byzantine_labyrinth lycanthrope you have embarked on me, you travel and sacrifice light inscribed: it is left to the traveller, to say what is illusion. The dark stones shift your stride is born of them. The walls offer escapes and histories, vein mirrors of distortion, touching necessities of pathos, your stories made universal for you. nothing required but your discreet and complete opening, forthcoming. A dungeon becomes a pasture if you touch it, a color is yours. I sadly, can never be lost, for i am all of this labyrinth. I am already parts of me that have not spoken, i am there if you call. I would join you otherwise i would too swallow darkness untill it digested me. I have been blind, and i have seen tunnels of sex and others envy and mystery are here the same. but you're amongst the ruins twisted in a day's chance weather, the sordid doings of a day and the sculpting of mundane thunder are years without markers, your calendar is your breath, held then let you feel lost, but there's a secret premise that could be otherwise, that a wrong left turn back there, has not doomed all chance of escape. carry a comfort lantern, but it only lights up all directly before your feet, the stones turn into a monster gradually, don't know that, just listen Sounds seem to be and not be in alternations that know coincidental harmony and dissonance. But sometimes it seems as if they are calling to one another these sounds, calling down the dark halls like whales splayed in a pit, powerful ancient beasts lamenting memories of dark blue. But you know nothing of their motives. Once your hand is removed from the wall, the pasture fades, like a fire eats a paper, a paper reports a fire, from the inside out. the wall returns. Down the way, you may see a light, but do not run to it! your feet will form a pounding rhythm and you may go mad, your mind may try to become your feet, you may take pleasure in endlessness. You may see the sensual form in my winding a maze for you. the light at the end of the tunnel is just convergence of two tunnels. if you reach it, you will see another, if you ever reach the end this means you've been mad for too long, you are the monster you seek. the lights moan and creak like hinges do on a portal of flesh outwards the tunnels bend in dimensions beyond you, two tunnels their slightly offset directions and lead words are broken into sounds and sounds into possibilities the soft laugh is the most unnerving it has an anticipation to it, an expectation, unlike the shrieks. Soon even the sounds lose their emotion, and you are making them. you are scaring yourself, because you seem to be issued from distant turns just like they always were before. Dark purple curtain fold, flap blood cells rush, white capulets overhead like an aquarium tank eyes roll on the walls like screaming roulette balls, angles like billiards ground gives way to water, cold then warm empty then teeming with dark unknown shades, more fragmented than your life, which is held on the threshold because my labyrinth is a parasite and it needs. you alive for the double bind. Water gives way to hidden pockets of resistance of solid moving slow, in the face of screaming backlash of furious atoms and crashing into everything that isn't oblivion. faster faster, expulsion, seeking it in a hive, but you didn't look close ENOUGH! and saw only the walls shaking, your hands shaking the layers of trepidation, the personalization of the universe in your hands and heaving hands clenching and unclenching and you are lost most firmly, don't call out to me, i'm everywhere i'm your dread, my entrances are painted as exits and the capacity is you, but why does it seem so infinite, so rushed, why do you feel lost like a child in a marketplace listening to the barter of your values hearing defenders and sellers of gourds of baskets woven by old hands of hooked meat of adornments to be known by then silence comes in a cold wind as if all the bright images were tucked into one turn blown off like a layer of dead flowers covering the earth as spring turns to winter and winter back to spring in between one doorway. There are shifting walls. You made it, hand beholds balance wall, but when you do. A dungeon becomes a pasture if you touch it, a color is yours. The tangerine skies and microcosm eyes of plateau scene deer and children and deep swimming birds flying through water and laughing does not seem as inviting the second time, even their deaths their torture if you feel dark, because this wall if your grafitti, an alluring all true is um made by you, they do not seem as tragic this go round. whispers from the wall will tell you to be cynical to your cynicism so you feel again. And you suspect nothing in turn and twist. There will be many times you think it has faded away and things are as they were, but it is a turn of the walls, they are timed, a time that to your knowledge of time seems chaos, you will find the same room, or worse, one that is different, but is the same as far as you know you will never know how close you always were to an exit, how it was always following behind you, but if you turned on it, it would run throughout screaming and laughing, untill it was behind you again instantly. You will think, i am still me now, it is over, a mad nightmare, you will see faces and images, you will you will you will see images and faces and faces that are images. You will seem to mold them, and you will. Your hands will shape them, but you will turn wrongly once, and you will catch the walls from the corner of your eyes, you will remember this feeling of loss, and of being lost, because you are there again. You will come across stones that spell to you in an ancient language wagging tongues that flutter like butterflies will cry to you in your parents voices that you have never left, you have been here all along. You will remember the inscription at the entry, the love warning. You will keep your boundries, you will have entered something beyond you will keep your boundries and they will keep you lost. You will travel and you will decide what is the illusion. It will all be put before you. it will all start slowly like a dark night when you are with me, when we are alone together, i humble and portable. before you have entered me. It will all start with twisting lips, and steam rising from steady torquing glares. It will all be put before you, and you will enter as if in a dream, the inscription will be love poetry which you read and swoon at, and i cannot dissuade you, nor would i try. To understand you must know, i want you, you are my reason for deception, for twisting, for biting the hand that seeks to map. you are an addition, the eventual centerpiece to a dark core. You are home, a deja vue, a charge to my walls, you are the only escape. 020504 ... ponch benedentine_rippymonk 020709 ... notme . 040425 ... oldephebe beautiful writing lycanthrope - i used to call the catacombs of practice rooms beneath Lyte Auditorium @ MSC preciesly that..byzantine labyrinthe (sp) ... 040426 ... marked . 040426 ... marked this is really good . 040716 what's it to you? who go blather from