Beware the Fate of Silhouette Men

Beware the fate of silhouette men. who bare the shape of man, but not its breadth and not its depth

Like a river dried up by the ravages of time. The soul of the silhouette man grew dim, dimmer, and then dark by the machinations of his own unwise

(Black) “Mirror Mirror on the …” hand all knowledge thought just within his grasp the algorithmic spells it cast, flatten him and made him mad

For rarely did he see, or hear, or smell, or taste, or touch a three-dimensional other for all had been reduced to a two-dimensional pixelated portal of that glass darkly and if not through spectacle, and hyperbole, and sensationalism or the like, how does a silhouette man make his case for inimitability?

And love’s beatitude?— that inner cry behind his pageantry of politics, and religion, and romance, and vengeance and so on— is largely unknown, even to himself, for who can see the tears of a silhouette man?

Nobody blames children, says Plato, for being afraid of the dark. The real tragedy is of (silhouette) men who are afraid of the light! The light that reveals him to himself; The light that cast away the shadows behind which he hides; The light that obliges him beyond the vale of his silhouette existence into the summit of his voluminous potential, i.e. into the fourth-dimension of flowered being-consciousness-bliss

I am that silhouette man and to s/he who hears this I say

beware the fate of silhouette men who bare the shape of man. but not its breadth, and not its depth