Author S. K. Nicholas

The hours when no one knows if you’re dead or alive. Day after day of work to corrode the soul. Anyone who enjoys working for a living must surely be ill, for are we not poets and lovers? Whoever would want only to devote their life to earning money, is in need of wiping out. We must be mad then to believe in magic and art, to harvest our passions for all things unknown and incredible. Give me a fucker who buries himself in work, and I’ll show no pity when he burns. Give me a soul who’ll quite readily sacrifice his wonder for possession and image, and I’ll despise the human race that little bit more. We’re just a virus. A plague of soft machines on the brink of something that goes beyond comprehension. We’re capsules of startling revelations, and shells of dim horror all rolled into one. There’s nothing quite like us, but I’m not sure if we should be sad or grateful. Compassion sings. Beauty touches. We’re everything the universe has done right, and everything it has done wrong. The unwilling mind of natural gods so perfect and true. Intelligent and tender. Honest and dazzling. And yet we kill for kicks. We torture because it turns us on. Write books. Burn books. Worship. Rape. Do what you want. Ignore every memory. Deny every feeling, and give in to whatever you’re told is the right way to be. Whatever happened to you? Whatever became of that lover who shone so vividly? Teeth white sharp, you’ll find me going mad at the foot of your bed. No need for political seas, it’s all just as phony as whatever. Get on your knees, and bow down to all there is. Remove that dress, and cripple the crow before it cripples you.