We pretend the past is polite, sanitize the blood, call it progress.
Every ledger is a lie, every monument a tombstone—the date scratched off. The veil rips here.
“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” – Faulkner
The dead don’t speak; their ledgers do. We all bleed under the same sky, just costlier masques.
Call them beasts, starve them, steal from one to feed another. Strategy or starvation? History isn’t a lesson—but ledger. The rest is commentary.
Blood-ink lies, monuments masking graves, Faulkner’s truth endures: past devours, beasts hunger, progress pretends.
Keys
Veil tears, ledgers bleed, and Faulkner echoes—beasts gnaw bones on marble floors; history hungers, unslaked. Progress? Thieves’ grins on histories’ graves.
The past endures, ledger-bound in blood— progress’s veil, thinly drawn. Faulkner’s echo: beasts feast eternal.
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