The Impotence of Virility or How I Met Our Death

Those who intimately knew me are no longer of this world. I have not been of this world for quite some time.

Sed fugit interea fugit irreparabile tempus.

I am not saddened by loneliness. I thrive in solitude. I take what might be mistaken for joy in the recesses of deep melancholy. Blind blissfulness is not only unattainable for myself, but a blasphemous thing. Nostalgia is erotic and is ideality. The future is my apathetic bride-to-be. I shall attempt to undo her chastity belt so that I may deny her justly of my seed which would fall upon barren worlds.

The memories of past lives fill me and I am satiated. The realization of the futility of their now corrupted flesh passing from juvenescence to maturescence to decrepit obsolescence eases my mind and relinquishes me to my own spiraling journey. Their bones are my resonating guides, reverberating with melodies in minors which speak to pain, loss, rejection, disillusionment, and the rare sad exposed joy.

I am repulsed by children and babies, therefore I have chosen to have none. Many people are repulsed by children. Few let this stop them from dropping them like great steaming bastardized turds.

The purpose of the seed is to give meaning to an otherwise meaningless life and world. The hollow beget the hollow. The extinct were always the most interesting.

My life has been spent staving off others. I must not coalesce with community, as I would be destroyed, irreparably transformed into something of commonality. Should I entertain your company, I would not only be forced to empathize with you, I must become you and you me. It would not be an equal exchange, no matter of your class or distinction. The result would be the degeneration of ourselves—the transmogrifying of ourselves into what can only be called, something else.

Would I have wanted to know Einstein? No. I have his body of work to study. The man would have disappointed and disinterested me. Print is the purified essence.

My flesh is imprisoned in the present. In youth my mind lived in the future. I am now predominantly living in the horror of perspicacity of the past, as it lives in the selectivity of the memory. I am that I was that I will not be. A minor (Am) echoes down through the valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains, pausing momentarily in a field where a deer lies dying, a Capricorn.

And Lucifer also appeared as the Morning Star.

 

And these things were said to tempt:

I could comment in an intellectual manner on all of the interesting content here...

And yet, I see the pretty women and I am transported to sunbathed Egypt by Jack Parson rocket which very soon afterwords explodes into a glorious light of beauty and creation. 

As with Crowley, any ambition has been dashed to pieces on the shore of fickleness of federating. Sex magick, indeed.

Undoubtedly, any woman would beat any man in a game of chess, should she use the power I have endowed her with.

The natural weapon of a woman is the negation of ratiocination. This power, in the hands of beautiful and logical women? There is no hope for man. Bite the fruit, suckle the teat. As Kirk knows, you must throw up your hands and postpone exploration of the Universe!

And yet again, with the power invested in me, I rebuked the serpent...

I closed my eyes, opened them, and looked upon these women.

Is this beauty or a cheap illusion conjured to conceal the fact that other than their natural weapons, there is little dwelling within to delay my ascension? Are not their legs haired?

Projected fallacy! Thou fetor and decrepitate!

To the books! Belay that! There is a lit cigar near to rocket fuel! A vision! An aged and drunken Bill Clinton seeking validation of apperception! Behold! Snickering! Blasphemy! Let me gaze again upon you.

In the name of Jesus, you must flee!