A Chore For The Lost

An exhausted fall into disgrace, famished for peace, for a mere moment
of respite in dying eternities, on the verge of being deprived of all
humanity: non-sens is the outcome of every possible sense, it is the start of
transcendence, the dissolution that spreads without limits and the critical
violation; what pleasure of inconceivable purity there is in being an object
of abhorrence for the sole being to whom destiny links my life! The rupture
is too profound to stand up, nothing remains but a terrified consolation in
a laughable renunciation that is not the one of a single man, thou art not
dead to the devoration of sin!

Every human being not going to the extreme limit is the servant or the
enemy of man and the accomplice of a nameless obscenity.

Let us be a blight on the orchard, on all orchards of this world, even the
least of these words will be judged during the times of reckoning, bearing
a latent damnation, afeverish seduction exasperated in death, every letter
is a code to extreme horror, utter contempt and divine conflict; it is a lethal
to speak the language of resistance, every gasp exhales a particle of the
remission of Golgotha, as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of the
fragile power just above the annihilation, the one of a harmony in ruins; it is a
task for a man who cannot bear any longer to be, a chore for the lost in the
denial of free will: perinde ac cadaver!

Le vent de la Vérité a répondu comme une gifle à la joue tendue de la piété

God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thous brought us...