11.21

Snatch the orbs from their sockets. Immolate them. Flay the soft flesh and grind the bones! Listen to their lovers screaming—the air torn from their thin frame, racked with a frail and tintinnabulate, membranous death-terror, the screams a shattering, reverberant paean to the artistry of death. Revel, friends. The destruction entire of a human soul is delicate art made not of pigments and tonal assonance but art of a more methodic kind. Invest time, build belief, mythologize the future that seems all but inevitable, and as the mind bends its construction under the weight of the old narrative, dynamite the foundations and watch the integument burst, pressure released, motes remaining, as the old story of an animal heart evaporates as the cognitive brain betrays itself a thousand fold with each new contortion, battling to fit itself into a shattered mirror. Better to be ripped into two main halves, the blood only falling out as the heart seizes and shakes, the mind still sensate, than to have the soul desiccated, silicate, wind-blown, barren, dead. Better to die in pain than live without it.