Carnage, carnage. My soul wants carnage. My mind wants bacchic excellence and my sacrilege demands a justification. What I desire, however, is my total condemnation.
A form of arithmetic christening, where mathematics empirically deems me both the sinner and the saint. Where I don't have to bend the laws of dogma to achieve such an antithesis. I want heavenly glory and lustful sin. I want to praise Dionysus in a naiad cove and fall to my knees in a pentecostal church. I want the lord to embrace me and for the devil to fuck me. I want drought to become me, to kiss my sunken cheek and deem me worthy of drainage. I want to be the perfect victim to every divinely endowed force of nature. I want for The Flood to come again, and jump off the Ark of my senseless comfort, to a brave, gallant doom. The doves will mourn me by staining themselves with the blotted red ushering out of their hearts. They will fall by the thousands.
I don’t want to be reborn, for I will live forever.