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Wednesday, September 26, 2007


October approaches and time still corrodes me with bleaching out memories that make room for santity, but allow for insanity, breaching solutions temporary.. and I feel its arrows drink up my blood, gnaw on my bones, whose poison infects me with dreams, with visions that I don't want, but always make me their own.

So defenseless I am, I feel October's unsated teeth, cold and knifelike, pierce me, and I fear. But not for me. Some say I am illumined. But I'm told so many things.. I'm right-handed, left-footed, and of that I am sure (although I can't be all that much, when I have nobody else to tell me so).

Thinking myself more like a celt than like a goth, even so I feel fear, I do. Not for the future, no. But I fear for the present. For October, always present, who knocks on the door and invites itself in and enters. Step by step. Slow. Inclement.

In the air, the breath of wing-flapping future winds, secretly bearing tidings to the sensitive of hearts of the feasts' eve: the time of miracles comes, when everything must die in order to be reborn. And so everything shall be.

October arrives with my time to be crowned king. King of fools, for the best mask (most bizarre mask ever) that I bear attached to my face.

I hear shouts, acclaims, congrats. Hardly can they be aware that this hideous mask is, by now, the only face I have.


said and done at
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a manual of advanced soul things, mind things and heart things.


Mark Tindo is..

but an average lad, or a nearly average lad, nearly as average as any other lad nearly close to being twenty-something and a couple of months who would get by nearly inconspicuous in the middle of a crowd everyday to go to work, or to go anywhere else wherever you would go.




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