From a Notebook Lost: The Same and The Other 47
A coldness emits and exudes from the deep and from the depths. It stings as it touches and within in I can see mine ghost. I cannot hold or grasp it, but I have a vision of it in this coldness. A shape or form, it holds not, just a moving phantasmagoria. It speak in tones, both melodic and harmonious, sweet and soothing to hear, Somehow it has an ability to echo and resound of itself from itself which makes this voice ethereal and angelic and daemonic. It speaks esoterically and of an arcanum and same and other and darkness and light and coldness and of things not extant. It whispers in wispy ways and gently it lulls me to a state of phanstasy. Reaching for a resolution, an end, a beginning, a reckoning, a justification, of knowing and knowing not. An era, an epoch, an aeon that transcends all and nothing and becomes in its becoming what it is(are), were(was) and will be (shall come). It crawls and slithers using its moving and making motion to become. Grasp and hold no longer to the idea and ideals of is, were, will be, the confining circle of the same. But become in becoming the other It declares an end, a beginning, a start, a finish. No longer a same, but an other. Now is an other, no longer a same. The scape now seems full and complete. Though cold and empty and a nothing. It has reached its end, the finish, no longer same, but other. Stretch forth above and beyond and behind and across this and that and here and there. The circle of same is now broken into two pieces and go along the eternal paths of the other.