Camus is a god. god does not exist

2004-07-11, 7:56 p.m.

i could only hope that large crowds of people would be there, at the execution, ready to yell and to jeer when the blade fell. i could only imagine the fluid gray walls in the a prison cell, and the celestial plays that occur at night, seen through a tilted square of iron and a deep black palor.

yes, the irrevocable truths are embedded in solitude and reflection, but they are much less pretty then the gems of africa or those same pricks of light which recite Issa in the dead night. from a singular point, the dusk brings an immediacy that midday or midnight could never dream of. here, with the winding down of the birds and the periodic chirps of a kid in the nearby playground, you sense specific moment and not just some arbitrary timeline that you etched into the sidewalk of being.

<-------- morning cracked your window

no right to ask .

--------> you could see it in the writing