Thursday, March 26, 2009

THE MASTERS OF LANGUAGE(persecuation_phrases)

The Masters of Language know the keys that open the doors, for the locks are their faces.
They never laugh. They are never afraid. They do not die. They have no terrors, they are never in darkness.
Their homes are illuminated, night and day; their eyes are headlamps picking out the folds in hilly roads. For them there is no silence, no weakness. They are inside the machines, without a doubt, and their motion never slackens. Their willpower like the flywheel of a steam-roller, pushing the wheel that pushes it. They devour mens desires, after having invented them.
They have no need to dream when they sleep, for their waking dreams are, precisely, the faces of infatuated men and womwen streaming along the corridor'channels, identical trolleys carrying their precious cargo towards the warehouses.
their heavy, living cargoes of thoughts.
The Masters of Language have no love for men. The Masters write their words, words as big as buildings, their terrible silent words that crush the world. They invent the syllables that lull the mind to sleep,
they create the magic phrases that persecute.



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