport. Fog. You. Gone.
Nothing matters.

No. Rewind.

Real life:
Airport. Fog. You. Gone.
Everything matters.

“Don’t implode,” you said
before I shut your mouth with my own.

I disobeyed.

I'll sit here and play all the sad songs I know

And I'll remember again what It felt like

To be in your arms.

I'm missing you,

Not knowing when it all went wrong.

And I'll remember again the look

On your face when you woke

In the middle of the night

As you put your arms around me.

What it felt like to be loved

Unconditionally.

Realizing that I never took the time

To tell you I was hurting.

Today I found myself in a bookstore
and somehow of course
I ended up in the poetry section
and then suddenly 16 dollars were gone
from my bank account
and were sat in my hand
in the form of a book of poetry
by Billy Collins

I've spent so many hours writing with no direction
that I forgot how much I delight in reading poetry
until I dove into the wave again
headfirst without dipping my toe in
and that wonderful feeling returned
that often comes with tasting a delicious work of art
and makes you want to give a slice of word-filled cake
to everyone who comes your way

My father happened to be the first
his gentle eyes listened as they always do
and he commented on the smile
that had decided to take up residence on my face while I read
the heavy kind, that weighs down and warms
leaving lines in all the right places
always making the wearer much prettier, no matter what

It is in moments like these,
that I am quite sure
I will never need resort
to alcohol
nor any other form of drug
to keep me willingly dancing through life

-kk

On April 26th, 372 B.C. Plato was the first man to inflict injury upon his own dreams.
Not the forms casting shadows in his cave, his literal dreams.
At 6:35 a.m. the impish snarl of a water ***** crept into his Utopia of an
all-you-can-eat gyro cart overturned at the corner of his street and roused him
back to consciousness. The ingenious design of his Clepsydra quite obviously complete,
Aristotle came running with the awkward stride of a sleepwalking adolescent
to see what his master had done. When he arrived he saw flying,
two pots of water, an air-compressing submersible chamber and one water ***** reed.
Aristotle quickly collected the shattered pieces and noted
that this broken pottery was more real than time itself.

On September 21st, 712 A.D. a small village just outside the boundaries of
Chang'an, China came dangerously close to taking the life of the palace
astronomer/inventor/sleepyhead. Crowding around the door of Yi Xing, the
townspeople tore their robes and wailed for him to put a stop to the
incessant clanging. Xing, who had apparently overslept and was still
clinging to morsels of fading dreams about his young mistress, stuffed his
face into his pillow, muttering eureka, after first having chucked the
two clay pots, handful of stones and plate-sized gong out the front door,
much to the amusement of the assembly of drooping eyelids and torn pajamas.

In the year 1235 A.D. tortured residents of Baghdad began associating their
daily and nightly times for prayer with the ringing of their eardrums from
uninvited chimes.

In 1493 St. Mark's Clock-tower polluted the once-pure Venetian air with
hourly reminders that we are all yet one hour closer to our inevitable death
and the priests of the day called it humility.

Levi Hutchins of New Hampshire turned to a pine cabinet, brass clock and
mechanical gears in 1787, and for the first time gave himself the ability to
choose when he would hate the morning.

In 1847, French inventor Antoine Redier began making money off of people's
early morning auditory masochism.

Lew Wallace, the morning after completing his masterpiece novel "Ben Hur,"
awoke with a fiendish beeping in his ear and proceeded to invent the paradox
of the snooze button.

In Spring of 1942 the war in Europe raged and all U.S. alarm clock production ceased.

In the Spring of 1943 well-rested factory men, confronted by their foreman
upon arrival at 9:15, erupted the words "my alarm clock is broken,"
forever placing the excuse in the deep pockets of slackers
world-wide.

To all of these respected men of our history
Who have thought with their hands to create
The foundation of a society drowning in Starbucks,
I wish to express my sincerest ingratitude.

I lie awake in bed at night,
Licking the bitter taste of reality from my cheeks,
In the company of Plato, Lew Wallace and Yi Xing,
Wondering what dreams will be stolen from me.

i.

mist in solemnity
mutes the sounding
leather bells in silence


ii.

salt surges waste wantonly
gulls guttural in guises
of waifs


iii.

driftwood delivered dull of
deluged dilution
ochre offering to dune's
divestment


iii.

sea glass shivers into
shallow sandy pockets
scintillating color schemes


iiii.

conches lie abandoned
in stands of sea grasses
cacophonous quiet


v.

i am wide awake yet dreaming

sleepwalking

into the

waves




SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/1/2016

Silence
Painful way

Vernarth describes in parapsychological regression:
Silence shook over them, like the one that massacred them from the “oblivion - oblivion” from the Limassol to the Jaffa section. Everyone believed that they had traveled on the Eurydice, not being so. A ship that came from the Lepanto shipyard supplanted them to protect the Gold medallion anchored in the roadstead, protected by the Christian Gladiators of Kourion, in Lod.

Everyone was calmer when making sure that a great layer of silence overcame them, forgetting, as anticipation of continuing along the Via Dolorosa. The dawn tied him to the Silent awakening near Jerusalem, on a gray and silent day. Vernarth gets up, first of all, prepares them unleavened breakfast, honey, and goat milk. All united for the most critical moment of reviving, especially Saint John the Apostle, who for him would personify before his senses the moment of deafness that he could enter, rather than hearing himself from the Universe such a command back to the Holy Land.

About 3.7 billion years ago the first living beings appeared on Earth. They were small, single-celled microorganisms, not very different from today's bacteria. Cells of this type are classified as prokaryotes because they lack a nucleus (karyon in Greek), a specialized compartment where genetic machinery is kept. Prokaryotes were fully successful in their development and multiplication. Thanks to their remarkable capacity for evolution and adaptation, they gave rise to a wide diversity of species and invaded as many habitats as the planet could offer them. The biosphere would be full of prokaryotes if the extraordinary breakthrough had not taken place, from which a cell of a very different type emerged: eukaryotic, that is, it has a genuine nucleus.
In this evolutionary cellular space, they were invaded by a Vertical Silence that would have to spread throughout the troposphere, the consequences of this event marked the beginning of a new span of the number line, until the consequences of this event that marked the beginning of a new epoch. Nowadays, all multicellular organisms are made up of eukaryotic cells, which have much greater complexity than prokaryotes. If eukaryotic cells had not appeared, the extraordinary variety, so rich in ranges, of animal and plant life on our planet would not now exist; nor would man have made an appearance to enjoy such diversity and extract its secrets.

Bi simile eukaryotic cells, were ringed in metamorphic geological strata, pressing the atmosphere, the air, and the earth, compressing the geological layers and gaseous atmospheres, which did not exist as a consequence of these intense pressure changes by order of the Higher Universal consciousness, with overflowing temperatures and multi chemical environments; dispersing the changes that are associated with the forces that fold on the bank of the which is current Greece. Said layer failures scattered eukaryotic cells wrapped in "Silent Libertarian Material", injecting magma, creating creative prominences on the stifling attached rocks, perhaps only to be a cellular polytheism, perhaps derived from multicellular cellular evolution. ..., becoming the sexed fusion of a great regeneration of Lithophagas species in the region ..., perhaps in Colophon where Homer was infected. Well said presumption would have to create a syncretic elaboration with that of Aristotle and Plato as eukaryotic cells, to start from this Lithophaga flower, which under its rooted roots is in this bivalve mollusk, unleashing the proto-seeds of prehistoric poetic inspiration, in super souls starting synchronously each one in this mollusk plant that goes like this, green and personified, originating epic poetics in the prehistoric and in the human phenotype.

This mega hyper-sensitive cellular complex is possible, given the respect that it deserves to be cited, the innate and spontaneous hyper ethnobotanical and hyper mollusks sapiens, which were conceived by millions of years of delegating us with their sublime creation. I quote here the word Poetry from the Greek through the (Poiein: "Make or Create"). From this vertical revolution, the Silence of the painful way will emanate, intrinsic to the same evolutionary ontological, geological, theological, Scientific, and Poetic-Sacred concept, linked to the creation coming from “Nothing” to a “Whole”. Everything is revealing before our backs, everything is offered before our eyes, everything comes from the soft creative anger of lightning and lightning, everything is consecrated to silence ..., but nothing moves what the whole forgot, centrifuged by the phenomena of atomicity of greater forces of the Silence of the Messiah, praying in constant practice the generation in front of our theoretical faces, in front of our Everything and Nothing of an empty warehouse.

"Silence Awaits Time ... to see, ... I entrust my Being to time" founds the greatest silence ever felt, only heard more than an ultrasound of waves that are articulated one on top of the other in algorithmic chanting that emanates from the "Silence of Mary to her son ”Also to Homer, Aristotle, and Plato attached to the Lithophaga, releasing Eukaryotes. When Aristotle and Plato ripped out the Lithophaga as axiomatic leaders, they revealed the Silence of Creation and poetic anathemas, alluding to their true ancestors who slipped from their bellies like an elongated moraine sweeping their samskaras navels, like tracks that lead their own people in wisdom with a common prehistoric cellular origin.

Ita *** Dolore
Painful way

Saint John Apostle got up in silence, like profuse deafness even of spirit…, all the others were the same, traumatized to feel the stones engraved with fear and pain "Ita *** Dolore". They did not see in colors, everything was gray and black and white between cells ..., like being inside the suffered cell, lost of all consciousness. Everyone confuses their clothes, their outfits, nobody knew who each one was, only Vernarth and San Juan knew. Raeder and Petrobus,  Alikanto, and Eurydice only wandered sleepwalking along the stony road, in the cobbled streets flanked by works erected of sobbing Malaki material, stones very similar to those that Jesus would have seen when following this immaculate route. The Stations of the Cross were marked by plaques, chapels in vaulting, and signs on the way of lacerating and flagellating stops of more than forty degrees of ardor at each step of the feverish enclosed vault.

Ellipse Messiah As a child: “Mother…; when I climbed the stairs ..., I stopped at the fourteenth step ..., in perfect mathematics opening the sky ..., like a sacred aromatic book; Well, I thought you would believe me dressed there! Mother when I went down the fourteen steps and put my last feet before you…, I could see how she sang at thirty-three on a rainy Friday afternoon, clinging to you…, accompanying me next to the stairs that you did not know… "

Ita *** Dolore
Painful way

1st Station of the Cross in Silence
Jesus was tried and sentenced to death in the Praetorium of Pontius Pilate; he will bring silence, in each interval that did not offer resistance from the flagellant whips. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder… ”. The apostle closes his eyes; Vernarth takes him by his arms.

2nd Station of the Cross
The second station marks where Jesus took up his cross and recalls his condemnation. Romans beat Jesus and the Chapel of Judgment which commemorates the site where Jesus was condemned. Here he feels like a child… “Mother…; when I came down the stairs ...”

3rd Station of the Cross
The third station is where Jesus fell for the first time under the weight of his cross. This station is not far from Ecce **** (Behold the Man), Saint John remembers the last Supper in advance, sitting next to him ... he got up from dinner, and took off his cloak, and taking a towel, he wrapped it around …. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder ...”

4th Station of the Cross
The fourth station marks where Maria saw her son pass. The 19th century Armenian Church of Our Lady marks this station. Deaf Vernarth, manages to hear voices from heaven saying: “Mother…; when I came down from the ladder ...”

5th Station of the Cross
At the fifth station, the Roman soldiers instructed Simon of Cyrene to help Jesus carry his cross (Luke 23). ..., "Mother I stopped on the fifth step and I never doubted to wash your feet"

6th Station of the Cross
The sixth station marks where Veronica wiped the face of Jesus with her veil. It is believed that the image of the face of Jesus was imprinted on the cloth. "Mother…; when I came down the stairs you covered my sweaty face ...”

7th Station of the Cross
At the seventh station, Jesus wavered under the weight of the cross for the second time. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder ..., I saw the lost mountain ...”

8th Station of the Cross
The eighth station is where the "daughters of Jerusalem mourn for Jesus" (Luke 23:27). Jesus stopped here to comfort the women by telling them not to cry for him, but for themselves and their children. "Mother…; when I came down the stairs you weren't there, you were going to get me ...”

9th Station of the Cross
In the ninth station, Jesus wavered for the third time before his final ascent to Golgotha. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder to find you, you were in front of me ...”

9th-14th Stations of the Cross
The Stone of Anointing believed to have been where Jesus was placed after being taken off the cross. Here he would have been prepared for burial. The Bible tells us that the body of Jesus was wrapped in linen and anointed with oils and spices in accordance with Jewish funeral rites. "Mother…; when I came down the stairs you covered me from the cold and enveloped me with your passion ...”

The 14th Station of the Cross - The Tomb of Christ
Right here Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, were still deaf, but with slight symptoms of recovery of their hearing. They saw in front of them how deaf angels came to uncover their auditory channels, being their intuition proclaiming them of courage to accompany them with their teacher to the aedicule of their own crypt granted by Joseph from Arimathea. In the Chapel of the Angel that contains a small piece of the rock and that closed the cave of the burial of Christ, the chapel that leads to the tomb itself. It was here that Jesus was buried and resurrected three days after his death. "This small rectangular structure of the Aedicule marks the end of the Painful Way  and Deafness of all and the Whole World