Knees buckle before the great expanse
The threshold of ruin overtaken
Thoughts locked into hypnagogic trance

The foundations of reality thoroughly shaken
World screams out a final anguished cry
Searing pain on a land forsaken

A corpse whimpers a final lie
Phantasmagorical tears in space time abound
Clouds frozen in the blackened sky

Trembling ceases within the ground
Destruction slows into the still then
Atmosphere pierced by the soundless sound

A people denied their sundering end
Void spaces of slumber again and again

Let everything that's been planned come true.

Let them believe.

And let them have a laugh at their passions.

Because what they call passion actually is not some emotional energy, but just the friction between their souls and the outside world.

And most important, let them believe in themselves, let them be helpless like children, because weakness is a great thing, and strength is nothing.

When a man is just born, he is weak and flexible, when he dies, he is hard and insensitive.

When a tree is growing, it's tender and pliant, but when it's dry and hard, it dies.

Hardness and strength are death's companions.

Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being.

Because what has hardened will never win.