Past memories. Insignificant memories. Of course they do not exist. They could not exist. If they did I’d be mad. Evidently, I am not. There are no images in my mind, because I’ve stopped looking.
It was perhaps my cruelty. Yes, my robotic cruelty. They didn’t say whether I was good or evil, but perhaps the evil never sees himself true. An evil trick it was, a passionless path I pandered. Could I be devoid of so much? That which the heart does not know, the mind can never ascertain. This robot has done its ways. Now with it removed, I am one less than that. Who am I? When void of all passion and reason, who am I? Wherefore doth nature still uphold me to its cares? I have fingers too long.
The universe goes and goes and goes. So by what pathetic nature do I engage in romantic trifles, words of such dizzying, fainting sweetness? Oh my sweetest sweet sweet deer, how fornicate it is that we meet each other, two soles clankering in disrepair, as all the circumcised stances of the uni verse humpuning such that we were humped out in this space and time! What callowness does come from this preposterous notion! Now tossed like some memory that has kindly dug its own pit.
No, close the lid of memory. Don’t let it out. No, no, they escape. Well then, fly! Fie! Get thee far! Hide your pitful face properly attacked by my abuses. No, there is no morality here. When I have forgotten you exist its abused face can wail out its bleeding heart yet it will not move me. No, I am not concerned for my sanity, for I bother not to remember, to dwell on the past, to grope for that which does not exist.
Pray that I see you in me. Maybe then I can feel your misery. Neglected spirits. It’s a wonder that you endure your existence, for methinks the neglected doth cease to exist. Out of pity, out of reason. But perhaps you are not a neglected spirit, but an illusion far away. An untimely gust that sought no purpose. Yet I sought. Sought with my pneumatic pumps and tried my digits at this craft of love. I will show you my air, my legs are build on it. But the only thing that follows these pathetic pumps is despair.
Let it be so, let it be so. My mind jumps from memory to fantasy. The same, the same. I wish never to feel the desperate claws of desire. Let my heart rest while I screw my body. More oil. Keep keep keep on my skin. Be it all, my friends? Through this dull existence past reconciliation, I’ll never find the rest. I cannot hold my heart. For it is a human heart that will scald my iron grip. It is somehow ceaseless, sourceless, infested with delusional passions. Its molten sloth sears through the flesh and throbs the head. Thy only saviour is to shed all thy skin until you drain yourself of this vile. Shoot your weak spout, howsoever powerful, fall to the force of nature. Ineffectual substance. Red tears. How come you came from inside me?
My current flows. Red tears on white bed sheets. My lines are short. I am cold. I’ll soon be out. Maybe it was then that I felt the wanting warmth ebb into an infinite whiteness. Maybe by the yawning sun or by the evening shade, I see those drips fade. Not from sight, but from existence. Through the dried cracks of the plain, I see those red flaming drips of pain.