I am not as I was. It's no good maintaining appearances. I'm keeping out of
things. Still muttering and picking my skin. Just noise in the rubble. The
curtains shifting, a little musty, as the engineers prepare the way. Out
there the seats are all empty. Where have I got to in the course of events?
It is of no consequence. The words teeter and genuflect, little obelisks
moist in the dusk. There are limbs of course, but none of them are mine.
Someone else is at work on things. For a long time I have been participating
in my own eradication. There is no end to this. The blade scrapes and
scrapes. The bleach makes its mark. A fossil burns in the grate. I sense I
can make things clean again. The scene is almost clean. Cleanliness is very
important. A machine scrabbling in the dust, picking its templates, picking
its phrases, a machine burning for delivery. Cleanliness is unquestionably a
very important part of making a contribution. Building the erratic gorgeous
system. It is extremely pure and deprived of all identity. For a long time I
have known that things are perfect. I have decided to get to the heart of
this issue. As I make progress I am not clear I am in the midst of beauty.
This is very liberating and also sour, like the taste of zinc. Sometimes I
imagine I can matter, but largely this is a fabrication and completely
disgusting. Once I have become another my life will be worth living. Until
then the scrubbing seems a wasteful and egocentric waste of time. Only after
I have gone will the system become clear. I cannot get to the dark bed. The
frontier is very cold and uncomfortable. Soon it will have to end.
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