when i get there, there are all kinds of people writhing and squirming in this living, breathing pond of infinite possibilities. i know i shouldn't do it, but i can't help it. i need to belong. i need to feel something. as soon as i touch the surface of that pond, the ripples fading away, like being infected with some cancerous, viral sickness, the whole thing, all the possibilities, turn into a gooey, decaying substance of could-have-been.

some boy steps out of this, by some strange virtue unaffected by all of this: "wanna do some K?"

next thing i know, i see this puppetlike body that has never really been my own ooze away from me in gentle sluglike waves, following the slow relentless beating of a heart that has always been at the bottom of it all. this puppetlike body that has neverreally been my own drips into a sluggish pond within a viral, cancerous swamp. drifting in these numb final waves, following the slow relentless beating of a heart that has always been at the bottom of all of this, there is just one basic thought echoing through the soft black emptiness: if only at that place so many uncounted years ago, when i saw all her bodies light up, i could have been walking away from her. if only at that place so many uncounted years ago, i would have never touched that brightness.

in all this featureless numbness, drifting through currents following the slow relentless beating of a heart that has always been at the bottom of all of this, this echoing thought seems to be the true fundamental foundation of who i am.

CHAOS NEVER DIED.  Primordial uncarved block, sole worshipful monster, inert & spontaneous, more ultraviolet than any mythology (like the shadows before Babylon), the original undifferentiated oneness-of-being still radiates serene as the black pennants of Assassins, random & perpetually intoxicated.
...
Everything in nature is perfectly real including consciousness, there's absolutely nothing to worry about. Not only have the chains of the Law been broken, they never existed; demons never guarded the stars, the Empire never got started, Eros never grew a beard.
...
There is no becoming, no revolution, no struggle, no path;  already you're the monarch of your own skin--your inviolable freedom waits to be completed only by the love of other monarchs: a politics of dream, urgent as the blueness of sky.

Agents of chaos cast burning glances at anything or anyone capable of bearing witness to their condition, their fever of lux et voluptas. I am awake only in what I love & desire to the point of terror--everything else is just shrouded furniture, quotidian anaesthesia, shit-for-brains, sub-reptilian ennui of totalitarian regimes, banal censorship & useless pain.

taz