There is no progression. There are no cycles. No dogma, no perception, no light in order to guide you. There is nothing inside that you can unlock and release into the world. There is only static. Creation is arduous, grueling, all bottled up and only leaking slowly. Meaning perpetuates in the most insignificant ways. Absorb the exterior while simultaneously denying it any sway. Keep shaking your limbs. Even the animals we harvest ingest anti-anxiety medication. You shove Prozac down a chicken’s throat.
We call ourselves the sons of ages. Humanity has suffered tradition for millenniums . Why was freedom given thought only a few years ago, when people took up arms and signaled the coming of a new age; a breath of fresh air coursing through our hollow skeleton? All of that, only to forget the agenda we so heartily bowed towards, how we prostrated to justice. How admirable we were, and only to hide in caves once again, huddling in darkness. Was that you under the bed? I could have sworn I saw a bird speaking to the night.
Murder people and clone them so you can replace them and no one will ever know. You will have control. Ejaculate before you commit suicide so your children may inherit the Earth. Feel true rest in the asphyxiation forest as the molten sap melts your skin. Erase the hidden text on the binding. There is a hole in the Earth. We fill the gaps in our teeth. We root out the innocence. Replace it with night. The black that came before is here.