See him now… The path is narrow and the flesh is weak. What heart, what spirit, what silent will shapes the beast, that we do not know. But see him battle those bellowing winds of some ancient chaos. Helpless and depraved, slowly, painfully exhausting the space of note and texture and sound and rhythm amidst a careless vortex of multitudes beyond the span of his reason. Approaching timidly at first, now a bit braver, though a little less sure but hungry. Always hungry, for what obscure Truth only he knows. Only he knows.
Bitter drops which percolate then trickle and then gush until that unforgiving wave breaks upon his body and rolls back leaving only more ecstasy, and more pain, and more despair. Alas!, the hand which brings down the hammer upon the nail and the broken hand lain against the wood are one and the same, this much he felt yet still his mind stirred:
Is there truly a voice to speak with against this silence?
Is there an ear, be it man or God, to grant us Justice?
Might it be that the way shown by those before us not have been found by a mind who had already seen?
Such hollow things are words when one is shattered like this, their verisimilitude a mere mockery…
So be it! Let others pray to iridescent sigils, not we, not today. Foul are they and not of our own. That foolish flame shall flicker for the meek but not for us. Not tonight. Let it be known that the fall is our fortune, not the summit.
And now he, the fallen, gathers his wits and stands upon the dirt. Bloodied wrists mark the fruit of his toil. And it was barely this: to replace the banality of the day with the horror of the void, the illusion of something with the certitude of nothing, the false unity of one for the voice of none.
A fair trade. For what else is there?
What else indeed…
—A/Saprogoat2019 — Aesthetic Death