Old Mykyle, Oh …
These are the writings unconstrained. Of no consequence, yet of great consequence. This is what it is.
Recall the story of the sculptor: he who would render the World in clay. The sculptor, wise in years, struggled. He found the World depraved, as clay it crumbled. And so the painter: every painting black, darch, void. What is art, in His absence?
Consider then the lonely seeker: he writes poem and verse, song and psalm, but finds only his own weakness. He suffers under some tall, dark branches. Those trees are History; he cannot grasp it. He never will.
The Merry yet dance. They are imagined, or possessed, and they dance. Know they sorrow? Know they Void?
These are burdens Apokalyptik. Toil, Olde Pykkia, eternal serpent-kind coil! You have purpose. We are not dead!