Mask the light. This is a manifesto. I am calling out to all the poets, the singers of the day. There, there on the storm of dawn I can see your words take shape.
A thousand candles burn and yet each flame is distinguished. What has happened to us? Mask the light. This is a manifesto. Dim the aura and you will see, what has been hidden beyond the faint border between illumination and the rest of the world; Beacons blare brightly from the center but they bear not words but chains, chains made of words.
Mask the light. This is a manifesto. I am calling on all the heralds, the lamented drum roll of the day. I feel you, scribes, I hear your pain as you toil and speak and write for our parents.
Voices raised in song to beats dictated, phrases uttered under the yoke of age. Leather bands chafe against communal backs, stifling the yearning, the intention towards the other. Mask the light. This is a manifesto. I call you not to pierce a veil but to gently move it; see not beyond but aside a presupposed plan, a dictionary of what can be said and must not, what can be meant but never is, what can be thought but must die in the craniums of youth.
Mask the light. This is a manifesto. I am calling on all the standard-bearers, the paths through the vale. Shivering on street corners the worthwhile hearts of our day do nothing but decay.
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