Sakhalin; a Survey

Introductions

These are the melancholy journalistics of a wandering Photografeur whose name is forgotten or otherwise lost. Let it be known: All lands are islands, disconnected and despairing. Let is also be known: All souls are lands of infinite darkness, save for the Light of Kirim.

Rejection

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Red Krim, return! Have you forgotten us? He is surely a fool, he who still holds Krim close.

Remorse

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Yes, but those were better days! Days of Spring and growth. It is our lot to suffer, for we are abandoned, child. Be not judgemental, for one day you, too, will abandon your dreams.

Rejoice!

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Arch-Angel Mykyle: Bless this land of Pikkyia! Bless this cursed soil! We are Children, you are olde – You are child-like, we are dead and dying. May the ocean carry us home! Arch-Angel Mykyle: Bless our vegetares, poor as they may be! Grant some salvation for these fields, these farms, this peninsular sadness …

 

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So sayeth ancient Stigaie

What sayeth ancient Stigaie?
Merely reflection of the self; so reasonable.
Pär, the wounded child searching,
Man searching is child lost! Ayem, ayem, ohm!

What is sound but soul-reflection? Religion is music, religion is song, is freedom, is free!

Oh, thine Stigian bosom, so wide …

So bold …

Everything is Stigian, simple jazz of damned Dramencie. Damned!

Aye, Mykyle, were you truly lost? No sustenance but leafy greens, no hope but fields open, wide; oceans lurking, warm, true. This bridge bridges reason. This reason is a bridge. No bridge is reasonable.

He is whiter than any scholar! Too white! Only an egg. Only the kingdom, and the future of the Kingdom

All is not hoody.
All is not good. Good is not.

These dreamer, these pioneers. Oh, oh, ohm, Mykyle! Child, child! What was thine dream?

Factorization, or mere factorials? No, being, neither! Was naught!

Johann: on the arch-Angel Myklye

Who art thou, Johann? Without hesitation, you are in control of all life; all death. Even Angel Myklye!

Yoham and I, we danced with Death, oh! Oh! Death, what step, what groove, what hop of the Lindees! Are you of Mortales? Hop, hop! Yoham you Jew of infinity! Thine hair; silver! Shine!

Ohm, Yoham, you moon! Proud, proud moon! Of silver, of gold … you ghost! Leave us not …

Our body suffers, he sleeps, he is of strength diminish’d! Yoham … You, mine Lad, of orthodoxy not-too-strong, of freedoms and Judaism mystikal! Logik, Yoham? Art thou un-logikal? Like that! fair Moomin? Ayem ayem oh!

Ohm, Brandon, Proud Hindoom, Proud Yew!
Ayem, ayem ohm!

Art thou Dath? You age, ancièn, silver, Gray!

Brandon the Ladd (Die Ungere)

Art thou cursive? Yes, there is more in ancient Pikkiya, country olde … Brandon, Brandon, on knoll so green, so mystikal! Aye, I can speak no more, I have no voice, I am Sound!

Yan-Olaf of the Mountain, speak my words, speak ungrammatically, speak freely, free, Free! Angel Myklye!

From the diary of Jakko Krimälainen

Spanned by the Granite Matrix

14th of March, 1828.

Discord breathes forth from the walls of my dwelling. I cannot sleep. It resonates with the pulse of my past wrongdoings. It tears my flesh and flays the spirit.

17th of March, 1828.

For a week now I have been denied proper rest, no sanctuary offered. I have torn to pieces that tome which I once revered and whose spell seems to have entered my very bloodstream. Who are you, Yanchal Krimeli? Show yourself, for I can take no more!

21th of March, 1828.

Last night I had a vision. The phantasm as I clearly recall; a stranger of angelic stature pulled me from these haggard mountains and lulled me to sleep in a most balm garden, rich with almond trees and soulful quiet. I am at peace. Never again shall I practice occult combinatorics.

The remaining pages are blank.