Rampant effigies of the fallen gods.
Gods we never truly believed in, or else we’d still conceive of them as continuing to exist.
For those of us who long for gods in a world where there are none, the clouds are replications of our obsessions with the dynamic attributes of a secondary existence we dare to hope for.
It is a product of unreal juxtapositions between actual natural objects and the imaginary spectral essence of them.
The wondrous determinations of the alto-stratus convocations bring us nothing of the scenes we yearn for.
We are defeated by a world of our own making that refuses to exist.
The day is shapeless.
Colourless precipitation reaches an apex of dismay.
The lacklustre cloudbase is a type of humiliation – an inversely picturesque ramification of mistaken identity.
It thinks it is winter but is a pale imiation of the days that came before it.
Like some vague pretender without posessing the substance of the originator.
It caves into the embarrassment of its inadeuquacies when the gloom of evening sucks it into a vacuum of premature diurnal erasure.
And we are glad of its removal.
It was never our friend that we held in the darkness to prevent its departure.
Within the sweetness of decay there is an automaton of wilfull indifference towards suffering – a chaotic disregard for the structures of feeling.
It is like a deliberate strategy of the withdrawal of caring – the futility of recognising that everything, in its compliant state, is pitifully raw.
The winter, reaching points of culmination, teaches us the valuable lesson of giving up the ghosts.
And how we hate to see them drift into the transparency of their disavowal of life, through the steel-coloured skies of a non-horizon.
Cold that comes from beyond the collapsing inferences of someone else’s silence.
The silence of a god that operates without the signage of any substance in the lessons of Nature.
The spirit must translate into flesh in order to become a real ideal of religious efficacy.
The pedentary and platitudes of standard devotees are the symptoms of the expiry of their belief systems.
This will not do.
Not when there are battles that require the wrath of overseers to reap what they sow with the glad reckonings of their omnipotent rancour.
If all the themes of our analysis and of our mental investigations into the terms of existence were reduced to a single subject matter, a summary would present itself in the ordinary commotions of a Scottish Winter.
A fierce wind, the callous spirit of oblivion, as impartial as death, as voiceless and mindless as a sepulchre, as mercilous as being without the inclusion of any sympathetic denial of corresponding life cycles.
Unconscious existence is a persistent factor: to exist without knowing itself.
Is this the perfect state of material form?
Winter showers search for epics in which to deploy their battalions of tragic heroes in panegyric formats.
Chariots of enormity over the battlefields of Earth.
They own the skies, the eternal heads of proposition, within their estates of indulgence and the leeway of their destructive impasse.
The clouds are indications of metaphysical statements of fact that inhabit Nature.
There is no differential condition of opposition in the visible and invisible appearance of an object that presents itself as a complete feeling within the receiving mind.
There is a question only of the values we attach to things in terms of the material or immaterial confirmation or presumption that they exist.
The mobilisation of terrible forces.
The horizons cannot convey the restraint required for the prevention of all out mayhem.
The idea of time is a like a compaction of metallic debris being crushed to a point of fragmented compression.
No metaphor can outlast its literal implications.
You cannot contain a thing in itself within a shiny carapace of words.
Inasmuch as the sky is a metaphor for the change that defines its moving parts, the sky is always simply the sky.