![]() ![]() ![]() Your days were born in blood and fires, whereof in you I may not see the meanest spark! Your past is pain and iron! Know yourselves! With all your shimmering numbers and your lights, think not to be inured by history. ![]() Where comes this dullness in your eyes? How has your century numbed you so? Shall man be given marvels only when he is beyond all wonder? Morose, barbaric children playing joylessly with their unfathomable toys. What, then? Am I, like Saint John the Divine, vouchsafed a glimpse of those last times? Are these the days my death shall spare me? It would seem we are to suffer an apocalypse of cockatoos. Nor are these heathen wraiths about me spirits, lacking even that vitality. No, this is dazzle, but not yet divinity. “Dear God, what is this Aethyr I am come upon? What spirits are thee, labouring in what heavenly light? No. ![]()
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