Upon the river of souls the Death Lotus floats, turned this way, and then the other, by currents that pass through throbbing of the Blood Heart. Waxy, cream perfection, the Charon of living life, pulls its eyes toward the harvest, not knowing where the spinning arrow shall stop and tremble. Lotus is beauty strong enough to blind the eye. It accepts the path upon which it must float. Sorrowing not for the burden it bears, knowing out of ichors and rot will spring the seed again. Sorrow not for the scabrous and diseased thing, it but prepares the bed for the planting ahead. Weep not, for the journey threads itself upon the Mobius, spinning out its slender thread to a multitude of needles that sew it into the fabric of eternity.
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