To contemplate the mysteries

azorica:

To immerse myself in an air untainted by the human scent. To be cushioned (plushly) by age-old stone… each stalactite, each stalagmite piercing the under-ether. To be the only indentation in purity: the only depression. To be amongst only the still, tacet. To see the wan luminescence of the wingless damsels (a hushed cri de coeur to their airborne compeers). To swathe myself in tranquility. To trill – not to dishonour the silence, but to hear the indefinite echo, the resonant repeat of the past. To submerge myself in the inky lakes (pivoting and swirling in a Stygian darkness), the severe faces of the eels watching from closeted crypts, wary. To be solus, to be amongst the archaic.

good god almighty yes

(via acheiropoietos)