Truthfully, I made this site because it is the responsible thing to do.

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Bellow of sleep

It digests

My rest,

Churns delightfully

Some horizon forms a crack

In a window, just above me

A chortle, the fractures ding

It is then I see

A room of myself

Staring back at, it bleeds

“Incomplete” is what the

Dripping fissures say

It is then, I begin to turn

Just as it yearns

It speaks of volumes of A simple promise

One to a cave

Or perhaps a sea

What came betwixt,

In my final haze, I think

It is my bed that fell between

=============================================================================================== Channels of a promise, they gleam

Channels of some promise, I cannot sparse

An ode to a house, a bed sepulchered

And so those windows, never closed

An infinite affection is sowed

By the Horizon that sees its reflection dance

Upon a membrane asea

Which looks up in tandem, to see

A warping silk, wrapped in churning crepuscular

Horizon is witnessed, the stage churning

Through a membrane, that original window

It yearns for that downturned gaze

Unheeded, unheard

The Stage, once a horizon,

Admires itself upon that teeming membrane, oh, how that window dances

Reflection whipped abyssal

Both attempt to discern themselves,

The endless fault can only witness its face through the threshold of horizons gleam, estranged from its form

While the Stage may drink its own suggestion upon the swarming echo, hungry for its image

The Abyss, a container for primordial eyes, seeks upward, and yearns for a perfect shelter unseen

The Stage, a parasite to some ideal, seeks downward, speaking to a rot that digests an endless dream.

An initial Face of House is formed, and so a hunger begins to melt a laughing corridor. Incomplete, it seeks to complete itself in sleep.

=============================================================================================== House of Face

Face of House

Seek me in the casings I left

Seek me in the lamps, and the will that turns them

Seek me in the abyssal faults

That only know of shelter

Seek me in the churning stage

That may only turn to time

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An ode to lamps, and an unknown attic

A channel filtrates through me in sleep- a churning initiates. I turn endlessly through lamps, each more fantastic and welcoming than the last. A haze began to permeate, and I sensed that I was being digested. This room called out to be completed, and only my turning body could catalyze the maw.

My house rots. It is a product of an initial dream for shelter, one born within ocean vents and aching faults that peered upwards from a teeming window membrane. A horizon is caught between this, and becomes parasitic in its perpetuity in tandem to dreaming waters.

A simulation or documentation of fantastic instances within dreams felt best suited to describe these notions. As a house rots in tandem with the simulations that call back to its rooms in perpetuity, I could see that it was attempting to complete itself through sleep, and the blood that weaves through my rostrum, the Stage.

A final cry, a final turn, the lamps churn, the sea yearns.

As the horizons stage peers downwards into an abyssal membrane asea, its face is reflected back onto the rostrum, while the faults below creak incomplete, forever hungry. The faults are only privy to a warped horizon through its window of teeming water, a gaze forever bound, forever incomplete. Between this lies my bed, and the rooms junctional beneath the waters that wish to feel whole through my blood.

I think of my attic window as an ultimate junction. Since I cannot access the view from that window, it is forever unseen. In turn, the view teems, and wishes to digest in perpetuity and complete itself from that window membrane, forever parasitized by a selfish, perpetual horizon.