The call of the siren leaves an irreparable sound on the light that surrounds me.
It is if the air itself could sense the magical thought of passionate wisdom that resonates in the waves of lust around us.
She, the siren, is a fantasy of old tales written in the newest forms of social misconception. The purest of anthologies made flesh in the present mess of the future now. A spiral of undeniable faith in values and the ability to, with talent, judge the needed path of joy and enlightenment.
A singular point in the horizon of infinite search and sadness. The point where the intersecting lines of rapid growth and rational construction of the mind, cross, creating a chiseled mouth of dreams and wet unconscious touch that only music can understand.
A pure muse of never ending ships weighted only by the desire of men. The ones who sail the mystical sea of delusion and Black Death. My death.
The one muse that kills only the inside by degrading and eroding the mountain of stone you thought had the strength of solid magma. The one that juggles the beating heart of thousands in the hand that colors your black face red. The unfinished torture of sight, platonic and eternal. Undeniable. Magnetic and able to pull all the screws that binds your skull to my earthly form.

So much light, so much to ambition, so little the call can provide to me, except the pain of a shipwreck found deserted in the island of despair.

the MONSTRUKTOR will prevail

— the monstruktor


March 28, 2014