You can know that a thing is doomed either way,
you can know that you'll eventually end up right back here,
so intellectually, you know it's all a wash--
and yet you'll still break down over it,
over its absence, its non-existence, its abortive state.
Still you'll break down like the little bitch you are,
visions of weaponry and knots, familiar phantoms of the Never Will.
Crying like a bitch,
like a little fucking bitch.

No forgiveness for those that reveal alternatives.
We'd rather not know.

The Eradication of distance.

Distance correlates with ambiguity.

Ambiguity is the foundation of self-torment.

Distance becomes a device with which to bludgeon the Self.

The only established method for eluding such bludgeoning is the forced forgetting of what one is distant from.

There cannot be anything or anyone out there.

That’s the eradication of distance.

Entity Lack.

An entity.

An entity who persists in your environment

Only to remind you of what you lack.

An entity to drill Lack Awareness into you,

Deeper daily, intoned in every Dick Joke.

Fun and games, hoots and hollers,

Get your lulz and note your Lack.

That's the entity, that's its purpose.

And you cannot get away, you cannot turn it off,

Because then your Lack would only grow larger, deeper.

The Lack.

The Lack.

The Lack.

Weaponary

Always finding new ways to insult me, these kids, these future leaders, these present Agonies.

Am I too sensitive? Of course.

But there's an underlying schematic, an aim for agitation.

Unconscious, maybe, maybe probably.

But wrenching nonetheless, lolololololololol.

Kill Me.

How could you ever sleep with the mad banshee wailing that surrounds the Agony, but not even the body, no, even the thought, the mental presence, remembrance and whatever, whatever.

How could you sleep through that noise, how could you think.

The smallest mention and innocence be damned, off it goes, here it comes, jackal screams and hyena cries, every kind of disruptive, beastly, unwanted sound—

But not even sound, more so the dead weight of perpetual presence, the clamp-down and choke-out of sensory independence, of sensory indulgence. All is crushed, all is confined by the toxic swirl of an Agony’s everlasting domination.

You let it in, this is what you get.

You have to let it in.

And you do, though you know the past and can predict the future. All of this, algorithmic.

Breaking away in desperate attempts to regain some balance, swearing them off, turning away—but always somehow, at some later point, giving in, coming back, opening up.

And an Agony will always be willing to service you, to both create a void and be its occupant.

All the power, all the power of the Agony.

Subset of Menagerie P-3.

K. had descended into a state of desolation, the mind-forged figures and diagrams now disrupted, rendered blank and absent within his mental workspace.

Nothing had been committed to paper, so everything was lost, but K. wasn’t bothered over that specific aspect of the problem.

The broader concern was the Why of the entirety.

Why even do this, to what end.

To what actual end, the real motivation.

K. had begun to crumble into a vicious circle of self-interrogation as news of the Forthcoming Agony spread. K. deliberated over what he could show to the Agony, were they to engage each other, K. pondered how best to impress her with his theories and research.

But this slowly put the entire operation under internal investigation, because the question became, was this in fact the purpose—marketability to an Agony—rather than the previously-subscribed-to SEARCH FOR TRUTH?

So it all unraveled  from that point, all assumptions were annulled.

K. had a scarcity of reasons, a lack of understanding into the foundations of his drives.

As his mind turned over and over on this subtopic, or perhaps Ur-topic, all of the work previously built up began to somehow disintegrate, quietly, unnoticed.

Because, again, nothing had been written down. Pure nonphysical  memory held it all, sustained by a curious passion, which supposedly intellectual passion now began to look more like base lust covered over in a shoddy disguise.

So it went, it faded, it wiped itself away.

Time and distance remained as they ever were, unscathed, unbroken.

A GREAT YAWNING BLANKNESS.

IN THE END ONE EXPERIENCES ONLY ONE'S SELF.