Tuesday, August 29, 2006


To live for only one second one must believe a thousand lies.

I wrote this book to prevent the madness. Madness that comes to a man after he realizes that he is internally by nature a bad person and a mad person. That he cannot control this bad or mad character, and that to not develop its horror he must avoid others. From birth I was like this, I sensed it early in my life, it had nothing to do with environment or with dormant genes in the family tree. No, I was bad as some of us must be bad because all can not be good. And as I watched, I saw that my actions would, by being a product of myself, be bad and mad, and that their consequences to include the effects on others and myself, could only be egregious. When I stumbled upon this fact I despaired so, for I wanted like so many to contribute something positive to humanity but this would not be possible, whatever I touched was sure to turn into molten tragedy. This was why I decided to avoid humanity, my one act of kindness, to save them from myself.

Now you may say “Why would he think such a thing?” And I will tell you it was not a thought it was a life. I lived in this body that was and is possessed by a bewitching darkness, and to rescue it was and is impossible, and sadly for myself, intolerable. It was so because I could not prevent the negative destructive thoughts. Everything I thought and did resemble images of past and future atrocities. I went mad with this madness, and so thus I begun to conjure the Selfish Mode which in some mysterious ways harnessed my madness, contained it and diverted into the elusive strangeness of words.

In here you will find the goodness of evil for I am not really a bad person but in a world where bad is not allowed to exist because of the glorification of good, I do appear evil. But indeed I am everything that is good about evil! And so I thought I should share this evil which is good, thought not good as you think, but good in the sense that it does not deviate from being pure in what it is!

But that is the why of the book, then there are two people that were accomplices in the making of this work. My brother, Gabriel, he is now an angel and I miss him always, and always I thank him for believing in me. And he believed in me when there was every cause to doubt me, Gabe always an inspiration to all that met him on this earth, always inspired this weary soul.

And Lisa, Lisa, a woman that because of her grandness has had a profound effect upon my life. If I am everything that is good about evil she is everything that is good about goodness. We spent inmmense time together and through her essence she demonstrated to me that good was not necessarily boring or bad, that there were indeed good people that were indeed good, and that goodness could indeed prevail without righteousness, violence, or agony. In a sense Lisa, with her being, is proof positive that everything that this book claims is absolutely wrong and false. And if it is true that a book is never finished until its opposite is written, then I must admit that I can only write this half, Lisa could think and feel both, unfortunately for us Lisa is too smart to bother with writing a book

So before the feminist revisionists rewrite my history and give all the credit for the Selfish Mode to Lisa Hintz, let me circumvent their efforts now by acknowledging beyond doubt that it was her ability to diagnose thoughts, to reduce a complex thought to it’s most basic constituents, with a swiftness of mind and an emotional clarity that made it impossible for me to ignore the very emotion of my flaws, and the flaws of humanity in general. But though Lisa’s mental agility would be enough to deconstruct and reconstruct all of humanity, her greatest contribution was her heart. Her passion, her unflinching religion, her dedication to an emotional idea, to an ephemeral reality, and most endearing, her ability to retain her character regardless of the storm. This book would not have been possible without her.

Para ambos con corazon sagrado y amor impossible siempre!

You should always believe in something but never ever believe that it is true.

The Prelude To Birth

I think someone knows who I am. I suspect this because a person has identified herself as knowing of me in my past and of recognizing me in the present. Perhaps this should not worry me but it does. The implications are many; to know me this person must know more of me than I know myself. Since I know that I do not know myself anyone that recognizes me and knows me must know more than I. But even more impossible is that I do not know this person who knows me so well.

Consider my perplexity, being aware of a person who has complete knowledge of me but whom I do not know. She approaches me and describes the past, our past which I cannot recognize yet I perceive it as being real. In other words, while I do not recall knowing her, or being in her situations, I have more reason for believing than not. I feel I’ve lost the past, I’ve lost its memory, and may have even forgotten to live it. And the situation worsens, having been absent from my silent, empty and dark past I transcend to the present, in the memory of this person. Had she killed her memory of me I would not be in front of her listening to the words that tell me she was a part of my past, the past which I never had.

My soul’s heart beats and pounds with excitement, at last a jewel has been thrown by fortune my way. I grab her with passion, I rip her apart, I question her thoughts, I am starved, norishing within her I want to find everything she knows of me. I listen with wonder as her vocal chords describe the man who I am, but a man who to me is a stranger. My senses rape her, she whom is filled with so much of me I suck through my nostrils, and when I am finished, not her shadow will remain in the darkness.

My fears feed upon the unknown and the impossible, as I reach into her heart, my head runs away into the dreams of life. I hear the words of this person, while I am saying I don’t want to know who I am, I only want to escape the need to know myself. But this jewel from the past turns into a hunter that comes to poison her prey. I revolt at her sight, my unknown love rejects hers, my vomit rushes out through her, I quiver and fall to anchor myself to the cosmos, so that this woman can not draw me to her tunneling womb, which now wants to give me birth.

I ferociously struggle not to become myself, no, I don’t want to know, I grab the weeds in every green planet to hold myself in place, but these weeds which recklessly flourished without need or desire willingly give themselves to my grip, leaving the ground without grace.

I wonder in pain why did I want to know myself, why did I walk into her knowledge of me, was curiosity my enemy? The winds did rush me towards her who is for now more me than I am myself, and more me than she is herself, while I am someone that no one yet knows. So now I bitten the trap, everything is beginning to dissolve into particulars, I am being sent into isolation as her blasphemous words continue to tell me of me.

Deprived, I begin to feel real hunger, real pain, and though I am force fed, I still cling to the memory of not having a memory of myself. In the rigors of this suspended void I sink into her womb feeling the vapors exuded by life. A putrid smell in my forming nostrils, and nurses curse my virgin ears. I feel the tensions of her million strings as they weave “cells” for my spirit. I struggle less but not without fury, I feel lost but still cling to hope, while she who caught me pronounces my form. I am nauseated, a feeling I know I transfer to her. I was the fly that got caught in the spider’s web, she came to watch me die eternal life. And in my wrenching struggle I tighten the knots.

She devoured me because creatures like her are multidimensional monsters that tunnel souls and trade them to the carnal. Inside of her the captive wakes up in her life. I lay there in some bloodfilled sack with insufficient space to contain what I was once but enough for my new form, which is not me, but even so it is the me I thought I was, and therefor searched for, only to end the victim of this woman mother.

Time passed as time had not before, I began to feel contractions, a sign of us repudiating each other into individuality, and as if there had been a divinity that wanted to rescue me, my eyes caught a light rushing forth and back from underneath my feet. I felt I had a chance, I hastened to turn around while trying to cause her pain, stretching the ropes to make my escape. Furiously I fought my way towards this light, a light that enigmatically I’ve heard described by dying energies, for me towards the hope. I heard her scream, I heard her cry, and felt desperation through my senses. I must have made her quite miserable because I felt her every breathing muscles urging me to escape, she pushed me through this crevice of hers, and not without suffering. Imagine my joy having tormented my captor to the point where she encouraged my escape.

Confusion reigned and our bodies were crushing each other with rejection, until my new eyes felt a piercing dance of light, through eyelids which should have been made thickerer. Blindly, I swam until I felt ambient air preassurise around me new flesh. I was at last free! Away from her grip! Out of that womb I wanted to see, thus I raised my eyelids to see the world that she had described. Why now I realized with horror that I, as her accomplice, rushed through her designated path. Now I was more into her, every step I had taken was locking me more inside of her, she had manipulated all of my actions. Now that I was borne into her tribe, now that I could not escape her social form, save by death, now I was free.

I though of retreating, but her tunneling womb had lavishily shut, it is here taboo for us to make love to our mothers, I still opted to love her, and more those like her, cunningly to win favor with them, so as to someday make an escape. For now I knew it was to late, and as the thought of life came upon my apocalyptic awareness, my last complete memory of what I once was, entered perdition. I began anew to cry out loud in torment from the anguish brought by the specter of an unknown life; only to see smiles around the new born.

Theoretical Indifference

I overheard the term theoretical practice, I recognized myself immediately, I am a practitioner of theory, so you could say, and be right in saying so that I practice theory though not in the sense of theoretical practice. I don’t practice theory because I practice theory. Its when I hear mierda like this that I am convinced that the goal of life is to drive us to the brink of suicide and then to prevent us from committing it. That is the balancing act of life to make us want to kill ourselves only to prevent us from doing it in the end.

How often a desperate, goes to a bridge to escape social madness only to have society talk her out of it, that is why life is so static, its a theoretical practice. I can go into diatribes like this because to me they are not real. Please understand that that they are real but so much of what I see is not real to me that it is just not real.

Theoretical practice for me is excruciating reality, my mother could have never ever mated with my father, my mother and father had nothing in common, lovers must have excruciating realities in common, lovers know things about the world that are the same, lovers betray the world with the same lies, and each other. My parents had no such communion. There is a universal law that is esoteric yet irrevocable, that is that in order for copulation to lead to pregnancy the mating partners, lovers have to be twin souls in suffering and feeling. This is b´ecause no child can be borne to incompatible couples, only compatible parents, fundamentally compatible partners, can produce an offspring. The implications of artificial insemination ought be obvious and couples that insist on mating but fail to have children simply do not realize their mutual incompatibility, but nature does.

Beating heart. My parents I tell you are incompatible to the core. Their hearts keep a different rhythm, their souls dance to a different melody, and my father does not even dance, solemn is his soul, their minds are not even opposites they are so completely different that opposition would not help to define them nor add the relationship that opposites provide for eachother; for my parents to have fornicated was equal to ice cubes made of hydrogen poured into your drink. Pounding heart.

But in theory this is where I come in, my parents consummated their relationship, they penetrated and violated each other. Both of course had to be out of their minds because that is the only explicable explanation for the inexplicable. Against universal law, breaking sacred protocol, secular and natural law, I was borne the first and only known theoretical child, to live in theoretical practice.

The end result has to be wonderful, pure theory, ineffectual, feeling all, felt by none! A walking curse to some, a spectacle to others, fear and contempt to most. Of course my parents upon the realization of their egregious transgression pulled away from each other, rushed madly, ripped each other apart, but as tragedy would have it if two impossibles meet, the strange force, the strange force that can cause stuff like that to happen, is so absolutist that it is preposterously impossible to separate them, all beings and things have to have communality to bond together and propagate but for those held captive by the strange force.

My parents would live apart but nothing could eliminate the effects of the strange force, they could not forget the horror, they could not belong to another. The intrusion, for my dears nothing can cause a soul more distress than to be mated with a stranger, with an aliens heart, with someone other, that trick alone disembodies the soul, and so in a sense I am the apparition of my parents, fission, that separates fussed, fusion that implodes, brings together mass to critical proportions, and uncontrollable combustionable reactions hence my emotional distress.

I, never the possessor of my own soul but rather the experiment of fusing strangers, catapulting limbs and organs simultaneously in cardinal directions, existed because in a moment of fundamental weakness these two souls felt their loneliness to be so extreme that to buried it, to storm it away, they slept with an unknown, they cornered each other to suffocate the emptiness. Loneliness the strangest force, called on more emptiness to comfort those long over exposed to the elements. I am their son, the evidence of the transgression, a transgression that no entity would bother to punish because impossibles only occur in practical theory, and everyone already knows that that is not even a possible contradiction. And even if it remotely was a contradiction, contradictions are not self sustainable.

I was an artist of sorts, which is to say that I was for sure not self sustainable. Theory implodes, it has no capacity to inflict permanent damage, I try to talk to death everyday.

Night Reigns Supreme

As I continued searching for places to hide from that which I could not see yet it militantly guided my life, I begun to suffer from severe overdoses of insecurity, I had to wonder if destiny suffered when we, the executors of his plan collapsed into insecurity.

My destiny had seen fit to lose me many loves, to deprive me of an anchoring family tree, now I confronting it as a free radical had to face the tribulations required by my self appointed task. My stomach developed bleeding ulcers; ulcers, that is the idea that my stomach was becoming self absorbed, that it was digesting itself was acceptable. Instead it was the nagging pain produced by the consumption of my stomach lining, the cramping, the holding of my stomach by my arms in a futile attempt to squeezed the pain away, that only served to bruise me, and cause me more pain, different kinds of pains. These pains told me stories of how my drinking alcohol would only serve to irritate the ulcers, to exacerbate painful behavior to intolerable levels, which meant the most egregious of all: I drank to dull the agony of life, to dampen the tragedy, I drank so that my mind could survive, I drank so that I could fill my solitude like wine fills an empty glass with meaning. I drank but now drinking became a choice of brutalities. If I drank I could drown my liver, and the liver is where the receptors of life’s agonies are hidden; or I could stop drinking so as to halt the ulcers from advancing mercilessly in their cause against my stomach. Night reigns supreme. The pain of life or physical pain those were the ends of my dichotomy, splitting the nervous system.

My hair took to falling at an accelerated pace, it could win races against gravity to the ground. And there was this disturbing drying of my skin, patches of dry skin would spot themselves throughout my flesh. I was waiting in horror for a terrible illness to overcome me. A friend seeing my desperation told me to seek the providence of God but God never came into my life, I did not open the door and he did not bother to break it down! I took longer showers, I slept more hours, so many that I became buried in my dreams. I was going to bursts into tears...

Trafficking In Love

Morning never comes to us but I have probably told you that, and even if I had not from my telling you that here the night reigns supreme the complete withdraw of the morning becomes an inevitable conclusion.

So we mention love but we should never mention love in relationship to beauty or perfection, most people will never know this great distinction, I was unfortunate enough to know it, I had surrendered to love which is another way of saying that I had surrendered to imperfection. Beauty is the perfect escape from pain. Beauty is perfection and perfection is insensitive. Beauty scars ugliness, ugliness feels everything! Ugliness can love, which is as all love gratuitous in nature. I had chosen, after beauty scarred me, to love, that is to be ugly. I showed imperfection, I was never beautiful, never ever that.

Beauty is the perfect escape from pain but for me there was no escape; I was a love trafficker and as that I aimed to suck the life blood from those around me, I made them heavy with my presence, I was their weight belt when they had left their air tanks on the surface of deeper waters.

Trafficking In Loneliness

But drownings always leave me trafficking in loneliness, I was not a perfect human, I was not beautiful, the earth did not separate with awe under my feet; cross the night with passions that was my perfume, I went from smelling the slime of lovers dust to crawling surfaces for a lover. Lovers to cover the loneliness, but lovers always make poor companions and they leave us as soon as they smell another's passion. Those that stay and comfort us, never quite fill the void. We knew, I knew that at this junction the void was larger than ever, every time a lover leaves, the heart gets bigger with emptiness, it takes a bigger lover to replenish the heart, and even in the absence of lovers the heart gets more rapacious with emptiness, and the bigger emptiness of the whole makes it less possible to find a fulfilling lover.

Love is perfect miss communication, two lovers really believe each other, and trust one another, this, perfection and beauty tell us can not be! Beauty is so perfect it possesses perfect communication, it does not need to communicate, which we, the flawed lovers perceive as harsh indifference. That which communicates well, does not communicate.

A particle of perfection can be in two points of space at the same time and seem to be traveling in-between. Death needs a friend. God damn it! I’ve told you death needs a friend pick up the phone and call him, now!

Prince Of Passion

Oh I went for the ugly, I liked love I had no choice as in so much of my life I had no choice, destiny my witness I had no choice. Now I was attempting to have the course of life altered by my will, in my desired direction. Prince of passions that was me, trafficking in loneliness, trafficking in love... trying to kick destiny in the ass!

Surrounded by itself beauty does not know it is alone. Withdraw your horses, callback the glorious warriors, stop the war, draw on paper the sun from memory, stupid school exercises, it was my turn to say beg me, please beg me, I shall refuse you but beg me anyway! I want to feel wanted even by a cheap whore like you.

In the end even the great Gods depended on the love from the plebeians, perhaps in mass aggregate numbers, counting at least in arithmetic progression, many loving them would amount to half a soul, maybe not a good soul, maybe a half an ugly soul like mine; mine the expression of the sum of sin, madness, and the square root of Pi whatever that is in it’s passionate infinite imperfection.

I crawled gently into the blankets, I begun to kiss her slowly while moving my lips in a certain progression, I was going to hide, morning never came.

Electrical Thoughts

The problem with any great action is the amount of inner strength it requires, we are by nature excremental, our power is digestive. Consumption of the external world gives power within ourselves, we want to put it all inside of us, humane is a lie! We are HUNGER, hunger for all things is our solitary friend, and cravings do not hastily subside.

I had fears that this was true. Inner strength in a world where everything derived strength from consuming external things, just like in fiction in reality the impossible is required if we want to do the extraordinary. Did you call death yet? Mad dogs were howling at the moon, inner strength fuckers!

Perish. May a God accompany you in this night, may the Angels light your night and sing in wonderful chorus, follow your path, mine has already been burned by an inferno of obscure nature, I beg for your forgiveness, for having pursued you, and for having thought my situation so unique. The night is my friend I always sleep with her.

Dead is the night, liar I know you haven't called! As I was saying the problem with life is that we need internal strength but everything that gives us life is external, in fact with the exception of woman's creative nature everything that we produce is waste. So where or how are we to acquire this inner strength, from woman of course!

The only problem with that is that it is not to the benefit of the feminine to give males inner strength so that we can realize an internal condition. Sure nurses and mothers will be more than happy to provide us with comfort and infectious love, but wives will not and they are the only ones that produce real children. which is to say that they alone can give us inner strength, and again only wives have children, oh but nurses and mothers like us. I am not sure how much of this you understand, I am not explaining much of it because it should be so bloody obvious.

I woke up in my dreams many times intermittently, I was slamming my testicles with a hammer, biting my lips, crushing my teeth into each-other. Mortification is inevitable when you begin to attack something as endemic to life as destiny. You have to be prepared to become the abuser of the self, of your own soul, once you agree to that, you can pursue universal imbecility!

Destiny is not going to come out of the closet and attack you, universals just don’t do that, what they do is ignore you until you tear your heart out. Understanding this some great civilizations willingly ripped their own hearts out, that is without provocation; the reason for this was to diffuse the universal negator, diffuse universal indifference throughout the social group. But technically, and not in theory where things always work for physicists, this removal of the heart does not really work, it merely acts as an anesthetic for the practicing civilization, and anesthetics are temporary remedies that do not deprive the progression of the ailment, and when the anesthetic wore off these civilizations woke up to face universal indifference, that is, extinction.

Pianos begun to go off in my head. Fundamentals never escape music, the possibilities available to me were likely to be infinite. I was fortunate, I was fortunate in that I possessed a limited intellect thus in actuality my possibilities were finite. First I could try within my grasp to determine how rigorous destiny got, then I had to approximate what destiny would consider my net, net value to society. Meaning, of course, my value to destiny which could very possibly in the end not include the social as I knew it or at all!

I may have told you already that I was a thinker, and in my opinion that has to give me the highest possible value destiny could afford. I mean you, reading this, are obviously in need of reading me which may well mean that I am programming you for destinies sake. Besides if you were smart you really would not be reading this, your probably a teacher, a bell boy, a mechanic, a pilot, architect or numerous other things from blue collard to white collard with some grime. But you are reading me so by my judgment you are below me in the cultural planning food chain. That said you could feel insulted and stop reading me now which would only serve to place you further down the food chain.

So we now know that I am above all of my readers and if I could just associate you with some monetary value that would give me an approximate low dollar value of my starting worth. But the measure is more complicated than that because destiny does not use cash as a measure of human worth. By my best guess the value would need to be based on how many of me there are to replicate my task added by how critical that task is to destinies over all objective, this is of course an unknown so impossible to quantify, so I technically stand subtracted by intersecting effects, which can add multiply or subtract my importance externally and internally to my sphere of difference.

What did he say? For instance if my value was in my ability to be an uplifting prime minister deriving strength from tragedy during impossible times - when the end of tragedy after tragedy is not insight but rather only the end of it’s beginnings, that is good for me, but then if there is no war and therefor no tragedy for my, I shall never surrender appetite, then the loss is minimal. So the environment is a factor here. Now the other factor is quantifiable, it only has the following criteria: The uniqueness of my task, which we can also associate to a learning curve, and to the number of individuals more or less successfully pursuing it. And to get a hair splitting value out of that we compute the conditions of the immediate environment, which is to say if we are about to have another flood and I happen to have gills and it is in the interest of whom ever that we, I, survive then I am an essential. However if the forecast is for universal drought, well, one or two humps wins. And we compute that to our personal uniqueness and hope that destiny agrees with the results.

As I am tired of repeating I am a thinker. The history of the world as we know it has by an large been developed by two kinds of peoples thinkers and non thinkers. By non thinkers I mean those that committed themselves to action. Action is the opposite of thought to clarify that a Clown, that you will hear more of later, was fond of saying Action Is The Abortion Of Thought! Conquerors are aborted types, tennis players aborted types, most people not like me aborted types, football players more aborted that aborted types. No offense intended here just giving you the facts. No need for details either just be clear on this laboratory rats get hit over the head with a hammer because they are aborted types. Aborted types can be fed with preserved frozen artificially colored and flavored, microwave ready foods and they will not know the difference from the flesh gourmet. Aborted types get their legs shot off in the battle field after they have volunteered for a third tour and wonder how this could happen to them. The aborted types can be inspired by self help books, by falling rock for that matter, aborted types generally have an insensitivity to the world, and this insensitivity is the source of their strength.

Aborted types have the tendency to kill thinker types and quite successfully so. Thinker types never get the cheerleader nor the home coming queen which is why aborted types have better looking kids. Aborted types can cross an ocean not knowing what’s on the other side only to coincidentally stumble into a continent and, or success. After this they usually proceed to vanquished anything not quite aborted like they are. Of course as a rule when they try to conquer or cross an ocean they mostly perish in the act, but what they lack in forethought they make up with their over abundance. Aborted types are killed by the thousands or millions in wars and other actions, while thinker types just move out of the troubled country or refuse to act. So to make up for this aborted types reproduced frenetically and freely, and most of their children are bastards. It is their large quantities that betray the net worth of their success, they are indeed by an large failures but the monstrosity and greatness of the few that succeed is unprecedented.

Because of their monstrosity and thoughtless action they usually control thinkers. Yes indeed aborted types control us thinker types and this should give you real insight into what is fundamentally wrong with the world. And just in case you are an aborted type then let me repeat myself, the problem with the world is that it is controlled by aborted types.

Now there are two types of aborted types those that act and those that follow them, most commonly known as the masses. The masses just listen to the militaristic or patriotic brass being played by their aborted brothers and dance and sing to it. There are in turn two types of thinker types, those like myself with an incessant appetite for new thoughts and those, perhaps like you, that read books like mine because you are not aborted but also not yet your own thinker. Thinker types that are attempting to think have a tendency to become apostles for someone else’s philosophy.

Jesus Christ was a thinker type, Pontius Pilot was a non thinker type, the apostles were wanting thinker types that could formulate an alien’s thought but not their own, Judas was the only other real thinker in the gang of twelve, you can never really trust a thinker, but Judas, in a more rare sense than most because he was also an aborted type with a few coins to prove it. Honey we are eating out tonight.

Thinker aspirants think but they can not complete a thought, and all thoughts have a complete form and you cant just think them comprehensively in part, you have to think them whole or they do not make sense, and if something does not make sense you grab on to a thinker that does and write and even perfect his or her thoughts. Psychologist anthropologist and historians are perfect examples of the second rate goon squad of thought.

In fact we can conclude here, and by doing so I am not attempting to destroy those like me to perhaps increase my worth to destiny, rather I seek to tell you the truth and the truth has consequences. We can conclude that all of psychology was founded and is currently practiced by two types of wanabees, those that want to be thinkers in the complete sense of the word, but have hitherto failed to complete a thought of their own, and wanabee scientist that, that were never rigorous enough to follow the empirical disciplines of science. Now you may notice that I mention scientist in an almost separate category so I should probably follow it by telling you that there are really three types of categories. Thinkers, action types and scientist. I did not mention scientist earlier because they are really in an action type sub category . In the first part to build an economically driven materialistic society one needs scientist so as to secure a rigorous observable world that can be inherited and managed. This is action driven. Unfortunately for their families scientist are people that actually believe, incredible as this might sound, that if you can observe something and repeat it in an experimental environment, that this in principle means that it follows a law, and that through observation one can deduce the law, and apply it even to secure a mortgage loan. Thus the final and more terrible assumption that the law applied can assimilate the reality and in turn the truth of things.

Scientist are thus individuals committed to making the observable world attainable and they are by nature quite incapable of understanding the importance of not knowing certain matters. They can not leave the cosmic with its secrets, they can not comprehend the advantages of not knowing, the advantages of ignorance so well understood by the lower classes of society. Scientist fail to see how leaving the secrets as secrets places the burden on the universe. Scientist have to probe, to rape, to penetrate, to smell, to inquire, to hear, to listen, to see, to observe, scrutinize and sodomice, even to dissect every aspect of the observable world; and what is not observable they will observe with electron-microscopes and rip apart that which hides from them, in quantum, with super-conducting super- colliders, which is to commit cruelty to the cosmic with a billion zeros after it.

And as fanatic as they are about this, they completely collapse into a frenzy of incomprehension when someone mentions clairvoyance or telekinesis, two perfect examples of powerful unknowns. Who's to say that a telekinetic person could not induce the same propulsion as a super-conducting super-collider and cause, smash and break up of the atoms while a clairvoyant interprets the results. This is not only very possible but considering how cheap human labor is certainly more affordable than all those overly engineered sensors and magnets.

But lets go back to attacking psychology for I loath it so and scientist do to. No real scientist has ever bought that nonsense that psychology is one of the sciences. No self help ideology with whimsical speculations of association could ever be a science. Psychology is the product of bad childhood’s, of overbearing fathers, of insensitive mothers or even overly affectionate mothers that make husbands of their sons and turn them into sensitive, though incapable of feeling, voyeuristic listeners.

They, psychologist, find pleasure in the discomfort of mental anguish and they love melodrama. If someone were to pump oxygenated blood into their corpus they would merely move like animated puppets, this is because psychology handicaps. Psychology is a giant self help book and no one ever recovers from the disease of self help. And why should they, when they constantly face the horrendous irony that their self help is written by someone else.

I should, if I have not been insulting enough, point out sadly that philosophy is the mother of psychology and philosophy was not meant to have children anymore than poetry had to have religion. Abortion was illegal when philosophy became pregnant with this sickly baby, and besides philosophy is incapable of action so to abort was unthinkable. Get it.

Poetry could have children but it did not need to give birth to religion unfortunately poetry loves to be pregnant so this is a matter of consequences. When myth was in the womb of poetry a twin younger and lesser sister named religion was nourished and thus had. To have aborted her would have been to jeopardize the existence of myth thus religion was born only seconds after myth. Sadly for us, Poetry does believe in abortion but it believes more in being irresponsible. I happen to know from inside sources that the reason poetry had religion was because it wanted to be understood by a wider audience. Disgusting!

Quasi practitioners have kept these two girls alive but without their constant proselytizing, without their turning everything into a belief of madness, faith or subconscious agony these two would soon fade into oblivion.

Please do not forget that we are here to cheat destiny but one more word about scientist. Please understand that their sub-category is not intended to place them in an inferior category, scientist are vital for us to navigate within the restrains of the corporeal world, but scientist are not moralist which is why they can build a thermonuclear bomb for either good or evil. Scientist, like atheist, can be religious they can serve the right or the left, science is merely an instrument. Its practitioners while vocally conscientious have consistently displayed a disregard for the effects of their product, it is left primarily to those of action, and in some rare instances those of thought to add the moral imperative for the good of the whole. Scientist are in a sense the least human of all humans. They live in a substrate reality unaware that nothing is more real than the heart they ignore.

Jump start a dead horse! Did destiny have objectives or did destiny make decisions and adjustments as events expired in real time? If destiny had a goal I had great potential, and if I could, in my head device the design of the final plan then destiny would be my dance floor.

Destiny’s one weakness was my strength, that is, destiny, regardless of condition could not be flexible. I was more flexible than a rubber band, I could change destiny had to retain its course, destiny was tied to destiny! Not to be strapped to destiny would be destiny’s death. I quickly dropped the idea of devising a plan based on an evolutionary destiny. I could not argue that case destiny had to be hard-core, destiny was by all my measurements reactionary, there was absolutely no reason for destiny to make adjustments to real time events.

That had to be my advantage, and perhaps that is why I chose to believe that, anyway I did not see any benefit to a destiny that fluctuated in real time with the end result constantly being changed to optimize the scenarios. That kind of destiny would be very difficult for me to alter or surmount, it therefor had to be not!

That said, perhaps this is for you one of the best examples of how we choose our opponents based on our strength! So far we have the following facts: I was a thinker, destiny uses thinkers to web the fabric of continuity in a universe of infinitesimal endings. Destiny expected to harvest the benefits of my work posthumously, for me recognition and rewards denied, destiny maximizes its returns by capitalizing and capitulating.

I, subject to awareness, would opt for complete annihilation of all of my thoughts before subjecting myself to a martyred life for the sake of posterity. I would cheat destiny! Yet I was unaware of my true net value to destiny but more important destiny was a solid unchanging enemy, I was struggling against an enemy that was true to itself thus I had the clear advantage. This is because to know anything for a fact about anything gives one a tremendous advantage over it. Knowing that destiny was locked into a linear condition meant that without observation I could know both it’s position and its velocity, uncertainty need not apply.

Of course, at this time, I did not know either of these and so it was now that great thoughts are needed, thoughts that exceed all expectations, thoughts of such magnitude and greatness that even the genetic structured of the aborted types would be altered by them.

I needed to sleep, it was night time a good time for sleep. I slept. In my dreams I dreamt of this woman that had short hair and I was trying to convince her to grow it very long. I told her that tales tell us that cutting one’s hair leads to a loss of power, women cut their hair after they separate from a relationship to signify loss of control over the male, while growing their hair increases their feminine control of the masculine. She smiled at me, and told me that it wasn’t that long hair granted power but rather that men were made weaker by it.

History Is An Anachronism

I was aware of historical cases in which the original thinker had written nothing only to be widely read through the writings of others, the apostles, the philosophers and the historians had quoted and amplified them out of proportion and exposed them with impunity using their names to publish lies and truths with impunity. The historians I held suspect in the worse way because they took history from archives, from the word of another that knew another, the historians were suspect because they begun to write the history of a subject after it became popular and more suspect because they needed to make history important to justify their own importance. History was a matter of life and death for the historian, they needed to secure the importance of the past to dig at it to unfold its many meanings and to make them significant enough for us to bother with them. How many characters had been promoted to heroic proportions just to make history rich when it fact their history had been poor and mediocre. History is the curse that keeps the past alive, that does not permit the has been from fading into obscurity, history permits the past to continue to exert an influence on us even after its own period of existence has sentenced it to the scaffold.

This should not be so, many historians ought to be shot dead and made history for their love of the past, for their clingingness to things dead, from their inability to look into the future, for their glorification of something that but for them would not and could not survive into the present, kill them dead! I can see them now telling us that we are fools condemned to repeat history if we do not learn from it, idiots repetition means something is not dead, what do they mean, are they not aware that a pregnancy is a repetition of a life, that every time we repeat something is not because we are repeating but rather that it is not dead, that it, that thing is merely reproducing itself and reproduction is not a repetition but a continuation! The classics are not dead because we repeat them and anything we do not repeat is dead and it is also unique and if historians were really historians they would dig out those original aspects of the past that were so unique that they could not associate or cling to anything to reproduce them but I am afraid that that would be real work and historians suffer from an aversion, and from a fear, of anything that is outside the library’s walls.

Besides anything that acquires a taste for history and therefor consumes history as part of its diet becomes tied to the past and can not proceed swiftly into the future. The most dynamic societies have little respect for history they tear down one-thousand year old temples and erect fast food restaurants. And why should they not do this why should they respect the Sphinx if the civilization that built it is dead, death is not a sign of good health.

Let all reactionaries and historians that read this learn only one fearful thing, history is the product of change. But history’s real problem is more severe than the trivial throwing away of memories it is rather the problem of subjectivity vs. objectivity. For there to be any validity to history there needs to be an objective world, a world that is true outside of our experience even though it may be manufactured by that experience. Unfortunately the truth today is merely a lot of subjectivity, when you get a concentrated lot of subjectivity every one begins to call it the truth. This is a direct result of the democratization process which makes right by assuming that the majority can not be wrong. The only reason that majorities are not wrong is because satisfying majorities is good and it is good because that creates a nice size agreement and masses will not overthrow the leader that agrees with them or themselves. But that certainly does not constitute any objectivity and certainly no truth! And there is also the probability that the truth has an emotional context, what if the truth is a heart? Can a heart ultimately be objective? Regardless it is better to bet that there is no objectivity because subjectivity is so abundant that that is what one will encounter most in life. This is to say that even if there is an objective truth, it does not matter, we live in the world of lies and that is what we have to respond to, pursuing the truth in a world of subjectives will be disastrous!

The other problem is that people can not disembodied themselves, to be objective is to be dead. Everyone is always looking at the world through their own eyes, this includes historians and scientist; scientist like to think that they see the world through the eyes of nature and nature returns the salute by reproducing their observations, but nature is certainly not objective, indifferent to us for sure but nature only cares about herself and that is very much subjective. I mean you can think that you are objective but that does not mean that you are working with elements of truth, all ideas of objectivity today are largely based on subjectives that belong to others. Our objectivity is someone else’s subjectivity, and therefor being objective with someone else’s subjective has no consequence to truth. In the end all objectivity based on external subjectives has to be suspect because all things give us “their” truth and not “the” truth; only the truth could do that and the truth does not care and it does not care because the truth does not need to prove itself. The truth simply is, it can not be anything else, it does not suffer from character conflicts or a need to express itself, so while we may want to posses the truth, the truth could care less.

Now there is this talk that possessing the truth is an advantage, on this subject I can not disagree strongly enough. Humans may act stupid but they are not so much so that they can not see what is ultimately to their benefit, and the fact that the world is largely deceptive means that the truth does not favor us, that ignorance and lying are extremely advantageous and far more so than any truth. I shall further say that just because we act out lies and pretend, this does not mean that we know the truth; to lie is not necessarily to know the truth, to act deceptively is not to say that we know what is genuine, it is simply to know what we should not do and how we should not act. Let me just emphatically say that characteristically liars do not know the truth, and that deceptive actions are rarely motivated by actual knowledge of what is genuine.

So it is simple, objectivity does not equal truth which makes for a very subjective objectivity, so we can only be objective in reference to subjectives and historians are worms, they feed on the remains of the dead to the bone, and when they get to the bone they scrape it, they hurt the dead, they resurrect the bones of the dead!

Philosophers and apostles are more decent, the philosophers fall in love with an idea and perhaps with the ways of a character and because of that they feel a need to repeat their words, to let everyone that might benefit from them know them. Apostles are fanatics, certainly as such they need to be suspect, but apostles are blinded by their faith and this can only serve to make them more human, they are not objective as historians try to be but rather they are bias, they represent something, they have a known agenda, their intent is to convert all to their mentors system of beliefs, and while this can be considered a terrible thing it is an honest act they commit, this is a human frailty and as such acceptable. We can always defend ourselves from Philosophers because we know they are useless, we know that apostles are fanatics but historians are a real danger to us because they claim to be objective observers, and besides myself, for I am able to observe that there is no objectivity, that being the only possible objective observation, I know no one capable of this.

So now because of all of the above and to secure my worth to destiny I needed to deal not only with the hiding my physical works from destiny but I also need to destroy those that had an understanding of my thoughts and particularly those that would be able to write them or to repeat them with just some degree of accuracy. Recollecting their names and whereabouts would be my next step, they would have to be located persecuted and killed! I felt badly for those that had been my closest confidants, for they had been the best listeners, for they had taken my stories to heart, for some had believed my philosophical wanderings even to the point of bleeding tears. Now they were to be murdered because of their ability to listen, to understand, to sympathize, to care, fools!

Death Be To Thee My Friend

I could not however ponder this to the point of pity, I had not been aware of destiny’s tyranny, when I shared my thoughts with them I was merely extending my friendship, and not knowing, the dagger. Things had changed, they were accomplices of destiny, unaware, but able to reproduce and benefit from my thoughts, they were now on my black list.

My black list was a list of all those that had been confidants, it was a list of names that were to be terminated with extreme prejudice, it was also a list of the only real friends that I had ever known, of my closest companions, lovers, of my worthiest of memories. I listed their addresses, the place of work, their habits, their known illnesses and if they practiced any activities like rock climbing that could unfortunately precipitate their death. I decided out of a sense of decency to murder them myself, of course my financial means had excluded the possibility of a hired assassin.

Many Funerals To Attend

I prioritized the list much like an intelligence officer might decide the fate of accomplices that needed to be lost, those that knew the most or that had access to public channels such as the print or communication media needed immediate attention, those that had no immediate access but that could eventually be interviewed by an inquisitive historian were at the end. Historians are always capable of misrepresenting the truth, and through generations rewriting it, so if through some misfortune of mine they were left alive it was a fair risk. Please do not think that I am being to verbose writers get paid by the word so we never enough words, editors get paid to cut cost. If writers were not, as they are, more intelligent than editors all the classics would be telegrams. Many went to war, wounded, dead, good side won. A really good editor would even delete wounded and dead arguing that war implies wounded and dead.

During a questionable period of my life I had befriended black market pirates and so it did not take long for me to secure some delectable milk chocolate poisons that I was told were impossible to trace, a revolver with a built in silencer and enough ammunition to secure a second shot per victim just in case they fell to the tendency to cling to life, I had also purchased a crate full of popular drugs that could be consumed in a jolly social atmosphere with devastating results. I was also fortunate in the fact that a couple of my friends suffered from suicidal tendencies that were well documented by their psychiatric records.

Now the reader might argue with me and say that I am acting irrationally or giving in to action but nothing could be so wrong, I was attempting to save a thought process from being improperly pirated and disseminated. I was attempting to retain intellectual property rights on something that was mine from birth and in attempting to collect proper royalties and securing that no adulterated copies of my thoughts be distributed I was protecting all parties concerned, even the ones that I would expedite out of existence.

Soon after my plans were set in stone a sore the shape of a tear developed underneath my right eye, it was a sore that would grow irritated red, and diminish, and grow and I saw it do this every time that I saw my face in a mirror and I deduced from it that it was a spiritual tear for my dear lovers and friends that I would miss. sentimentality was a weakness of mine. And the tear signified the end of friendships because after the killings in order to maintain maximum secrecy I would not be able to share any intimate thoughts or emotional moments, anyone could betray me, I could trust no-one save for myself and indeed I sometimes held myself in suspicion, sure I had to trust myself but I was not above imagining that this self that I am was capable of duplicity and that in a massive case of self deception I was doing destinies dirty work. The tear never went away.

Mathilda was to be my first victim, dead to be ironically she was not a dear friend but she had been around to raise me and to watch my thoughts in progress she was first up because she knew to much but more important because she was old and would be an easy first target to arouse much needed courage.

I, by listening and not by asking, found the rest home where Mathilda had been instituted do to her poor health she suffered from many ills but she had suffered with many ills all of her life and none showed any promise of killing her any time soon. One evening I went to visit her, unannounced, of course, and retaining my silence camouflaged as a nurse for the dying I entered her room. I did not need to turn the lights on to identify my victim, Her breathing always a snore was ever present, you could not tell from it that she had been ill all of her life. she always had this signature smell about her that made my nostrils want to clamp shut perhaps produced by the fact that at seventy-four she was still a virgin saving her self for God ignoring what the virgin Mary might have to say about that.

I stood by the bed and made whispering calls: auntee, auntee, hello auntee its me your nephew, the one you always hated as a child, the one you told he would grow up to be a garbage man, the one that you always wanted to convert to religion by violent means, auntee its me, wake up, its time to wake up auntee, so that you can sleep for good. The vermin filled woman did not lift an eyelid. I hastily climbed on top of her as one would mount a horse, her circumference equal to many redwoods, her gray hairs showing many dead roots, and my hands begun to strangle her, and strangle her with force, with anger, she did not violently buckle, she did not make me feel like the rough rider on some cowboy adventure, she made me feel like if I was killing someone that was already dead, that had been dead for many years. Her neck failed to compress I felt it as if it was a huge rubber bag full of fluids. She died the doctor in me took her pulse she failed to report a heartbeat, she was reporting to the god that, unlike me, liked his women unspoiled.

Memories To Bleed

I stayed in the room for a few minutes staring at her perhaps in disbelief of my actions, but more and more realizing that Mathilda had never ever heard any of my ideas, none of my thoughts, I had been a quiet child I had never communicated with her ours had always been the mean baby-sitter relation, she beat me up I wept and mother would verbally beat her up. Then it hit me! I had killed this old woman, I had killed Mathilda because one day when I had danced in front of her ridiculing her dear god prayers, she had taken a broom and hit me so hard across my waist that it broke and that was not punishment enough she then forced me to sweep the floor with it telling me that because I had broken the broom I would have to do the cleaning with it. The broom had been severed closed to the bottom so sweeping with it required bending an inconsiderable amount that produced an uncomfortable back pain, while splinters from the broken end would occasionally buried themselves into the flesh on my fingers from which they then had to be painfully extracted with a needle.

My older sister that watched her swing that broom into my waist, immediately went to the basement in rage, into the tool box and grabbed the biggest hammer a little twelve year old can hold and dashed with god speed to rescue me by swinging that hammer saying you are going to die, you are going to die, and the hammer swinging back and forth while tears and screams came out of my big sister’s face. My dear auntee had a healthy survival instinct and so she took off ascending the stairs with the robust energy of an elephant in flight. My sister was mad and chasing and I was chasing my sister only steps behind. At the time we lived in a five story house, all stairs and aunte’s room was on the fifth floor, and so this little girl swinging hammer in hand, screaming atrocities, with little brother right behind her chased their auntee up the stairs prepared to do her in. Mathilda while running like a coward managed to tell us that God was going to kill us both sinners and that we were going to hell, that we were going to burn in furnace. Fortunately we understood very little about religion and even less about this guy God and so that did not stop us. Auntee Mathilda, only seconds from our arrival, managed to get inside of her room and lock the door. My big sister managed to demonstrate how adaptable of a tool a hammer can be as she begun to pound it into the door, and pound it into the door, as if to crucify my dear auntee, with out nails but rather to paste her soul into the wood with a meat tenderizer.

I think we got very tired of the door resisting our insistence and left but I really don’t remember what happen afterwards except that for sure my sister was punished for the damaged to the door. My parents were not big on symbolism so they did not comprehend that my sister was probably drawing a dramatic picture of the holy ghost for you really cant use a brush, paint and canvas to draw the holy ghost; wood and a hammer with life guts is a better medium, but parents are parents and so they belted my sister leaving many scars on her and to this day only the visible ones have faded.

It was while remembering this that I realized why I had selected dear Auntee Mathilda it wasn’t because I believed all virgins should be put to death but it was to complete a job that my big sister and I had started as children. Fading into a corner.

My next victim came to mind immediately after I overcame my sense of disbelief, disbelief on how thoughtless murder really was, disbelief on how simple it was to take a life, not complicated at all, I just walked in and killed her, I was not even a remote suspect and while I had not kept up with the family gossip I suspected Mathilda had been found dead and the doctors had concluded that she had died in her sleep. And why should they suspect differently, she was a nobody, she had never been anything and now she was nothing. I think that there are people out there that matter and if they are killed it effects a great many but people like Mathilda are inconsequential and so if someone kills them it is not necessary to discover the murderer, why punish someone for an act that does not make a difference.

My next victim was Leila . Leila you may want to know was a life long friend, a friend in the truest sense of the word, meaning that the fact that she was a woman did not affect our friendship. This is relevant because regardless of how liberated and wise we may be sex still gets in the way and that it gets in the way is not a bad thing but it is a thing. Anyway Leila and I shared many interesting conversations and while I must admit that often I was more of a listener than a contributor it remains true that she had a lot to say about things that were known.

Leila had always been a good friend which is to say that she understood me and liked me and those are the qualities that I seem to require from a friend. This meant that I really did not want to kill Leila, I didn’t passionately love Leila so that was no reason to kill her and I did not have her on the red level of my black list she was closer to the top of the middle. But life doesn’t really save people because they are innocent, and I already knew that so I did not moralize Leila’s destiny, in many respects she had chosen to be my friend and having done so had placed her at the hands of danger. The reason why it became terribly necessary to kill her was that she had decided to make a severe career change from working as a well paid corporate executive she had decided to become a puppet maker and puppet makers are not in abundance which meant that she would have to move 3000 miles away to a city where there was this finest of puppet making schools, she would learn her trade from the masters. Puppet making was an art.

Now why such an interesting woman with so many talents would become a puppet maker is certainly a severe criticism of our times but I wont dwell on that, my problem was that she was on my list and if she moved, I would have to travel to assassinate her, now aside from the fact that even a bad cop can make a connection between a long time friend landing in her city at the same time of her death, a more important fact was that it would be an expensive trip and so this is how Leila having already made a bad choice of friendships had precipitated her own death by making yet another bad choice, deciding to be a puppet maker, a dangerous profession indeed.

Almost as if she were sensing my intentions Leila begun to communicate with me more frequently and only a few days from the trip we begun to miss-communicate. It was very evident that our conversations were constant misrepresentation of what we really wanted to say to one another. Perhaps we were saying good bye, victim and killer sharing secret rituals, the invisible things that had kept our friendship together all this years were breaking like rubber bands and slapping us as they recoiled.

One day I was checking my mail when I see a large envelop with Leila’s current address, I opened it to find in disbelief all of my correspondence to her. Every letter I had ever written to her was there. Was she trying to save her self? Had destiny informed her of my intentions? Was destiny trying to rescue Leila? If so was Leila more valuable than I was? I hate suspense so I immediately called Leila and asked what was going on. She said, “I thought you were angry at me and I didn’t want you to think that I would ever use your letters, against you.” I ended that conversation feeling like a baby chick in a crow’s nest, being fed vomited worms to the point of suffocation.

Leila was on to something, she was communicating with her own destiny and it was probably trying to save her at this point I was back against a wall, I would have to kill her before she communicated her fears. Disguised I went to a cutlery store and bought a set of the finest butchers knives. Huge things those sharp blades. For the next three weeks I followed Leila, day and night hoping for that one moment... it happened late one evening she went for a walk in my favorite park, of all places, she was walking and I was her shadow and her shadow took out this huge knife and stabbed her in the back, Leila always a fighter, turned in disbelief but with the extra energy induced by an overdose of adrenaline. A face of putrid horror confronted me, she was shocked to see such a familiar face inducing a painful blade. I retrieved the blade only to recklessly plunge it back into her body and repeated this enough times to make a rhyme out of it.

Leila’s lack of docility a quality that had intimidated most men was now making this a bit messier the results would disqualify me from entry into the most prestigious schools of surgery. Leila managed to scratch my neck a few too many times which made me realize that killing someone can be a bit painful but I did not wish to think that I was killing Leila, why she was a good friend, no I was merely trying to create an opening wide enough so that her soul could escape the constrains of her body; I wasn’t killing this woman I was merely practicing liberation theology with an inquisitorial tendency.

Leila was a fighter till the end but usually the person that gets the first punch wins, and so my victory was less inevitable than even I suspected. Interestingly enough she did not vocalize her tragedy, she fought silently until we dropped and ended by the bushes; a last gasp of air burst forth from her mouth causing a series of blood bubbles to excrete lava like on her pale face. Her eyes wide open, her body was laying in a less than lady like posture. I did not remove myself from our savage embraced immediately, just rested there confirming our friendship against her cold flesh. After a while perhaps fearing the staring moon I gently released myself from her and I walked straight into the lake, the lake where some ducks were burying their heads into their backs as if wisely refusing to be witnesses of the inevitable, I, swimming slowly to the other side, stroking the water, breathing the serenity of the night, walked home wet and colder than Leila now laid. That night I slept knowing in my innermost that I had not wanted to kill her.

Of course there was also the possibility that I did love Leila, that I could not accept the fact that she was in love with her linear boyfriend Miguel, but I doubt it very much if this were even remotely true it would mean that I was using destiny to justify being a serial killer nonsense! Now some of you thinking yourself psychoanalyst might disagree with me and just conclude that I have lost track of my real enemies and that I was just now killing to satisfy some sanguinary fantasy. You would argue, and it is obvious that I have killed two women which may make me a misogynist certainly a possibility, too much obsession could make that of a person, but you might even argue that I have a very possessive nature towards the feminine and that ultimately my real goal is to seduce them all and kill the ones that refuse me. Certainly at this junction that is true for both women, who’s lives I have taken have been inaccessible to me either because of a boyfriend or do to a religious act of celibacy.

Let me clear myself, you pigs of the phallic! Mathilda was the ugliest woman alive her virginity was less voluntary than you might think, her devotion to a platonic relationship with God was an afterthought, the little boy going through that wonderful world of puberty did not wish to bed this woman anymore than he wanted to sleep with a horse or a baby elephant. Besides I have confessed to you that killing her may not have been motivated by the best of reasons now murdering Leila because she was sleeping with Mr. Linearity does not support the theory that every women that rejects me will meet with a terrible fate. Sure I don’t deny that inside of my head I would like every woman in the world to think of me as their first choice for a mate and every other man to be their second choice. That would be the ideal but I do not much suspect that this will be the case besides, let me rack up some killings and then we can detect patterns.

Hang The Clown Hang The Clown

The days that the audience used to clamor for the hanging of the clown are long gone, laws came into effect to prevent this from ever happening specially after the all too well know incident at the Jolla Circus. Now it is illegal to yell “hang the clown hang the clown” at the circus; and frankly I am not opposed to that because it is to easy to be brutal to a clown and something that is easy always loses its novelty.

Of course this particular clown had it coming, it was well known to those of us in the know that he was working to eliminate mathematics by creating linguistic formulas his most famous being: “Matter Antimatter Doesn’t Matter” this was an impressive an concise verbal formula which would allow for five year olds to deduce the annihilation of opposites, and the symmetric misalignment of the universe. But scientists were not particularly happy with the idea. They argued that a clown could not a scientist make and that language could not express mathematical precision. I, personally analyzed this formula and successfully used it to draw a line between Physics and Sociology. This was in conjunction with his revolutionary, evolutionary “Survive or Perish” formula which was only supposed to explain evolution, but proved, for me, to be socially adaptable. Yet my findings were never reported by the scientifically biased press. And not enough praise can be spoken of his: “To Disorganize, Organize” which is the grandeur of formulas, changing nothing while explaining entropy and it’s effects in minimalist fashion, and almost by result, audaciously reversing its effects. The critics persisted but the Clown used to just laugh at them, as clowns do, while saying things that almost made sense like “Even relativity can be brief because everything slows down at the speed of light.”

The press, these were the folks that had killed witchcraft, paraphenomena and astrology, while constantly printing stories of these professionally discredited practices to sell their magazines. The presumptuous assumption that while the general pubic was buying the publication because of the witch burning on the cover that they would be enlightened by the other articles inside, was believed by none.

I, myself never respected the clown or clowns in general, they like he wore those makeup masks that hid nothing, for like our faces the smile was painted on and on that laughing mask a tear lined the cheek. It was not a laughter producing tears, the laughs were loud and boisterous to hide the sadness and the crying, that is why there is more laughter on the face and only one tear, an act of novelty I don’t think so an act of violation.

The clowns violate the personal, the private, rape of the self! The classic exposition of turning ones nakedness inside out to show mute social faces. It is the giving of the inner to satisfy voyeuristic madness lacking the privacy or denial of a topless dancer. The sacred is sold to adventurism, sold to the thrill of being seen by ones peers in daylight as one is in darkness. The self is left without its secrets to cherish without private understandings. I can not advocate this circus laughter, those false confessors. Clowns rushing away from morality into a naked world naked, see me everyone, see me.

In the old wars it was the practiced of the soldiers to burn the women they raped, do you think it was to close the act? To save face? Or to deprive a sacred privacy? Soldiers can be accused of cruelty of amoral violence but never ever of lacking honor. Sadly we can not say the same for the circus and its clowns for at the circus, pugnacious bestiality and comic madness are shown to our little children.

Anyway my conversation on this matter is kind of pointless because the death penalty had long been abolish after the massacre on project Insight. Insight was one of the most fascinating experiments of our times, for that matter of all time. The project was a phenomenal undertaking of technology, genius, incredulity and faith. Everyone has heard of it but just in case eyes here have not I will tell you. The project begun as the technological aspirations of a brilliant philosopher but to say he was brilliant is not to say that he was famous or known or that he scored high on IQ test, but rather that in the sense of the word philosopher he was a philosopher, and sense philosophy had long fallen into the valley of ill repute, as an anachronism in these technological times that is not saying much of his genius or of philosophy.

It was perhaps a just condition for technology did not require us to know the truth but rather gave us tools to deal with its consequences. The early history of civilization had long been troubled with the search for truth that is with philosophy much like our scientists seek technological wonders, but the truth had been found out to be unknowable and therefor its usability was limited and in being limited useless. We here know that we have to deal with results from the truth but not with it, and we are wise enough to pursue the reality and not the truth we can not have.

Scientists did away with religion and economics did away with philosophy and the world has long become the bastion of economics first and science in a strong second. No one needed to force philosophers to commit suicide for they had no effect, and that which has no effect needs not be destroyed.

So as philosophy was quickly perishing this philosopher fellow realized that the only way to secure its salvation, in one last gasp for air, he would have to secure an association with technology. That is he would have to develop a scientific philosophy. At first this might sound a bit fantastic but it is no different indeed than what had been accomplished by science. Science acquired its victory over religion by associating itself with it, by producing the same promises by adopting incredible possibilities. It was the adoption of evolution and the big bang theories, concepts transferable without modification but for name changing into religion. As that science could walk away with the fears and madness of the masses.

So Antonio Estelacar was not so brilliant for he had merely duplicated an idea but brilliance never rest on much more than that. His basic outline, and it is tedious but I will oversimplify it here, goes something like this. Philosophy in its early years suffered from lack of information which our libraries now possess but it also suffered because it concentrated its pursuit for truth in the arena of thought, ignoring action and by ignoring action ignoring the empirical. That is to say philosophy was to snooty to race along with the plebeians and when democracies broke loose, plebeian power philosophy was not only in the higher centers of learning, it was also going up like helium never to be recovered. Further Mr. Estelacar postulated that the abyss of thought with action was like the abyss between man and woman that could only be eliminated via a sexual encounter. His conclusion was that you could not marry thought and action but that they could mate. Certainly artificial insemination is a mating process that bridges a gap between what is human and what is mechanical and yet a woman could never marry this process; and yet this was no different than the relationship that has been forged with the masculine. Interestingly in the end most men would have to cross-dress or become homosexuals just to pamper their new uselessness. But that males were falsely thinking themselves women, that is autonomous, and the fact that evolution would inevitably make all advanced civilizations hermaphrodites is another topic.

So Antonio Estelacar thought it right that a technological imperative needed to be multiplied into the philosophical equation, he would formulate a device that would bind the purposefulness of action with the ideals of thought and through this device the truth would be visible. This assumption was based on the understood nature of action which we knew to be a reality in real time, and not necessarily reality in anything abstracted from real time, or indeed the truth. Thought we knew to be intangible but also universal in that it transcended time and by implication even space, and yes, time was the interesting constituent, the prophelactive that brought these two together while keeping them apart. The concept was strong in weaknesses and rudimentary, but enough useless individuals needed to believe in it and that served to spark a resurgence of philosophical aspirants and aspirations, which like historians and history, wanted to cling to things of the past that were long dead.

So if the sexual act was the binding force of male and female, same thing opposites, then it had to be that thought and action, same thing opposites, could be brought together by an interaction in time and space, more same thing opposites, through some technological aberration created with same thing opposites known as matter and energy. In other words something quiet like this, but not quiet like this, nor quiet like that, but in proximity to so many things, that all its borders touched something not quiet of itself, but somehow connected to it all, and in so doing would combine to create not all these individual things that we knew, but rather, something which inevitably they all had in common with themselves, with light, with darkness, with matter, with nothingness, and as such that what ever that was, had to somehow possess truth, if only one could undress it and there were those that wanted to do just that. And the end result promised nothing more perhaps than a picture of a human heart with a bunch of penises hanging from it. But penises mean nothing here for I am of the opinion that one could eliminate the opposite of the feminine and life could continue, and if this was so then the same must be true of all opposites, only one is real, light is really darkness, matter is really energy and so on.

The technology behind a machine that consecrates philosophical ideas with mutilating actions is far to complex but through much laboring and intensive effort from the neo-philosophers and pseudo-scientist that had been ignored by the fine Trveske Academy of sciences. The experiment in a word flew forward with veracity fostering incomprehensible innovation and perhaps because of its incomprehensibility success was viable.

Many years later Antonio Estelacar had already found his grave but his phenomenal philosophical empirical action driven thought machine had come to live and to function. It was centered on two wooden platforms joined together by only one staircase, that they were made of wood in this technological times was perhaps a symbol of the connection to the philosophical past which was revived to produce this experiment.

The steel tunnel like structure was about the size of two giant dinosaurs tied in battle by their tails. Wires, tubing, fluids, patches, bolts, silver insulation blankets, magnets reaching, clamping, radiators, tanks, and membranes, blood-vessels from cultured tissues, organisms covering metallic heart pumps, lined the tunnel like structure voraciously and vericouse like, exuding perspiration from heat and cold, occasionally thundering while mostly murmuring sounds from which we suspected the truth or a huge human heart with penises dangling from it could be extracted.

while most of what I have told you I have gathered from the history books the last part I tell you from experience for I was at the platforms the day of the grand opening of the tunnel of truth. I had been allowed to participate because I had convinced the research panel that my studies into the anatomical nature of destiny were critical to truth in the sense that if truth ultimately prevailed then destiny had to be its guiding hand. We had to suspect that destiny though active in reality, did in fact communicate with the truth through some medium, and this had to be or else how could destiny guide us. The research team, being by an large a bunch of renegades was also emotionally persuaded by my particular struggle against destinies tyranny. I argued, and they agreed that if destiny was being forced upon us then a revolution had to be inspired and indeed was probably already in the making, we merely needed to identify its constituents and so perhaps the scientists, philosophers and a thinker, that is myself, were about to initiate the revolt of humanity against a forced existence. The tension was tremendous for it had been long expected that the individual that would take those first steps into this thing would indeed experience the truth. The truth was going to be displayed in strange but obvious ways for this machine of heart, had the capacity of allowing for the truth to exist, in reality without the normal hindrance of subjectivity which was found to be the primary problem with facing the truth.

He, With No Name

The tunnel thing of course was not like the tunnel of love that you could go in, in twos and one couple after the other, instead it was clear that only one person could go in for the system would only tolerate one person. This was because it had been designed with a biological constituency and so like any physiological system it would reject and even attack intrusions with self developed antibodies. The system had been designed always from the outside so that only the outside was a known, which is why one candidate had been designated early in the experiment. His cells were grafted, implanted into the organism so that it would consider them endemic to itself. He had been selected in childhood and had been brought up next to the machine thing, touching it, kissing it and licking that thing so that it would consider him a parasite of its own breeding.

This lucky one would walk into that womb like thing which because of that we could call it a her, and in her he would see the truth and then come out and tell us. But come out he would not it was a tunnel from which he would not come out, they, the developers, were unable to design a way out so the system was closed. Once inside he was a dead man, his survival was calculated to be about 58 normal hours, and we did not know how long those hours were inside the thing, of her, because time was expected to suffer from side effects caused by the truth. There was even the possibility that time did not in truth exist in which case he would die a bloody bit faster than instantaneously.

This was most interesting because the innards of this thing brought with them the truth, but in fact the truth was supposed to be objective but he would have to become an integral part of the truth to see the truth, which made it all some what suspect. But we all knew philosophical theory was less than applicable and expected that the action part of the system would somehow compensate for it.

The man selected for this incredulous task was never baptized, never made a citizen, never given an education other than command of a language which had been generated explicitly for communication with the various parts of this thing machine. He was simply known to us as The Man, and that is how we referred to him. The Man had been made aware of his imminent death, of the critical nature of truth and action, best as was understood by us, and that this thing machine would concentrate the truth to such “critically” high levels that it would be observable and touchable by him. He would be entering INSIGHT only wearing a helmet like a human heart with a bunch of penises dangling from it. The rest of him had to be naked, for only his body would not be rejected by INSIGHT. The thing would somehow wrap itself upon him and yet it was not expected to crush him but rather to accept him. Remember that his death was expected more as a result of contact with the truth, something very foreign to humans and thus deadly to us!

The helmet contained a series of sensors that would allow the scientists and philosophers to observe data and thoughts that would some how eventually be reinterpreted as the truth. The truth would be in code, and it would have to be deciphered and this was a way to employ scientists and philosophers; and it was expected that the truth was worth all this. No one ever suffered from doubts about weather or not the truth was worth knowing or weather it was beneficial for us to pursue knowing it. I was of the opinion that anything that required this much effort to know had to be hiding from us, or we were hiding from it and perhaps that was the healthiest thing and our pursuing the truth, was probably a sign of bad health.

The helmet also contained a transponder that would pick up signals in every imaginable format and relay them out of the thing via chemical interactions, and standard wave transmissions. They even expected metaphysical communication which bystanders like myself would be able to sense. This helmet also contained a fiber optic multi-lens camera, though no-one really expected the truth to materialize in front of The Man. This was simply an extra step to secure access to the possibility of a visible truth. Naked, Helmet on, Chaos, Fuzzy Logic, Relativity, Quantum, Unspeakable Witchcraft, Artificial Intelligence, Fortune, Philosophy, Action, Biotechnology, Virtual Reality (a redundant term for reality not being the truth had always been virtual), he, The Man, begun the procession which only he could march in.

Remember that all things devised to seek the truth were themselves probably not a part of it and therefor most of this convoluted creation was a brilliant maneuver to trick each and all known things to absolutely deny themselves, to remove themselves, to expose themselves by a process of incredulous self denial; the logical assumption being that if things could be forced to deny and deconstruct themselves, that only that which is truth could remain, for only the truth would not find conflict in this struggle; for only the truth is untouchable and impossible to alter. Indeed here was the phenomenal possibility for a severe tragedy for the assumption was that the truth was not flexible, that the truth was always honest, and it was always what it was; we were not prepared to accept anything less, so not only was this the possibility for philosophy and science to meet their mondus operandis but also their death. Witches, Astrologers, Poets, Mystics and Religious were in the audience, hoping at last to dance and thrive on the remains of their tormentors.

The crowd on the platform was not overwhelming, we could easily walk without bumping into each-other and this was a good thing for I did not particularly like crowds they made me quite uncomfortable and if this had been crowded I would have gone home. Anyway the place was semi-quiet a certain tension reigned but we maintained a calm that was balanced by madness for only mad people seek the truth. Balanced was an important thing here because we had long deduced that opposites were balancing the world. You know if you know grief you also know happiness that sort of thing. Well, if we were seeking the truth we would be able to know everything that was false, and you could say that should make us all fortunate but it would be difficult for me at least to replicate the unreal, the lies, the false for the sake of balancing the truth. Anyway the critical question to me was whether or not knowing the truth would make the law of opposites balance obsolete. Certainly one can understand that if happiness is balanced by sadness then terrible things occur when there is more of one than the other. So if you had too much sadness you would want to kill yourself because the scales were off kilter. But the truth as it had long been propounded by philosophy was pure, and purity denied association with another, and if that other was what was false, the more the truth should be forced to deny association with it. To say it clearly the truth had to be elitist to the core. The truth was so unique and original that because of that it could not be known, and we were attempting to know the unknowable.

I waited with patience, I knew that there were many things we currently knew or believed to know to be true that this thing INSIGHT would destroy. I was helpless to calculate what they would be, and what they would cause, but what was false was soon to perish and having known my friends and myself to be false in many respects I expected much shit to happen.

Air floating, darkness weakened, intensified blue lights, digital noises, corridors of pain, cold perspiration, wet nostrils, escapes, dry moisture. We were not comfortable we begun to move around a lot. The Man was walking the plank, we were wrestles, we were not looking at each-other but looking into ourselves. Were this already the effects of the now activated INSIGHT thing. We moved from here to there, no reason in our actions certainly a sign of proximity to truth. We did not speak words though much seem to be overloading our minds, was this the psychological communication that they had warned us about? And if so how were we contaminated by it? What might it produce in us? And what of He, with no name? What was he seeing, feeling and thinking? Please rescue the goat.

It is so interesting to watch oneself moving through a crowd yet only looking into the self so that one is maneuvering through the world but guided from within, from seeing inside of ones own head and not looking outside at all yet having eyes that appear to be staring straight ahead. As if the world was really internalized, really inside of us and only externalized by our desire to look at it outside of ourselves. The Man was now perhaps walking into himself perhaps that’s why he, with no name, never questioned his duty.

The air begun to tremble, the scientists had warned us that we would feel a roaring earthquake sensation, and that the vibrations would resonate through the air and play havoc with our ears, with our senses of direction, with our senses! It was dark as it had been planned, though the darkness seemed less contrived, red lights glittered through the x-ray runways we were to walk or depending on ones ideas escape through. I went to the first deck which was again not so heavily populated, and did what we were all doing watching the, THE MAN move forward waiting for that flesh THING, to wrap himself into INSIGHT or for the thing INSIGHT to wrap into The Man. Waiting...

Suddenly on the first deck I saw Michelle, my ex-girlfriend, she was in the crowd I had no idea what she could be doing here, nor why she was invited but I was so concerned with the pursuing events that I ignored her, that is until the, THE MAN entered the INSIGHT thing and the trembling turned into a silent calm, a trembling calm, a calm of unmatched incertitude. Then I pulled the knife out of my pocket, I pulled the knife out of my pocket, repetition intended, and rushed up to the second level and before I knew what was going on Michelle had a knife in hand as well, and so did most everyone else; and we were a calm violent lot pursuing each-other with knifes, digging deep into skins while avoiding ours from getting the blade. Michelle, as if we were working in concert, was stabbing and wounding people on the first deck, and I was stabbing and wounding people in the second deck, and everyone was so busy stabbing everyone that not one of us noticed what was happening to INSIGHT or to THE MAN.

You, we, they, could feel the blood, our nostrils tasted blood, our tongues tasted blood, our minds wanted blood, the truth was blood. I kept watching Michelle perhaps because she had ended our relationship and so I could not trust her with a knife, or perhaps because she was a woman, either reason was valid. I was not however scared nor afraid of dying which we can construe as some truth being acknowledge by me from INSIGHT, for under normal circumstances I was by nature a hideous coward. Michelle seemed a bit more aggressive with the knife I was more defending myself which would indeed describe our relationship.

Michelle, you may want to know, left me like all the others, women were in the habit of leaving me, or, and I should say, making me leave them so that I would be responsible for the tragedy. Michelle had left me because evolution and destiny had given women a dormant gene that was activated by my presence. This was an antiMe gene and it made them dislike me in every way imaginable. It was a terrible gene, and with the continuing improvements in identifying genes, I suspected that in the near future researches would identify this antiMe gene and then I would push for a court order to have it removed or turned off at birth from every baby girl.

Now I know what you are thinking, that I am a bit crazy for speculating that the courts would forcibly endorse the removal of the antiMe gene. But my defense will be that no individual should be born with a prejudice towards another human being, and specially not, if that human being is capable of denying reproduction rights. So, to permit baby girls to be born with an antiMe gene, indeed would be, and is, a violation of my rights, and therefor to endorse a corrective process, enforceable by law, is humane and good. Parents will have to sign a writ of consent, for the antiMe gene removal within two and half months from the date pregnancy is determined. And mandatory test to determine gender will be conducted by law during the first medical exam. No more surprises for parents at birth, and doctors will suffer catastrophic liabilities if they do not report violators. I suspect that my case will set a precedent and once the gene responsible for skin pigmentation is discovered, it will lead to the standardization of one skin color for all peoples. my case will have made that arduous task easier to implement. Anyway Michelle’s antiMe gene activated itself and the poor woman was left with no option but to leave me.

I consoled myself by believing that it was a mother thing, that the mothers of this world had wanted to protect their daughters from me, for I was adorable and evil in many respects, and women might fall helplessly in love with me, and there being so many this could only lead to more conflict between women. Mothers, ever so wise, foreseeing a world infested by women in love with me, had deduced that the world would be a better place if this were prevented. They had in brief made their daughters hate me because they loved me to much.

You might question evolution for placing the antiMe gene in every female instead of just making me nauseatingly ugly. It certainly does not make economic sense but my conclusion is that evolution is not preventive but reactive. Mothers did not foresee my arrival, evolution was working with hindsight, but I was clear evidence that evolution could evolved within an individual life time. This of course left any woman older than me unprotected, and any woman younger protected by the antiMe gene, and I was such a fatalist that I instinctively went for the younger ones.

The stabbing continued for many hours, I don’t know at what time we stopped running, or stopped stabbing each other, cops never arrived and I woke up on my bed with the knife laying on my chest with more types of blood than an addicts needle. I wrested, there was no point on getting up, I suspected the truth had protected itself, I suspected the entire experiment had been a failure, I wrested some more, slept some more, forgot my dreams, never even saw Michelle in them. I was left now to ponder the results of the great experiment, it may have failed but as a thinker I would be able to deduce something from it, perhaps destiny had corrupted the experiment, but then why even let it occur, anyway destiny was in that picture, somehow, is some strange hidden form and I suspected it, and it must have suspected me.

Murderous Dreamers

The newspapers headlined the INSIGHT incident reporting more violence than had actually taken place, for the stabbings were for the most part acts of salvation, we understood why we were stabbing each other and it was not out-right murder, pinching perhaps. Soon after some primitive analysis was in we came to the horrible conclusion that murder in real life was the end result of dreams. That is, when enough people dream about some one dying, a person that is awake at that time commits the murder. No one was sure how the communication from those that were sleeping to the unlucky one that was awake took place; or why that one particular person, would be killer, was more receptive than another, but the conclusion without doubt was again that a person is murdered when a number of people kill someone in their dreams. Those dreams are reinterpreted in real life by someone awake that is receptive to the dreams. This incredulous conclusion led to the abolishing of the death penalty for it was evident that the person committing the murder was not indeed the murderer, further more the real murderer was in fact a congregation of dreamers and as such impossible to identify and prosecute. So the death penalty was abolished, saved a lot of clowns, and the murderer was still punished for giving in to impulses but not for killing anyone.

After the murderous dreamers theory was proven, a great many people suffered from sleeping disorders, some going to sleep morally praying not to dream a murder, others awaking to an alarm every five minutes so they could live with themselves, REM deprived these often died, guilty of suicide for trying to prevent themselves from being murderers. Others more callous attempted to dream their friends and wives to sleep, and the stock markets went bullish on psychiatry. This was one of the great truths that INSIGHT had given us, and not a truth for all we knew was why a murder was executed not the reason behind it, the why, or the process for selection, nor the determination of the dreams.

THE MAN was a thing of the past, INSIGHT had kind of perished along with the philosophers and the scientist, THE MAN never was anyone and no one would miss him, perhaps they would miss his helmet, which was an art piece but not him, not his limbs, and certainly not his brains. He was, he died, he was past tense.

We, my friend and I went to a party, always go to parties with friends I say, went to this party with a friend she told me about the incident with INSIGHT, about the, THE MAN and the people running around stabbing each other; she spoke of how stupid they had to have been, how the respected scientific community had never accepted any of their premises, it was not an uplifting experience. I did not tell her of my having been an active participant because I figured that would lessen my chances of sleeping with her, the truth is sometimes best avoided. She slept with me that night and we consummated our relationship and part of me wanted to tell her she slept with a stupid idiot, but I thought it best to think that I had slept with stupid idiot and that was OK.

My Dear Little Monster I

A mad dream? My dear little monster you have arrived into my embrace with all your pump And sinister fury; you bleed through my veins every time I see you, and our Previous encounters have always frozen my motion, only to leave my body Trembling and my squirming mind in hysterics. But not this morning, this Morning was different. I knew your old footsteps, the ground started shaking As you made your way towards the coward. Neither space nor the sheets would Serve as protection from your starving claws. They raced around my body Bearing wounds that today only my eyes can witness. Your throat made those Horrible noises which only seconds past were voices, the voices of children, Which always accompany your arrival as red carpets accompany kings.

Yes, You've returned knowing well I’ve rejected your friendship in the past and Would do so again. Oh, I have searched for you and even wanted your grotesquesness in my brain. At first I rejected you from fear. Your alien nature tormented me beyond containment but, as soon as you left I realized How much my savage fears had enjoyed your stay. I perspired as never before, I Wanted to scream for the mercy of god, I forced my body to move but my force Was wasted; your grip, a grip of terror would not release me that is, until My heart showed signs of death and my brain seemed to burst through my skull In eons of time! Then, and only then my, dear little monster, you would Leave as light leaves the sun. And then my longing for your return would Begin.

I always wanted you to return and I opened my third eye for your sight. I'd talk To you in my walks, telling you that this time it would be different, I Would not be afraid; I begged for your return to our savage intercourse and I cried when silence spoke your absence. But you did return, and only when I had Placed you in my memories absent of my feelings. Only when I did not expect you. You rushed in When I could not tell the difference between dreaming and reality. You, of Course wanted me to think I was insane. But I knew too well that the bed was Really shaking, that the walls were vibrating as my teeth were crushing each Other with increasing force as I was attempting to open my jaws!

And Those explosive sounds which tore through my body were really you, and Really real! I wasn't mad! I was normal! The darkness was opening my eyes You knew that, as well as you know that only monsters are mad! You've played With my fears I fought against them, forced you away and lost them; now I Want them back! For there is nothing more atrocious, more horrible than not Being able to fear!! I know your weakness is that what you fear? That I can Have life within you?

This morning when destiny bonded us once more, we Fiercely struggled within me and within you. But I was powerful and held you For seconds blasting gradually through your heart the instant my mass wanted to test its control. Yet, as soon as I wanted to return you were no More. I let tears irrigate my eyes and cursed myself begging for your forgiveness. I felt you so distant when I wanted you inside my head. I gave Up your return, I did not give up the grief. But instants later you came Back, your terror was weak, your claws were not as heavy. I felt more the Gentle caresses of a princess than the angry violent bursting of a monster! You didn't stay long but left slowly.... I felt you leaving for a very long, long time as my depression increased with affinity.

Now, timelessness later you are probably in another time, another universe perhaps hunting another soul; While I rest here praying to the god of all good to bring me back your evil! Though I fear the death which must accompany your revenge, I fear more that You may never return. ”Oh, my dear little monster how lucky are those who are wanted dead by all their enemies!