A script

“That Invisible Absolute can be neither described nor thought… the only possibility of knowing That is by becoming
That”
– Part Six, XII, UPANISHADS

no one knows everything except for one person, me, when a story occurs there is only a them and a me, autumn, turbulent winds of the turning season like gusts from primordial heavens and earth, must destruct to annihilation every last eyesore, the commander of the purge speaks, not in backroom whispers, not in public declarations, the spoken words bend like ghost magic silently threading its way through the alleys of a century, fanning the hotheaded outbursts of hate, and not being able to say if the hate is irrational or not irrational [keep letting time tell…] the purge has an air of mystery, has an air that it will persist as long as human existence persists [keep waiting for a movement of time…], this is a script of an era, a dog barks in the night, a man talks with himself, it’s not that I want to push a story into a grave, but clearly every unfolding thing has an air of mystery like it begins with a dog barking [to say a metaphorical dog barking…] this is a script of an era, a dog barks in the night, a woman talks with herself, and kneels down in middle of a long night, prayers have only the night winds to hear them, such winds of a turning season bathe the surface of the earth with a dog’s barking sound, this is a script of an era, supposing continued abuse is continued hostility, the messenger speaks, a dog barks in the night, we can’t distinguish the messenger’s barking from the commander of the purge’s barking from the barking of the hotheaded ones walking into the purge of the century, how can we know everything that’s occurred across the eons of human evolution, not that human ancestors ever peacefully slept here [here is when prehistorians see a rupture in the evolutionary chain…] or a rupture is the consequence of past purges, after long meandering slumbers, maybe the deviations of accumulated fates, suddenly branching off, the thems, carrying within themselves different ways of seeing the world, in a certain gloaming sun, sudden blood colored clouds, here instantly called a sign of pleasure, there instantly an omen of disaster, different voices and laughter, different ways of eating and sleeping, ways of making love, different notions of life and death, gradually pulling people away from each other [despite cultural establishments eternally based on the foundation of love…] until the day a hostile heart suddenly condenses into all human memory, until the day when [contemporarily…] we suddenly howl out to each other to make a date of the century, a date to destroy fellow creatures, this is a script of an era, a dog barks in the night, a man talks with himself, and looks at how the commander of the purge of the century is screaming [annihilate every last eyesore…] looking at the bloodthirsty ones plunging into the massacre and looking at the present appearance of a giant tree, a big family tree gentle and merciless, its branches and roots disseminating everywhere, earth’s surface profuse with agonies, agonies caused by spontaneous growth and non spontaneous resistance, a woman watches blood bathe the earth’s surface until she screams this is a script of an era, no one knows the whole story, except for one person, which is me, because when a story occurs there is only a them and a me, I have carried them all into my nightmare.