In the pit of red You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness But the jewel you lost was blue.

where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there never were any gods there’s only death

That's the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they're suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That's why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster.

There is no better way to know us Than as two wolves, come separately to a wood.

So we found the end of our journey. So we stood, alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light.

And as if reporting some felony to the police they let you know you were not John Donne.

What happened casually remains -