God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?
A nerdy native that specializes in finding and capturing the hidden beauty in the Texas Panhandle and beyond.
Psalm 139:8 If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
All photos are mine unless stated otherwise. Go-to barynuszart.com to see my work.
Asamadi Tsalagi
Anigatogewi
Tsisa