The comet is an enigma. It comes from the spaces beyond the bounds of the world, it brings serene peace and joy.
Comet, Body of Time
To play the body as you play a perfect instrument,
Every organ produces a new melody, a new variation,
To wield perfect mastery over the rhythm of cells.
The cloud isn’t a mysterious script (as Theophrastus believes), a hieroglyph, an ideogram in the open book of the sky. The book of celestial omens, the alphabet of paranoiacs, of necessity, fate and determinism, has been outlined by the Chaldean readers ever since the first Morning Star lit up the night of reason. But no, the cloud is neither a secret code nor a primitive alphabet.
Every beam of space is tightened into a knot of time, every fiber – into a stitch. A spider-orifice, this hole in the belly whence time passes through. We are the dis-paired, the paired children of time, our cobweb is the insect-star dissemination, our vice is the section of the event. There, under the meteor shower, is the section of the event. There, under the meteor shower, we unfold the feathery fan of the comet.
Two streams shoot out of the stone, the stream of life and the stream of death. Shadow and light shine from the stone, bow and bow, cannon and cannon. The name of the bow is life, but its deed is death. The name of the bow is stone, one of its deeds is life, the… Read more »
The stone of freedom shattered the glass of the Human.
Hell is about obsession. Actually, what takes place on the road to Hell is the gradual surfacing, through organ cavities, through skin pores, of a new unknown body, an unknown creature.
We are immortal enough to never again run into the arrogance of life. We are dead enough to leap across any grave. We are proud enough to overcome all vanity of desire.
We are the doubles.