Tell me many tales, O benign maleficent daemon, but tell me none that I have ever heard or have even dreamt of otherwise than obscurely or infrequently. Nay, tell me not of anything that lies between the bourns of time or the limits of space: for I am a little wear of all recorded years and charted lands; and the isles that are westward of Cathay, and the sunset realms of Ind, are not remote enough to be made the abiding-place of my conceptions; and Atlantis is over-new for my thoughts to sojourn there, and Mu itself has gazed upon the sun in aeons that are too recent, Tell me many tales, but let them be of things that are past the fore of legend and of which there are no myths in our world or any world adjoining. Tell me, if you will, of the years when the moon was young, with siren-rippled seas and mountains that were zoned with flowers from base to summit; tell me of the planets gray with eld, of the worlds whereon no mortal astronomer has ever looked, and whose mystic heavens and horizons have given pause to visionaries. Tell me of the vaster blossoms within whose cradling chalices a woman could sleep; of the seas of fire that beat on strands of ever-during ice; of perfumes that can give eternal slumber in a breath; of eyeless titans that dwell in Uranus, and beings that wander in the green light of the twin suns of azure and orange. Tell me tales of inconceivable fear and unimaginable love, in orbs whereto our sun is a nameless star, or unto which its rays have never reached."
--Clark Ashton Smith
"Yet on we press, Thoughtless of omens, blind with furious zeal, And in the sacred citadel we lodge The fatal monster."
These make the last few embers of dinosaur sunlight. This will be a legendary day: we were so free, so bold, so murderous. Our mayfly-brief glory will be unsurpassed & the talon of our joy has marked the spot indelibly.
What is there more to say? We touched the stars but our hearts were not touched. Our first resort was annihilation. Waking now, we still won’t label this fury of a pastime anything but innocence.
What wonder if our trinkets, that litter the earth, when they work no more, become bleak plethora of talismans? Holding them now, our karma upon us, we still want to click on a window & do it over."
"And how long could the people of the world survive, walking through the ashes of their languages, having little clue now to their thoughts and feelings, not knowing how to bring new languages to birth?" --Jan*t Fram*, Th* Carpathians (1988)
Of no found A onward thy guiding hand For bank hath of sun or past, what I was, and what am now. from my task of toil, Daily, in common prison from popular I with day-spring born; to draught. But I Laborious works. Unwillingly this I, a draw This. day a hold To dark a on; From thoughts, that, a swarm with I am wont to sit, any
to body to mind of blowing, and This to find But rush upon thronging, and air, also, and damp, To Dagon, -idol, and forbid"