Noise. Movement. Pornography. It is the nauseabund spiral that makes me close my eyes and imagine those demonic forms strewn across the floor with the gray of the bullet-folles dead and their intestines open to cover their colors of sodomy with the black and brown of the rotten. It may perhaps be hatred, insensire fear that stops me from participating in the noise and thundering of my race and generation. An improper reverence for misery, for the slight hum of machines, of the wordless whisper the world makes whenever it has nothing to sayIt may be my own physical weakness, of the muscles, of the form, the choking force in my soul preventing me from participating in those pagan rituals celebrating human egotism, the open war against God. Love. What hideously conflagrated feeling with sex. I have neither one or the other, nor do i belong to their kind, nor will i ever get love amongst them. I'd rather be lashed and tortured, with my sin and hypocrisy, than surrender so pathetically, begging for something i do not need or understand for the sake of fitting in, i would rather die. The disgust is too great. My soul screams, that what i see is abominable. Even in my weakness, even with the continuous knowledge that i am a sinner, that form of sin is too filthy, too cynical, too brazen. Let the me of tomorrow make up excuses, disingenuous arguments to explain his sin. I will fill him with shame, and if i can, i will kill him
