whatever autobiography you read i guarantee you will never read a more depraved and honest an account as kinski writes in this brutal document of his life. starting as a street urchin in war ravaged poland he describes the awful poverty he was born into, the terrible situation goes from bad to worse as he is sucked into the german army and straight into an english prison, then back on the streets as a cafe performance artiste and eventually the stage and cinema. the rising star takes on any role he can get if it pays, he spills the beans on everyone he works with, and it's messy, his descriptions of himself gleam with the visceral acts of a surgeons examination, his passion and art are the only things that remain true to him as his romances and relationships disintegrate, and the burden of responsibility weighs down upon his soul. his sexual addictions make up most of the book, and as a reader you question if such a life is fiction but he is relentless and graphic. women are treated with such abandon yet his passion is driven by a kind of super charged distorted love, obsessively destroying marriages and professional relationships. 
and in all the horror comes the troubled tale of a man dealing with the glamour of his profession, with the knowledge that it is mostly bullshit, except for his talent as a remarkable actor. 
the descriptions of his work with herzog are brilliant and shocking as he pours scorn and insults upon the director, yet he makes five remarkable films with him, two are made in the deep amazon which kinski has a deep respect and affinity for.
the accounts are well written, funny and tragic and like him or loathe him you have to remark that the man is incredibly talented and tortured by fate for it. the descriptions of being incarcerated in an asylum are stunning, just as a piece of observational writing.

here i am with my holographic priestess, resonating the holy weed, divinity and gracious salvation. she says in her exotic accent, 'surrender to the boxes,' but she say's it like she means it. so i try to.
'fucking boxes' i whisper in a defiant act of weakness, looking across the chaos of mission control, my beautiful floors, spilling over with towers of books, my wonderful bookcases buckle with the weight of a million stories, you see i could just have seven kindles and moving home would be painless. such a thought is sacrilegious to me, it frightens me, neurotic beast that i am, i slouch towards the boxes, unfolding a crisp fresh one and expanding it into it's form. the three dimensional space that my storage needs require. 
all my life i have been haunted by boxes, i hate them, they are associated with my movements, sudden relocations and change, horrific relationships ending, cosmic jokers pulling my strings but they also remind me of a promise i broke.
about 11 years ago i visited my grandmother in london, it would be the last time i ever saw her. she was a lovely person, a generousness beautiful wise woman whom i really never appreciated because i was stupid with youth and arrogance. i loved her very much, her and her gentle ways, i loved it when my son met her for the first time as a four year old, they sat and played scrabble very seriously together and i looked upon them sanding in the kitchen leaning against the doorway and knew they had been very old friends. yes, yes i know you are bored with my ideas about past lives and reincarnation but that's the truth, it's what i believe and know, deep in my bones and heart. it was striking to watch them play like two elegant masters who meet every tuesday for a sacred game and to discuss some solemn abstraction.
anyway later my grandmother showed me her address book, it was fat and falling apart, wads of papers spilling out swollen with ancient pages and handwritten scrawled notes. she showed me about 15 pages where my name was and the addresses i had held while travelling the world and eventually living in australia, i looked through them, even i was shocked. but the point is my poor old grandmother was sending me a few pounds every birthday, christmas and money to buy my son something, tucked away in a greeting card along with recipes and her stories about her past and i was not getting the letters because i was changing address so often.
she made me promise that i never move so i can receive her letters and i agreed. the cash was just small amounts from her measly pension, it was more the thought of a little sweet old lady sending me this stuff religiously and me not even knowing. it broke my heart that this was occurring and i didn't even know.
so we return to palm beach, sydney where i lived in a brilliant pad on the beach, only to find amongst the letters a notice from my landlord evicting me as the building was about to be pulled down. and because i'd been away for so long i'd found myself with one week to move. 
so i moved into my place, mission control, and i wrote to my grandmother telling her i had to move, only that night i received a phone call from my parents telling me she had died.
i'd broken my promise to her, that was all i could think off, how ironic, how typical that the universe play this trick upon me. anyway i have lived in mission control for 10 years, and now i am moving, surrounded by boxes again, trying hard to love it, trying hard to accept that boxes are a part of the whole experience and failing. 

i've been knee deep in some equations, not my strong point but i have help from a rusty old computational android who seem's to get some strange pleasure from being useful, so i feed it the numbers and wait for the crunch.
anyway's a few things don't add up, and i'm no expert on pure maths but hawking as i like to call him is, and he reckons that time is bendy.
well i know enough to say, yes that's just gravity doing it's thing, but it's slightly more than gravitational, it's happening in dark matter as well. 
anyways, max the gnostic says it's not about numbers, he reckons it's about the brain chemistry, and he hit me up with some fast food, a new kind of wonder drug, aka bliss bomb, which i have to say has a sexy ring to it whereas fast food is dull and mass consumption orientated. so i dropped the bomb, changed some neurology, and sure enough time did fluctuate. hawking watched me, as i explained the sensations, but he needed numbers, i gave him a stream, lots of primes and a few polygons but hawking insisted he run some modular tests, some thing to do with clocks, and went into stop watch nuclear mode.
anyway's my own mechanism was going all salvador on me, it was meltdown time, it was counting down time, it was zero time, then i made my own computational leap and figured out what was going down.
i'm not sure where the little satori came from but i nailed it, conceptually at least, it was hard to put into an integer but what i was suggesting was that individuals carry their own gravity, and therefore gravitational pull when individuals connect, depending on personal gravity's, influence is unique, thus time with certain people appears faster, slower than others. and slowly in the depths of my mathematical bliss i configured that i (individual) over t for time, x 2i (2nd individual) equals ng (new gravitational pull) or 2it (two individual time) therefore if 3 individuals meet 3 others that would be 3 to the power of 3ing. 
i ran that by hawking who said i was pretty clever for a dyslexic pile of flesh and blood. by the time the bomb wore off i'd forgotten the whole thing and hawking and max had to explain it to me and draw pictures. it was very confusing and made me sleepy. 

PATTI SMITH - my blakean year

William Burroughs talks about Writing

the flaming lips- morning of the magicians

here is the karma cat indifferent to the world for the karma cat has 999 lives and always lands on his feet, he plays and dances with old captain mission who juggles his orbs balanced upon a rope in a physics defying hoop suspended above the earth, looked upon by his glamourous and beautiful witch queen as manifestations begin. head in the clouds and inhabiting his imagination, the orbs spin and turn and twist as gravity contemplates these zones of thoughts, where known laws are unapplied, suspended in this ether world of hanging nothingness and beauty, for who but the fool is not concerned with the outcome, who but the fool can dance within chaos unattached without expectation of result, dance glorious fool and play with cats and orbs, for you have the blessings of a witch and libertalia is on the horizon.

caught between many places at the moment, my thoughts disperse as quickly as they form, it's a coping strategy for to much input. i describe it like a plate spinner, balancing hundreds of plates on tall poles, spinning them, and sitting back, watching them, as they revolve, various speeds, directions and angles, will they fall, will he have the ability to keep them on trajectory, how will this play out?
i don't know but it feels right, everything feels the way it should so i trust that. the anxiety before me is related to relocating myself, it's an amorphous cloud monster that may not really have any form, but i can see it there getting nearer and closer, as the plates spin.
the word that people keep using in unrelated conversations is vortex, and this is exactly the term that was used once to describe my ability, vortex creator, space and time are in my hands, one day he's there the next he's not, one day it's monday 1988 the next it's newday 3087, the universe is at my disposal for my vortex play spans galaxies and mind. today i am here watching the plates spinning and wobble and self correct, the vortex creation just rearranges, it's twists and turns in incomprehensible languages of the spirit, it manoeuvres favour and creates a new playing field, the vortex is an energy that disassembles the atomic structure, gene splicing, discombobulating for the uninitiated, beautiful poetic jazz freeform for those in the know, and as i surf the cosmic highways, let it flow.

the karma cat had his eye upon you, the karma cat knows all your games, it knows your histories it knows untold things beyond time and space, it knows your movements and your trail, it knows your deceptions and your veils, the karma cat has sharp claws.
it scratches the surface, the fabrics of truth, it distributes a random justice, heed it's message.

the truth about the european union as told by nigel farage, a brilliant speaker and orator as he addresses young greeks about their situation in real terms. i like this guy, he don't spin the truth, just says it like it is. 
he is a rare jewel in government. 
australia should wake up fast to its debt and involvement big government schemes from the globalists.

in my other life i have been manifesting a new home, mission control, libertaria, a sovereign state where i am finally founding a new base. so far the whole process has been exhausting and self defeating, in that i've reached the point where my motivation is zero, the very thought of uprooting myself is like having huge heavy weights attached to your body and then thrown overboard but yesterday i drove up the coast, i felt an urge and met a lovely lady called sue who assisted me, she said 'well mission, there is one place, not yet listed but it is exactly the kind of place you may dig.'
so i went with her, down an old wide road, into the bush, with the ocean on one side and a lovely river behind a small little place tucked away, wooden floors, split level, three rooms, although my mind already knocked down a wall and made it two. there's a garage which i will convert into some sort of creative space and there is a large room out the back which will make a nice little studio. the lounge room has a fire place inside, pot belly, nice and cosy and there are two decks, the back one looks out onto the river and bush. as a garden, it's small but it's manageable, the front garden has two massive frangipani trees and a gorgeous fern plant, under which there is a large pond with some very large koi, and when i say very large i mean, very large.
the thing is it's got enough wild to keep me happy and it's a home with a good energy, lot's of good vibes, plenty of room to play, i kinda like the idea of having room for my books which are currently piled up everywhere along walls and on the floor. there is also a large loft which i could convert so there's potential for play. all in all everything fell into place and here's some things that are spooky, the guy moving out is a captain, he's a single dad with a 24 year old living overseas, he is a mental health worker, he's also a musician and his bookcase had a number of books which are on mine. 
anyways now the stress starts.

world party world groove / mind guerrilla

this was a free 12' vinyl with record mirror or nme, i picked it up when i was a punk in london in ye olde days of yore. i still have it somewhere.
from the moment i heard this song it registered with me, it's the best protest song i ever heard, best lyrics and how good is that fat sax blasting away, but listen to the girls voice in the backing vocal, it's a fucking sexy song man, cheeky and clever and those lyrics are brilliant. 
i think i'm gonna cover this tune. 


got to love the whole world baby, got to love it now.
got to love the whole world baby, got to love it now.
just move it to the left and move it to the right
got to move this planet baby clean outta sight
do the mind guerrilla 
do the green monkey
gods going to love you 
cos gods pretty funky

do the heaven on earth mind
do the fascist star nation
do photograph bloodshed
do the united nation
do the hollywood bus stop 
do the ray gun city
do the missile silo
do the million dollar halo
do the young machine tv
do the weekend gold star
do the, do the, do the. 
world war three...

talking bout love
talking bout love

after the allies won the second world war russia and america were locked in the cold war, america launched operation paperclip, a deft piece of espionage type manoeuvring which involved taking the cream of nazi scientists who would have been charged at nuremberg for war crimes, possibly given the death sentence or imprisoned with hess at spandau. stalin actually wanted to shoot every nazi that survived although churchill intervened.
the catholic church managed to smuggle most of the higher ranking officers out to south america, creating new identities however america was just getting into the swing of rockets and space travel, nasa was being birthed and required the best minds so it relocated most of the german scientists and gave them new identities within nasa, thus the american space race is based upon nazi science and the pope won't set foot in yad vashem. 
not that it matters, after all nazi science is used in many forms of contemporary life, ibm computers, opel cars, eugenics etc but what's interesting was the way that a handful of these scientists were also members of an organisation which although presents as thule, was in fact embedded within, known as vril, which was based upon a book written in 1871 called 'the coming race' by edward bulwer lytton. the book describes a powerful and advanced race of people who inhabit the subterranean levels of the earth.
it turns out edward was also a member of the golden dawn, he was also wildly imaginative and wrote science fiction fantasy, not uncommon as it was also a prescribed way in which esoteric knowledge is imparted, just look at the poems of blake and yeats, the novels of dion fortune and crowley, science fiction has always had a subversive side to it, even the old testament taken literally has a fantasy side to it and who can tell the symbolic concept from the literal, it takes a high level of training and critical thinking, and to be honest an intuitive faculty. if the bible was written today as science fiction the old testament would be called, 'master of choas' and the new, 'the thing with three souls.'
there's a line where the facts blend with fiction, a place where without restraint or scepticism one can become lost, the area is known as the house of rumour or to those in the know, the chapel perilous, from which many wander in but never out. i've written about this somewhere, the difference between freud and jung was jung was a kabbalist, freud a talmudist, for the magickian must cross into many worlds, one foot here another there, yet at the same time process all information and transmute it into light, the sun, spiritual light, intelligence, love and creativity.

i came out of a deep shamanistic trance, i'd used various plant medicines and asked various allies on the astral planes for assistance i was preparing myself for magickal attack, the black sun wanted something from me, they would be back and i needed to be prepared. i was loathe to use magick but i needed to fight fire with fire, i loaded up my auric field with talismans and protective servitors, i had friends in other dimensions that looked after me, i had a guardian angel and a host of energetic weapons at my disposal but i embedded my seal in my mind, the flaming eye, i was ready for them. 

transmigration from the temples of atlantis, mitochondrion highway, the energy bubbles, the dolphinarium, the vast aquatic chambers spiralling upwards piercing clouds, sound energy free and generous, the expansive polyp dwellings, the transparent tube transporters, the beautiful atlantan amphitheatre, the strange and sudden ending as factionalism occurred, and the memes came. ideology destroyed atlantis, when it came it came fast, the dominance over nature, the ego of the spiritual fascists, the black sun.

i wake up, covered in sweat, the window is open. it's been raining outside, i can smell traces of weather, a bird begins, dawn soon, better walk the dog and do my duties. 

the streets are empty, fresh, sun making its rise lighting up the trees and leaves with its exuberant light. no one's out and only one coffee shop is open, so i read the papers and order a coffee. 

around me time speeds up, in my mind it is slowed down, an hour passes, i'm reading the various opinions about the recent speech gillard made about misogyny, everyone is divided, it's polarised the whole country.

class war didn't work i guess so the labour party attempts the gender one. 

the other big 'joke' is this years nobel peace prize went to the european union, a bunch of unelected anti democratic globalists with a one world government agenda, what a disgrace.

i finish and head home.

to be honest there was a strange energy hanging around me, an unease, it stayed with me all day and despite several attempts to shake it off it remained. 

later in the afternoon i went to check the mail and there was one letter in the postbox, in a black envelope. my senses kicked in, intuition knew where this came from but would never be able to hazard a guess at it's contents. there were no markings on the envelope, no stamps, not even an address except for the handwritten name captain mission, which is not unusual in itself, most of my mail is addressed to me as captain mission but i've never received a black envelope. opening it was a disappointment, for it appeared empty. except for a single paperclip. 

smug cotton woolly consciousness, in and out of sleep like a dream warrior, i bend the fabric of time with space and deep imagination, filtering layers of light into dense abstracts, you can't touch me for i am smoke and dream kind. my brothers and sisters are etheric beings, angels and alien, mystery and occult, like shadows within shadows the penumbra territory.

they came in the night, four of them, they dragged me from my bed, it was cold and i was wearing my boxer shorts. the threw me on my lounge and i could make out four large bodies, dressed in black, quite possibly uniforms of some kind, they were big, huge, each one standing 7ft tall and they were strong, lifting me and carrying me easily and without effort.

i could see no detail in their faces, i assumed they wore masks but they smelt slightly sulphurous and bitter and there were the occasional flashes of red around their aura which i could not quite penetrate.

options spin through my mind, words, statements, it's an old film, black and white where the kidnapped is testy and feisty, black humour, fear, defiance, all the options are there paralysing me into silence.

i figure i will find out soon enough. 

soon it's just my breathing in the night. 

when they spoke they all had the same voice, it was neutral neither male nor female, it was music but a deep rich ancient tone.

'you, captain mission have been summoned to the order of the black sun.'

they began to tear at their shirts, ripping them away i was engulfed by the paradox of black light that burst from their bodies.

black light is the enemy of any good magickian, it is the magickians path to embody the nature of the sun and it's qualities, not the opposite value, off which the black sun embraces. 

i had given up on my magickal practice, in between missions, playing with words, watching the dissolving of structures, placing myself for the global shift when out of the blue or in this case black, came the black sun.

i knew a little about them, not enough but enough for me to know these guys were heavy hitters, in the same way the nazis were, they were not cool, not in my book, with their racial supremacy and strange adherence to the master race. i remembered when i lived in berlin i found an old pair of boots that belonged to an ss officer, i wore them around with a degree of irony, a nice jewish boy stomping through west berlin in an old nazi's pair of boots, it was somewhat kinda poetic justice. my flatmate martin von donaldson had an deep interest in nazism, he told me about the thule gesesellshaft but i never really paid any notice. in an strange twist martin who always took the piss out of my jewish roots, discovered a few years ago that he to was jewish and now he is a rabbi, or at least learning to be one, we seemed to have lost contact.

i always remember marty as being an amazing guitar player, a cross between mick ronson and keef richards, with his orange ziggy hair and chelsea boots, his rock and roll stance and his attitude, seems strange now he must be all kosher and talmudic.

anyways here i was engulfed in black light.

i'm not sure if it was hypnosis or they slipped me some drug, maybe it was a dream, sometimes i have vivid dreams hard to know what's real or not. but in the morning i was on my couch, in my shorts cold and groggy.

quite prepared to dispel the whole event as a fiction i reached for my tarot cards which were laying upon the coffee table and chose one, and there was the sun. upside down.

the order of the black sun left an impression upon me, i wandered down to the beach, it was only 6am, pan and i watched the surf, it was wild and getting wilder, a certain unease with the whole sequence, i grabbed a coffee and read the papers as i normally do, running home as the clouds burst open. they would be back, i could feel it in my bones.

WILLIAM BURROUGHS - ART NOW

to be a misogynist a man must hate women, personally i can't see any evidence of this in tony abbott, he don't hate women and the suggestion he does is dumb. he may be old fashioned but so is my dad, he may not be politically correct but that's refreshing and authentic after a season of politically correct thought police, he may not have the sound bytes and the media personality that the tv loves but i rather some one who is paying off a mortgage, volunteers as a surf life guard, takes his family to arnhem land every year to live with an aboriginal community as volunteers, than a bunch of inner city trendy androids who think they should inflict their moral superiority upon us, because we can't be responsible for ourselves. i'm a libertarian by default but i am a member of the australian sex party because they seem to have reasonable policies. i don't give a shit about labour of liberal, to me they are both completely useless but i refuse to follow the trend of being some sort of green left because it's fashionable, i refuse to accept their ideology when time and again it fails or blows up in their face. how dare these people accuse the opposition leader of being a misogynist while covering up for one. how dare the government blame tony abbott for everything when he is not the government, some one should remind them. the trouble with the sydney morning herald and the abc is that they surround themselves with like minded people, they read journalists that support their own views, which is why the news show the drum, only ever has the same old faces from the left who banally repeat the same old agenda. support the government at any cost, demonise the liberals. the sad truth is these people should actually get away from their own kind and actually engage with the community, get a wider perspective. i think they would be shocked as to how people feel about labour. let me state now, labour will be wiped from the map in the next election, they are finished and it appears the abc and the herald are the last to really know. they will be sitting in their studios and desks scratching their heads wondering, what the hell happened. i'll tell you, labour fucked up, from pink bats, to stabbing an elected leader in the back, from the massive waste of tax payers money to the unions, the think tanks, the nbn that no one wants or uses, the debt, the borders, immigration fiasco and the carbon tax, craig thompson and peter slipper. it's not that the public won't absorb a bad government, they have, but what the public won't tolerate is when instead of taking responsibility the opposition is blamed, for everything. 
i listen to parliament live, i always have, it's a far cry from the beast that makes it to tv screens and newspapers. question time is a joke, the government never answer the questions, this has been going on for years, they just blame abbott. after a while my sympathy's for the government began to turn, i see them now as a bunch of thugs who have hijacked the country and held it to ransom, destroying manufacturing, industry, and making the cost of living here insanely expensive, their ideology does not have the mandate of the public, it's not democratic as there are two independents in this so called hung parliament who no longer represent their constituents, both resigned but are still in the government as independents. their electorate didn't even get a say in it and by all accounts they are not happy. finally on the misogynist claim, julia gillard i ask you this,   
there are many women who are disgusted with the labour party, are they misogynists?

there can be no doubt now that the australian government is finished, such hypocrisy as they have displayed over their vilification of tony abbott and then the support they gave over the speaker who has sent vile text messages of a repulsive and sexual nature derogatory to women leaves a bad taste in most peoples mouth. i've come to expect this type of double standards from the labour movement, they attack abbott and blame him for everything, i've never seen a government so adept at avoiding taking any responsibility. yeah i don't like abbott either but the situation is so distorted by the labour party his wife has come out to defend him and so sincere was her speech i believe her over these labour women hit squad, anthony albanesie the sleazy weasel who really is a slimey toad, the treasurer wayne swan who lives in denial as he plunges australia into debt so deep our great grandchildren will be taxed before they are even born. and then there's our pm, who to be honest i'm sure is okay at heart but comes across like a cartoon version of kath and kim. the only mp who makes sense is lindsey tanner who quit as soon as gillard took office, he knows the labour party is finished.
anyways labour is labour, they always have been thugs and union bullies, relevant in the old days and now so far out of touch they need to be put down. but what is reprehensible is the greens, and the independents.
here is a man who has sent text messages describing woman in a vile base way, he's about to go to trial for sexually harassing his male staffer, he's suspended as speaker of the house and he's being paid a million bucks a year plus a substantial pension still, all paid for by the tax payer and he described a liberal woman as an 'ignorant bitch' amongst other things, yet his supporters said absolutely nothing, he's not sexist or misogynist.
given that the government has crucified abbott for being these things and even i can't understand why, he once said some stupid comment about abortion but generally he seems okay around women, he has a three daughters and a wife who seems to adore him. he has a number of women in his party who all speak very highly off him. i don't get it, he certainly is conservative in that old fashioned way but sexist and misogynist? 
so when peter slipper's text messages are revealed you would expect these usual suspects to say something, you would expect the left and their political correct brainwashed morons to jump up and down and say something, but silence. when the opposition came to quite rightly call a vote of no confidence on the speaker, they lost the vote. i mean this is the highest office in parliament, meant to be impartial, how can any woman seriously respect the office, how can they call the speaker 'honourable speaker?' 
to the average member of the public things for labour look bad, really bad but for the greens and independents who today voted for peter slipper to stay the public have had enough. its over for the government, and their cronies, the final nail in the coffin. come the next election they will be gone. 
personally it makes no difference to me about who the government is, i don't care that much, but i rather have a government that didn't blame the opposition for their failures, i rather have a government who balanced the books, and i rather have a government that didn't feel like it has to control everyone's lives to the point of thought police. i know i'm in the minority, i know i'm not trendy and fashionable, i know all these things but i would rather be unpopular and despised rather than be a hypocrite. 

its been an emotional few days, i'm shattered and worn out, burnt like an over cooked slice of whole grain that got stuck in an over enthusiastic toaster and is now just a shrivelled up slice of carbon being wedged out with a bent knife by a frustrated hungry man with a toothache and short fuse. well that's how it feels.
the bad news came from the man himself and it appears as though the days are numbered for the only band that matters anymore. it's not the lifestyle, the long hours, egos and clash of ideas over musical direction, it's the years and years of financial mismanagement of being ripped off by record labels. imagine this, the church received $100 each for a years royalties.
how does that work? i'm not any good at arithmetic, can't balance my own books to save my skin but i know something is amiss at stats like this, hundred dollars is what, four cd sales, maybe eight at most. now the church can't have sold 8 x 4 cds over the year, that includes back catalogue.  
some where down the line someone has made a terrible mistake or someone is ripping off the band and by proxy us, the fans, it's a terrible injustice, terrible. these guys really do deserve the big bucks, they stake everything on their music, and i know they struggle with bills and rent and stuff just like everyone else, they work hard and deliver a product that is top shelf quality. it irks me so much, it's a crime against humanity and it's niggling away in the pit of my guts, even as i surfed in the ice cold cube water this morning, still and calm, one wave every hour, i found no joy, even as i drove a car filled with goji berries through raging bush fire on the central coast along a winding road listening to 'back with two beasts' smoking a spliff i was not quite right in my centre, and even when i returned back to mission control to write, all that came out was this sad terrible idea that the church will come to an end. i don't want this to happen, for the most selfish of reasons.

hail to the mermaid, the hydra and the mantis, the electric eel and vivid starfish of atlantis, the doorway of perception, cloaked in veils of velvet, the pineal territory, gone but not forgotten, mildly hallucinatory. 
we give praise to the vessels of art and love and forgetting, we travel with companions who betray you with regretting, the flora and the fauna, the hedgerows that rustle, the incubating metaphor on the verge of memory, the spirit of the dear departed that wander through the cemetery.
joy to the pegasus, the satyr and the centaur, in the dominion of the unseen go minions of lemuria, sages and mystics, unfathomable statistics, lost to the tidal waves of time and again, cycles and circles, twisting and turning, the candles are extinguished but the flame is still burning.