My little brown cigars have a fiberglass barrier between myself, the divine, eternity, protecting each, preserving none. It is in enmity that a complacent, peaceful oblivion fills the eternal void: a vacuum that surrounds us, compelling us, also wringing logic from the ether in order to create an artwork to be admired, and recognition not compulsory. We admire the thing all the while though we be in frustration that it accepts no human reason: it is only an artwork to be admired. It is a thing to which we reference the term "existence".
My protagonist thusly reasoned this to himself, stupefied from the teleportation(it could be he stood to close, or yet hexed into forgetfulness) of a magician: a magician was in abeyance to his master, and that one's master in abeyance to his own master. It was like climbing rose petals in hopes that in the nexus of those would be a central nugget.
One must be bigger than circumstances, not to outwit the whiles of existence, but to pierce the fog with the sword of the mind: inquiring realities exist congruently beneath the heavens. Ethereal effluvium that one might brush aside with the harsh glare of thought.
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