If there is to be no Love & the world not do as it wills?
Mortality would lose sway & all its infinite pleasures drain away. Each egg of desire would desiccate in the wild. Every starry rudiment, wanton void, resultant spore dry up, waste into dust, just as every truth born of failure snap, twist & tear away in the wind; the ideal wind, the wind that is a perfect, a divine, an ultimate wind; a monotonous, motionless, platonic, pristine equilibrium. A cold mix of aseity that is not truly a wind, but an icy entireness—no more the vague & windy adventure, this emptiness we are at home with, whose brooding dark perpetuations buoy an island universe, but now must cease all going away. To go away the rigors of adventure. No more vague philosophies penetrating ardent contradiction. No more of the unsettled "beyond" exploited by sex & the dead--- legacies that must precipitate & every thought of a thing submit & cement into a naked Oneness.
Who would know how to know? How, with the prohibition of such as time & gravity, or death & copulation, could we learn? The satisfaction of stars that breed error in our soils could not go the way of decay. The satisfaction of a single butterfly, restrained no longer by ruin might become the everlasting, a disorder of eternity entirely bound as nothing of variety, nothing of this varying universe & nothing of the various Gods adorned with Love could ever become, never gather & forever go away.
