There is a jungle in the forest, and the night is a shadow, a shadow that dances with the lights of demons and angels, a thousand million mysterious smiles, glinting, smiling. In this jungle, the cats are jumping. And the monkeys are running, screaming. The birds are leaping, circling, singing and clapping. There is music, there is sun, there is light, there is life. The jungle is alive, and it lives. The invisible forces that play as strings of a harp strummed by the most delicate and graceful fingers lace and interlace as they weave the infinite threads that are the fabric of the continuum of continuums. The cosmic ballad is a magnificent tome that shall only be read by the greatest titans, the eternal elites that are the unity, the one and the perhaps more. It is in this sphere of contained infinities that a beast lurks. The softness of the steps, the malice of the calm, the strength of the patience. There is a tiger in this jungle, and its approach, its departure, its eyes are unseen. It walks in between the spaces between one moment and the next. It is a particle that is a wave that is dueling duet of dancers, moving to the music, playing with the spoiled children of temporal containment, and it is moving. It is waiting, it is watching, it is sitting, it is hungry. The tiger that lurks, that we fail to see at our feet, in our spirits, is the subdued capacity of humanity. The ferocity of freedom lies trapped in the cages constructed out of the very elements that are sold fervently as the only modes of defense, of feasting. See the monster. Devour the evil. Raise to the heavens, human.


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