I wrote this when I was like sixteen, before I’d ever heard of LessWrong:
Dreaming of things yet to come, bleeding ink into the sand, we passed the days on hither shore, for time measureless to man; and soon our bloody mark was made on the sand on which we ran.
Footprints upon the sunless shore were rarer than the stains, the moon cast light upon the trees, the moon gave us its rain, and to each other in the night we shouted our refrain:
“We immortal run here, waiting; we don’t die despite the bleeding; we will continue their lives’ taking if they won’t take our heeding; and we would trade their lives for light, for these stains are worth reading.”
So surprising, mountain rising, o’er the sunless rainbow land, we deathless died of shock and bled as God lifted His hand; and these last words that we had bled are stained there in the sand:
Still stained there in the sand, beyond the reach of man.
I wrote this when I was like sixteen, before I’d ever heard of LessWrong: