2002-01-06 - 1:13 a.m.

The pores exude a rotting stench.

Will you breathe me in? What does it taste of?

Listening to, navigating within, unconscious of, without Self, subjugated by A Silver Mt. Zion. Such sweet relief, orchestral work extending the Cosmic Score. And then.... I hear "Isaac;" a singer for modest mouse, thinking, perhaps, that he's the son of Abraham? Not quite. It's the return of Narcisuss, gone from his relection pool, only to return by tainting us with his crooning, forgetting in his momentary bliss that he is indeed Godforsaken, that he is in fact more decadent, vanishing with more repugnant ease than any of us transient humans. Well, the mamallian, gene-bound humans, at least. And there is no meaning. Expression? Merely self-enclosure. I tire of masturbation and your empty gestures

NOW, NO LONGER FEARING OR VEILED, NO LONGER HIDING BEHIND BARRIERED SELF-ENRAPTURE, out with you all, i KNOW OF YOUR HIBERNATION.

With such simplicity we understand. With increased laziness, ineptitude and moral complacency we become confused. Vulnerable, open to infection by any encroaching plague? What fucking pity marks us all