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"And if I knew what to think I would go after it." The hint of a revelation
She showed up at the church with bloody hands pressed inside her skirt. It was a guess whether she was there for asylum or to desecrate the place. It was empty, he ignored her and walked past, closing the door behind him as he made his way back to the street.
Why did the image matter, you can create images in your mind stranger still and more vivid. And you lose it faster as you dry up, paling with degenerate splendor before it goes out.
Her face was thin, dark and lit with a cruel desperation. Her tongue darted softly over her lips, trailing blood over the dry cracks in the soft flesh.
It wouldn't escape him, wouldn't vanish into explanation or feeling. And still he couldn't quite capture it. As he walked through the streets, he couldn't get beyond her. The strange woman, meaningless! He looked into absent and distracted faces, each with its own idiocy, with it's own subtle fascination. The sidewalk was slick under his feet, wet with rain and stained with cigarette butts. He walked under strict lines of telephone poles like bare crosses and wondered at his lack of remorse.
All towns stir resentment, it's a crippling factor of society, the instict to leave or at least desecrate. To somehow render new, and brilliant, what you touch in passing is the single purpose of art, and especially of love. Faces don't matter, only the memory of how a certain light once struck them. It's the cauterizing effect! Catalysts in contemplation, not action, stir the soul and trick it into believing it has created new, great things. Violently and abjectly departed from it's squalor, it's sentiment and disgusted need for humiliation. Self-loathing casts a sort of glow into the eyes, it distills in everything a sort of elusive, unbreachable splendor. And thus we have man's love of the unknown, his flirtation with death and ritual. His entire appreciation for symbolism, for significance is spawned from the simple longing for remembering one's one birth and the terror at the search for more meaningful, more penetrating incidents to replace it as the single disapointing reason for existence.
Separation becomes the only motivation, the only true art of our time. In leaving we create an imprint, we disturb. Stagnation is the only remaining aberration, all other thresholds have been disclosed and then reviled, no longer some stange, unprecedented flight. We cannot be still any longer! Screams the air, the water, all breathtaking unmovable objects of eternity, who motionless, mock us for our moment of stillness. Because somehow in degradation, in disintegration they are changing enough to repulse our sense and mysteriously refute our leavetaking, because we never escape completely, never entirely deface ourselves and trap our faces again and with new features. We refuse to, change is never something taken lightly or without great lamentation. We must have form! Frequency! A secret mechanism to trigger our motions so it all comes together now, no outbreaks, no exceptions. Only, function. We must here destroy the orgasm and all knowledge of birth. Destroy all movement by removing the object, the ideal. With nothing to move towards, nothing to reveal the longing for death inherent in (sex and) breathing, we can all rot. And it will be brilliant, for we will have no concept of beauty to ruin it.
And under the streetlights, just a few more minutes to go, thoughtless, rendered heavy with smoke and delirum into the night. (damnation) You see war, of any kind, is stirring. Destruction of the mind on a mass scale, as a type, as a benediction. It's beautiful baby, our last resort! The final answer! The birth of the world with blood and a filthy pelvis, crusted over with dead placenta and umbilical refuse. We can only hope to match it or go numb, escape has been made impossible.
He forgot her, the image escaped him into the open air, and he blissfully walked off, silent.