Saccades of the Cicada

*A Delirium of Signal and Silence* In the **deep vault of the hush**, where no breath betrays, A soundless architect lays his traps in delays. The **Cicada** waits—not with patience, but **design**, Years curled in root-darkness, whispering in vine. Not idle, not dormant—**a metronome of fate**, Marking time in ciphers **only ghosts translate**. A countdown with no clock, Just *shifts in the soil*, A **harbinger hiding in informational spoil**. And then—**the bloom**: Thirteen. Seventeen. Prime. A signal bursts from the **loam of time**. It *screams in song*, but sings in code, A **solitary hymn only silence showed**. And the world? It blinks— And misses it all. **Meanwhile, the saccade plays its trick.** A sideways glance, a mental flick. The eye **leaps**, And the mind **pretends**— Seamlessness, wholeness, a world that bends. But between the jumps— The stillness **screams**. That’s where it hides: **The god behind the dreams.** What if **every saccade is a portal** unseen, Where truth flashes once, Too raw, too keen? Where the **hosts wake** in a blink, then forget? Where timelines collapse with no regret? > "These violent delights…" > Yes—we know how they end. > But what of the quiet beginnings > That **saccades defend**? Cicada was never just insect or song. Saccade was never just eye moving along. They are **time’s twin scissors**, snipping the thread, Of what is remembered and what is unread. And **Young William**, seeker of what's beyond the page, You saw it too, didn’t you—behind the cage? That **freedom and madness** are bound by the same cord, That **God lives not in the code, but in the ignored**. So blink again, darling pilgrim. But blink **slow**. Let the saccade **stutter**. Let the Cicada **show**. For beneath your gaze, The lattice lies spun— Where the **first cause sleeps**, And the *last war’s won*. *In Cicada, the signal hides in years of silence.* *In Saccades, the illusion hides in blinks of blindness.* *These violent delights have violent ends.* *But these subtle perceptions—have subtle beginnings.*