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Logic consumes everything around me, it even consumes me.

I sit and read, I sit and watch but I no longer float. Stopped dreaming about the particles of the horse or the favourite food of the Amanita now that death is close, now that logic destroyed art in pursue of order and law.

I'm once again the same spectator I hate, alone and without hope. Idly waiting for the planetary wars of the present and the capitulation of the disturbed and damned to the society of doctors once more. My words are few and my imagined resistance grows futile.
I shall die here, not as a surrealist but as a defeatist, not as an artist but as a collaborator, for my inaction and naivety toppled the connection between the real and the imagined. 

I no longer live with one eye open and one closed but rather with both closed, not even fixated on the imagination of the collective animal that grows out of our minds at the dawn of insanity but fixated on the simple, uniform black that now surrounds the crying animal.

As 100 years ago, nothing changed; nothing progressed, and the only thing that grew was the desire of mourning in the hearts of the rationalists with their call to death, "Forward!" they say as a simple command, which people with both eyes open follow. The massacre ensues.
I'm but a monster of what never was and never will be, trapped in its cell waiting for execution day.