“Untitled 369”

I am dispatching to you today from the celestial, eternal glacier of foolishness, whereupon I will forever keep changing my direction, my motives, my disposition, color and shape, and will marvel, always, about how somebody managed to get those creatures so obsessed with sex. They swam around in a circular motion within a closed course of struggle, conflict, harshness and vituperation, constantly putting on airs, constantly infusing false meaning into the unimportant, and all the while, taking off ever more clothing, as a tautological guidance into a base-two existence, an animalistic quagmire. Obsessed with the idea of an unstoppable force moving an inanimate object, they made an orchestration against progress, blinded themselves to truth and deliberately worshipped an act that was frustrating, even in itself, for its intrinsic functional interface of giving, of tiring, of sacrifice and overwhelming sensation. In their eyes was a stupefying stagnancy, passing in and out of tabernacles and fortresses alike, like a still, sordid waste matter the essence of which it was their objective to give away, rather than to harness and perfect. And now I sit watching this watery ball hurling through space, as they might put it, and they are so small they could fit under my fingernails or refuse the soul of another being as a rudimentary defense of their own existences.