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Προφητεία (12)

Updated: Aug 6, 2023

I am the light under the candle. I am the busted career. I write with a sailboat—I sleep with a fish and an octopus, the fish is orange. I have been entranced by the adder. There is no message in this message. The message has been left blank—intentional. I see a hard-drive wrapped in a guilty plastic bag. I see my father with a new computer—a laptop. I don’t understand the latest update. I made an image to conceal myself from myself—can I ever find out the answer? It seems unlikely.

I am a quantum sapphire—I have been deluded by many people. I killed the trees at Vimy Ridge. I laid with my loved under a tree—it was hot and her dress was covered with stars and moons (there was a stream next to us, her husband tried to find us but he couldn’t do it). I have abandoned reason. Churchill’s biography is beside me—but what use is this rational approach? What use is this history book that doesn’t that account for providence, providence, providence.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau exposed his penis to young girls at the well-side. He was kinda shy (can relate). There’s no point in a rational approach—because that’s the greatest delusion, everything is guided by spirits and gods beyond us. It’s secret societies all the way down (and up)—and the secret is that when people join they think it’s just a joke, or a way to get ahead, or a social club (or all) but it’s so much more than that. They just cracked their heads open and let the spirits in—let them drive them about the place.

Oh spirits that drive us hither and thither, where do you come from? (And where, reader, do they go—what plans do they have for us?). I want to go to there. I always did—I would always go to where I knew I shouldn’t (oh, you mean like this occult malarkey—err, as it happens that’s one place I didn’t want to go). You could say this is all me finally following my intuition, not trying to force it to go here or there (and always ending up at the wrong point).

Churchill was adamant that he had a star—he was determined to follow his star. I picked up his biography and it’s stars, stars, stars—born under a lucky star or no. It’s no coincidence—it’s a link. Perhaps Churchill should have looked up, though—because he didn’t ever see his real star. He just had an idea that he had a special star that guided him on—guided him here or there. Yet, as usual, you have to take these things in the literal sense—the star is out there, in the sky (your star, that is). You just have to go and find it. Never mind following it through Westminster offices and what not—there are no stars there, you’ll just waste your time.

So get in a boat and get out—go to the remote places, go the black ocean (go to where the sky meets the sea). Then look up. Then you might be in the right area—you might just see an actual star. We’re in prison—we’re all in prison. All the films, the apps, the screens—the technologies are just prison, just ways to destroy us. Even the books are prisons—even the books keep us from the skies. The grammar is a grimoire—it is just more enchantment (a perfectly harmless book—no such thing, all books are fatal; fatal to the last).

It’s all too much contrived, it’s all too much an effort to be something—to be this or be that, there’s existence for its own sake. The self-conscious attempt at art—and yet all art is dead (mostly). It’s dead because it is contrived, because the person sits down and thinks “what effect?”—what effect can I generate with this work? It’s the same with religion. Too contrived. Too much based on the idea that the audience must be manipulated, must be turned into something—must be persuaded.

I make no attempt to persuade you—I’m just letting it come, letting it come in a great flow. It’s okay because all the critics are dead—there’s no one left to judge me, so I can go where I wish. It’s beyond reason, it doesn’t seek for a particular effect. There’s no attempt to balance the sources, to weigh and evaluate—to reach a conclusion. We’ve had enough of that—we’ve done that to death, done that for our whole life. Let’s just let it rest in peace (Ket—oh Ket, you know the truth. How we adore you—oh Ket).

This must be some mistake—there are too many words here. There are too many words—and yet not enough. Words. Words. Words. Wordz—WORDS<WORDS<WORDS. Total delusion, total bubble—total dilation. Not truth, not lie—no need for either. Just a field in the summer with my cock in a girl and semen on my grey suit and my knees stained with black earth. Dirty work—in the fields, but hidden by the wheat. It’s a ceremony, we do it every three years—down in the wheat, we make it grow (the earth goes into us there—do you remember when we all did that?).

This isn’t about fame—nobody will ever know my name and I’m long past caring. I don’t care about sex. I don’t care about money. I don’t care about other people—they don’t exist. I only care about the gods—I only want to bring their realm to earth. How could anything else be worthwhile? Why do you want to live in this profane trap? Why do you want to feed the jailers? When will you get your head screwed on straight? I look out the window into the office opposite and wonder what they’re doing. They do the same.


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