In every sense, I had solved this; God's rhetorical murder wasn't prompted. I really thought I found the cure. In every sense, I abolished Kant's noumenal world and its blind claims. I never wrote one false word.
But I'm scarred by your silence—that I can’t practically know you by name. Such liminal violence. Let's bury the start, deliberate on whether or not we'll both be okay. I’m not fond of my writing. Your blood slowly crept on the page. Such visceral timing. Let's bury the start, deliberate on whether or not we both walk away.
In every sense, I had promised light from a more firm moral compass. I had never been so sure. In every sense, I had crafted existential keys for their locked chains. I never write one vain word.
Lou-Andre Salomé, this is on you.
Richard Wagner, this is on you.
Christ, this is on you.
This is on me.
released November 29, 2016
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