Who am I writing to? I'm writing to no one. No one will read this except me. So I'm writing to myself. To listen to myself in my mind's ear. So it is out of Narcisism that I'm writing. I'm looking into the cybertronic mirror. So bored so boring. Making faces into nothing. Then letting them take my face as though it's a box of cereal on a supermarket shelf. You can't take my face anymore. No more photography, no more cinema. No more tape recording or sound engineering. No more media orgy. I can't face myself. I can't confront my own direction. I am not happy with my body. I am unsuccessful... a failure. I am in an isolation chamber. With all my noiseless, clueless patience. I feel it slipping away. I see the colors of alienation. The blues and greens of letting it go. Gone are the reds and yellows of ecstacy. Now only the blues and the greens fill an empty hole. The dirt is packed tidy all around the negative space. I am walking in the field of the ether. Trying to find the tree of life. When I trip and fall into this hole. It holds me captive for three weeks. Then it lets me go. But I never understood what it was doing. Or who dug it in the first place. I am sorry, but when I left I was lonely. It had grown dark outside. The leaves on the trees were all dead and brown. The life had been choked. Now my seraphim denounce their allegence. They no longer call anyone master. And I'm a king with no subjects, a messiah with no disciples. My longing is for the productive form of suffering. To feel something, to have a genuine sensation. Not to feel this nothing that I'm feeling right now. Maybe I lost my mind drinking. Too many dreams and the past gets unsteady. I can see the memories but not remember them. Like photographs of a party where you got black-out drunk. That's been my whole life until now. I can picture the happy moments, the ecstatic moments, the holy moments. I just can't relive them, so I'm constantly redefining myself with new experiences in the quest for exciting and interesting sensations. The journey makes me weary, but I think it's worth traveling. This week will be my lost week. I hope to not remember anything, and I will emerge from it a new person. I will strip off the old fantasy and adorn myself with the new. Ahh this succubus and these sorcerers. These forces outside of me that I feel so deeply on the inside. Why do I allow them to possess me? The entrap me with the illusion of love. But it is only a different kind of relationship and not the trueness of agape love: the godly love, the love of god, godgiven love, god is love. Everyone around must become everyone inside. Crawl deep into this cave with me and then we will hold hands and pray. Everyone crawl in and don't be afraid of being too crowded.

I think the Seraphim are making me eat crow or something. I can't seem to get around the angle of compass. Those thirty three degrees and those years in the earthly ministry. I mean, is it really possible to consciously create reality? Can I make someone fall in love with me or can I cause a car accident? Can I decide when to sleep and when to be awake? All these questions confound the qualified diety. What once was intrigue became blasphemy and now that the taboo has become most holy the laity will lose their interest. It's okay though, my anger will be poured out like rancid soup, onto the frozen ground to cut the awkward ice. I will be naked and turning blue. Shaking violently. Soon my fingers and toes will turn black and then the black part will spread throughout my entire body, until my organs are frost bitten. Then I will succumb to the final narrative. I will be a frozen wildebeast. I will look in the glacier for food but none will present itself. I will be captive to my own limitation. Where will you be? Still surviving like me? Or will you be warm in a house somewhere waiting for the savior to wash your feet? Will you be cooking a meal from the spoils of hegemony? Will it be a stew made from rotten vegetables and rancid meat? Will you swallow each bite as though it were an expensive medicine? I'm sorry but I'm done eating. My belly has swollen to beach ball capacity. Nobody is looking. I think I'll just shave a little off the top. Then I'll feel like dancing. Then I'll be the life of the party. I'll get a few drinks and start puking. I'll let the night take me. I won't be able to take my mind off me. I'll be making faces in the mirror. I'll be combing my hair and doing my make up. I'll be looking so pretty you can't help but love me. You'll be in a dress moving slowly. I'll be walking on a cloud like a russian ballet dancer. But you'll be walking but never moving. You'll always be stationary.