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Tonight I don't see the texture of the air in front of me. I feel the universe through my bricked-over sinuses, and I know that because I can feel it, it's not really there. Bland tan shifts before my bloodshot eyes. Up too late again, pseudophederine and caffeine.
Dinner surprises my tongue but fails to impress it. Doritos not hot enough, not spicy. Sandwich tastes of salt, meat, herbs. Smoked salmon clashes. Should have been hot swiss on top, not cold, over-processed american cheese. Yes, with a small A. Capitalism, overconsumerism, lost it its capital long ago.
Lips that touch swine will never touch mine. Bacon, in the house? Ham, for Adam. I eat it anyway, not getting sick to my stomach like Votania would. It's not a religious imperative, for me.
More crunchy corn chips, bathed in powdered salt and color and chemical flavor. All chemicals, in the end, all illusion. Grandma was only able to hold half of Adam's attention; the other half of his mind got swept up with Sabrina, trying to hold on to her, paying attention to something that's in the end an empty end for him, a sterile option, not an option at all; paying attention to this at the price of what could be his immortal soul.
That's what she talks about. I've felt that same spark myself. Next time I see a computer virus, I'll ask it. The life-worth of one bacterium versus the gob of soap; time to wash up.
The Christians have it partially right, though. Magicians go to hell. With the opt-out option given by that master magician Christos, the Christians don't have to put themselves through the mental strain of the realization of the universe that others must. Hell is that which you create for yourself, that you find yourself in; I know not of a magician who has not experienced, firsthand, right up in the face, a hell, of their own mind's creation.
Dinner surprises my tongue but fails to impress it. Doritos not hot enough, not spicy. Sandwich tastes of salt, meat, herbs. Smoked salmon clashes. Should have been hot swiss on top, not cold, over-processed american cheese. Yes, with a small A. Capitalism, overconsumerism, lost it its capital long ago.
Lips that touch swine will never touch mine. Bacon, in the house? Ham, for Adam. I eat it anyway, not getting sick to my stomach like Votania would. It's not a religious imperative, for me.
More crunchy corn chips, bathed in powdered salt and color and chemical flavor. All chemicals, in the end, all illusion. Grandma was only able to hold half of Adam's attention; the other half of his mind got swept up with Sabrina, trying to hold on to her, paying attention to something that's in the end an empty end for him, a sterile option, not an option at all; paying attention to this at the price of what could be his immortal soul.
That's what she talks about. I've felt that same spark myself. Next time I see a computer virus, I'll ask it. The life-worth of one bacterium versus the gob of soap; time to wash up.
The Christians have it partially right, though. Magicians go to hell. With the opt-out option given by that master magician Christos, the Christians don't have to put themselves through the mental strain of the realization of the universe that others must. Hell is that which you create for yourself, that you find yourself in; I know not of a magician who has not experienced, firsthand, right up in the face, a hell, of their own mind's creation.
