A Chore for the Lost

Chore for the Lost

An exhausted fall into disgrace, famished for peace, for a mere moment 
of respite in dying eternities, on the verge of being deprived of all 
humanity: non-sense is the outcome of every possible sens, it is the start of 
transcendence, the dissolution that spreads without limits and the critical 
violation; what pleasure of inconceivable purity there is in being an object 
of abhorrence for the sole being to whom destiny links my life! The rupture 
is too profound to stand up, nothing remains but a terrified consolation in 
a laughable renunciation that is not the one of a single man, thou art not 
dead to the devoration of sin! 

Every human being not going to the extreme limit is the servant or the 
enemy of man and the accomplice of a nameless obscenity. 

Let us be a blight on the orchard, on all orchards of this world, even the 
least of these words will be judged during the times of reckoning, bearing 
a latent damnation a feverish seduction exasperated in death, every letter 
is a code to extreme horror, utter contempt and divine conflict; it is lethal 
to speak the language of resistance, every gasp exhales a particle of the 
remission of Golgotha, as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of a fragile power just above annihilation, the one of a harmony in ruins; it is a 
task for a man who cannot bear any longer to be, a chore for the lost in the 
denial of free will: perinde ac cadaver! 

God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thou brought us...