“He drags through the wet heat of day
into the vacant indoors
into distractions of red light and violence
he leaves the withered dream body half buried in the sand of memory
he offers it up to the god of deserts
flesh on a table, waxened, destroyed by time”

an incomplete exposition on the vehicle Septu, by its author.ity Irving Paul Pereira

Ï do not know exactly what I write, but what I write knows me”

data from dreams. revelations via contemplation. methods of self analysis. a mp to understand the terrain of everyday evolution.

Septu is, in spirit
a carrier / a ghost form
I project my concerns, appellations, considerations, processing into it
a he, a she, them , us, we , me
many, legion , as diverse as the mansion within born with this body
A mansion, whose doors lead to a greater reality
the outside word in an inner world, revolving around the axis of creations seed
(while my psyche is upset with literature)

Septu is incomplete as I am
we want to point our existence towards the completion
Which we will only reach at the point of physical death
And that is still only the beginning

So we continue ‘in fragmentaris’
A refusal to shoot straight, to be understood
how can we understand the true mysteries?

Septu is some kind of psychic form
transcendental , a delusion?, another species altogether
Septu dovetails into some kind of missionary being
I’m fighting wars ‘at the right hand’ but alas I’m only sleeping (& dreaming)
we mythologized the day , avant- garde the night missions

I am, we are, here but also not
‘In septu’ I can become much more than flesh
I can touch the hem of the First Born of Creations, First born from the dead
I am preparing for death (for I have touched the hem of her cloak)
but I am also very alive for I sip from the giving cup, the stream by the wayside

there are coat of arms, grimoires, images that move through Septu to me and vice versa

We corrode and corroborate

We are as immortal as all of you are
but to live this is to consciously live with and beyond the flesh
the flesh is a wall but the wall is an illusion

How could we forget that we can never ever truly die?

to remember this is to prepare for death with all our hearts, all our souls
this knowledge is in the key, the sword, the book of Septu
but it written only for me
You have your Septus
there are as many of them as the stars, impossible to count
but there is only one fountainhead