There is a black place inside me. It can be reached and perhaps it can consume. But it is not a hive. The black place inside me is mine. I found that it could be filled of architecture and light, water and ancestor, o, things that make me bow-to.
“There will come a day when no more poets will be born. The city, in our fearsome urbanized future, will impede their birth. And so, the government will keep the ones still made ill ‘by beauty and by the past’ in gardens, like greenhouses, on the rooftops of skyscrapers, without demanding anything of them — much the way we now provide for the insane — leaving these geniuses free in their cages believing the lie that they might yet prettify the landscape of the apocalypse with their brilliance.”
Viscount Emilio Lascano Tegui | On Elegance While Sleeping