When the books are no longer profitable, and the great human chrysalis is over, my pen will fall, covered by hourglass sand. This same sand will fill our Television and halt the works of disaster which had until then infinitely displayed themselves. History's diarists relax their hands! A beached whale shall mate with the shipwreck of a flood myth. Turning over a leaf both new and old our seasons will divide and be two-fold. Snows melting in summer sun and grasses iced by the winter voice shall shout and shine together. This beautiful clashing, this sublime terror. Buried nunataks towering above the hidden Lake Vostok - both will be revealed. Some events are difficult to imagine. Outside of the memory bank their value is obscured. In that region of death, a forbidden zone of cinemas, we'll discover a mass jutting out of the sand. The weavers shall coat with their tongues its dark grit. From buzzing to bleeping, language will sing what our senses lost feeling of. Hearing these songs may keep us alive enough to give some words, some music, of worth.
To another, someone other, than ourselves.
-G.D. Burns
To another, someone other, than ourselves.
-G.D. Burns
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