The world is rank with fear and indigestion..̴̎Ť̴͎̕he̶̫͙̹̜̕ ̸̃͗f̴e̶̔̏a̸͆̆r i̴s̸̡̗̝̘̋͘ ̵̇f̷ȍ̵͖̞̗̪r̴̜̰̳̓̌ t̴̢̛͆h̸e̴̓ ̵̞͉͖́f̷u̶̯͑t̸̛̓͐ur̸̉̆è̵,̴͒fear of looming failure,fear of toothless poverty. Indigestion from commerce,indigestion from pain,i̵͝n̸͖͚̮̈́̐͐̒ͅd̴̮͗͌̔i̴̾̕͝g̸̪͗̓͂ͅe̴̝͙̒̋͜͝s̸͒t̷į̷̯͓̽on from predetermined failure to die,so i ♥♥♥♥ a biocontrail out of my heels,soaring into the skies over a deranged j̸̅̾u̶̇n̴̼͓͘k̴i̴̪̅̎͐͘ë̶͔́ ̷̧̘͕̻̀g̵͘í̴rl̷̛̃ with a knife,despoiling and ransacking her dandruffian temple with cheap alloys that pass for ammunition in this world. Even Soviet weaponry, sold and resold at the ̸̹͘d̸̩̏ė̴̱a̶̠̽ț̷̚h̵͈͗ ̸͓͐of the R̷͇̔e̶̝̋v̴̛̭ó̸̭l̴̮͋u̸̪͒ẗ̶̞́ú̴̺o̴͙̚n̶͚̐ attunes itself to the thunderous sea-foam surf of Wall Street. I killed politicians. I culled unions. I even transgressed on private property. None of this ever ♥♥♥♥♥♥ a difference in its amorphous cun t. I murdered my neighbor Nick Land in its own apartment in neo-China, and I pulverized it with my feet, and I partook of its dry decayed flesh, and I cut out its kidney, and I cut out its brain, and I traded them away, and the kidney came off twice as expensive as the brain. It thought it could impart on me its taste for overkill and intensity, but it never knew I'd known nothing but overkill, laying out before me the misery map-of-my mother-knit body, time-machining me into the vomitworthiest time in my country's history: and as much as I scorn woman & mankind, I spit on you at the thought of finding solace in self-annihilation, so the only thing I can do NOT TO SCREAM is kiss on the elbow- of the post-demonic loss of identity, that allows without death to utter a truthful statement: "The I is no more, all that remains is the..." hand that does, eye that sees, penis that writhes, leg that runs, throat that swallows, brain that solves, shoulder blade that itches to ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ ФЛАЙ none is () am And as () creep, and as () kill, and, them never being distracted from their busybee lives, as () break their Deoxyribonucleic acid chains beyond repair, entering buildings of folk, exiting gardens of bulbous moaning flesh, () see () l̷ov̷e̴'̷s̸ ̶e̵y̴e̵ ̸ in the sky, like the white-washe̷̠̍̑d̸̥͍̺͐̓̅ black famished gaze of hundreds of thousands of dead Leningradtsy and millions of unborn children scooping out the calculating Russian Imperial military nobility officer eyes. () pleadingly from the rectal clusterhellfu ckhole of the twentì̴̺̪͙̋́̒͊͝eť̶̛̿̑͝h̶̡͚́̃ ̶̡͈̳̂ć̵̙̱̳̱̈́̏̀̊͐e̴͐̈̀n̶͔̬̱̪̟̙͑͐̃͗̿͘t̴͕̀̐̈́̊̌̎͘ur̸̄̀̈́̑̕͠y̷̆̌̓̈́̾͊ ̴͛̃that brought us all here and then never ended. Was she ever () love? Maybe the bi tch was a ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ succubus blowing a crusader's horn-call to death into () ear ever since () loved her... The rank smell of-a ̶̟̳̖̂n̸̚͝e̵͈̼͚̽͊͋̚͝ẁ̴͕̖̊͝born cluster-erosive-gas-grenade synthesized by a gland of your own, glistening with ichor of your own, calms. () gassed an ocean liner whole. The culmination: () shot one in the pool, and the floor gave, and all of toxic things in it - gas grenade, stale water, tacky chemical cocktails, board of directors. As () ascend the corporate office building, () am greeted by a rai̷̼͎͛̿͆̓͘̕͝nfall ̶of ̵e̴ḿ̸̮̰͑̅̾̀͒p̷͒l̷͌ǒ̸̘̾̈́ȳ̸̛ḛ̶͙̻͇͑͂ě̶š̶̨͑̎͂̕ ̵͛guided by gravity, undeath and premonition of their company's demise. As () leave, () walk on the carpet of mangled programmers, managers, janitors, secretaries who chose to meet pristine floor before they met pristine null. Their convulsive postmortemesque jaws̴̻̘̯̈͘͝ stutter in their tasteless ex-schoolchild affinity for vile versification, seeking to ̵͉͛å̸̖g̶̥̓g̷̠̅r̴ả̶̼ǹ̴͚d̷̯̽ì̴zing̵̯̓l̸͍͛y̴̭̋ excuse their deathly cowardice: Who the ♥♥♥♥ needs pl