I am an eavesdropper, a peeper, a cosmic footpad;
With my ear at the keyhole of Eternity I report what I hear in that beyond-room, where IT works—
IT, the thwarter of me and of thee and of all things that savor of smut and of ether—
Thwarts even itself in its huge imbecility: IT, the spirit of Law, the shadow of thee and of me, the Great Blunted Purpose.
What I hear in the beyond-room, is it the illusions of dreams, the crackle of burning brain-faggots, or the veritable IT at its experiments?—
Solving us, evoking us, tempting us out of the womb of the Naught into the awareness called life.
Does IT use the dregs of me or the best of me?
Eternity: is it inhabited?
The imminent cycles, the durations dead, the secrets in them: are hey in ITS keeping?
Still, I listen, with my eye at the keyhole, and report;
For I know there are a Thwarter and one thwarted, a Nothing at war with a Something, a gad and a writhe—
One who returns everlastingly, but who is never repeated in Time.