Cryptic

Who could possibly know now of the master’s disregarded dawning? What waits scheming and strategizing endlessly in the shadows has indubitably, invariably lurked and lived there undetected and undeterred. Despite his present form, you would likely agree the ages have never touched those few like him, though host upon host of hirelings have trudged as the tides, rising, falling, an endless cycle repeating.

Faust’s bargain or bitter brokenness, the mode matters not. It suffices to understand loathing is unlimited, a walkabout in wearisome wastes, to him sustaining and supporting.

No sound, no breath, just a flash of firelight on eye projects his presence in dilated darkness.

This is the voracious void into which our aspiring apprentice first appears, in the crosshairs of unblinking fate, unflinching finality.


Photo is by jtchen-photography.

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