052520II

"Si aucun médecin n'existe, aucun patient n'existe, c'est un voyage des médecins et aucun des patients qui ont lancé la société. (...) Cet effort a duré 4000 ans, avant la naissance de Jésus. Cette thérapie de la mort lente et la médecine moderne, complice de cela, de la plus sinistre et du malvada Magia, commandez vos morts à l'électrochoque et à l'insuline pour assurer le sommeil des egos"

-Antonin Artaud.

The egos have not been destroyed, rather transformed into something useful; with ego we do not mean the individualist preachery or the capitalist lie of success, we mean the spirit. That spirit caged inside the world of Man, victim of the insatiable hunger of Man; which twists and convulses trying to escape

but

 it's

  too

   late.

The ascenssion of Christ is not more than the mere putrefaction personificated, he who chose his organs before his body. It has always been manufactured crap to me, I spit on your altars for those icons do not represent more than the factory-made artificial truth, one of heartless reality and meaningless guided dreams, I prefer the lavish comfort of the Psyloscibin, the earthy enjoyment of cannabinol and the solitary nature of the nicotine. They are all thrice the natural and revealing than you.

The rolling hum of the polish machinery breaks my peace in this time of thinking, oh but what a great sin has modernity has been! It changed this beautiful respite from its claws into another precission tool of its oppressing nature.

The cold melancholy in the park is at least more hidden, under a bed of moss and herbs; trees and birds, now too scared of what Man is.

No more shall I say, I'm tired of the squares, of the queues and the Rs, of the S and the T.