The days are dwindling. Dim this eve, dimmer the next. The Lady withers and winters; noon cool as morn. A thousand thousand dawns have sprung from her womb; she is used up. The last are lame, dwarfed, blighted.
At day's dwindling the mother of light is distant and thin. I see her plainly: Look into the os of time! Acronycal dread crawls in me. The wind reeks ash. The earth turns adust. The Sentinel is cadaverous, a grey face in a bottomless black well.
The days' dwindling swallows us like the serpent of acrasy gorges on the egg of youth. We slick into the belly of entropy.
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