Imagine that

I am a man of imagination. A mere epiphany of Blake, whom for the morn', will serve well as a mouthpiece. I shall have my own beliefs and habits -- or so I believe. He will no doubt greatly approve of some, hate others, or have mixed thoughts on some depending on the "sense" in which I speak. No matter, this is my time and my word.

There is a cool mist about the lake's surface this morning. Perhaps a cup 'o tea would warm my gut. It's a rather lovely scene except for the dead willows and the wretched birds that cry "it's morning!" every moment. If I had a rock I gamble I could find the source of that outcry. Oh dearest me, I do believe I have spilt some tea on meself. [wipe wipe] There we are, all clean.

The Lady Dawn has cleaned her eyes and is going about her morning duties. Wiping off the world of its darkness, maliciousness, its ugliness. The dew is Monsieur Night having tried to cover its work for protection. Alas, the poor thing always fails, for Lady Dawn takes about even making it seem beautiful. Wretched girl. She is nothing but the ignorance that accompanies innocence and as a result her work is mere folly. She never can catch both sides of the objects she wiped. Instead she goes about haphazardly wiping off things, missing spots, leaving a little coal on every object that Monsieur Night had spread on the night before. And thus we say one side of the tree is "shadowed."

I think a scone would do my mind some good, perhaps clear out all this ugly truth I see outside. There is a jar on my table which contains some plant of the orient -- I do recall the salesman saying it was "bam-boo." Its leaves are rather gallant. However they do take to dipping into the candle vases nearby. One is crimson as blood and the other white as snow. They take to playing in either, as if nature can afford such luxuries. I am not well pleased with its attitude. It irks me to see life other than man playing with the furies. Such is the war between man and the world. It shall submit itself to our will. Until then I salivate at the prospect of competition.

But does not every man live for the thrill of competition? Do we not see this in the betrothed? The individuals care not for one another so much as they care they they have captured something for their own. One can see this in even the youngest of our species. Little girls playing several men at once, the men in turn become jealous, compete against one another for the girl, then when they get her they realize they fell into a trap. It's all very amusing. Personally I love to play along for a while and then drop the whole charade and walk off as if nothing had ever occurred. It amuses me to watch such instances but I honestly cannot fathom how a man falls into such a trap. Clearly he aims towards some irrational idea of "love" which is nothing more than one's desire for the other and to have it exclusively. But when the other does not return it, what might possibly drive a man to even further levels of madness as to continue his competition with another man? Move on sir. Even assuming love is worthwhile this particular will not qualify as capable of such an action.

Well breakfast was particularly scrumptious this morning. The lake water is no longer still due to Lady Dawn having stirred it up. I wonder where it's going in such a hurry. No matter, soon Monsieur Night will stop its futility. All will be still. Inactivity is the best of states. It doesn't bother to change since it accepts its nature. And a things nature is best.

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Well, he turned out to be a brute in scholarly clothes. Oh well, he was amusing while he lived. Alas! Tis no more.