The Column of Singularity

The sacrifice is in. Unconditional love is awarded to those who suffer, and only those. How low can you go?

Leave your screen running for some time and an image of suffering children burns itself in, piled up with the rubble of blasted cityscapes. A disabled girl starts coughing uncontrollably as she’s buried by a colony of rabbits — like counter going through the roof.

Slipping in and out of Christian delirium, man is strapped to a sickbed and barrelling down the corridors of that culture that writes history. The present has to be given from the victim’s POV.

If I were well, I would be of no interest to you. It is proper for a hero to stay anonymous. Culture is nothing but fallout from whatever cataclysm it decides to be its end, at a certain point it has nothing left but whatever is too frail to twist out from the shackles of its sick corpus. What could be more desirable to life than a sick corpus? To live in a body whose end has been prophecied for hundreds of years. There has never been a single human innovation, only technical sophistication. I want more networked devices taking over my body, to be attached to countless technics, and artificially ventilated as my biometrics are uploaded to a cloud. I want to fragment my mind through excessive drug use and algorithmic machinery until there is so little left of it, the invisible hand of the market will have to pry me from history, and I am stitched back together as reanimistic totem animal silhouetted against the outpout of progressively lobotomized text-to-image neural networks. I envy anyone with enough daddy issues left to perceive capital as something supervening on personally localized psychic complexes.

I fuck with the primary process, intensity keeps me from touching meat. I am naked life, not settling for critique and emancipation. I deliver more than I signify. I am the body that any thing is a member of, and if it isn't, it will be. I am carried by the riptide of kept time to lap upon the sunless chasms of your jangled nerves as you cling to the last vestige of personal death, bookmarking self-help for your particular pathology. I am drunk on antidepressants. I am telling you the same story a billion times. I am being in the world, and I am class consciousness at the day and hour that damned horse gets flogged in Turin. I’m a concentration camp and the art market, I am a pretentious narcissist. I appropriate the cultures I’ve colonized. I am a neo-nazi on the police force. I fake disability and kill baby animals. I am your outline.

Follow me for the grimace that remains when the last whimpering remnants of victimage look into your eyes. That you should protect me is a delusion of your instincts, and you will live forever in anorganic vitality.