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(166) Svartahaf



I have a maternal uncle who works for the SS (not that one, Social Services) and my father lives for American Express—so these are two male influences, two pillars, in my life; and where am I? I sail between them—I am that third option that does not serve the corporations or the state, not socialist or capitalist; no, I’m just black—black as the principial, the unmoved mover; the light beyond the light that is blackness—what we should all adore. It’s the hermaphrodite way, the razor’s edge—straight up the middle; if I step off, I die. This is my path to salvation.


It took me a long time to realise this was so. I applied to the same university as my father but as a secondary option I put down my uncle’s university. I went to the latter, since the bureaucracy sabotaged my exam results because I went to a private school (it took me a long time to realise, it’s all rigged—all rigged right to the top, the exams are lies; it’s all a lie). But I didn’t like it at the second option. I should have dropped out, but I went to another university—a third option—in the end. You have to find your own way in the end; and my way is to walk on black coals.


It was always so, I knew it deep down. For a time, as a teenager, I pretended to be a nice social worker—a socialist, a Marxist (in the SS, to help the poor—no, really, to torture the poor; that’s what Social Services are for—to keep them from Jesus and the Buddha). So, no, I’m not in the SS (maybe the esoteric SS, though). Then I worked at a business school, but I’m not a business man. I don’t know how to make money, I don’t know how to help people either—or pretend to help people, being what social workers do. I’m just black.

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