My name's Keegan, and this is my site. It's where I write things down after I've given them some thought. Hopefully you get something useful out of your time here.
Block May 14, 2020
vie for mine
__ ____ coin
sweat for an electronic modicum
weep for a lost proton
press thread into pulp
__ ____ into paper
the vines unravel, the blood drips, red … crimsone … film, glob, thick, halt.
valleys and mountains in the cushions, causally closed microscopae, logic consummate, a lite blue fizz flows to seas of abstraction. density propounded by men who do not know, grins mimicked by things that will not go. rest not, son incarnate.
Socrates shows with ease that Cephalus' view of justice is untenable: a man who has taken or received a weapon from a sane man would act unjustly if he returned it to him when he asked for it after having become insane; in the same way one would act unjustly by being resolved to say nothing but the truth to a madman.
From the far end of the corridor, the mirror was watching us; and we discovered, with the inevitability of discoveries made late at night, that mirrors have something grotesque about them. Then Bioy Casares recalled that one of the heresiarchs of Uqbar had stated that mirrors and copulation are abominable, since they both multiply the numbers of man.
The gods heard their lament, the gods of heaven cried to the Lord of Uruk, to Anu the god of Uruk: 'A goddess made him, strong as a savage bull, none can withstand his arms. No son is left with his father, for Gilgamesh takes them all; and is this the king, the shepherd of his people? His lust leaves no virgin to her lover, neither the warrior's daughter nor the wife of the noble.' When Anu had heard their lamentation the gods cried to Aruru, the goddess of creation, 'You made him, O Aruru; now create his equal; let it be as like him as his own reflection, his second self; stormy heart for stormy heart. Let them contend together and leave Uruk in quiet.'
This Lizaveta was a dwarfish creature, "not five foot within a wee bit," as many of the pious old women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her broad, healthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the fixed stare in her eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered about, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hempen smock. Her coarse, almost black hair curled like lamb's wool, and formed a sort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had leaves, bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on the ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard, called Ilya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with some well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and diseased, Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to him. But she rarely did so, for every one in the town was ready to look after her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God.
© 2021. See them clamber, these nimble apes!