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I'm not afraid of God, I'm not afraid of myself, I'm not afraid of anything. Is the only thing to fear, fear itself? It doesn't scare me. Cold and icy wind sweep over snow-covered crosses, a chilling howl on the pavement of nothingness, on the landing of eternal silent waiting, silence like the calm after the terror.
I get out of bed and sit on the edge. I would like to see my body lying on the floor, paler than usual, carved by well-placed, confident cuts, bruised, eyelids lowered forever, useless even for not seeing. There would be no reaction in me to the discovery by others, no further violence. On the autopsy table, I don't think I would be embarrassed either by the deeper incisions or by the rough suture of the ""Y"" cut.
But you can't see what you couldn't become. So do I burn in the wind? Maybe, as long as the wind wants it. As long as it has something to burn. Very little indeed. A few minutes of ""Krematorium", incandescent wind in a closed tunnel, nothing I have been and nothing I finally become... just a few minutes. The same minutes in which in another dimension of the real virtual continuum, this noise of music explodes, condenses and sublimates, twists into a voiceless scream and bounces back as a glistening, alluring, desired and sharp knife blade, and the turntable's needle lifts from the vinyl, the arm returns to the resting position.
Enjoy listening.
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