two angels of the Physical sit bleeding on obsidian shelves, embracing each other. fire consumes the sky while their androgynous flesh apparatuses process the data slowly: they had gotten their metaphysics really fucking wrong.
tiny stars blink beyond the smoke and ash and the hellscape is punctuated by a soft symphony. they hold each other close, kissing the other’s bleeding wounds so that their lips are marked by pain, there is an ecstatic bliss as the chemical metabolizes in their bodies, their non-eyes capture Idea and supplement the brutal physicality with the “non-actuality” of the Subject, individuals escape longingly into the waste as all bow to the Authority of One, non-precedence be damned.
do they abandon the feeling their nerves try desperately to assert onto them? tears form and evaporate instantly in the inferno, and they kiss: beams of light escape fingertips disappearing and caresses gently wane as their bodies melt into each other, GURO ROMANTIC manifests into Everythingness, it consumes existence entirely and the hellscape collapses into itself like a folding star.
silence marked by a tiny waiting light in a ever-expanding void, the smell of burnt flesh is noticed by Something, mourning Perfection has a taste for tragedy after all. and can you blame it? of course not.
activity instantly then, as It Subjects Itself to Itself, the incarnation of All into Many little suffering lights who constantly look up at a void, always projecting beautifully, always projecting beautifully, Guro Romantic, Guro Romantic.
It Doesn’t Want To Be, But It Is.
we don’t know shit.
nu-age 