Literature of the Black Sun. Publisher of Vestiges.

° but there are only a few hours we can relish ° chemical transmit song yeast / boots ° whatever enthuses cowering frettilations ° synthesis prescience ‘you’ ° porous / slide ° laid malleable stillness ° readiness ensorcell vigil ° said Emerson’s / edge enumerations...

If it is a stone of sorrow, there I am seated / There, where ribbons fall sideways on the plain / White veils. This is nothing. / Where the wild-eyed goddess plunges the child of another into fire. / The tree refuses to orient itself. The emerald / Keeps its fist clenched...

It’s a love story that slits its own throat, but it’s not a story at all. It’s your life. Your heart beats as a reminder of the beating you’ve taken. If you could reach it you would pull the plug, but you can’t reach it so you reach for something else. First, you pick yourself up from the pavement...

Write a music. Write a music more of with more no world, with things arranged. Things rearranged in no. World with no question (past, as night) in the mode of your fog. So that the fog was suited for your music and you made it with. Not owned. That’s your sense of this world...

if he talks his voice will not be the thing said, but the way of not saying it. what it aims to spurn. short on collar points. disciple of celestial steering. he keeps his mouth shut. the image will have to carry. not to be seen as holdup to action. he’s lost in thought in the throwback era...