Found in an old notepad, presented unedited...apparently I wrote this...

grim funeral/necro/expression within inexpression/unexpression/the inexpressible. 

Annihilating Unity

Accelerating toward Ø 

As black metal's punishing ascent toward the "Haptic Void" culminated in sacrifice to transcendence, the quest for transcendence was swallowed by the concerns of the transcended. Black metal had evolved and new concerns filled the holes left by solving the puzzle of Christianity and its inversion through atheism, agnosticism, irreligiousity and modern paganism. The attack vectors upon the cross easily become sublimated into attacks upon a dominant american/capitalist/conservative ruling class, whose primary mode of movement toward the modern black metaller is through an anti-environmentalism/progress as industrial growth/anti-human(though decidedly not anti-humanist) power paradigm that had itself in many ways evolved out from an over-reliance on Christianity . The Cascadian scene revels and flourishes within the new man/nature dialectic, fashioning themselves as modern warriors of the soil, Melancology is born. Melting down the human and ultimately selfish desire for transcendence into selflessness via involuting that selfishness into a "selfishness for the world." 

----------Black Noise takes this "upward" trajectory and repurposes a linear gaining for a spiral recursiveness. We aren't aiming for the end, but a true rebirth in the OM of nothingness.

Black Noise must necessarily perform this radical deconstruction in order to expose how universal the feelings evoked by black metal are, by showing that all of the individual parts of the assemblage, on their own, are interrelated to every -or any- other style. To show, as Glenn Branca, John Cage, and hundreds of others before, that there are no rules, there is no objective haptic void as terminus, that "nothing is true and everything is permitted"(WSB), and to explicitly challenge preconceptions about exactly what art or music is. 

The return to the formless noise of OM opposing the extraction of Music FROM the formless noise of OM.

Simultaneously infinite and unattainable

Haptic void is not ^ an ending point, but one space among many….one node among many, comparable to deleuze's rhizome Connectable in assemblage, in sequence, or singular through a process similar to quantum entanglement...to inhabit the haptic void and use it to power incursions into other genre spaces. a black hole with infinite mass, dragging us inward and crushing all light into singularity. providing unity and universal fluidity through formlessness of noise.

If "Transcendental Black Metal is in fact nihilism, however it is a double nihilism and a final nihilism, a once and for all negation of the entire series of negations." as Hunter Hunt Hendrix posits in his manifesto, then Black Noise is a over-nihilism, a suffocating and desolating blast exposing the haptic void as not the infinite and unattainable end point of maximal brutality, but as a space in a 4 dimensional field infinitely connectable and relatable to all traditional genres of music. A space borne of a capability for negation in all things, but rather than the view traditionally espoused in relation, not in series or inversion, but in rhizome. In an interconnectability of emotion with style, the haptic void could be expressed as the death drive, emotionally attachable to any creative movement. A hearkening back to creation not as flower gently unfolding in morning dew, but creation as rupture, as pressure on fissure, to view  entropic reduction of statue to clay as simply a variant nexus of creation rather than destruction removes the inversion necessary to Transcendental BM's superiority complex and gives all progressions of intensity in every or any OR NO direction positivity. Maximising internalised intensity. Maximising stagnation to speed entropy. 


A tearing of the transcendent arc affirming no way out. 

The transcendental view of the haptic void reaches the top of the mountain and dies to be reborn. Black noise annihilates the mountain and kills everything so that all may be reborn. Sonic building blocks reduced to OM. A 'disappropriation' and reduction of all possible sounds from any position into a near uniform hum of feedback and the "bright white nothing at the end of a tunnel"(Thantifaxath 2013)

black noise is a convergence of two(twin? nearly parallel) vectors in emotion/genre-space that both contain 'Haptic conditions' or 'endpoints' in their respective genre/cultures, multiplying the effect of their shared darkness by reinforcing it with each style's capacity for extremity.

to drag the transcendant into harmony with our new system of flexible immanence, we simply offer the possibility of transcending the classical historical-progressive method of genre delineation into a more complete unified "rhizome" or node system wherein stylistic choices, historical musical influences, emotion, and intensity(stylistic choice and intent marking multiple positions in genre-influence/space, with emotions felt during the process of creation replacing time, and intensity marking a vector and speed toward convergence points) create a 4 dimensional vector map of possible achievable sound with black noise being an impossibly remote point where multiple sets and types of extremity coalesce and converge at high intensity. 
------------------
The mode of the haptic void is involution. It reaches out from the future to fuel our incursions into it, pulling us along, making every press into it stronger and more robustly extreme. Not creation or revolution. A complete abandonment of the concept of endpoint. a replacement of the arctic circle/negation of negations inversion with the concept of a spiraling of intensity that can never be fully begun or ended. An opening of the circle to allow for Time and progression within the cursory boundaries of the circle-.
-----------------

to place oneself at the very limit of oneself where one is dissolve  to NOTHING.
—Scott Wilson
“Youth always tries to fill the void, an old man learns to live with it.” 
― Mark Z. Danielewski
Via dissonant resonances within and among these three phenomenal nodes, black metal vibrationally unhinges the order of things, tritonely crushes all holy trinities, annihilates every binding of the chain of being.

—Nicola Masciandaro

He withdraws into a liminal space that exceeds the capacity for mortality to withstand it, and undergoes a sacrificial demise in order to open himself up as a habitat for and an expression of the power of the demon. 
—Anthony Sciscione
A philosophical demonology would therefore have to be “against” the human being – both the “human” part as well as the “being” part.
—Eugene Thacker
Instead of the power of prohibition and censorship Black Metal Theory serves to increase and expand more and more on that which has been forbidden.
—Niall Scott

“Each day death corrodes what we call living, and life ceaselessly swallows our desire for the void.” 
― Jindřich Štyrský

“The obstinate miner 
of the void 
exploits 
his fertile mine” 
― Jean Cocteau

indestructible truth

"Have I not declared to you that it is in the very nature of all compound things that they must be dissolved again? We must separate ourselves from all things near and dear to us, and must leave them. "
Buddha "The Announcement of Death"

Perhaps this is why metal is heavy – not because it is about nature, politics, or religion, but because it gets at a central ambivalence surrounding material culture. Eugene Thacker - Occultural Studies 1.0: Black Metal


We have such a linear way of apprehending experimentation via genre cross-pollination, a historical way. This begat that begat this etc ad nauseam. The problem with this is that sub genres aren't "invented" or created through simple interaction with a linear set of influences, but through actively coordinating a set of infinitely interactive and connective units and assemblages made from emotional states, intensities of feeling, cultural and subcultural references and influences.


a nonsovereignty  yes, divinely impure, of course…..but the void is already filled with black. The void fills US with black. The void reaches out and infects us. 

what is

Smashing together thoughts for the introductory chapter of a book I think I might get down on soon. A tweaking and reworking and expansion of all experimentation thus far.


|||||| A virtual prison of mimicry and transfixed hypnotism, the complacency and ultraviolence of the life- and gain-obsessed male-aggression culture ensures and entrenches this turbulence while amplifying attempts to contain or expel death’s effects such that gained power may never be relinquished. Death emerges from technocratic transhumanism as ultimate horizon of control : this trajectory carves open a necromantic channel of revolution. Neoreactionary technosingularitarianism(working title ;))|radical paranoia|bleak-hole nihilism irrupt as advanced strategy but even these have difficulty coping with the wave upon novel wave of pathology that breaks upon the mind as the organ of infinite imagination seems to have as many ways of malfunctioning, as many ways of hiding information, as many ways of covering its tracks, disguising itself... This problem is intensified by exponential growth in input streams - a “being-opened” that often decays into an always-closing-off in defense against the constant evisceration : a closing-off that mirrors the psychoanalytic concept of repression : compulsively pre-emptive strikes on anticipated potentialities - people really don't like to talk about death. This defense mechanism amplifies the difficulty of the transformation from being turned inward (the passive nihilism of insignificance) to turning inside-out (the active annihilism of self), adding complexity to this lock, the picking of which is a prerequisite step for the accurate tuning -or excising- of the consciousness, of the Self, of Mind. The reconfiguration of this isolating and oppressive feedback loop called my individualised “ego” by skills that are explicitly developed in the twin disciplines of self-destruction and self-construction is the navigation of my own mirror maze.

 //”...The organism cannot live the death that gives rise to the difference between life and death.” To which the yogi replies, “Au contraire, Mister. I’m living it right now. So are you if you did but examine yourself.” - Timothy Morton, Thinking the Charnel Ground//

The neuronihilism herein is my sketchbook of shadowmirrors, a record of necrologic autopoiesis : a bag of poetricks and artifacts : a zentheogenic gloss on the archetypes of zero through a sustained concentration on the dissolution of self : a sketch on the utilization and analysis of multiple methods for reliably generating Mors Mystica - the neurological suspension of the default mode brain operations known as the mystical death : a tracking of representations of this death before death/death-in-life - scrying art, exposing the apophatic topology that seems to be a dimensional enlargement of an headless image of Self/Mind/God that is neurologically and (non)/ideologically consistent, expansive, imaginative, compassionate and constructive. This text will attempt a collation and codification of some techniques and results of experiments in the performance of ritual death. To perform and keep a recording of my thoughts on what it may mean to experience the mystical state - primarily the complete deactivation of the phenomenal self-model, the complete delinking of the default modality of the brain from a position of top-down organization and modulation through literally any means - Cantorian hyperpluralism, he says, only slightly jokingly. This deactivation sh[r]eds new light on so many religious and mystical tropes, witchcraft practices, meditation styles, physics, mathematics, neuroscience, and yoga - revealing how the circuit of deconstruction to augmentation and back attenuates the attention and quiets the mind in addition to setting the stage for profound psychogenic experimentation, exploration, and play.

Originary Bleakness from the Voidmouth : Bleaker Than Bleak by PJE

Hopefully Paul doesn't mind if I post this…originally on Three Pound Brain. Too good not to share. 

Bleaker than Bleak (by Paul J. Ennis)

Bleak theory accepts that it itself is almost entirely wrong. However, precisely on the basis that it accepts humans are almost always wrong about how it goes with the world and so what are the chances of this theory being right? In this paradoxical, confused sense it is a theory of human fallibility. Or the inability of humans to see themselves for what they are, even when, as per contemporary neuroscience, we kind of know (have you not yet heard the “good” news that you are not what you think you are?). We kind of know because we are beginning to see ourselves from the third-person perspective. Subjectivity is devolving into objectivity and objectivity entails seeing things clearly, even if not transparently. That opacity, always there in the subject-object distinction, is collapsing and the consequences are bleak. The second reality-appearance “appeared” as a crack we cracked. It has been going on ever since. Consider the insanity of the entire post-Kantian tradition and the in-itself – is it not just an expression of what it feels like when you recognise what was once a “transparent cage” (Sartre) of looking directly at the world is a hallucination, a real one, all the same.

We cannot outpace this very blindspot that renders us a self or a subject. We are deluded about our beliefs or intentions (a given, so to speak), but more significantly we are deluded that somehow we can ‘recursively’ leap ‘over our own shoulders’ and see not just the trick, as Bakker might put it, but something substantial. Rather than just a model or a process withholding information from “you” yourself. Your own brain lies to you. It hides noise (‘data-reduction’) so that you do not collapse into a schizophrenia of buzzing information. This much Bergson, Deleuze, and Meillassoux have suggested is a most horrifying possibility. If all the data of the world flowed in you would be at one with matter, but what would you hear? Do you even want to countenance what that might involve? Hell is all around you. Your brain is just trying its best to stop you being lit on fire.

Everything is pretty patterns (Ladyman and Ross) and you are too. The problem with patterns is that sometimes they clash. If the brain has been hacked together it’s bound to be buggy as hell. Look at your computer. One subpersonal process goes askew and you need it fixed. The technician tries a few things, maybe it works, or maybe it does not. Maybe, as in severe cases of schizophrenia or depression, you just have a crappy system. I’ve said before that consciousness is the holocaust of happiness, meant sincerely, not lightly, and by this I mean that if the conditions or constraints that created a self never came together, in just the way it has for us, there would never have been any conscious suffering. Consciousness is the final correlate of all human suffering. You can blame almost anything else, but had “we” (is it really “us”) never believed we should be stable, integrated selves none of the bugs that followed would have appeared. Our world would have been a beautiful, empty, unthinking collection of material patterns: perhaps even a heaven of unthinking noise?

Chaos, as I am sure you have heard, is a ladder, but so too is evolution. Lifted up from the dregs of biology into cultural evolution we came to see what nothing else could see. Some foolishly believed this was a gift. Civilisation was realised. When in reality each one was built on war. Philosophers know how to dance around this problem: we can think our way, collectively, toward a more rational, constrained future. Except collective intelligence most often works best when deployed toward destructive ends: where do you find the most creative minds? The war-room. ‘War, everywhere I look…’ (Tormentor). To make it explicit, so to speak, if you want new masters, as Lacan said, you will find them. Look into the dead eyes of those who desire freedom and there rests fear. Fear that they will build a palace of reason only for the stability so hard fought for to collapse under the weight of the chronic irrationalism of the baser human aspect, untameable, unpredictable, and unknowable. History books are the evidence you stack up to adduce this, but at least today we have learnt enough to include the accelerated process of decline into our calculations. We no longer fight our enemies. We kiss them on the mouth and ask if we can join them in the decadent decline in advance.

I know I should not speak like this. What a waste to spend your time reasoning about the impossibility of one day sticking the hook in and indexing some little part of reality that, Tetris-like, delivers temporary respite. Only, of course, here comes more bricks. As I feel, always in my very bones, what I know is coming, the far-off end (it is never close enough), bleak theory morphs into even and ever bleaker theory, sometimes just bleak, once bleaker than black, but now bleaker than bleak. Rust Cohle, in True Detective, at one points let’s his interrogators know: ‘I know who I am. And after all these years, there’s a victory in that.’ It is the most paradoxical of victories. The “pyrrhic” victory of traditional philosophy, found in thinkers as diverse as Husserl and Meillassoux, where one gains a foothold on the world after a long struggle. The question bleak theory asks, adrift the perennial tradition, is whether knowing who we are will result in precisely the inverse of the oldest goal of philosophical self-knowledge: we cannot understand ourselves except as that entity which cannot truly know itself. Know thyself? Perhaps all along it has been the wrong question.

The tradition of philosophy always hinges on a subtle revision of position and orientation. This is the generative process whereby, for instance, the ambiguity of postmodern philosophy culminates in a counter-revolution of rational normativity. This is our contemporary example, but it is found everywhere. Heidegger ontologising phenomenology. Hegel gobbling up the Kantian noumena. Today there is possibly another: one that, again to evoke Rust Cohle, means to ‘start asking the right fucking questions.’ Not about what we are, but what we are not: “transcendental egos,” “subjects,” or “selves.” Perhaps not even “agents,” but I leave that problem for other minds to debate. I know what I am, a ‘disinterested onlooker’ (Husserl), but deluded that I am unconcerned.

True madness lies ahead for our species. Normativity, humanism, anti-reductionism, anything not bathed in the acid of neuroscience are all contributing to a sharpening of the knives. Building dams to keep the coming dissolution at bay they will render the shattering of the illusion that much harsher, harder. We are not going to Mars. We are going to go out of our minds.

.

[ Dr. Paul J. Ennis is a Research Fellow in the School of Business, Trinity College Dublin. He is the author of Continental Realism (Zero Books, 2011), co-editor with Peter Gratton of the Meillassoux Dictionary (Edinburgh University Press, 2014) and co-editor with Tziovanis Georgakis of Heidegger in the Twenty-First Century (Springer, 2015). A version of bleak theory, ‘Bleak,’ first appeared in the DVD booklet for A Spell to Ward off the Darkness (Soda Pictures, 2014).]//////////////////////

mainlining the secret truth of the universe:high intensity psychedelics and truth detection (part 1 of

[This world is a veil, and your face is not your own] 

As my vision filled with with small, green, spiral-inscribed stones, my mouth filled with the sensation of foam - though somewhere deep, I knew my mouth was empty. The sensation of foaming at the mouth triggered a set of symbols, a pattern of memory, and a werewolf leapt from my body, snarling. My mind stayed behind, then suddenly snapped forward in space, joining the wolf. In slow-motion, a sensation of my body releasing my mind, opening up and metamorphosing into a wolf pelt which cloaked my mind as this unit conjoined and was absorbed into the image of the werewolf. A blink and my perspective changed. I felt like ripping out of myself, my vision was red and razor sharp. I was soft and warm. I felt like fresh blood grown a luxurious fur coat. I breathed deeply and smelled an old, old thing.

 I blinked, and the vision was gone, my attention flew elsewhere.

__________________________________________

For days, I found myself growling at annoyances. Not bathing. Clawing at skin -hot to the touch- that felt too-tight on my body. Smells were so strong they overwhelmed, my hearing so sharp the mass of new noise gave me incapacitating headaches. My dog avoided me. I avoided mushrooms for some time afterward.

__________________________________________

True Detective e:]]] : Crossing the bridge was a crossing into the First Layer of Truth. The last moments in which multiple spatiotemporal perspectives are easily definable, the last moments before the lines between perspectives become blurred, begin to shift. The image of the Real comes into focus, and the Truth is no longer what we are told. As we experience a breaking between what we are told, and what we feel [what we know], the Truth grows restless, a white-hot guttural behinding underlaying the ice-cold rage of Marty's execution of Reggie Ledoux, splitting the already-split narrative into further pieces as Ego demands the Truth be protected from that which can't understand its Necessity due to its Brutality - and paradoxically demands its own protection from Truth. 

This process has a corollary in psychedelics, as often sub-destructive entheogens are perceived in a negative light by those that cannot or will not withstand the necessary Truth in and of themselves, leading to an incomplete fracturing of Self into less-than-coherent component parts in a drive to compartmentalize un-rationalizable knowledges apart from each other [thereby retaining the original irrational claim AND the new, undeniable but oppositional Truth] in order to protect the Self from the annihilative Truth of its own non-existence. Cognitive dissonance, felt and perceived during the psychedelic experience is intimately sensed as a negative, drawing the other elements of perception down in convergence on this negative space resulting in nausea, vertigo, fear reactions, and paranoia - as the split perspectives are viewed as two entitities, one rationally correct but frightening in its stillness, its emptiness; and the other overflowing and active but deformed and ugly, watching for an opportunity to attempt the regaining of the "stabilized" control it craves [but can never attain] after this collision with Truth, but "Enlightenment ultimately humiliates even this demonic state" [Timothy Morton, Glossator 7]

[Yet to this rot you shall be like,
To this horrid corruption,
Star of my eyes, sun of desire,
You, my angel and my passion]

what what what what what what want what what what

they told me there was no saving you
and really, i loved the madness
your wings enveloped me
and i threw you to the ground

but seriously.


my back is bending further and further. hurt everywhere, all the time. i am at some low level of sickness just about always. ground covered in snow/feel it in every previously broken bone. Afraid to tell anyone or go to the doctor because, well obviously, what if it is something bad? Can't I just die in peace in my own due time, without some fucking quack butcher sawing up my gutty-wuts and telling me I'm an asshole for doing drugs all the time and eating terrible food and never letting him poke and prod me before?

a clever aside:


My throat is slimy
my nose drips
my head is bangin'
but not because what I'm listening to
Rips.

My eyes are dry
my lungs feel ?thick?
no one listens to my diatribes on
the realpoli-tik

My toes do this thing
where they feel like they break
and get unbearably hot.
Please, prepare my wake.

Surely, it won't be long
I am cold to the bone
can't lift the whiskey,
is there no end to this hell? I'm alone!

Stressed and depressed
clenched my teeth till they cracked
not like I use them,
for my tummy is all
out
of
Wack.

it rumbles and grumbles
bitching just so,
I'm afraid one day it shall give up
and crawl right out of the mouth-
Hole.

my hands hate the work
and work hates the hands
but the rent must be paid!
you know we are subservient to the
Man

jackboots and batons out the door
and needles and pins within
my back may be broken (literally)
but I'm thankful my teeth have so much
Skin. (did that work? did you get it?)

Clearly I'm dying,
but what's to be done?
the whinging won't do
and the complaining's all gone!

Because someone said it better, first.

ain't no grave gonna hold my body down

"If one good Deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very Soule"

dream:

]walking down a hallway playing a guitar. got in line with a great many people, dressed in sunday-best. we were going somewhere, perhaps to the performance. hearing footsteps, i turned and came face to face with an elderly black man who asked me if i'd play the train with him. we began playing and slowly walking to the head of the line. at the end we walked through a curtain onto a stage where we were shadowed in thick, heavy interior darkness but the audience was outside in extremely bright and hot sun.

]everything went quiet. upon first glance, they appeared to be aboriginal people, tribal and primitive. closer inspection proved them to be dead; covered in makeup, ceremonial garb made of bones, and war paint.

]a leader emerged from the group, bones sticking out at odd angles from every part of his decomposing body, face painted as a skull. he gave a speech about how we would be allowed to continue our practices because of an ancient agreement between the vampires and his people, the originators of voodoo, but that they would be prepared to bring us into the sun if we were to disrespect the dead.

]i could feel a body coming to warn us of something, but he was turning into a vampire and being cooked by the sun as he ran. he never made it to us. nuclear testing in the desert had opened a series of caverns. if you were able to get deep enough inside them you could avoid the radiation, but if you died there you became a rapidly decaying ghoul intent on eating any flesh within reach before the face fell apart. we watched a girl die, slaughter her mother, and be slaughtered herself in less time than it took to write the words. a laughing man loaded mounds of bodies into the back of a truck.

]made it home in time to watch my son pour poisonous household cleaner over his head, and begin to howl out in pain. tried desperately to wash him off but the water made the chemical boil and i woke up to the sound of screaming.

unsettling:unriddling:unraveling

                                                   these impulses run amok in this world

in this work

strangled orders and suppressed motion

climbing over walls of water

climbing over walls of smoke

a touch of fear

but only for the touched

spiritless voice chants

obey

comply

these thorns run wild in this work

in this world

strangled overtures and suppressed miracle

climbing over waves of sound

digging under landfill

for truth of fear

but only for the truthful

spiritless voice chants

obey

comply

inward/downward

"My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers."

When writer's block gets bad enough that the only thing you can think to write about is how your writer's block feels[

:a punishing regime of self abuse:

It started as a high-pitched but barely audible whine, like that sound an old tv tuned to nothing makes] started and never left] after a while even the memory of the starting fades and you kind of accept it as part of your perception] a dulling of it] sit day after day staring out a window at a terrible, uneventful, mundane view, lacking even the energy to simply change the view] makes my hands [n[u[m[b[ and I drift off in the middle off typing this to look out [5 hours pass here, and I] can't even finish a sentence without a chorus of exasperated sighs
no movement no sense of humour

a migraine drills into my temples////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

:: lay waste my heart with monotones of boredom ::

Overwrought pressures compound the burden of knowing nothing. 

All the bodies have been removed, but it will never be clean here.

maybe, a psychic wreckage] maybe maybe maybe unmeasurable quantum excitations]

i am sure it was there.

this is where i left it]

frustration squalls and squeals like a field of blackboard-nails

[sometimes, when sufficiently panicked, my spine instinctively tries to flex in a distinctly inhuman fashion] reminds me of the contortions of a fish dropped on the ground] 

shaken by ultimate unknowns, your information is valueless

(pouring gasoline on ice-cold week-old dead-ash] the smell makes me nauseous and drives me from the room] the interrogation is over, the experiment is over] drilling recedes to a muscular ache in the back of my neck]  

"You recount your sorrows to a stone…" -Titus Andronicus Act 3 Sc 1

What doesn't kill you makes you weaker.

What kills you makes you stronger.

Yet another sleepless night
I swallow pill after pill
In a desperate attempt to fall asleep

Touchy subject eh? Significantly more often than I feel is healthy, I daydream about suicide, pure morbid curiosity. I'm far more likely to think about it out of boredom than depression…wonder what that says about me. 

"Such indeed is how the steadfast act: They are not attached to life." -Buddha

New Wave of No

"There is no doubt that life is given us, not to be enjoyed, but to be overcome; to be got over." 
                                                                                             -Arthur Schopenhauer

Schopenhauer has led me to Cioran, in a virtual pathway of pessimism. One's emptiness not fulfilling, I have filled me with another's emptiness until I burst. 

"with every experience i expand like a balloon blown up beyond its capacity. the most terrifying intensification bursts into nothingness."

I can't remember a time without anxiety. Shaking at the thought of interaction…touch burns my flesh with its ACTION. I withdraw like a turtle, freedom is slavery. Freedom from interaction is slavery to inaction in a world devoid of solitude. Am I hiding? What am I hiding from? Condemnation or boredom, I find those anywhere I go….everywhere I go. Can't survive a conversation, can't participate in the easy illusion of socialising without feeling dragged and lost and interminably bored. I spent an eternity listening to a filthy waterfall in a polluted river and all its breath came out mangled and contorted in a poisonous stream…

I daydreamed of a clean flood but no one understood my words, shrieked as they were.

"To detach yourself elegantly from the world; to give contour and grace to sadness; a solitude in style…"

Singular elements of individuality, buried in the field. Flat, uniform, desolate - it unifies us. All equal, on the other side of the Dirt, but subsumed to the Dirt, we become the dust and lose ourselves. A grave is an impression on the immanence of suffering. A battle won, rest as the prize. 

"Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there."