And, the silence is philosophy. Philosophy is silence, is night, is darkness. Philosophy is void. It is the air that produces the poetic tunes; vibrating feverishly within thy vessel. Philosophy is death.

Philosophy does not know, philosophy is. Put thy lips that teat, and drink the milk of ages and be inebriated, invigorated and vivified. Bring your cups, your goblets, jugs and put them to the tap; fetch, drink the ichor that thence pours and ascend thyself. Philosophy is not without thy soul, it is within. Philosophy is the forever receptive bed, philosophy is the palace which the road of sleep, deep thought and pinnacle emotion shall lead you to.

Philosophy, wisdom, everything, nothing, these are but names meant to assist the kindness of thy poetry, being hands to extend that office. Philosophy is thy soul, philosophy is silence, philosophy is the silence of thy soul. Find thy soul in the garden of solitude, at ease, floating upon the green fields in infinite repose. Find the dove upon thy head saying ‘this is my son, in whom I am well-pleased’. And the silence shall erupt with vociferation, ferocity – burning, burning – shining the music of the universe, yea Everything. And in that moment, when thou art the occasion, the stage and the tool for the transport of thy silence, thou shalt say ‘I, by the power of I, have known God’ and thou shall move upon the face of the deep; roving, free, spirit, Being.

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