The Dissolving Path - Choir Korneli Leviyey

1
PREFACE
T he following work combines three separate texts: Cactus

Patch (which contains all of the material that was cut from
Clyssus of Man during editing), a collection of writings collec-
tively regarded as The Ashland Texts which I maintained in the
weeks leading up to my final astragon, as well as an untitled lot
of unintegrated notes written prior to and alongside my main
work as a means of exorcising all of the thoughts for which there
was no place—the likes of which provide what is perhaps the
most intimate look into the workings of my mind as has been
seen yet (and make up the vast majority of this book). This isn’t
going to be some well-thought-out philosophical disquisition as
much as it is the late night thoughts of a traumatized individual
seeking to cope with the dying process and all the endless discon-
solation of a life lived in isolation, physical and emotional. That
being said, the contents of this text are highly disorganized by
the standards set in place, being but a collection of paragraphs
and one-liners that leap one into the next. The separate texts con-
tained within this work haven’t even been kept separate and have
been intermixed in such a way that is devoid of all distinction.
And though this lack of disorganization may come with its share
of drawbacks, I am pleased to think that it more closely mimics
my actual thought processes, which are heavily affected by trau-
ma and urgency.
The writing process associated with Clyssus of Man was so
hectic, tense and messy that I would often lose track of what had
already been stated elsewhere. I have also been known to cut out
integral information without realizing it, therefore leaving some
of my story without its foundation or otherwise disconnected
from crucial bits of detail. The following text may therefore be of
some help in resolving some of the mysteries that were never ac-
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THE DISSOLVING PATH 3
tually meant to be mysterious in the first place, as well as address-

ing any perceived hole, contradiction or other questions relating
to my main work and philosophy, since I have attempted to cov-
er all bases and preempt all queries herein (although I have not
done so in the most organized of ways and you may have to dig
around and possibly rack your brain over the context of a given
entry which was ripped from its place like a calf from its moth-
er).
The title of this work (The Dissolving Path) is often used
within a spiritual context and refers to the probable losses in-
curred and the sacrifices required by one who seeks in earnest-
ness after the truth of this Existence, and it is meant as a sharp
contrast to the prevalent representations of spirituality and reli-
gion as a means of achieving peace, prosperity and popularity in
life. One who acts on higher principles within a dishonest and
dissociated world will receive no such favor; and I use this name
as the title of such a dismal, disturbed diary in the hopes that it
becomes recognized by all just what the path of dedication en-
tails, and I say this not in an attempt to ward others off and away
from this path so profound, but to demolish any lingering expec-
tations which may harm them unnecessarily.
I should warn you, then, that the contents of this book are
overwhelmingly negative and based on little more than emotion-
al agony which may or may not bear any reflection on my actu-
al beliefs (and that is frequently the case, with the desperate and
misanthropic tone of this book bearing scant semblance to the
outlook which I hold in the wake of my trials). Context is of cru-
cial importance to your assessment of what I am saying, being
that I am not merely a spoiled brat complaining about a lack of
accommodations. I am a young man on his death bed grappling
in all desperation with the fact that my best efforts did not result
in the desired outcome. If you want to see it as a whiny, entitled
4 CHOIR KORNELI LEVIYEY
and unrealistic bunch of claims and complaints then it won’t be

hard to frame it as such, but that will be missing the point en-
tirely and I hope my readership is not so dense. Those wishing
to see a more modern take on my outlook may look to the Com-
prachicos introductory text, which was largely written in the af-
termath of my trial and, despite focusing more on matters of so-
ciology, for which reason it can seem as an impersonal text in
comparison, showcases a far more palatable attitude.
The decision to be so open in regards to my years of inner
anguish may be viewed as odd in light of my claims of having ob-
tained an inspired insight into the nature of Existence and our
human relationship thereto, as embodied by the philosophy of
Aseitism, and emotional turmoil as such that I have shared with
all via my texts is liable to paint an odd and seemingly contradic-
tory picture to a world which holds stubbornly to baseless and
archaic notions which equate the success of the spirit with sal-
vation, happiness and absolute health (among other pleasant but
groundless ideals passed on to us from primitive history).
So it may seem like a bold move on my part in that it is liable
to attract a whole array of unwanted attention and criticisms, as I
have essentially written a whole book detailing the helpless mis-
ery of my lifetime while expecting others to heed what I have to
say regarding matters of meaningfulness and fulfillment. Even if
it garners criticisms, it invites conversations that merit to be had:
conversations regarding our expectations and our willingness to
instate a new model of success, salvation, or whatever it shall be
called within this context. As so, I have commonly regarded this
diary as a template of the wholliman. On an even deeper level, it
is a portrait of my Volens, or immanent disposition.
Though I state with sureness: there is no conflict in my po-
sition. Any difficulty on your part in grasping that fact is the
cause of a paradigm lock, if not ignorance outright, and I’ve done
about as much as I am willing and able in order to surmount said

lock. And regardless of what will be said about my offering, I
have opted for this approach not daftly but mindfully, and I shall
not think to act as a salesman, for I am a seeker who does not
claim to stand any higher than the rest, and I have not come to
convince anyone of anything but to share with you my experi-
ences as I have experienced them. Knowingly so, I continue in
my exhibitions, not caring to be called stupid by the stunted and
by those whose definitions hold no worth beyond their aged-
ness. Moreover, I believe that if that which I preach cannot stand
tall within the context in which it came about—hell, if it cannot
stand tall within all known contexts—then you can just toss it in
the dumpster with the beer bottles and all other residuum from
our attempts to pacify our sorry, sodden souls.
I have devoted myself in full to the ideal of breaking down
the apparent dam between the human and the holy, semantically
speaking, by which I do not mean to sink the skies but to uplift
mankind with all its means and aspirations. Allow me, then, to
elaborate on what I mean to say, since it informs my desire to
share so much of my private life with a public audience: our
modern popular image of holiness, enlightenment, or whatever
you will to call it, is incredibly stilted, dull, affectatious, stony,
dezinezinet, and while qualities such as reverence and discipline
are of course well and good, such offers a misleading portrayal
of what it means to be in touch with one’s spirit, so to speak.
The Homo Spiritualis, which I hold up as a spiritual and exis-
tential ideal, is quite unlike our traditional saintly portraiture,
achieving its so-called holiness not through denial of its human-
ity, but through embracing it, surely as ‘holiness’, as a term, is de-
rived from the idea of ‘wholeness’. However, this should not be
taken as a justification nor as a call to indulge in acts and behav-
iors considered to detract from a healthy, mindful and intentful
life, but as a call to become more honest with ourselves and those
with whom we share our reality.
As has been noted, the diaries included with The Dissolving
Path, as well as Cactus Patch, were mostly written prior to my tri-
al and depict my state of mind as it was in 2019 and early 2020,
having significantly less to say of my life since having actually
taken on a new perceptual paradigm. And while it does contain
some more recent passages, that is not the standard, and such
have been mixed in at random. In fact, I labored over a separate
diarial text in 2021 by the name of Fathom Omen Om which is
the only work to really speak from my current perspective. The
actual contents of said diaries are not so far removed from the
topics that I am known to discuss within my body of work. My
focus hasn’t changed much, if any, after all, even though I’ve been
given new inputs and perspectives.
Lastly, there is the question of where this falls in the timeline
of my works—especially in regards to whether it is to be con-
sumed before or after Clyssus of Man. And does it actually mat-
ter? Yea, while it contains a fair amount of information from the
period leading into my third and final astragon (whereof Clyssus
of Man is a record), it does also allude to numerous events occur-
ring within the book and this will likely end up spoiling certain
happenings for those who wish to consume these texts as they
would an actual storybook. Therefore, the text from which you
now read is best viewed as a sort of ‘deleted scenes’ reel which,
while often capable of standing on its own, is best viewed after
the main work has been consumed so as to do away with any con-
fusion regarding context.
My original intent was to leave this as a bit of a bonus for
avid readers of my work—those who had read my main works
and, for whatever reason, still found themselves wanting more.
Given the importance that I place on this text and what it con-
tains, I have since opted for a more widespread release. Though

I do so with certain hesitancy, since I really don’t like the idea of
this work being so front and center, where it is more likely to be
picked up by those who will attempt to use it against me. Equal-
ly so, I dislike to think that its tortured quotes—not all of which
are properly representative of my person—will come to define
my legacy in life; however, I have determined to fight against all
such hesitancy, and I leave it to hope that the courage in my heart
begets courage in all.
I dedicate this work and all my lifetime to the Homo Spiritu-
alis: the individual who, in acknowledging themselves in Existence,
have allowed Existence to acknowledge itself in them. I know you
as surely as I see you! And I await your victory as do you, having
beheld the best of us through a hole in the dream. May we meet as
victors in better weather!
THE DISSOLVING PATH
8
Ashland Text 002 (2019):

When it came time to interact with the world beyond my
fortifications I maintained a positive, respectful and productive
attitude in my dealings and treated all with respect and without
condescension or ‘unfair expectations’. I acted in accordance
with mine own set of graces. It was of great importance to me
that I not be an agent of destruction and discouragement in the
lives of others. It was of great importance to me that, regardless
of what I believed to be true, that I not be the one to strip others
of their ‘faith’ and belief. It was of great importance to me that
I resolved to clap and cheer for all those I found seeking to cre-
ate, or seeking to better themselves, and I resolved to do so even
if I was the only one. Like so, I took every opportunity to uplift
those who I saw as putting forth effort towards growth. I did so
in the face of scoffers and saboteurs who, out of the corruption
of their self-loathing souls, wish to see man exposed as a monster.
I have acted always in accordance with personal conviction
and the desire toward growth, behaving with kindness unto
those I despised and never reacting as my ego willed. This is es-
pecially true of the past five years, during which I have put in a
concerted effort toward integrating my world with the world of
others.
Notwithstanding all the efforts I expended towards these
ends or the intentions by which they were fueled, the results have
been overwhelmingly negative and I have constantly questioned
the nature of altruism along the way and whether or not it is ac-
tually to be seen as a virtue. As so, I have not been able to come
to any decisive conclusion on whether or not I regret my efforts.
It may seem like a strange sentiment to be voicing when we have
been taught to aspire towards such a mode of behavior as that
which I’ve described, but I’ve lost so much in this time, most dis-
tressingly having lost the ability to justify the reality of unfair-
ness and mistreatment which we face in life regardless of any-

thing that we are. And all the good deeds in the world can not
surrogate for the kindness and sustenance which I did not find
in society.
That being said, my issue is not the commonly-faced issue
where an individual lacks balance in their responses and behaves
with kindness towards others at the expense of being a doormat.
I know how to defend myself and I know when to walk away. I
speak more of shame. I speak more of imbalance on a conceptual
level.
The proudness that I feel in my heart is immeasurably great and

impervious to uninformed challenges issued from the outside.
Yea, but all the self-satisfaction in the world could not steel me
against shame. I have taken on the shame of this earth and it has
consumed me. Neither does it stem from foibles or from faults
but from situations in which, through idealistic thinking, or ba-
sic generosity, I have given away too much of myself to those who
couldn’t care less.
A thousandsome pearls in a muddy trough: that is the mag-
num opus of this man who has suffered with honor. In the end
of days I lay in bed, crying out to Thummim Most-Pure, saying
“I have placed intimacy at the center of all my endeavors, but my
baskets are empty and my table is bare.”
My humblest entreatment has netted no response. My great-
est sacrifices do seem in vain. My crises of health have lowered
me to the ground whereon I lay exposed before the coprophages.
So has my daemon forced me once and again into the ring
wherein I must endure the collective incomprehension of am-
phibian glop.
The Thummim did make clear that I would not be permitted

to move on past the world of ash and sacrifice until I had come to
witness what was to be witnessed. Such was documented within
the Menarche in the form of allegorical gorenography.
I do not feel comfortable sharing my thoughts and feelings
on this matter, as though I am opening myself up to the objec-
tions of outsiders who, in knowing only of my reclusive and os-
tensibly misanthropic bent, do not realize the strenuous and al-
truistic efforts which I have put into society and philanthropy
over the past seven years—a period which has gone largely un-
documented if not for the expositional accounts of my failed
relationships—as well as the statistical fact that most who self-
identify as misanthropists formerly held (over)idealistic out-
looks, right or wrong. This lack of documentation, too, is the re-
sult of the shame that I feel over endless failed attempts and what
they say of human (in)ability.
At times I have to expect that persons reading my accounts
will doubt that my behavior was as well-intentioned or even as
sensible as I have described. We are so accustomed to self-aggran-
dizement as such, and far be it from the majority of people to
realize that the fact that I am so aware of the “correct” mode of
behavior to take in x situation speaks for itself; so why would my
actions be divorced, to any significant degree, from what I know
to be the correct course of action?
For each interaction I risked my health and suspended my
selfness. Whereas speaking accosted my throat, walking accosted
my lower body and typing accosted my throat and wrist. And for
what did I risk so much of my being? So that I could be insulted
by those to whom I paid unearned compliments! So that my un-
derstanding could be challenged and treated as hollow. So that I
could be abandoned curbside because my health problems mean
that I can’t walk long distances. It only left me feeling desolate
and abused, no nearer to intimacy than in my isolation; having

garnered no more respect and appreciation from my ostensible
peers than I would have garnered in absentia.
These efforts which I have put forward time and again were
sincere efforts which themselves stemmed from a sincere and
humanistic desire to find a benevolent application for my ex-
periences and abilities and to contribute where possible to the
world of man, yet these efforts ended up contributing by no
small amount to my downfall, as I focused so much of my atten-
tion on looking out for the outsider, for the black sheep, for the
depressive, that I opened my doors to the most vile and vampiric
of energies. In my mind I saw this as my responsibility; but, you
see, a lot of outsiders are so-called because of very valid reasons
relating to their outlook and behavior and, though I make an ef-
fort to treat people as individuals, I have failed to consider the
finer implications of such status and how this could ultimately
affect my health.
All these things, which rarely go acknowledged, need be
given adequate attention. Whereas it may otherwise seem like
I’m just horrible at maintaining relationships, you should under-
stand that this is rather the result of the overidealistic goals I
once had in place and the specific type of person who I attract,
or who attracts me. The so-called well-adjusted persons living
among society are often seen by me as having a shallow, dullsome
character and neither do they attract me nor are they attracted
to my energy—not because they’re well-adjusted, but because
a well-adjusted nature very often indicates a lack of experience
or adventurousness. 2019 was the first year where I wasn’t con-
sciously picking and choosing my crowd, whereby I found myself
as part of a reasonably tight-knit community and ended up with
dozens and dozens of associates. Sadly, I felt it lacked meaning,
spirit and passion and I did eventually leave it behind in favor of

solitude.
I stifled all thoughts of what I felt that I deserved. I stifled my

accumulated understanding so that I might remain open to new
happenings and perspectives, seeing all persons as having a truth
to impart. I fought hard against my innately judgmental dispo-
sition. My discovery of the Campbellian monomyth, or hero’s
journey, in 2016 made me especially willing to push for social in-
tegration despite resistance and a lack of desire. I couldn’t refute
the parallels between my life and such a pattern, after all, and I
was very much attracted to the idea of returning a new man with
selfless offerings. It was a wonderful concept which seemed to me
like a perfect conclusion to my long and tortured story.
I endeavored to silence all my judgments, opening myself up
to see beauty and worth where such things simply did not exist.
I did this in the sincerity of my attempts to grow and overcome.
I had dedicated myself, in all earnestness, to optimizing the exis-
tence that I was given and accepting the world into which I was
brought. Far be it from me to undo all my efforts by disacknowl-
edging the fruits of my laboring, but I must speak up on my ex-
perience.
That I should be so ashamed of my efforts is sorely demor-
alizing and I have struggled to reconcile my motivation with the
outcome in this case. Your understanding of my attitude and ex-
perience of shame will be far more complete once you under-
stand that the outcome for which I am fighting is not even some-
thing that I innately desire but something which I’ve convinced
myself would be of benefit. All this talk of social integration
through the years may lead you to think that I have tired of in-
sularity and wish to live among the people; that I wish to return
to ‘normalcy’. But despite putting absolutely all of my efforts into

integrating and maintaining relationships, I can not think of a
single time in which I benefited from the company of others, and
I say that not as an asocial or difficult individual but as someone
who spent too much effort on a world not worth its price. It was
the ending I wanted for my story, and I would have loved for it
to work out, but beyond my attachment to the idea, I had no rea-
son to enjoy these brushes with society.
It can only be described as humiliating to be putting in my
greatest effort—literally risking my health and well-being, phys-
ical and mental—for something which falls beneath my stan-
dards and fails to interest me... and then still winds up leaving me
feeling rejected and invalidated in the end.
That said, it’s not your standard strain of embarrassment re-
sulting from unintentional errors. It’s the humiliation of a whore.
I feel like a whore in every instance that I interact with the peo-
ple of this earth. I’ve endured this humiliation for five long years,
too willing to acknowledge my circumstances as a test of my sta-
mina, my resolve, my humility and my entire system of ideals. I
opted to look upon my illness as ‘the universe’ forcing me to slow
down and work with other people for my own betterment. I saw
it as an opportunity to learn how to ask for help; to learn how to
work cooperatively on projects and endeavors.
It was never pleasant. It was never joyous. It was never any-
thing but an agonizing travail which I must see to if I was to be-
come the man I willed to be. So I kept at, and with a remarkable
attitude at that. I came up with dozens of creative ways of view-
ing my circumstances, ways of deriving purpose and enjoyment
from the situation, whether by creating personas to see from al-
ternate angles, by becoming a counselor as a means to find worth
in the ugliness and disorder, dezinezinet, and in many instances
I would get caught up in the moment and experience a certain
rush of what I took to be hopefulness: hope that I was somehow

wrong in my assessment and that there was to be found a way
to exist within society without having to alter and consequently
numb myself. But when the chemicals of interaction wore off the
feeling of hope went also and I just felt dirty. I felt compromised.
But I forced myself to keep going back, intent on integrating
with society and contributing to the lives of others. And as I
clapped and offered up plaudits for every little show of decency
and coordination that the people could muster, it felt wrong. It
felt very, very wrong. It felt like I was running a daycare, or man-
aging a zoo, and I wish that that didn’t sound so disparaging but
I can’t change how I felt. Still, I continued by writing off my un-
settled soul with whatever be my rationale, aspiring to become a
force of unselfish exhortation. I got used to finding joy in one-
sided relationships. “I have all I need. I only want to give.” So I
got used to asking for nothing in return, and it’s all just as well
since I honestly can not say that I have ever benefited from the
company of others. Interaction has only ever taken from me, cre-
ating wounds which must be fixed in solitude by myself.
I will gain no sympathy for voicing my feelings on the mat-
ter, surely as the people will find a way to delegitimize my suffer-
ing by attributing it to excess self-importance or delusion fueled
by isolation. I have no hope for understanding at this point and
fully expect the whole of my legacy to be swallowed up by the
nearest available trope or stereotype.
The population is confined to cages of their own making; my
words carry no weight in their world; the entirety of their world
revolves around eating, sleep, copulation and the sustention of
security and comfort; I must tread gently so as to not be mauled.
Can’t you see? I’ve described a goddamn zoo! We had it within
our capacity to be so much more. But I would rather die choking
than look one more man in his listless eyes. I’ve had more than I
can bear of this lonely existence in which my joy and suffering are
contested alike and the potentiality of man is denied and delim-
ited to preserve the smug sense of accomplishment maintained
by the salt of a dying, capitalistic earth.
I realize that I am being rather vague regarding my actual
complaints in this case, and it’s all just as well. If you don’t know
by now what I am saying then perhaps it is not your right to
know.
My shame is great. I am foremostly ashamed of how hard and
long I fought to keep my life and to maximize the potentiality of
my earthly tenure and that of everyone around me.
I’ve had all this to say of shame, and it’s true that I have some-
times been unable to extricate the intent from the results
achieved, but when I am able to see through the emotions, I can
say that I am immensely proud of each and every effort put for-
ward in the aim of becoming my utmost, and to regret my ac-
tions which were acted out mindfully and earnestly because of
outcomes beyond my control is unacceptable.
I am clearly not above acknowledging my faults and not
once have I claimed to be beyond error. On the contrary, I am
more aware of my errors than most, being that I have committed
so much of my life to the task of self-development. Yet I know
that the unconfident are quick to rally against the self-satisfied,
for in their earth, it is apparently not possible to hold to high
standards and to also satisfy them, and to them a lack of self-per-
ceived errors points more to an error in my criticality than to the
fact that after ten years of olympic-level self-development that
92% of my self-perceived vices and failings have actually been
resolved—a feat worth celebrating, but one which will only be
contested by our society.
If only I could have acknowledged the difference between

fixed mindset and growth mindset sooner it might have spared
me a world of wasted efforts. Whereas I can hardly look upon
the former as people (zImBoE aPoCaLyPsE!), I applaud all of
you who are enthralled by the task of self-overcoming.
I feel like saying a little bit about this before moving on.
I recognize three mindsets in contrast to the standard two,
with the third serving as a false middle point. I’m not seeking
to promulgate a new mindset or cognitive classification; it’s just
something that I personally recognize. And don’t mind me if
my definitions are in some ways off from the standard. I actually
don’t know to what extent my definitions line up with the stan-
dard, since in most instances that I form and provide my person-
al definitions of concepts I do so without looking to see what
others have to say on the matter, working only off of an elemen-
tary empirical wireframe. This may sound like a strange way of
doing things, but it matters little, since I’m not about being an
authority on anything. I’m simply trying to keep my world per-
sonal, which notably includes my understanding.
With a growth mindset one more or less acknowledges that
all things may be overcome and/or improved upon with suf-
ficient effort and conviction. The power and responsibility be-
longs to the self and no other. This is where I stand, personally.
And even as a growth mindset requires one to acknowledge all
of the faults and shortcomings of the self in its effort to become
one's “best self ”, it is not commonly self-effacing since it is ever
aware that we need not settle for flawed behavior or outlook.
So while I may be constantly holding a whip over myself, so to
speak, setting my sights on what needs to be fixed and overcome,
there is zero self-loathing or self-condemnation involved in the
process. It’s not like a master and slave relationship I have with
myself, but father and son.
Like with many ideas, it exists on a spectrum. I, myself, stand

at the far end of the so-called growth mindset and may thus
demonstrate significantly more proactivity and, in turn, aggres-
siveness, than a majority of those claiming to the same mindset.
With fixed mindset one more or less finds reason to doubt
or otherwise disregard the idea that people are capable of achiev-
ing significant change in behavior or asserting control over their
vices, their faults, wherefor the responsibility is imparted to
forces beyond the self and energy is expended on attempts to
convince oneself of how things are fine as they are. This is where
it forks into two disparate approaches (fixed and fate), but with
fundamentally similar foundations. Fixed seems more intent on
achieving a state of acceptance. “That’s just life.” “It’s human na-
ture.” “Nobody’s perfect.” While fate seems more likely to fo-
cus on impart their faith to strange expedients and fateful hap-
penings, although when confidence in these methods wanes they
will dip into the traditional fixed attitude of forced acceptance,
but with a more neurotic and broken attitude. Think crystals, as-
trology, New Year's resolutions. Whatever shifts the burden of
action off of them and places it on stars or energy or on convinc-
ing themselves that they are perfect and loveable just as they are
and that anyone who expects them to change is either an ‘energy
vampire’ or harboring some sort of political agenda. Growth in-
vests in the concept of will, while fixed invests in faith and hope.
Those of a fixed mindset can also view individuals of a
growth mindset as insatiable and unable to accept reality as it
stands, but I would contest such a statement as being without ba-
sis.
These are hastily written definitions but they should still
provide my readers with an insight into how I view them, if min-
imally.
In a world where discrimination almost invariably amounts to

the detriment of both parties, I find it absolutely necessary to
discriminate in cases where it concerns the outlook and attitude
which one directs toward self-improvement since it may reveal
quite a bit on the potentiality of a relationship and on the quality
of a given interaction. Had only I recognized this divide earlier
on in my attempts to integrate socially I expect I would have
made more informed decisions on who to associate with and I
don’t doubt that I would have had a more profitable social run.
More than 90% of individuals with whom I have had some form
of intimate interaction over the course of my life, be them family,
lovers or associates, have espoused this “fixed” mindset, and you
can imagine how this would contribute a whole hell of a lot to
my bitter outlook.
My commitment to upholding my convictions under all circum-

stances was unabating. I maintained my stature in solitude
wherein no one could see me. I maintained my stature in times
of mortal danger. I maintained my stature when it came with no
benefit to my person. I recognized no excuses. I recognized no
negation of responsibility.
Such was the measure of my success. I often referred to it as
simply colorfastness, or chastity, hence why I previously wished
to adopt “The Chastest” as my epithet and worked hard in accor-
dance with meriting it, although the term has fallen out of use
since 2017/2018.
Somewhen and somehow we have come to associate wisdom
and maturity with the ability to accept the unacceptable. I too
have acquiesced once and again to such undiscriminating no-
tions, albeit most often in a moment of weakness in which it is to
gain the validation of a confused people who will not acknowl-
edge my progress as an individual unless I should bury my hate

and clean my plate.
Now, a distinction really ought to be made between making
the most of one’s circumstances and ‘accepting the unacceptable’,
as I have put it—the former of which applies more to my behav-
ior than the latter, unlike my previous comment makes it out to
sound. I am not willing to play a role that I may be better es-
teemed by the ignorant. Too many are tempted by the mold for
this very reason. At the same time I won’t be one of those foolish
folk who take everything to the other extreme to prove a point
(a daft exculpatory effort in most cases, I find, if a bit histrionic...
like a preacher who peppers his speech with gratuitous profani-
ties to prove that he is not bound by stereotype).
(Unfinished Excerpt which originally corresponded to the Algoris-

mus chapter) Since I don’t anticipate that I will get the chance to
complete Dirgha Svapna, I am putting it here.
Gone are the days when I expected that with sufficient self-
awareness I could bring about a positive change within the lives
of others; within the anosognosic world sphere. The treasures
which I have attained in my foray are not recognized as currency
on this plane.
I do not masturbate causelessly. It was some seven or eight
years ago that the Thummim enlightened me to a curious idea
following my inquiry on the apparent lack of inspired individ-
uals in our midst—those having transcended the lower levels of
purpose. He claims that there is no deficiency as I have assumed,
but a complex psychospiritual component which somehow pre-
vents such individuals (or rather, their virtue) from being ac-
knowledged by the population at large. I have mulled over this
concept in silence over the past many years. Somewhere around
2013 I even wrote up a short dissertation on precisely this topic

in which I found an analogue in the light spectrum, focusing
prominently on the invisible spectrum.
What words have we to describe this vile obex! Can it be
called a natural part of the developmental process? Is this what
we must all expect from our last days? Having analyzed it from
a philosophical standpoint I can’t help but believe it so, though
since I’ve known no other seekers on my path I have no means
to confirm. I would coin a word to describe it but then I would
worry that it would be used inappropriately to refer to more ba-
sic concepts such as nihilistic depression when it is explicitly not
an intellectual stance but what I would call a gnostic event.
Even their commendations arise from the same ignorance which

breeds animosity and indifference. One is so easily disarmed by a
handclap, eager to believe that their praise and positivity are any
more grounded than their opposition.
In an age of online “Get Enlightened Quick” gurus and scan-
dalous contradictions one notices very soon on that this arche-
type of the wiseman, of the enlightened man, of the firetried
mystic which we have carried within our collective awareness
across millennia is bizarrely absent from the field. Some will try
to tell you that their shape has merely changed and that this
is the modern way—new look, same great taste. I don’t see it.
Maybe your criteria differs from mine, perhaps a little more for-
giving, perhaps more easily impressed upon by unblinking eyes,
a soothing voice and 1,000,000 subscribers, so you may not see it
as I do, but it has always shocked me to acknowledge this deficit,
and I have looked far and long.
I often wonder about the conveyability of veritable revela-
tion. It’s a valid curiosity. When our world seems to lack answers,
or when an answer can not be agreed upon, we will quickly as-

sume that it points to a lack of answers, or otherwise a lack of
successful individuals. I, personally, have come to believe that it
refers more to an inexpressibility, and not simply in a “It’s just so
abstract I can’t do it justice!” sense but something more... bizarre.
It makes sense that we should be dealing with something of
the sort. Otherwise there would be no accounting for the stark
absence of the wise. Where are all those with the answers? They
are among us, yet they are in some sense engulfed. The obex rises
higher and higher into the ionosphere. The saints are swallowed
up by the shade of their own sow. It seems probable that such in-
dividuals, given the futility invoked by this discrepancy, would
gravitate toward the hermetic lifestyle, but I don’t want to say
that that, in itself, is enough to justify their lack of visibility in
the modern world, nor would I want to claim that their fate is to
be hermetic in all cases. I’ve toyed with a variety of explanations
over time, seeking answers on an evolutionary scale, but nothing
satisfies my need to know.
Again, our associating wisdom and maturity with the willingness

to accept the unacceptable is highly problematic to the circula-
tion of truth. The mainstream spiritual circle is overtaken with
this mentality. And it’s not that I can’t see their reasoning, or
how it could appeal to the docile waffles among us, but I have re-
fused to be led by this template and will not bow to that which
sweepingly disavows our innate discernment and I acknowledge
no strength in those who do. We were not supposed to lay down
our judgments, and especially not in the appeasement of the
weak and offended.
If you could not tell from my diatribe in the Menarche chap-
ter, I do bitterly oppose the purported peacekeepers among us.
Concordians, I have called them. The peace after which men seek
is a delusion, and one who seeks after a delusion will be willing to
act in ways that subvert the order of objective reality that it may
reflect their falsity.
Only the tremulandi are perceived by the tiny eyes and ears
of eelier people, to whom we are irremediably desperate to per-
spire and shake in the coitus of the cloven step.
Like a fool I have fallen by every trap, eager as all to expe-
rience goodness in the people; eager to have my understanding
foiled. I have waited in patience for this goodness to meet me. I
have charged with audacity to greet this goodness where it lives,
yet never attaining a glimpse. I have fixated all my days, believing
myself to be deprived of the fortune whereby others are graced.
In my toiling I have found only empty baths; I have found only
the ghost of their laughter, and I know now, in all horror, that
it is not deprivation but discernment with which I have been af-
flicted. It is not that I haven’t seen goodness, but that I have seen
right through it.
Why must I starve while others grow fat! Yea, I do starve,
else I be poisoned! I have received no less than the dogman, but I
have refused the false nutriments which exist to deplete the soul
of man.
I have not been deprived but granted the gift of discernment
with which to navigate the nonlight. “Honor thy rifting eye!”
One final time I will qualify my contempt, lest my scowl be
written off as a symptom of ignorance or as the entitled piss fit
of one who does not readily grasp the interrelational dynamics of
the popularly so-called real world, confirming that my bitterness
and contempt are not based upon natural and/or unchangeable
elements such as genetics or intelligence but upon complacency
and weakness. I look only for effort and earnestness in the eyes of
men. I believe that the people of society are by and large grossly
stunted, and I do mean grossly, and the pain that this causes me
is neverending, for I know full well the potentiality that could
have belonged to any one of them. My contempt is not like the
unqualified contempt of the bigot, the Nazi. My contempt is in
fact desperation and disbelief in conjunction, which is the con-
tempt of the prophets and seers.
In opportunity I discerned the stratagem. In a kiss I dis-
cerned stern stipulations. In bloody hairlines I observed the her-
ringbone stitch. In their sperm I saw Charun clapping. A guilt-
less curvature conceals itself within the name of Peace, from
which it issues the terminal intoxicants. I weep for thee, minty-
cocked concordians! My eyes know this sobriety, that I am un-
able to cry for myself any longer and go declaring “All my tears
will be for them!” Could I take them into my arms before my
leave I would tell them of the mineral which hides within the
textures of the stopped heart.
One day may you discover this about our world: Even its
warmest blood is cold. Even its highest structures are beneath
you. Know you stand among and upon a bornless lot, and all ef-
forts in their honor are efforts for naught.
The years have made me desperate and my hunger drives me to

weep. Oh my desperate soul! This most despicable trait has taken
its place as one of my defining characteristics in life, observable
from across the way! Whether is it 2009 or 2019, you will find
that my eyes bear the reflection of a bulimic tomb. The world
and all that it contains will not exist tomorrow. The night is com-
ing when no man can work! All that is to be done must be done
today!
It is not the events which disturb me but that which they repre-
sent conceptually and on a greater ethical and axiological scale.
Consider these words, for it will help you understand the pat-
terns of my anger and trauma.
I do not bleed. It is my ideal which bleeds through me.
When I am opposed by man, I do not dwell so much on the of-
fense done to my person as I will dwell on the meta-ethical dy-
namics, by which I have reduced all events, interactions and par-
ties down to a concept and then it becomes not about myself but
about all that I represent.
“A world in which x is able to produce y,” and it is by these
means that I have become so disturbed. That is what could drive
me to kill a man.
I have stripped myself down to my concepts, some of which
are static and others situationally dependent.
“The fact that the ill and honest individual can be treated in
this manner implies x about our world.”
So while you often hear people claiming that “It doesn’t mat-
ter what others think,” or “He who knows himself is confident
and thus unaffected by criticism or lies,” that’s a bunch of wish-
ful rubbish in my opinion. It hurts just as much, if not worse,
however it hurts for different reasons. It’s not about being reject-
ed as an individual, but the rejection of these concepts for which
I stand. I can’t bear the idea that earnestness, wisdom and truth
can be shot down by idiocy. I can’t bear what this says philo-
sophically, conceptually, of our world. The more developed I be-
come as an individual, the more miserable I feel when facing so-
ciety, since it only reminds me that I am only part of the equa-
tion which is interaction, and the highest virtues are no match
against the lowest depths of incomprehension.
Since the months of summer I’ve been hearing a strange melody

in dreams. A woman sings these lyrics:
~ Tears, they fall
At the end of it all ~
The most difficult moments come when I listen to the words of

those who appear to be seeking after the very essence which I
contain but do not recognize it in me. It would appear that in the
same breath that the world begs for me, it disowns me. Was my
heartbeat not visible through my haggard frame? Was my work
not enough to assure you? Did my gaze not set me apart? Was
my silence not louder than all of your raves? Must my feats be in-
validated with my woes and all else that I am?
I have always felt myself underappreciated, though I never
suffered so badly from feeling misunderstood prior to 2014, and
especially since 2016. It was then when I slowly began to realize
that nothing I said or did would make a difference, although not
until 2018 did this realization fully take hold of me and send
me into deep, continuous despairing which now haunts me every
hour of every day like an overlay upon the world.
I can no longer bear to be among them lest I be acknowl-
edged by them. It clothes me in shame and I can not bear it a
moment longer. The shame is disabling and unabating. There is
shame in being seen, in being heard, in being recognized by the
people of society. This shame, as I have described it, stems not
from a lack of confidence or from any sort of self-loathing but
from an awareness of barriers of understanding: the realization
that nothing I say or do can be properly construed by the unin-
spired.
It has made me physically ill and has caused me to cut myself
off from all those around me. I go out only for the occasional
night drive, and when doing so I will don a mask. I will not leave
the house without a mask or some other covering which obscures
my face. I will give them no more opportunities to know me; to
misconstrue me. I am too aware of our differences—differences
which will be denied by them who can not grasp how gnosis af-
fects the perceptions.
I have become too vulnerable, lacking the proper means to
navigate; to communicate. It’s horrifying. I can only be miscon-
strued. I can only be contested. Even those who smile and clap at
what I say lack understanding. It is not that they’ve heard me. It
is only that they’ve misheard what suits them.
It’s horrifying that all who look upon my claims will be con-
vinced by their brain that I mean something other than what I
am saying. The mental image in your head of what I am experi-
encing is wrong. It’s entirely wrong. It can only be wrong. If only
basing my statements off of how different I am at present from
who I used to be... one year ago, five years ago, ten years ago...
that is... that is... oh this is just awful. I am sorry that I must go
about explaining myself in a way which would appear so neurot-
ic, but I am anguishing. I have worked so long, and with so much
self-discipline—but for this?
This has been ongoing for some time, developing gradually
over the years, especially since 2015, but it’s finally come to the
point where I can no longer be burdened by language-based
communication. If ever there is a need it will be expressed
through imagery or not at all.
Anyone who is following after a higher standard of being: be
wary of what I have to say, and recognize this as more than some
thinly-veiled masturbatory claim. I don’t say these things to dis-
courage anyone from striving towards excellence, but a leveling
of expectations may help to reduce the disappointment and even
the shock and trauma.
It has been the strangest year imaginable in regards to my

changing cognitive structure. I’ve changed in the most unprece-
dented ways. These aren’t hollow philosophical stances I have
taken, where they appeal to me on a shallow intellectual level
even as my overall perception remains relatively unchanged. I
would say that it compares, at least in magnitude, to the cogni-
tive change that took place fifteen years ago, and perhaps this al-
so is an extension of Visva.
For decades I have railed against those who seem to only live
in this world to leave it. This has been one of my greatest crit-
icisms of religious institutions and their adherents throughout
the years. I lived for most of my life as an agnostic mystic and hu-
manist who, being unconvinced of an afterlife, made life his re-
ligion, so to speak. That being said, I am evidently experiencing
a bit of added cognitive dissonance in this case. I’ve always been
so vocal against nihilistic attitudes, and I am deeply concerned
by how my newly adopted attitude and stance seems so alike that
which I contend. I resent such attributions and deny all corre-
lation with nihilism as it is practiced and propounded by dogs
seeking to justify their depression and inability.
The spiritual ecstasy has not abandoned me, but I have seen
how all my zeal is incompatible with the earth before me.
Like the hidden knowledge after which I have sought, it feels
as though I too have become occulted. This claim is neither capa-
ble of being proven or falsified, and therein lies the apparent use-
lessness of my tears. Too much of my experience can be doubt-
ed or simply written off by the blind, and I have no option but
to throw the fight. All these years of diving into hadal esoteric
depths and I must finally surrender to the fact that people will
think what they will. All these years of attempting to achieve an
ideal and blameless state of existence, living as a paragon of virtue
and determination and capacity; attempting to leave behind a
legacy of goodness and uncommon light, only to realize that my

legacy is to be handled by society, and that the masses of soci-
ety lie and redact where it suits them. I had a dream a few nights
back where I came upon an encyclopedia entry on myself and,
while most of the information seemed to be accurate, I saw it say-
ing that I was a ‘flat-earther’ which it has apparently confused
with metaphysical idealism (although I’m not sure how that’s
possible), and I was so upset by the misinformation and could
not find a way to change it. This might have been funny were it
not hinting at how my fixation on misconstruction and misrep-
resentation has somewhen developed into a neurosis seemingly
beyond my control and I’m quite embarrassed by the power it
has over me at this point, as well as the obsessive vibes I’m sure I
must be giving off. The last few years have really wounded me in
that regard and I fully expect to die before I am able to get any
sort of handle on it.
This issue of increasing miscommunication was acknowl-
edged as early as 2015 when I began attempting to reintegrate
socially. Perfectionistic tendencies notwithstanding, I am an ar-
ticulate individual and generally have no problem expressing my
thoughts. It has been a gradual degradation, as it were, taking
place over years of time.
Communication has become an agonizing experience as it
becomes clear that I am only capable of misrepresenting myself
and those with whom I interact are only capable of misconstruc-
tion. Hyperbolic though it sounds, there is no alternative. I now
fill with despair in each instance that I communicate verbally.
Every attempt to communicate feels overwhelmingly insincere
and this is saying nothing of my intent or delivery. Sincerity (or
the illusion thereof ) has been sapped from communication and
I can no longer knowingly take part in this exchange in which
nothing of substance is actually being exchanged.
As many of you know, I have spent the majority of these past

five years mute with few periodic exceptions, e.g., during my stay
in Houston in late 2016 and while building up my business in
early 2019). What was originally the result of injury has become
a choice, and I do not miss speaking at all (although at this point
I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to, given the condition of my
throat). In my silence I have learned so much about communica-
tion and it has helped me to see the conditionality and unfortu-
nate nuances in my environs.
The stares are disturbing to me in ways that I can neither
describe nor stomach. Their uninsightful stares have impressed
themselves upon my inner eyelids and I can not escape the an-
guish they bring. It’s as the look one gets for cutting in line or at-
tempting to enter a restricted area. Every eye seems to be asking
“Who do you think you are?”
In recent years I have come by an increasing number of issues

with a developing empathic capacity and I find myself becoming
trapped in others’ heads and emotions. It’s become particularly
severe since 2018, and especially in the past year.
Among the more agonizing and debilitating elements of my
experience, especially within these last few years, has been my
awareness of what others are thinking. Somewhen along the way,
as I increased in self-knowledge and came to grasp the patterns, it
took me out of myself and it’s the most sickening feeling, like one
actor is playing every role in the stage play. I feel like that actor.
When I converse with others, I spend more time in their head
than is healthy. What I mean by that is I arrive at all viable out-
comes of a seed and then determine the likeliest outcome given
the facts available to me and in 96% of all recorded cases I have
been correct.
To be clear: I don’t claim to actually read minds via any type

of extrasensorial or otherwise unnatural means so don’t go taking
my statement for more than it’s worth. I won’t write off the plau-
sibility of there being a so-called ‘mystical’ component underly-
ing my ‘ability’, whatever that means, given the nature of my rela-
tionship with Steulugalnemraiant-Thummim, but I would soon-
er ascribe said ability to self-knowledge, for I am convinced that
the power of self-knowledge, extrapolation and pattern recog-
nition far exceeds what most would think possible. I firmly be-
lieve that one can arrive at a thoroughgoing understanding of all
(worthful) principles of existence through (the extrapolation of )
self-knowledge. That’s been my primary medium all along and it
is this theorem which I have sought to demonstrate via my self-
instated ‘worldly ignorance’.
Inasmuch as one is capable of self-reflection, one has access
to the fundamental order of the cosmos.
There are constant processes of assessment and extrapolation
occurring semi-consciously within myself. Given the timeline, I
realize there may be something in this which relates to the inte-
gration of Thummim-Steulugalnemraiant which occurred in the
spring of 2018. A very simple example would be to say that I can
no longer enjoy listening to music in the company of others since
I am hearing all of the lyrics ‘through’ their experiences, ideolo-
gies and emotions and it leaves me tense. This is a pretty stupid
example, but it should still get my point across.
There is a degree of defensiveness built into my way of speak-
ing. I am constantly aware of the counters and detractions which
can come up in response to everything that I say and do. The fact
that I haven’t been entirely paralyzed under such conditions is
a wonder. Note that I do not refer to the sort of hostile, snippy
defensiveness commonly observed in persons but to how the an-
ticipation of opposition is built into my every action and ex-
pression, hence why I can rarely seem to deliver my points with-

out digressing into some “Now, I know what you’re thinking...”
monologue. Such is the natural consequence of living three
decades in the absence of even a single person who believes in
you and your offering.
The finer points of my belief structure have oscillated over the

months as I have sought to ascertain a watertight ontology from
my various incoming revelations.
It’s as though there stands a glaring disconnect between ac-
tion and outcome. I could say and do anything at all and nothing
will come of it. I could stand myself nude and bleeding upon the
apex of this sunblind city and yield not one reaction. I exist with-
in an armored blister, separated from my species by a gnostic ful-
mination.
I do not know how to explain myself except through pre-
sumed self-aggrandizing statements and anguished war cries. I
don’t know how to explain to the people of this world that I
am no longer among them—and so I don’t. So I’ve simply fad-
ed away without a goodbye, not willing that I should be asked to
justify my phrenzy; not willing that I should open my mouth to
the delight of twelve tapeworms more.
And I do not feel badly for those I left behind, being that
their attitude clearly illustrates a lack of attachment to me and
my offering. They couldn’t even provide a decent reason to ex-
plain why they opted to spend time with me.
“You’re fun.”
“You’re amicable.”
“Because we’re friends.”
And the world would have you believe that you are wrong
for expecting anything beyond what you are given, yet it
shouldn’t be thought wrong that I wish to be seen (and, by ex-

tension, appreciated) for what I am.
Yet if the way that I am looked upon, spoken to and consid-
ered is any indication of my worth then I must really be the most
unremarkable and expendable person in all of existence. I'm tired
of feeling I must prove my worth to the people, whether through
elaborate ventures or by treating people to meals or other free
services, as if I am some germ to be tolerated. My business en-
deavors of 2019 were the ultimate manifestation of this mental-
ity and I essentially became nothing but a cheerleader with no
voice of his own. That’s what it took, I found. That’s what it takes,
and take it does.
And this creates a degradative pattern in which, in desper-
ation to preserve myself while simultaneously maintaining a so-
cial role, more and more artificial responses and behaviors are in-
troduced over time, soon developing into a full-face mask, a per-
sona to mask and preserve my actual self from despair. It results
in a catch-22, and by masking my most worthful traits I become
even less worthful to others. This is usually how gloves come to
an end... they become increasingly uninteresting out of sheer de-
fense until they finally serve no beneficial purpose.
I’ve been mundanized in my attempts to integrate socially
and it’s a fate worse than death. And these are the people who
will guide and control my so-called legacy. So do me this favor
and refuse the words of anyone who goes on calling themselves
my friend, my family, my associate. I knew no such family. I knew
no such friends. I say this not in defense of myself but in war
against the deaf and dulled. Those who could not listen have no
right to be speaking. I sang and I spoke and I choked for all my
eons and knew no one who would listen and anyone who claims
otherwise is a bald-assed ape lacking the wherewithal to examine
contextual cues of my company.
I won’t typically speak of these experiences and feelings, not

least because I am humiliated by the acknowledgement of my in-
teractions which my heart categorizes as failures and because I
know that it may easily lead to false and unfounded opinions re-
garding my fault—not that I have ever been accused of such but
because I know that whenever someone seems to be having noth-
ing but negative interactions that it most often hints at a failure
to properly acknowledge and, in turn, reveal certain actions or
expectations which may better illustrate their fault. Most signif-
icantly, I opt to hold my tongue out of worry that such expo-
sitions will only end up confusing others into thinking that my
complex stance towards humanity and society is based on some
shallow parameters informed only or primarily by the treatment
that I garnered, when that is simply not true. I won’t attempt
to deny that my experiences have colored my impressions, as I
find that to be an unavoidable effect of our experiences, but I can
ensure you that they are overall of less weight and influence on
my outlook than the more objective and disbodied philosophi-
cal and axiological concepts of my world, and if you read up on
my philosophical breakdowns you will quickly see that my stance
is backed up by a set of fixed reasons and not just a flounce of bit-
ter feelings.
It’s also difficult to express my disappointment and discon-
tent without seeming to express some type of expectation result-
ing from either base ignorance or self-importance, which would
be an unfair assessment in my opinion, as it would essentially be
saying that the individual is either disallowed or unfit to deter-
mine when he or she is not being treated with the appropriate
level of respect or appreciation—something which I imagine is
quite a common experience among societal interactions, but one
which people tend to ignore out of necessity—a need for inter-
action and the fear that by asserting yourself and standing up for
what you know you deserve you will be left with nothing. I do
tend to put all of myself into my relationships and if I can not
be treated as any more than another option in your time-passing
arsenal then I see absolutely no point in keeping it up. Let’s be
clear: I have next to no reason for wishing to interact with oth-
ers as is. I wade through the sociosphere like malarial waters with
but one aim: to be proven wrong in my bitter assessments. Soci-
ety is like any other project to me. It may not be inherently fun
(it isn’t), but the challenge aspect of it all has got me all excitable.
I can’t and won’t deny that I am nothing but unhappy when
it comes to the relations I maintained in life. I can’t seem to
communicate with someone for more than two minutes without
feeling that all magic has been drained from my existence. This
is not an admission that I wish to make, especially since this is
more likely to reflect on me than on those whereof I speak, but
it is the reality in which I have lived for so long, and I’ll give you
a quick and digestible reason for why that is: these people (that
I’ve met) simply aren’t thinking in terms of building, creating,
growing, helping, fulfilling, overcoming, triumphing. They are
only thinking in terms of “I have three hours of free time before
work today. How can I fill it.”
Even those who appear to be making an effort to fill their
lives with more spiritual and so-called mindful practices, like
meditation or listening to whoever the YouTube guru of the mo-
ment may be... they don’t actually seem to be journeying. They
don’t actually seem to be receiving. They, like as the workers, as
the muppets, simply appear to be doing whatever it takes to con-
vince themselves that they have “done their job”, like it’s some
quota; some ritual tied to their self-esteem. That’s all. I have not
met anyone who seems truly willing to defy their precious secu-
rity in search of truth and passion. The Concordian is a ubiqui-
tous miasma.
My thoughts on the matter are undoubtedly going to upset

some people in the short term, should they ever even bother to
spend their time reading through my writings (which they are
unlikely to do), and it’s a shame that the ball had to drop as it
did, but like I said, I don’t expect my absence or even my antipa-
thy to rattle any foundations. I know the human mammal to be
unrivaled in its ability to convince itself of its rightness, and this
trait which saves you from Heaven will also save you from Hell.
The day when I finally permitted myself to reject the narra-
tive which says the developmental progression of my soul must
necessarily entail sociality... It was the greatest day of my life. It is
not readily discernible whether the sadness outweighs the sense
of relief in this case. But I will say that the relief is great—more
than I’ve ever known. This chapter is now officially behind me
and I can finally focus my efforts on that which matters.
My observance of a separate and dissimilar standard of accept-

ability has perhaps caused me to be perceived as socially defiant,
awkward, or utterly ignorant to the established societal norms.
So whereas in some cases I would appear to others as overreact-
ing, in others I appear as underreactive.
“Society: a strange land wherein the acceptability of a given
act or phenomenon is apparently commensurate with its com-
monality.”
In my world, we do not refer to that as morality but habit,
and this mindless system of propriety will forever have my ven-
om.
I wrote up a lengthy dissertation on the topic following my
fallout with a certain volatile barkeep in the winter of 2018,
though I can’t seem to locate the text, or any of the Benthos texts
for that matter. Such is the problem of working exclusively from

your phone...
I am not some autist who lacks insight into and control over
the awkwardness and atypicality of his interaction style but a
man of tremendous intention and conviction who must some-
times refuse the call to adapt when presented with especial cir-
cumstances wherein adaptation is deemed an empty compro-
mise with no real benefits to myself or others.
Like so, I am neither oblivious to the so-called standards of
the sociosphere, nor am I so incompetent that I can not carry its
weight as any ant can. Rather it is that I am unwilling to dirty
my hands with such impersonality and frivolity all for the sake of
fitting in with a community which, quite frankly, is simply being
viewed as a rung on my ladder of self-development and contains
no innate cause to be desired by me.
I will not endure this shame for having fought in earnest for
that which is ultimately not worth the efforts of any conscious
soul.
Even as I may be coming across as excessively neurotic in my
presentation of my disposition through text, I simply can not
bring myself to communicate with anyone or anything at this
point in the process. My state of mind is simply too aberrant
from the going standard and I can’t expect that it will result in
anything positive or beneficial for either party.
If I ever so choose to release this text to the public, and if I
am still alive when this circulates, I only ask that you spare me of
the messages attempting to rectify or otherwise justify some ele-
ment of our interactions. This may come as an unfair request, but
given my mindset as it currently stands, all such attempts would
only add to my ever present burden, and I do not say that an-
grily or even bitterly, but in simple acknowledgment of circum-
stances as they stand. Whatever you might be wishing to say to
me in this event should be rather said before a mirror, because

that which we allot to others is ultimately a reflection of that
which we allot to ourselves.
Simply put, I have never felt myself sufficiently ‘loved’ or appre-

ciated by anyone. I have known the conditionality of man—con-
ditions being all that man is capable of extending. This is not an
expression of rejection but of man’s dearth of offering (as was ex-
pressed in my above comment).
My instincts have developed in such a way that I will put in
extra efforts that I may garner some sort of reaction which results
in the aforedescribed feeling of whorishness, where it feels like I
am trying to buy peoples’ love and attention.
And just so we’re clear, it’s evidently not wrong to feel that
you should give and aid those closest to you in whatever way you
can and without requiring some excuse or national holiday to au-
thenticate your appreciation, and the fact is, all of these things I
am doing which cause me to feel so whorish are things I would
like to do for real friendships: to give with no intention of receiv-
ing, and give in every opportunity that I get, since I believe that
a friend is more than just someone you keep around to witness
your life or to bear your burdens of loneliness and incomplete-
ness. So it’s not that I am actually doing anything out of line, but
that I am doing it for those who have not merited it, and I am
having to push through tremendous pain and resistance to keep
it up, as I keep trying to convince myself “This is reality, Tendon,
or that’s what they say. Adapt to their ways or die.” If the Menar-
che taught me anything, it is that I would rather die, and I have
never felt more free in my life than in that moment when my soul
did triumph over the body.
There is no fate for the self-created man in such a sphere but

self-extinction.
The love of all life sings until it chokes!
The love of all life dances until it falls!
The love of all life relates more to death.
Let me decompose!
It’s so impossible for me to imagine my efforts paying off—even

just one of them. It’s so impossible for me to imagine being able
to relish in one pleasurable moment or event without having to
make some great sacrifice of my health. Nearly every action over
the past ten years has entailed various degrees of suffering, being
that every use of my hands, feet and throat requires a trade-off,
but it goes far beyond the physical.
It’s so impossible for me to imagine having something to
gain from sharing my joy, my pain and my creations with the
world, when my openness has only worked against me in the so-
cial realm. It’s so difficult for me to make sense of this life.
I am of the mind to say that I do not contain any positive
memories. That’s not to say that nothing pleasant or enjoyable
ever happened to me in my lifetime, as that would clearly be a
hyperbolic statement, although it is not hyperbolic to say that
all experiences whereof I am cognizant have been poisoned over
time due to developing associations, whether relating to abusive
individuals or disappointing and/or traumatic happenings, and
are no longer capable of providing solace. It took a while, but
the poison has finally seeped through all the pages of the book.
Rather, I have my creations which provide an adequate substitute
for positive memories and experiences. It is solely through these
means that I feel I was able to give myself an acceptable life,
through my workmanship, my songs especially—even though

my workmanship, too, has been singed in passing.
One of the most upsetting aspects of all of this is that, fol-
lowing a period of hypersensitivity, like starvation, (after the
original wave of disappointment had reached my core) wherein
I was essentially seeing goodness in every half-smile and polite
gesture out of desperate necessary, it has finally reached a point
where my mind has become somehow resistant to evidence to
the contrary, meaning that kind and supportive actions are no
longer capable of reaching me where I stand.
For example, upon releasing my music to the public in early
2017 I remained receptive for approximately two years, during
which period my mind was analyzing and establishing patterns
of cause, effect and reception, and I remained hopeful while
seeking to expand my little underground empire, but as a clear
pattern emerged and hope was engulfed by disappointment, I
subconsciously shut down my receptibility, and any praise or
compliments I’ve encountered since that point in time have es-
sentially failed to reach me (and I don’t think that they ever will).
I may have even cost myself a couple opportunities due to my in-
sistence that my music was despised and disregarded. It’s difficult
to acknowledge this, because I clearly understand my own ten-
dencies, but my disappointment has penetrated my inmost core,
and I’m either unwilling or incapable of doing anything about it
(though it’s not like I’m really missing out on anything anyway).
All of this, when coupled with the revelations collectively called
Algorismus, have essentially left me unable to derive any influ-
ence from the words of others. I hear what the people have to say,
but their words may as well be cacophonous barks, for they no
longer know the ability to uplift or destroy me further. In some
sense that would seem like a good thing that I am no longer ca-
pable of being altered by what is said by those around me, and I
could see how this would be considered an improvement; how-

ever, that doesn’t negate the sorrow of the migratory plights.
Where are my brothers who will understand the migratory
plights? You are my brother whose head enters the basket of ig-
norant execution.
This same population which denies the faculty of spirit will
forever refuse the cup that descends for them, preferring to
thirst, should it spare them of the briefest shame. So I shall not
be arraigned by man when the heavens approbate my turn, for
I have glimpsed grandest treasure and have been honest in my
comparisons.
Nothing leaves one more vulnerable than hope, which could just
as well be called passive dependence.
I remained vulnerable in this way for too long, being myself
aware of how quickly and easily things could change for the bet-
ter; being aware of how quickly my world could achieve a full ro-
tation. I am a man of a thousand talents beset by but a handful
of problems. Major though those problems tend to be, the ratio
has made it just so hard to give up my hoping when, within a sin-
gle hour, my burdens could lift and I would be free to act on my
potential which I developed over decades of isolation—potential
which had been muted by a combination of illness and a lack of
connectedness.
One word, one hand, one MRI had the power to change
my life forever, and I relished in that understanding, feeling my-
self ever on the verge of some grand salvation. It wasn’t about
looking to be ‘rescued’, but acknowledging that I couldn’t do
this on my own, and I would need to establish a trustworthy
network if I was to truly move on in life. It was not a pleasant
way to live, entailing all sorts of unhealthy mindframes which
kept me locked in a state of diminished discernment, heightened

desperation and streaks of opportunism which put me at odds
with my innate ethico-moral structures. Each day brought with
it further madness, as I continually sought to remind myself
of how little it would take to change my life around. Only a
propitious moment! And when you find yourself repeating that
same sentiment for five years it takes on a cruel new meaning
over time—meaning of the most humiliating dimensions. And
in those five years I did not sit around like some irresponsible
fool expecting the cosmos to bend to me. On the contrary, in
those five years I remained active and constantly made myself
available, moving from dozens of unfruitful medical experiences,
to moving across the country, to building multiple businesses, to
revealing all my works to the public for the first time in 2017...
all of these were actions taken by a determined soul to continue
putting myself out there no matter the accumulated negative ex-
perience, because without making myself available as such; with-
out vulneration as such, it was not possible I would know the
miracle for which I was after.
This mindset worked to sustain me for half a decade in some
weird frame of optimistic despondency, but I look back on it
now like I look back on a surgery. I wish there was another way it
could have happened, something less scarring, but it had to hap-
pen as it did. That’s all I have to say on it now, and that is my
attitude toward every social interaction or excursion occurring
in that time frame. It was an invasive surgery; nothing less and
nothing more.
The emotional experience concomitant with the abovedescribed

events and realizations is perhaps the single most unpleasant
thing that I have ever experienced, bringing about the most in-
tense state of loneliness and an unrivaled hopelessness which

stems from my belief that none of my actions will have any effect
on anything or anyone, locking me away within some horrible
metaphysical blister of reality wherein all cries must necessarily
go unheard. It is so utterly and overwhelmingly dramatic that I
can not possibly view it as being anything but an intentful gnos-
tic event which transpires for the express purpose of eradicating
all attachments between myself and this insubstantial earth; this
rock of endless disconsolation.
Thummim, guide me to the absolving fire of Sol!

I’ve expressed my dissatisfaction with my preliminary auto-
biographical drafts in the past, by which I am referring to Trau-
maturgy which I worked on primarily between the years 2012
and 2014. It’s been a while (several years) since I’ve even looked
through the texts, as I worry I’ll get caught up in making correc-
tions and edits and that it will turn into a never ending affair and
I simply don’t have the time or stamina for that at this point.
Though the details shared in these texts are factual—and
make no mistake about that—I find my previous approach high-
ly immature and riddled with flaws, having developed from de-
fensive and insecure behaviors which not only determined the
content that I felt pressed to share, but the lens through which it
was shared.
I am no longer willing to propagate the so-called ‘madman’
narrative which I so willingly took on in my youth, by which I
am referring to my past tendency to portray myself as a psychot-
ic or otherwise unstable goon—a belief I adopted and then cir-
culated in defense of my actions and lifestyle in a time when I
couldn’t bear the scrutiny, but which is no longer considered to
be an accurate, let alone helpful means through which to take in
my story.
Similarly, the ‘tragedy’ narrative is no longer something that
I wish to encourage. My saying this doesn’t alter any of the details
of my story—all of which are true. My lifetime has been charac-
terized by darkness, isolation, death and disease. Though while
this can be easily contribute to my being viewed as a sort of trage-
dian, this ‘tragic madman’ narrative paints me as an individual
lacking in all control and whose fate has been steered and sealed
by events or beings outside of himself and I have become increas-
ingly opposed to such a view in time.
The original bio, as some of you will recall, was built upon
the premise of my being raised by abusive parents and warped by
a dubious fraternity, all before suffering a breakdown and falling
into a prolonged cycle of illness and isolation before finally los-
ing my voice, dezinezinet.
Again I must stress that these details are not inaccurate in
themselves, though while my saying all of this bears no effect on
the details and events of my story, it should nonetheless affect
how these details are understood.
I think that that factors into my distaste for the ‘tragic mad-
man’ narrative: it deflects all acknowledgement of my intention.
It deflects all acknowledgement of my responsibility. And I can
not, in good conscience, proliferate such a self-ignorant narra-
tive.
I am and have long been an experimental mystic who, in
spite of holding to grand and worthy aims and causes, has been
disposed to the same immature and ignorant tendencies as the
rest of my species, and some of those tendencies truly ravished
me, leaving me even more to overcome in my mystical journey of
self-development.
In addition to the abovementioned reasons for my finding
this perspective to be misrepresentative of my person, I am not
okay with devaluing my experiences, which is precisely what I
am doing when I write off certain events as psychotic manifesta-
tions.
My tendency to regard the events of February 2008 as a sort
of psycho-emotional breakdown is something which I now con-
test, when it could just as easily be described as my having suf-
fered a difficult experience which resulted in the decision to pull
out of society on a temporary basis that I may tend to and mend
my self-perceptions. Of course that narrative would seem to de-
tract from the drama and emotionality of the event, perhaps be-
ing even more misrepresentative in the end, but... well, I don’t

know. I simply don’t wish to disrespect an experience which, for
me, was very valuable and also handled very rationally, despite
the emotional disturbance that it brought about.
Then you have other matters such as the seemingly halluci-
natory ambulances and barking dogs of which I complained in
my youth—details which could be used to argue for the idea that
I was suffering some sort of psychotic episode, except that I be-
lieve these manifestations to have related more to tension and
obsession than any brain damage or long-term psychotic illness.
I did seem to emphasize these details in my bio, and it’s true that
there was a point in my life that they were disturbing to me, if it
is not evident from my music, but so much of my anxiety, includ-
ing these manifestations, was essentially overcome in its entirety
between the years of 2012 and 2013 and I haven’t suffered from
any such manifestations for nearly a decade at this point. To me
it seems like a different lifetime altogether, which is surely not to
say that my life has become any easier, as even a quick peek at
my log will show you that I am very much still in the maw of the
beast, but an absence or noteworthy diminishment of neurosis/
es has made all the difference to my experience of suffering.
Where 2008-2011 was very much beset by fear, anxiety and
dissociation resulting from the unbearable discomfort caused
by unfamiliar and unidentifiable condition(s) suddenly affecting
and restricting so much of my life, I have adapted in time to the
fact that this is my life—which isn’t to be taken as a commentary
on the severity of my circumstances but on the inherent poten-
cy of equanimity. These days it's more like “Well, it looks like to-
day I can’t breathe, eat or walk, so I’ll have to adapt appropriately
by turning to my list of secondary or even tertiary activities and
steering clear of that which I know to exasperate my condition.”
The further I go into my mystical pursuits the more concerned

I become that all my insights and achievements will be brought
down and swallowed up by this shaky, defensive narrative which
stands from an earlier time and paints me as someone not worth
taking seriously. Yes, there are a lot of ways in which I can truly
be described as a feral freak, ha ha, but my past instabilities have
always belonged to matters of judgment and moderation and I
don’t believe that it can be said that I ever lost touch with real-
ity, even as my practice has often seen me putting in deliberate
efforts to eschew the known world in furtherance of my mystical
aims.
It is a necessary distinction to note, and one realizes in that
instance that our society tends to define two altogether dissimi-
lar concepts with the self-same derogation:
I am not and have never been a barking lunatic out of touch
with reality and incapable of thinking and behaving sensibly.
Rather, I am an audacious individual—the foolhardiness of
whom is contestable—who has eschewed the laws of man in an
effort at seeking higher meaning or purpose, or simply some-
thing more personal and resonant from this life.
I am thin and I am a gambler! I took many chances, exposing
myself to countless risks over a fifteen year stretch, and most may
say that I have lost, basing their conclusions upon the weakness
of my body, but would they look to the strength of my soul and
see that I have gained precisely that which I sought via audacity!
For my narrative to reflect anything less is a disservice to my self
and decades of strenuous, tenacious efforts.
So much of my so-called public image is built around and
upon the Tendon Levey paradigm, being it my loudest and most
volatile identity paradigm to date. The Traumaturgy drafts, too,
revolve around these years. This has come with its share of frus-
trations for me, as I’ve touched on occasionally within my public
log, since that a lot of the behaviors and justifications of that pe-
riod would be considered utterly unacceptable in the present day.
These days I tend to consider the Tendon Levey paradigm
as being somewhat synonymous (or nearly so) with the Jungian
‘shadow’, or the purest manifestation of its grip on my per-
son—an interesting interpretation which has a lot to say for why,
despite it being such a pivotal period within my life, it’s difficult
for me to know that the public’s understanding of my nature has
been shaped to such a large extent by this damned manifestation.
The foolishness of my decisions in these years was not always
a matter of intelligence versus ignorance, having more to say of
the priorities that I held, and as a kid you’re not going to be as
prone to prioritizing matters of health and whatnot. My prior-
ities had all to do with the establishment and expression of my
identity. I wanted simply to ‘feel like myself ’ in the grandest pos-
sible sense. Life, in that time, had become so utterly mythical
that humanity itself took a backseat and the blood flowed thus.
The same is in many ways true of my currenthood, however a
greater handle on my mortality, coupled with a higher degree of
wisdom, has brought about better overall risk mitigation and I
can now avoid needless tragedies stemming from some bold and
unfounded view(s) of what it means to be ‘me’.
And while these matters of Selfness are still very important
to me, these things have been an automatic, unconscious process
for the better of a decade at this point.
I’m sure that I could be saying more on the matter (since ap-
parently I can elaborate endlessly upon a single thought) but I
will conclude things here.

(ON MEDITATIVE PRACTICES)
As one who does not practice more traditional forms of
meditation, I hold strongly to the belief that art is a suitable sub-
stitute for these, although I refer principally to art undertaken
with the specific purpose of self-discovery (as in the case of my
Tendon Levey project which, as you should already know, was
not a means of entertainment for me or for anyone else but a pri-
vate attempt undertaken to understand and access my own pro-
clivities by giving an uncritical platform to my emotionality).
(ON MY OSTENSIBLY CYNICAL BENT)

I’ve made several attempts at this point to provide clarifica-
tion for my outlook and disposition, being that it is quite impor-
tant to me that my position is made perfectly clear as I would not
wish to be lumped together with precisely the sort of asininity I
so vehemently oppose. With that said, I will herein make one fi-
nal attempt to summarize my outlook on and relationship to the
species of man (as it stands now in the fall of 2019):
My negative feelings towards the population stem principal-
ly from what I view as the dramatic disparity between the poten-
tiality and actuality of the species. I believe that man is excep-
tionally capable—and I do mean exceptionally, beyond what the
population would ever understand of itself. A fantastic poten-
tial subsists in every man, woman and child, but an understand-
ing of our nature, including our priorities and practices, as well
as the patterns observed over millennia, is enough to convince
me that the vast majority of individuals—now and forever—will
live complacently and fail to meet even a tenth percentile of that
potential in a lifetime (encompassing the realms of emotionali-
ty, the intellect, spirituality, and creativity) and one who under-
stands this can only feel despair and anger.
This despair and anger which I express within my writings
and other works, however, is never (or almost never) directed
at the people, least of all specific individuals, as in never being
flaunted openly and arrogantly and remaining for the most part
a conceptual battle. Instead I have used it as a motivating force.
I have dedicated my whole existence, since the days of my
childhood, to bridging the gap between what I am and what I
can be—in which case the Idem literally came to represent my
highest conceivable permutation (long before I understood this
mystical operation to result in the breaking down or unification
of potentiality and actuality) and it would be dishonest of me
to act as if my position hasn’t imbued me with a sense of superi-
ority over those who actively dismiss and disregard the necessity
of conscious living and continuous effort in this world shared by
billions—an attitude which I feel is entirely justifiable, although
I would not typically think to frame it as ‘superiority’.
After all, for me there was never a competitive element, hav-
ing merely ceded to the reality that anyone attempting in earnest
to live a more conscious, caring, constructive and growth-fo-
cused life is principally superior to all those who do not, regard-
less of results which one achieves, as in this case as efforts and in-
tention are enough to set one apart.
I never wanted to leave the world behind in my efforts to
heal, develop and individuate. What I want for myself I want for
us all, and nothing leaves so great a gash as feeling that I am alone
in my striving towards excellence within a world that seeks only
to make excuses (or to level attacks against whatever can not be
excused so simply). Often I cannot stand behind the logic of my
feeling-based deductions; for example, I can not truly defend the
idea that I am alone in this world, or without equal, and com-
mon logic would even tell me that there has to be others like my-
self—and many at that—but, regretfully, this is not enough to
reform my emotional experience when, after all, this is the only
experience that I have known and no amount of impersonal data
can tell me that it wasn’t excruciatingly lonely.
So much of our ostensible cynicism stems from scenarios in
which a person, in want of affirmation in some particular form,
fails to attain such affirmation from their environment, by which
is implied that this cynicism which is carried about is ultimately
based on arbitrary processes masquerading as principles and very
often devolves into an ‘if I can’t have it, no one can’ mentality.
Mine own cynical bent, as it is (perhaps inaccurately)
termed, differs significantly from the abovedescribed and I find
no commonality with those who decry the ability of man and
seek for his demise with a sardonic infantility.
My cynicism is neither proud, nor retaliative, nor apatheti-
cally dismissive, being based ultimately in anguish which stems
from the worry that our lowest instincts will forever win out,
preventing most living beings from ever coming close to their
potential in life.
I feel this to be an all-important distinction, seeing as I will
refer to myself in passing as a cynical and misanthropic individ-
ual, yet without displaying the toxic behaviors which so com-
monly characterize the self-styled misanthrope. One who has ob-
served the fault of man would never allow himself to perpetuate
the same.
What I call cynicism is therefore more aptly comparable to
the woe of the prophet who can do nothing to convince the peo-
ple of a coming disaster—a disaster which he knows to be whol-
ly preventable. The result is an amalgam of sorrow, desperation
and anger; at no point should you observe hostile or retaliative
behaviors issuing from an individual who claims to these percep-

tions, if even their words reflect a sense of aggression.
My attitude has never been one of “How can they do this
to me?” and always “How can they allow this of themselves and
their own?”
It may not be necessary to say all of this, but as I already not-
ed, it concerns me that I will be misrepresented.
(ON THE RESPONSIBILITY OF THE MYSTIC IN THE

MODERN WORLD)
One of the greatest, most costly missteps that one can make
on the mystical-spiritual path is in wrongfully assuming respon-
sibilities beyond our means and abilities, especially concerning
the responsibility to reform, enlighten or ‘save’ others through
acquired knowledge and revelation.
It is instinctual for many of us to seek to promulgate the very
information which inspired and so deeply affected our own lives,
believing that it could just as well benefit others, and very often
this desire comes from a pure place, even when experienced as a
responsibility.
Know that I neither refer to nor condone pushy, self-right-
eous and proselytizing behaviors as such that are customarily as-
sociated with zealous dogmatists. Even at my callowest, I was
more nuanced than to perch myself upon a soapbox—although
it could have had just as much to do with my being an innately
non-confrontational and thin-skinned sort—and rather sought
to encapsulate my truths into digestible forms within businesses
and creative ventures. Coming first to mind is my counseling
practice, although the most elaborate of these attempts never did
see the light of life and entailed a complex network focused on a
sort of creative problem solving.
I dedicated many years of my life to overcoming these hur-

dles, the outcome of which was not to my liking and difficult
to accept, for I could no longer ignore my observations. I’m the
type to see the word ‘futility’ and take it as a challenge, but there
was a valid lesson to be learned from my exercise. Heed my coun-
sel while avoiding the temptation to write it off as a product of
weakness, resignation or cynical disposition (or as any other way
to tell yourself that this inability doesn’t apply to you as it may to
others).
You must reflect back on what I previously had to say regard-
ing the nature of occultation and why this ‘knowledge’ is appar-
ently ‘hidden’ from the view of the masses in the first place.
We as occultists often tend to act as though we have stum-
bled upon some secret chest in the deepest, darkest caverns of
life, when the reality is far less complex and has decidedly less
to say of our capabilities or general percipience than it does of
our attitude towards fear, ignorance and a commitment to plac-
ing truth above comfort and security. This resplendent awareness
that is so prized by mystics and occultists is perhaps better off be-
ing recognized as a decision rather than being called a gift or, al-
ternately, a discovery (although it can surely appear as some sort
of gift with which we are being blessed).
It is my firmly-held belief that nothing of an essential nature
is hidden from the view of any man. The truth of existence is
before us all and those of us who do not manage to perceive it
have made the choice—consciously or not—to disregard it. And
know that when I use a vague and generic term like ‘truth’ that
I am speaking of more than some soteriological concept, refer-
ring to everyday wisdom and insights, be it into the nature, con-
sciousness or ‘eternality’ or our own instinctive behavior.
To many a mystical practitioner this will indubitably rank

amongst the most difficult legs of the process—myself included.
To whom this applies: I wish that you may come to see this
not as a failure on the part of the individual or as some inciden-
tal negative byproduct of an otherwise worthy process but as one
of the principal obstacles whereagainst all mystics must contend
in their quest for the light of truth. In acknowledging it as part
of the test you will be better equipped to confront it as it is. The
further I step into the clearing the more I come to understand
the strange necessity of such obstacles—a necessity which every
man must realize for himself.
I am not suggesting that you oust all people from your life,
or even count them all as lost causes. No, not at all. Even as it
is not our responsibility to inform and reform others, I still see
it as our responsibility to behave with kindness, compassion and
sensibility. I’m mostly suggesting that you consider the limits of
language and communication, and to know that it is not the re-
sponsibility of the mystic to teach, but to focus on learning. This
should be simple to understand, but doesn’t desire occlude the
senses?
Given my belief in the futility of instruction, my only reason for

speaking at this point is in the hopes that I may somehow pro-
vide solace to those who are at a similar rung of their journey, if
not as a means to provide further insight into my insular exis-
tence. This is also why I am not focusing so much on my revela-
tions and realizations within the Dirgha Svapna texts but on the
emotional and symbolic experience, believing that those who are
capable of comprehending and also benefiting from such realiza-
tions already do so (or will do so in due time) without my need-
ing to be the one to enlighten them.
I hope that there are those out there will find assurance in
knowing that I, too, have experienced the indescribable hurting,
the strange voicelessness, the existential helplessness, with which
you too may be dealing, and that I have triumphed over the sor-
row that we may form this bond which extends beyond time
and locality and establishes an invisible kinship which runs from
saint to psychologist, messiah to alchemist, and supplies the un-
conscious infrastructure of our richest undying myth which per-
petuates itself under the mighty name of Reality.
My take on the popular “There are two types of people in this

world”: I recognize two quests, which I consider as mutually ex-
clusive, and they are the quest for truth and the quest for secu-
rity. The former is called futile by materialists who believe in the
narrative that the truth is either unknowable, unqualifiable, un-
attainable or some combination of the three. The latter is less
simple to classify, for while it will often entail those of a stat-
edly spiritual or otherwise metaphysical nature who believe that
physical existence is subsidiary to x, be it consciousness or soul or
other, depending on who you ask, this would seem to include a
whole lot of religious practitioners who, contrary to any claims,
fall rather into the former category.
In case it isn’t immediately obvious, I fall into the latter
camp, and unapologetically so. The story of my life is the eschew-
al of comfort and security in the search for intimacy, irreducibil-
ity and sacrosanctity, as it is my belief that to arrive in paradise
one must necessarily cross through Hell—not by the request of
some uncommunicable and sadistic creator but by the natural
laws of purification by which all essence is bound.
As one who seeks after truth at the expense of security, you
must be prepared to live out your life in the absence of affirma-
tion, knowing that your drive goes utterly against the instinct of
the mortal man. You will neither be perceived as a hero, nor as a
saint, nor as a friend but as an active threat to the spurious com-
forts of the disconsolate and no behavioral or linguistic modifi-
cations will mask the sulfurous odor of gnostic truth.
It will seem to some like a masturbatory statement, and I
must expect accusations of self-importance and condescension
from those whose inherent lack of confidence has caused them
to distrust or otherwise take offense at the resoluteness of others,
but at its base it expresses the simple fact that the one who pro-
ceeds with courage where others stop in fear is disdained more
frequently than he is celebrated, and this applies not just to the
mystical community but to any sphere wherein risks are recog-
nized.
Experiences may vary, of course, and it mustn’t be over-
looked that my own experience was particularly rough—a fact
which undoubtedly had a role in the shaping of my opin-
ion—though it is my firmly-held belief that the more you can
manage to dissociate yourself from such unfair responsibilities,
the better off you will be. Me, I’m still reeling from years and
years of wrongful, overidealistic expectations and it plagues me
in every second of my life, all the memories of failure and sorrow
and loss which could have been avoided. It’s like a plaque build-
up inside my arteries... all these innocent endeavors that my spirit
insists on viewing as failures.
(ON THE DETRIMENT CAUSED BY STANDARDS SET

BY NEW AGE/NEW THOUGHT COMMUNITIES)
(On my first mystical experiences) It was an incident of mo-
mentous and everduring importance to my life, but whereas
many an aspiring seeker would opt to view it as a victory, calling
it an ‘awakening’ or touting themselves as ‘enlightened’, I opted

instead to view it as the beginning of what would be a long and
worthy journey (as it was and is).
I have said as much on several instances: so many of the so-
called answers and revelations I have found came to me at (or
near) the outset of my mystical journey when I was but a child of
fifteen. The truer challenge was not the attainment of the revela-
tion but in following it through and dedicating my life thereto.
Consider knowledge as the map, experience as the trek and wis-
dom as the prize.
It is crucial we exercise great care in how we choose to define
and categorize our experiences, and for that reason I must warn
against the adoption of terminology utilized by the New Age
and New Thought movements which have long acted as
(mis)representatives of the modern psychospiritual community
while making a killing out of obsessing over crude and ill-defined
concepts of ‘enlightenment’ and ‘awakening’ which, should these
terms be referring to anything at all, refer to an ongoing process
and not a singular event. Ultimately, these terms and associated
concepts are not helpful and will only come as occlusive and
detrimental to the quest for truth and an honest lifestyle.
The same could be said of their ignorant grasp of the ego and
their misguided desire to see it abolished—unless, of course, they
fully intend to know the fate of a still, smiling statue. It’s a haz-
ardous echo chamber of fluffy, feel-good predictions of global
awakenings, people obsessing over clock-based ‘synchronicities’
(if you can even call them that) and jerking off over contextless
Matrix quotes. It’s embarrassing and it offers nothing to the mys-
tic who is intent on uncovering the truth, creating for fallacious,
impersonal and useless endpoints which will hinder you more
than they will lead to your advancement.
While it works against us to elevate our initiatory mystical

experiences to the heights of a conclusive success, all this is not
meant to undercut the victory that it truly is to experience a vi-
talization of one’s perceptions and interests. Surely it is a victory
to acknowledge the flaws in the common way of going about life
and to wriggle free from the paralysis which threatens all, but for
the devotee who intends to commit his or herself to the insular
path of the mystic, a million billion victories of greater caliber
await you down the line. Where the road continues on, compla-
cency is adversary.
All in all, I’m not here to say how you should walk your mys-
tical-spiritual path, but I do wish to make clear that this is not
the way to which I subscribe.
I also don’t mean to promulgate a Gnostic-Christian “It’s all
vile, get out while you can!” mentality, though if your beliefs
have led you to experience an increased sense of hope for the
world at large, then... well, I really don’t know what to tell you
since that’s clearly not the world of which I am a part, hah. And
please do not take that as my saying that a mystic must necessar-
ily become a curmudgeonly hermit, but without a certain degree
of separation—physical and psychological—from the lifestyle,
worldview and attitude(s) espoused by the mainstream, which
many of us would agree is incorrigibly corrupt and unmindful,
I don’t see how it is even remotely possible to achieve sufficient
progress on the psychospiritual path.
(ON THE WORTHFULNESS OF ESTABLISHED EX-

TRINSIC AND EXTRAPERSONAL SYSTEMS OF SPIRI-
TUALITY AND MYSTICISM)
As an autodidact having long eschewed established systems
in seeking after something more honest and intimately personal,
I have this to say regarding extant systems of mystical and occult

practice:
I will make no blanket statements regarding the usefulness of
extant extrapersonal systems and institutions, but I would be ex-
tremely wary of most such spiritualistic systems which, like phi-
losophy, have their origins as exculpatory/justificatory measures
and contain an array of egoic pitfalls.
In many cases these systems arise not from one’s search for
truth but one’s search for security, be it in seeking to justify their
predilections or something more base, such as the procuration of
financial or reputational security, and instead of coming about
in the aftermath of copious amounts of earnest experimentation
and seeking they seem rather like an attempt to elevate one's ten-
dencies, especially those in which they are most vulnerable.
The same things can be said of those touting themselves as
teachers or gurus. I am outspokenly opposed to the need for a
mystagogue, but one should be careful in how they fill that void,
lest you end up a forum-browsing doper whose only ostensible
‘defense’ against pandemic ignorance is a threadbare Lateralus t-
shirt.
Here’s a useful tip that many western mystics learn too late in
the game: while mainstream religion has produced many a mis-
creant, it would be awfully unwise to write off said religions (any
of them) as having nothing to offer to the earnest mystic, as they
are rich with the profoundest of symbolism and will no doubt
act as one of the greatest tools in your journey if you should ap-
proach them with the proper mindset. I, myself, self-evidently
operate within a Judeo-Christian paradigm with highlights of
Hinduism, despite identifying as neither Christian nor Hindu. I
do not actively study either system and would not consider my-
self an expert in their teachings (although I was raised Protestant
and can confidently assert that my knowledge of the Christian
faith rivals that of any competent pastor, not least because I once
had every intention of becoming a pastor myself ), yet a gener-
al knowledge of their paradigmatic and symbolic mainstays has
worked out well for me in my questing, particularly in the past
two years.
Surely, even as an autodidact, my work and stance must overlap

with established systems to some extent and I have taken careful
notes over the years when having encountered overlaps of per-
ceived significance, in which cases all such similitude is serendip-
itous but nonetheless quite interesting to me and worth discus-
sion.
What are my observations, then? How could my practice
and system of belief be classified in terms that the world recog-
nizes, if not as a rogue autodidact?
My work, from the very outset, has been deeply rooted in
principles and practices which I now know to be in line with the
art of alchemy, especially if we are to observe it in its more mod-
ern, psychoanalytical interpretation.
Since some acknowledge a distinction between arcane, me-
dieval alchemy—which is classed as proto-chemistry—and mod-
ern, analytical alchemy—which is classed as a psychological dis-
cipline in the tradition of Jungian analytical psychology—I will
simply say that I consider the difference in this case to be negli-
gible, as do many or most. A difference though there may be in
our handling of the metaphorical components of the craft, the
distinction between the “two” disciplines is to be perceived as ul-
timately trivial in that it all operates upon the self-same premise
and unites the l essential principles of being in a way that no oth-
er discipline manages.
I would even go so far as to say that any life lived with suffi-
cient self-knowledge is bound to parallel the alchemical process,
regardless of whether you observe the art of alchemy or other-
wise.
So if you insist on studying any particular system and place
any stock in my personal opinion, my vote belongs overwhelm-
ingly to the art of alchemy which, as far as I am concerned, may
even account for every necessary truth of our existence, while
not constituting a unique faith to the extent that it constitutes an
empirical and highly mythopoeic/symbolic approach to the ac-
quisition and purification of the self and its major compositional
principles.
It is, however, difficult for me to endorse the study of alche-
my when the fact remains that I did not come to learn its truth
and meaningfulness via traditional methods of study but by liv-
ing out my life in a way that I found most meaningful, if rather
experimental, and I expect that I would have learned significant-
ly less had I sought out a more traditional study (where by “learn”
I refer to actual, absorptive understanding). This much may be
cause to refute the appropriateness of said appellation in my case,
and I would expect nothing less from this species than to have
my practice criticized in the same breath that they exalt the prog-
enitors of the system, or any system for that matter, who, in the
absence of texts, did precisely as I have done.
Having not approached alchemy before I was already rela-
tively far along into my personal journey, I cannot vouch for
its accessibility to the neophyte, as it were, who may find little
worth in a frontage of chemical formulae until after having al-
ready put a substantial amount of effort into the self-develop-
mental process, so even if it fails or failed to resonate with you
at one point, I would recommend revisiting it at some point fur-
ther on
As a little side note from the distrusting autodidact: one

must tread carefully when acknowledging processes as these or in
any form, acknowledging that there are very real drawbacks that
come with subscription to such a system in which processes and
hierarchies are laid out and expected to be followed by the ini-
tiate, as it not only seeks to objectify a subjective guidepost, but
encourages a false understanding and mapping of experiences, by
which I mean that one is prone to heightened misinterpretations
of their experience and ability due to the pressure of following
an impersonal formula, often resulting in the forcing of certain
events to carry more worth than they are naturally owed.
It may be less of an issue in the case of alchemy which has
more going for itself than, say, the average hierarchical fraternity,
given that its process was derived from extensive communal ex-
perimentation and inquiry and not but the ego-nose pliers of
the grandiose charlatan. Still, it wouldn’t be hard to run into a
problem as such that I’ve described. I don’t know that this is in-
variably a negative thing but it is something that I have always
been wary and avoidant of in my own walk. I also don’t know
how to fully prevent this outcome in the case of a traditional ap-
proach to studentship. All I know is that I (fortunately) man-
aged to avoid it in my own practice due to my avoidance of study
and I genuinely feel I’ve won the lottery in doing so.
I wish to be able to claim that our most honest self-assess-
ment comes in the absence of outside guideposts and impersonal
criteria, although it can not be said across the board for the fact
that it will require a discerning mind to navigate the realm of
self-assessment while avoiding proud and wishful fantasies. One
is never totally insusceptible to the sort. The best thing that you
can do for yourself on the proactivity front is to humbly recog-
nize that much and to remain in touch with your principal impe-
tus at all times, for the profoundest virtue develops within sight
of the grail. (This includes discernment, among other essential

traits)
I have long maintained that the value of an individual is directly

proportionate to the value which one projects upon this exis-
tence, surely as one who sees great value in this existence stan-
dardly seeks to match that value with effort and giving, making
said individual more useful, laudable and overall more essential
to themselves and us all. On the contrary, one who sees no value
in this existence invariably winds up a burden to themselves and
to others. Even as this criteria is sensible, it is problematic to as-
sume that any one is capable of properly assessing the fervor of
another, and so I try to avoid such judgment where possible.
I never did seek after fame, viewing it as a shallow concept having

less to say about any so-called celebrity than about an audience
with voids to fill. However, I did (and still do) wish to inspire
and to excite and it saddens me to say that after all my efforts I
don’t feel that I accomplished that in the slightest.
I went into a bit of a rant on the concept of fame in the Ash-
lands chapter, where I shared the disappointment of having put
in such great efforts over my lifetime and still I merit less atten-
tion, and certainly fewer plaudits, than a sixteen-year-old girl in
a tube top. I also had something to say on the fact that some-
one who fires off a gun or murders innocent civilians in a public
place is instantly considered notable and showered with atten-
tion, and even as this necessarily entails notoriety, I went into the
circumstances and reasons for which it may be argued that neg-
ative attention is better than no attention. I don’t really feel like
discussing this anymore, since I just know that everything I say
on this subject must necessarily sound so puerile and I can’t han-

dle it.
This is yet another instance where it is not I who bleeds, but
my ideals and the concepts from which they are established, and
I truly can not stomach what all this has to say about effort and
that which the world deems valuable.
These dark analyses may appear to speak to an underlying de-
sire for recognition, but that’s not how I meant it to come across.
I’m perfectly capable of acting in the absence of cheerleaders and
feel no loss over the fact that I lack my own assembly of adoring
fans, but it brings about tremendous pains in me to know that
the world looks upon me as lacking any real significance, nota-
bility and relevance to them. I don’t even expect that to change
once I am gone. I only expect to slip further into the crevasse as
the years go on.
I’ve gone a long while without speaking on this matter, since
I find it humiliating to do so and I can only expect that others
will feed that humiliation. I want to act like I am above it, but
it’s eaten me up more than I am willing to even admit to myself.
And though it goes against all I stand for to give in to harboring
unwanted character traits, I expect that I will be battling against
this monster until my very last breath. It’s not easy to feel that the
entirety of my being has been invalidated. From those who don’t
believe that I am as physically disabled as I claim and deny my
suffering (such as my own biological father), to those who reject
the worth of my creative achievements, to the religious folk by
which I am surrounded who look upon my decades of rigorous
efforts to seek the light and can only tell me that I’m a heretic
deserving of Hell, to those who think that an absence of a col-
lege degree means all of my intellect and opinions to be lacking
in weight and credibility. It truly seems to be the case that my
entire existence has been denied and almost everything has been
disincentivized accordingly. I could be saying so much more on

this but I just can’t bring myself to walk this road any longer than
I must. A headache in your debt, vile God!
It was always my primary social goal to increase consciousness of

our available options; of the life we could be living; of question-
ing the format and living creatively in an endless, self-actuating
act of art wherein life is as a canvas to our intentful wills.
Again, I can’t convince myself that I was successful in my en-
deavor, although given the particulars of the situation I feel it
would be unfair to call me a failure as my actions differ none
from the successful. So much of this existence really does seem
to come down to who you know, and I feel myself to be a pretty
stark example of what it means to know no one.
[Relationship Notes]
An outsider and asexual though I am, it would be disingen-
uous to paint myself as ignorant to or inexperienced within the
realm of relationships. I have experienced my share of infatua-
tion in life, and I have been involved in a handful of relation-
ships, but not before now have I been so utterly fascinated by
someone. In fact, it’s possible that I have never felt myself in-
trigued by anyone whatsoever and I don’t feel that I am exagger-
ating to be saying so.
I’ve never spoken aloud of my feelings on the matter, aware
that it is likely to reflect poorly upon my character as though be-
ing a reflection of impossible standards or other matters denot-
ing a lack of realism or excessive self-importance, yet it shouldn’t
come as a surprise to you that one with my interests, abilities and
worldview will look on the vast majority of others as shallow and
uninteresting. This has been the case for as long as I can recall,
with each interaction throughout my life feeling as some sort of
unforgivable compromise; the loss of something which will not
be regained.
I imagine my saying as much is unlikely to net me any sym-
pathy since people love to act as though these opinions are never
justifiable and invariably based in ignorance, arrogance or some
combination of the two.
This disinterest has undoubtedly shaped my approach to re-
lationships of all kinds, while also feeding into my fantasy of col-
laboration, e.g., duets (which, to me, seems as fantastical as the
halls of Heaven). Since I am not naturally after anything, my goal
has become to enrich lives.
I sometimes compare my natural approach to that of Willy
Wonka, in that I have spent my lifetime building this special
world. Then I’m going to allow them into my world, where they
will be treated to wonders beyond their imagining. If they prove
themselves trustworthy then they will be rewarded further. If
they rob from me in any fashion they will be ousted.
Now, I’m not saying that this represents my actual model
or rational understanding of a relationship, and it sees almost
no part in the actual course of a relationship, but it does reflect
on my connate and baseline approach to a society which oth-
erwise fails to enthrall me. It is therefore sufficient to say that I
have never and will never allow relationships to progress in ways
that might be considered natural, wherefore they reflect deci-
sions and commitments rather than self-evolving garden grubs.
Like an eager playwright descending upon the public at five
year intervals for my cathectic casting calls, before which I must
often carefully shape the scenario in such a way that I can con-
vince myself and others that it was somehow ordained by fate.
It merits to be said that the people of society don’t really have

anything I want or admire apart from general liberties (which
in their case goes wasted by complacency and mental chains), in
which case the only thing that I really seek is a sort of joy in ex-
periencing what I bring to them—a sort of validation, in a sense.
I just want to uplift and to pique the curiosity of the modern
mythless world. Sometimes it has to do with convenience. At
others, the exaltation of coincidence or semicontinuity. It is al-
ways a strategic allotment, however.
This was especially true of years 2014-2017, during which
period I was exceptionally selective of those with whom I asso-
ciated and generally found it necessary to either employ a glove
paradigm (such as Dean “Limbo” Caligiuri whose primary ends
were to bypass this ostensibly egoic stricture) or manipulate my
own symbolic substrate so as to necessitize the mundane, includ-
ing people.
In the latter half of 2018 I was encouraged to adjust my
threshold of admittance to the ends of gaining a fairer grasp on
the human population, seizing all opportunities as they arose
and interacting with as many individuals as I could manage and
without discrimination. The whole entrepreneurial effort simpli-
fied the process enormously (this being its primary, albeit ulte-
rior purpose) and I was introduced to hundreds of individuals
in this time, a portion of which turned into steady contacts, but
in retrospect I have looked upon this year with a sense of regret,
comparing it to pedilavium in both intention and humiliation.
This has a lot to say of my perceptions, in that I view mun-
dane relationships not as the result of desire but as a decision
and, moreover, a challenge—a grounds on which to demonstrate
my willingness and tenacity—and what this does is it emphasizes
my role, duty and contribution over those of the other party and
I take all the weight onto myself, seeing it as my duty to provide
the entertainment and intrigue, as well as to mend the holes, and

I get so caught up in the challenge that I allow inapposite fac-
tors to dictate my assessment of the relationship, such as my own
performance, where I begin thinking in the train of “A good re-
lationship is any relationship in which I can maintain my ground
without buckling,” or “A good relationship is any relationship
from which I can take away some sort of valued lesson”, going
back to my growth mentality which insists that anything which
can be fixed is not actually a problem.
Look at my well-documented tale of my previous relation-
ship, for example: I gave away a year of my life to one who merit-
ed not a minute and all because of some elaborate string of coin-
cidences and symbolic perversions.
It is humiliating to admit that I have at times stooped to
manipulating mine own symbols, or rather, my perceptions of
them, and there have indeed been some instances throughout
the years—most notoriously in 2010, 2015 and 2016–where I
have had to pervert and warp symbols to varying degrees all to be
able to justify some such interactions or other courses of action,
writing people into my story, typically at points of my life when I
had bled myself into a corner and couldn’t seem to progress with
my ideals intact. And in every such instance I paid dearly for my
deeds.
Like all others, I find myself attracted to those who demonstrate

the ability or willingness to understand me. This has always been
the be-all, end-all, as far as my perceptions were concerned. Ac-
cordingly, I’ve often, in the past, just ended up developing an at-
traction to those who saw fit to pursue me; though it merits to
be noted that I have never pursued after anyone, despite my ro-
mantic and highly sentimental nature.
The resultant attraction, if it ever existed to begin with, is

principally chemical, partly fictional and contingent on a variety
of extrarelational factors such as those relating to my focused
self-development, to which all reverts back. I would say that
most attempts at forming a relationship have hitherto derived
from shallow criteria (in the absence of actual desire), such as
their appearance resembling that of others, e.g., those who resem-
ble Anita or Adam, or my feeling that it is my responsibility to
reach out to all perceived outcasts.
So why put myself through the upset of unfruitful relations
from which I've nothing to gain and no grounds to give? Where-
as in most cases such actions could be chocked up to the com-
promises that one makes in avoidance of a lonely existence, I my-
self haven’t the same issues with aloneness that many will have
(which is not to say that I am not disposed to loneliness, clearly
that is not so, but that I am extremely staunch in my ethics and
very aware that it is better to be alone than to settle), in my case
it has more to do with personal development.
It is solely in the aim of developing my maturity, a broaden-
ing of allowances. As I said in relation to my previous relation-
ship, the reason I stuck with it was because ultimately I felt that
it was in my benefit to become more ‘realistic’ and this, in my
mind, having known nothing but abuse in my life, was the realis-
tic way of the world.
There was a stretch of time in which I had paid too much
consideration to a dispassionate people who had me convinced
that to be sensible is to accept mistreatment, misconstruction,
dezinezinet, and one who refuses to accept the pessimistic stan-
dard is simply being unrealistic. So I went along with that idea in
the misguided belief that I was being mature, realistic, or at least
allowing room for a worthful metamorphosis. I imagined that it
would benefit me and all those around me, although I now look
back on all such efforts as regrettable and look with contempt

upon my years of efforts to adapt to the ways and demands of an
insensate society.
My relationships have ranged from pleasant, like in the case
of my first serious relationship (in which I would even say my
girlfriend was arguably the more committed party for once), to
utterly damning, like my most recent relationship for which I
moved across the country and which I resent utterly; but one
thing all relationships, romantic or platonic, share in common
is that they have not added to but subtracted from the mystical
spark of my existence, and despite all attempts to counter this,
I have not been able. Every relationship felt like a momentous
compromise of who I was.
This is my first time ever attempting to put all of these
thoughts and feelings into words, and it’s unfortunate that some
of this should sound questionable—made worse by a defense
mechanism by which, in order to evade embarrassment for per-
ceived failure, I act like I never was actually trying to win, and
then I end up putting so much effort into simply making myself
sound like an icepick (which I am plainly not).
I have led a deeply frustrating life as a lonely romantic and as
an asocial socialgoer. I am a loving and romantic individual who
does not share in the standards, perspectives or desires of the ma-
jority. I wanted nothing more than to be a part of a community,
but I have not found it possible to coexist with this species with-
out being deprived of all spark. All feels like settling. All is com-
promise.
I have drawn from a vast and variegated stock of measures in
my quest to overcome the distance that sets us apart. I have de-
ceived myself into believing that boredom and disinterest have
no validity in determining the eligibility of a meaningful rela-
tionship, as surely as they do not determine worth, or that it's
okay if I don’t get anything out of these relationships since my

only responsibility is to focus on giving what I can and doing my
part within the world. Most dangerously, I once convinced my-
self that as long as I were to remain honest, kindhearted and de-
termined then there will be no cause for regrets.
I am embarrassed by the people who I have welcomed into
my world who, rather than representing trusted friendships, rep-
resent fantasies without basis. The shame is at times so severe
that I would feel more at ease to put a hit out on the lot of them
and have the world utterly wiped of those who have glimpsed
me. It’s not the stablest of sentiments, but such is the world of my
emotion.
Through this long-winded spiel I simply mean to emphasize
the meaningfulness and uniqueness of my feelings for she who
I have called Anita, and may it shine a light on the basis of my
fixation which has endured for well over a decade, being that she
is my first and only enchantment in a world of court dates and
pick-up lines.
(Memory) Even prior to the completion of my operation it was

my claim that I could still recall, at will, all observations made
throughout my existence. Of course I speak only of that which
was ever observed in the first place and I should not be expected
to recall every minor detail belonging to every event whereof
I was once a part—meaning to say that I clearly can not tell
you about something which I never actually knew in the first
place. Still, I am generally able to recreate whole events within
my mind—not typically word for word, but almost always scene
for scene. If I had the ability to be without this exceptional mem-
ory I would willingly—gladly—exchange it for a normal work-
ing memory, in which case I have to imagine that my trauma
would diminish significantly, as it is rarely the impact of the en-

counter in itself which disrupts my functioning but the days,
weeks and years that follow, during which I am forced to relive
the agony and discomfort again and again. Honestly, I imagine
that anyone would be traumatized if forced to recall every sin-
gle stare or dismissal of their lifetime on what seems like a daily
basis. I deeply despise this level of awareness and retention. I am
so clogged up with associations that it is affecting the integrity
of my responses. Oh the scowls, the indifference, the insensitiv-
ity which do not merit to live forever within my keep! I swear
that I can draw by memory thousands of passersby who I have
only encountered once in my lifetime and who never really had
my focus to begin with; but one is not supposed to notice every
twitch of the cashier’s forearm, and we sure as hell shouldn’t be
recalling it three years after the fact. This serves to demonstrate
the importance of selecting my interactions wisely. One offhand-
ed comment can forever mar my favorite songs and pastimes,
dezinezinet. This also goes to show the importance of restricting
what I allow into my life, into my mind; for example, I have not
viewed a horror film since 2008, not wishing to take in any more
darkness and negativity than I must.
It may be tempting to paint me as some maladaptive child whose

bitter and misanthropic bent is informed more by the ignorance
of my upbringing than by an objective, unbiased go at life, and
I can’t fault you if that thought has crossed your mind, though I
expect my attitude to be taken into consideration and not judged
solely off of an impersonal pattern established prior to the event
of mine own birth. My attitude is not that of one who entered
into the world with an arrogant and competitive tenor. My at-
titude is that of one who for three decades has insisted that all
persons are equally capable given the proper impetus and suffi-
cient self-discipline. My attitude is that of one who has fought
against those who seek to disparage the innate potentiality of
our species. But I have been called unfair when I merely insist on
treating others as my equals, and finally I have begun to gush.
So my anger stems largely from being wrong, at least within
the context of modern society, and perhaps it was wrong of me
to treat others as equals bearing all the substance of a world with-
in themselves; and perhaps I have been wrong to listen, trust, to
commit, to love. It has left me reeling from terminal embarrass-
ment. Do I mean what I say in this case? Yes and no. Yes... and
no. It's become very difficult to tell where my objective thoughts
actually lie on the topics of society and humanity. I would likely
be making very different statements were I not leery of being
misconstrued or called arrogant. Similarly, I would likely be tak-
ing a very different tone if I was not in such immense emotional
pain. The fact is, I don’t think the world will ever hear my unfil-
tered thoughts on the matter, which are often desperate, sweep-
ing and violently evocative (perhaps notoriously so).
So my anger is not a sword but a gushing wound and my
words are not stabs but spurts which shall form a trail which
guides the lost and luckless through this desert of ash.
For many years now I have spoken of Idempotence—considered

the ultimate aim of my mystical operation—though rarely have I
sought to explain the nature of my objective beyond some vague
and equivocal descriptions of metaphysical primacy. Etymolog-
ically speaking, Idem derives from Latin and means ‘the same’,
whereas Idempotent means ‘the same power’. The origin of these
terms, or my usage thereof, dates back to 2004 or 2005 when
the word “Idem” was being used by Jeiezza amid conversations
regarding my mystical objective, eventually leading me to adopt

the word into my practice, along with “Idempotence”—a word
used in mathematics and other fields which would appear, if
serendipitously, to cover the outcome after which I sought via
my operation. Much later on, after developing all of my ideas
around these definitions, I learned that the term was not “idem”
but “idam”—a Sanskrit term meaning ‘this’. I wasn’t sure whether
or not to admit to this openly, worrying that it undermines my
definitions and not knowing whether or not I should change the
terms that I use, though I am told that my idea of “Idem” dif-
fers substantially enough from the context in which the initial
“idam” discussions took place so that it makes sense that I con-
tinue to use my own term. I’ve never attempted to pass off Idem
as an official term anyway, but it is still a part of my leviyexicon.
The concept which I describe as Idem is also known by a wide va-
riety of different names, all of which are colloquial, since there is
no officially recognized term.
Since around 2012 I have aligned myself with a stance which

I have sometimes called eleanthropy (from Greek eleos, mercy,
and anthropos, mankind) in the absence of a more established
classification for what is essentially a ‘philanthropic misan-
thrope’. In a time in which I was struggling to see any point in
returning to society (and fearing the consequences on my well-
being were I to continue living alone and angry) I found it very
meaningful to note that the two terms (philanthropy and mis-
anthropy) did not contradict each other in their definitions, de-
spite being classically described as opposites, though whereas
misanthropy speaks to hatred and distrust, philanthropy does
not speak to love but to goodwill and support. This notion of
eleanthropy thus means to emphasize goodwill carried out in de-

fiance of bitterness of the heart.
It seemed to me like a revelation at the time that the going
definitions for misanthropy and philanthropy were not mutually
exclusive, despite seeming to imply opposite positions, since
while misanthropy speaks of hatred and distrust, philanthropy
does not actually speak of love but kindness and goodwill, and I
identified with this idea of a misanthropic individual who refus-
es to become part of the problem and gives all of himself to the
people in spite of the realization that it is more than likely to be
called an exercise in futility.
It might not appear to merit its own classification, but my
logic dictates that by giving it a name it is more likely to encour-
age others to identify with it, and that is something that I have
always wanted to see: I want to see the ostensible cynics and mis-
anthropes on the frontlines of social change, believing no other
individual so potent to these ends than one who fears not to face
the fault of beingness.
And worst of these is the cynic, the misanthrope: those who,
in acknowledging a problem, then become part of the problem
and see that it is perpetuated evermore. I aim to separate myself
from their kind, knowing myself as an eleanthrope. It is so simple
to serve those who you love or to scorn those who you despise,
but I have chosen to serve those who I despise.
There is something to be said for the foundational shifts taking

place. As was previously touched upon, the ego is a compensato-
ry function by its very nature in that its existence is designed
to compensate for the innumerable perceived discrepancies be-
tween the internal and external environments. So in the case
where the internal and external environments have been unified,
as is arguably the case in my current paradigm, one is met with

the emergence of a new state which combines meaning with
representation. I hesitate to regard this new paradigm as ‘ego-
less’—not least due to my frustration with all the flimsy spiritual-
ists who, in lacking a firm grasp on the place and necessity of the
ego in our functioning, have ignorantly pigeonholed and subse-
quently vilified its very existence—however, without the funda-
mental need for compensation, it is difficult to say that the ego,
or the ego as I once knew it, can even coexist alongside current
conditions and therefore may have no duty to perform among
the higher modes of awareness.
As you might know, one of my greatest struggles in these past six

years has been the quest to be understood and, if I’m so deserv-
ing, respected. I have become like a damned contortionist, will-
ing to bend in every direction to explain and exculpate my deeds
against an immaterial jury. I am not innately weak to such mat-
ters, being naturally self-assured, but a lifetime of failed and abu-
sive relationships has made it so. I have finally moved on from
the desire to achieve acknowledgment and understanding and
praise in this sphere. I surrendered my desire with the rites of
Idempotence, but now I see it confirmed. I’ve glimpsed the idols
to which the people bow. I’ve overheard the words that leave
their mouths. I have seen how they tear into those whose actions
and demeanor command far more respect than mine own—and
in some strange way, it may be that last bit which finally drove
the point home. It's incredible just how little our reception actu-
ally says about us, and I would surely not want such people sid-
ing with my judgments and using my words to represent their
own being. All that would amount to is ironic adaptation, and I
have not spilled my guts to have my words and philosophies be-
ing brandished by the self-ignorant. Oh bane of my banes! Any

man who speaks at length of hatred and value and transcendence
must necessarily crawl through concertina wire in avoidance of
bolstering the bastard castles of modern vicarious neurotics who
so eagerly seek out a defense for their anger and despisal which
stems not from sight but from basal blindness. What more could
I rightfully expect! While this doesn’t change anything about the
pain of my experience or the inherent desire to be loved, appreci-
ated and respected to the meritable extent, it would be without
meaning coming from such a population. It is no honor to have
our legs humped by animals. It is no honor to be ogled by the
blind.
One of the leading factors in my denouncement of social interac-

tion is in that I am preserving my care of the people by maintain-
ing a healthy distance. It was truly horrifying to discover how lit-
tle people actually tend to care about each other. Looking from
the outside in, it can easily seem as though everyone has some-
thing that I lack, something that I desire, but seen up close it is
not the case at all. I found that in order to simply navigate soci-
ety I was expected to devalue the thoughts and emotions of those
with whom I came into contact. I found that in order to be ef-
ficient I was required to behave with less than what I expect of
myself in terms of courtesy. I found that in order to survive I had
to be less open about who I was. I can’t stand to be around peo-
ple for the ironic reason that in doing so I must lessen the degree
to which I care for and value the people or the concept of them.
“You care too much.”
With the way that things are, there is nothing to be desired
from society as it stands—not by the inspired.
I do earnestly believe that, despite the spit in my spiels, my

level of care for and investment in the species outweighs that of
the people of society and I honestly don’t want to lose that.
All I ask to witness is the sight of others who truly value this
Existence. That is all. That is the extent of my oh-so-formidable
and unreasonable criteria. I want only to witness the sight of a
man who knows he is alive and I don’t feel that I have seen it yet.
“Therefore by their fruits you will know them.”
And their value need not conform to what I value. I don’t
need them to be like me or even harmonious with me. I’m not so
ridiculous that I seek after clones of myself.
I ask for heat! I ask for fire! And if it is so wrong of me to
expect as much from this earth then I will leave by will to the in-
fernos of Hell.
Even after a lifetime of the most disturbing conditions, it is not

my health which disturbs me mostly. My trauma is not based
in fear or deprivation. My tormentors are not bloodclotting le-
gions of demons but the likes of disapproval, invalidation and all
else which innately says to me that those who show the greatest
commitment to this life and to the population are not welcomed
therein: stares, gestures and silence which exist to tell me that I
have been misunderstood; that I am not worth being understood
when it is easier to assume.
How tragic it is that one must contain a certain degree of aware-

ness to comprehend the depths of their own ignorance.
I suffered a substantial degree of disappointment in life, espe-

cially early on, when it was discovered that the icons and artists
whose work I valued were learned to live in a manner contrary
to their appearances and even their claims. I am a purist by all
means and I make no secret of that fact, and although I aim to
maintain a certain sensibility with mine expectations, I still ex-
pect that one’s expression should be in alignment with one’s be-
ing. Worse than there being some fundamental dispositional dis-
crepancy between the character of the work and the character of
the creator was the idea of these performers who I admired be-
ing unveiled as horrible people. When those who pose as mag-
nificent lovers or men of certain transcendence are found to be
cruel abusers and manipulators it comes as a shock to the audi-
ence and, as for me, I find it impossible to support creators or
other individuals who have revealed themselves to be bogus and
base, as art has always been as much or more about the artist to
me than about the creation. I also value the image that an artist
puts out and find it hard to get into any individual who wouldn’t
look great on a poster. I revere the living myth. I allowed this dis-
appointment to fuel my enterprise of art and philosophy, work-
ing to project an accurate portrayal of my person in the stead
of some ideal or façade designed to impress. Much can be said
about my work and the sort of ‘worst foot forward’ approach
that I have taken when representing my nature, but it mattered
not to me whether I looked a fool or a felon insofar as I was of-
fering the public an authentic representation of my inner land-
scape which could not be contradicted or exposed as false. This
has formed a large part of my mission as an expressionist. I do as
much for my childly self, and in doing so I do it for all. At such
an age it was hurtful to find that these artists who seemed out-
wardly like pioneers, adventurers and myths themselves were re-
ally just science fiction geeks. I didn’t vocalize my sadness, feel-
ing it such a petty gripe, but it surely influenced my attitude and

even my courage to push myself further.
I have also been called to re-examine the appellative ‘Thummim’,

which is a Hebrew word often translated to mean “perfection” or
“innocence” and almost always seen paired with the word ‘Urim’
which represents an apparent antithesis thereto, variously trans-
lated to mean “fault” or “guilty.” ‘Thummim’ was never consid-
ered the formal or official name of this entity (which certainly
isn’t to say that it is meaningless). Still, I can not help but think
that it may be worth examining the words in their original con-
text for further insights into the dual nature of this entity. In oth-
er words, might Urim be somehow analogous to “Parashurna”
(again, not a formal or official name)? And what could this be
saying?
I noticed a connection between anxiety and symptomatic flair-

ups early on and this informed the mistaken belief that my throat
ailment was without underlying physical cause, for which reason
I continued to sing despite increasing tightness. The reality was
a bit different, with physical damage coming first as a result of
my vocal techniques and the sensation was so frightful that it
led to the development of psychogenic symptoms atop existing
problems. Though I may have been wrong in my initial assess-
ments of what was actually taking place, it did force me to be-
come aware of the link between mind and body at an early point
and this acknowledgment was instrumental in the development
of my equanimity. It took me years, but I did eventually beat it
(around 2014), and when I did, my relationship to fear saw a
complete change. As a final note, I now strongly suspect that a
damaged vagus nerve may play an all-important role in this “mis-

communication” between mind and body.
It would not even be correct to assert that all occurs within a sin-
gle so-called instant—which, in itself, builds upon an inaccurate
means of measurement.
I hadn’t seen her in a little while at this point, although I will

hear her every so often as she makes her way through the area
with that characteristic scuffing of her heels.
At several points within this text I have drawn comparisons be-

tween my existential beliefs or my circumstances and the dream-
ing state, as it just so happens to be an apt means of explaining
and demonstrating the universality of Agnosis, aseity and mat-
ters relating thereto—particularly to the non-mystic. We tend to
view the relationship between our so-called corporeal body and
our nightly dreams as the relationship between a projector and
its projected images. I reject this ignorant take, knowing the two
to be indistinct at their base (to where I would consider both of
them as being comparable to ‘projected images’ within the afore-
said analogy). I therefore reject all claims which paint the realm
of dreams as being somehow inferior to, dependent on and less
substantial than that which we have opted to know as our wak-
ing life. With consciousness as a marker of being, I am no more
bound to my so-called waking body than to my so-called dream-
ing body. I am aware that certain schools of Eastern thought con-
sider our waking existence to be but a long dream in itself, the
Sanskrit term for which is “dirgha svapna”—which, if you were
unaware, was the original title for this text before being changed
to Clyssus of Man.
Meaning can be known but never conveyed. Representation can

be conveyed but never known. So is the nature of the symbol.
In fact, she stands over me now, commenting about my choice of

words and offering alternative suggestions. I have already had to
request that she stop twice now, needing to remind her that she
is only prolonging the process.
My model of the Idem Triunity has seen something of a decon-

struction in recent months as I have become more knowledge-
able on the dynamics of the so-called Hypostases and this relates
especially to the Steulugalnemraiant.
Certain types of paradoxes—in a similar manner as allegory and

metaphor—are, at least in some cases, viewed as transcending
the fields of logic and linguistics. Typically we frame such para-
doxes as logical problems, and then there are those that merely
befuddle the thoughts. In an existence which is developed upon
consciousness and gnosis we have to consider that that which
bears an effect on our consciousness bears an effect on the very
fabric of the universe. Of course this mistakenly assumes that our
knowledge and ability is absolute or somehow on par with that
of the world fabric, which isn’t necessarily the case—particularly
in the lesser paradigms—but be that as it may, it does not dismiss
the idea that there are certain logical and self-referential para-
doxes which act like powerful tools in the manipulation of the

gnostic fabric.
These self-referential paradoxes, when utilized within the
given context, are called strophae. Stropha (plural strophae) is a
Latin word meaning ‘trick’—so-called for the less-than-straight-
forward means by which strophae create gnostic disruptions,
presumedly forcing interactions to occur between Essence and
Spirit.
I experimented with a set of similar ideas at great length
within the early years of my craft when opting for a more alge-
braic and arguably quantum mechanical approach to occult rit-
ual (later to be supplanted by a more psychological framework,
with which I have found my greatest success).
When I speak of these ‘paradoxes’ it may appear that I am
addressing some complex esoteric code beyond the grasp of the
everyman; yet in actuality, I speak neither of that which is new
nor rare. After all, if what I am saying is correct and all of this
happens to be vital to the substantiation of our existence then
there must already be something within our evolutionary, in-
stinctual or analogic code which reflects this aspiration, and
surely there is.
I have known a certain lifelong bond with sleep which is, for me,
a primary source of knowledge and insight.
This is a defining feature of the process in question, although

it is more so defined by what occurs as a result: when, with all
discrepancies being eradicated, the conceptual partition breaks
down and Meaning (Existence) is merged with Representation
(Essence) as the final worthy consolidation.
Not long ago I typed up a rough document called The Songs and
Symbols of Tendon Levey. Given my workload, I never managed
to fill it out to the extent that I would have otherwise liked, but
I’ve considered the following idea: some day I would love to see
this work expanded by adding in the lyrics and other relevant in-
formation, such as my list of gear and other details relating to the
albums in question so as to create for some ‘ultimate guide’ to my
music. Simply something to consider.
Also, I have made my raw, unedited dream journals available
to the public as a .pdf, having not enough time to clean them up
and make them more coherent. If anyone would like to take on
the task of cleaning up some of the more chaotic entries which
appear most frequently around the middle of the book then I
don’t have a problem with it. A lot of the events are also out of
order, although I usually leave the reader with enough hints as
to the order in which everything took place, and so it’s definite-
ly possible to clean things up and cut down on the inane speech
that comes as a product of transcribing from vocal recorder to
paper. I would rather them be read and understood than have
them follow verbatim to my half-slept rambling. Another cool
thing to do would be to make note of all the symbols appearing
in each dream and then at the end of each entry list them out,
or have an appendix at the end of the book which lists all the
symbols and ties them to the dreams which include them. There
are lots of little things like this that I would love to do. So even
though I’ve released the raw materials to the public there are so
many ways that they can be improved upon and packaged in a
way that seems new and ever more appealing, as long as these
processes are undertaken in good faith and do not knowingly
twist anything that I’ve said (which is why it is important to me
that the original source files still remain in circulation, even if not
popularly so).
I will be held to the standards of those who despise themselves.

What standards are those! The standards of those who give away
one-third of their life to sleep and another third of their life
working an occupation which offers them no real fulfillment. At
last, the remaining third seeing them too exhausted, physically
and spiritually, to achieve anything worthwhile. Then they dis-
parage me while I, on the other hand, have surrendered none of
my time to oblivion, putting even my sleep to advantageous use.
So if you insist on using this as the standard whereagainst all men
are compared, was not my life of thirty years the equivalent of
ninety! Leave the fools to argue my worth. It is the symptom of
a lost kind to take and appraise a life by its length rather than by
its weight.
This [writing process] has been among the most stressful and in-
tense undertakings of my life given the circumstances.
The student of alchemy may acknowledge yet another parallel

in the fracturing process undergone by Existence which com-
pares to the universal formula—Solve et Coagula—which means
to ‘dissolve’ and ‘coagulate’ and refers to a process of breaking the
operation down into smaller parts where they may then be ad-
dressed, fixed and/or purified before being reformed. A similar
process defines a clyssus and acts as a major theme of my opera-
tion and my life on the whole.
Whereas most childhood associates were never informed of my

astragones or my more cerebral undertakings, not least owing to
the preponderance of Christians among my social sphere, most
of the kids within my inner circle were well aware of Jeiezza. My
girlfriend from 2006 to 2007 was at first timid upon falling for
me because of rumors that I was followed around by a “spirit girl”
or “ghost girl.” The girl in question was sort of on the goth spec-
trum (at the time) so it was enticing more than it was off-putting
(to her), but that’s just an insight into the way that it was being
received. It was perceived as some formidable mystery to most
people. No one ever doubted it.
Yea, but for any man to apprehend the rapture of my experience

they must understand its development. I imagine that all who
come upon my work posthumously will take for granted the fact
that all of this has unfurled gradually over the span of decades,
being tempted to view it all as occurring at once, like the plot of
some fictional story, but it is important to understand the time-
line.
Where meaning is observed over representation, Mrtagrha and

the Known have seen dissolution and I have become semantical-
ly ubiquitous, being present in both and in neither. Is this what
it means to be omnipresent—to be everywhere at once!
Like so, it would be entirely inaccurate and unjustified to paint

my skin with the color of a bitter, brooding beast, and if any man
has otherwise to say about my nature must he be branded a liar,

for either he has conceived of false realities in the image of his
own exteriorized shortcomings or he is a slanderous assassin who
has failed to disclose his motive.
Frankly, I could not have asked for a better, more fitting mind
and I would not exchange it for any in existence. That is not
to sidestep my very notable struggles against depression, anxiety
and trauma, though whereas some see fit to label and punish the
mind for reacting as it should to the woes of the world, I al-
ways sought to make a distinction between the reasonable and
unreasonable as far as our automatic reactions are concerned and
I see this as a necessary observance for anyone after equanimi-
ty and growth. I certainly do not encourage anyone to neglect
any immediate risks to their mental wellbeing, but I, personal-
ly, have had a lot to gain from refusing to understand myself
through the modern psychiatric narrative, seeking my stability
through knowledge and meaning rather than through medicines
and band-aid solutions.
I have paid dearly for being insufficiently stingy with that which
I value. I have paid dearly in some instances for showcasing my
beloved songs and recommendations to others in an attempt at
generating common interests and intimate moments, achieving
only some offhanded comment which shall forever remain bond-
ed with said work in my mind. I hate it. I really, truly do. It is es-
pecially awful when it relates to my own work, as I can still recall
each and every comment that has been made about my songs and
artwork and these comments are now bonded to my acknowl-
edgment of the material—for better and worse (mostly worse).
If someone so much as laughs during one of my songs I will for-

ever remember it as I listen back to that song.
I don’t typically listen to bands formed after 2005 or there-

abouts. I suppose I feel like I lost out to them somehow. I don’t
know more than a few modern artists. It’s not entirely deliberate,
being more of a subconscious aversion which I’ve only discov-
ered in recent years, but it exists in me. These artists feel threat-
ening or antagonistic to me, personally, on some subconscious
level. I wish it wasn’t so. I realize it is ludicrous. Most of that mu-
sic just leaves me with a sickening feeling in my gut that I would
rather not experience. I mostly listen to music from the eighties,
nineties and the oughts.
It was not until very recently that I first considered the idea that
others might be speaking negatively of me in my absence. It was
not a thought which had ever crossed my mind previously. ‘Let
them talk’, I thought! For I have satisfied mine own demands in
life and I stand stainless before the spirit of the world. I flaunt my
corpses in the open air! I turn no men away. I turn no questions
down. Yet once again my confidence had been established upon
the unrealistic assumption that their perceptions were not only
aligned with mine own, but that they would have no reason to
perpetuate erroneous conceptions of who I am and what I stand
for.
While I do not have the experience necessary to describe a state

of pure Agnosis, I have been provided many a glimpse into the
unpleasantness of this state which, for one who is self-aware and
eager to maintain that awareness, can be quite alarming; albeit

not so much based on the experience in itself but because of
that which it entails conceptually. Otherwise, I am of the opin-
ion that agnostic nonbeing is actually quite benign and does not
constitute suffering as we normally know the term—a stark con-
trast from the popular fables of Hell.
However, even as I do not recognize the existence of a material

reality in the most literal sense, I do not reject our experience
to the extent that I am rejecting our understanding of said ex-
perience, knowing Existence to be populated with analogic ap-
proximations, and therefore it may be said that I do not deny
the streets and mountains before us but am instead positing that
they are not at all like we perceive, representing occurrences and
attributes beyond themselves.
In my defense, when you live in seclusion for so long, there are

certain concepts which simply fall out of use and so you fail to
factor them into your estimations. ‘The ability to lie’ is apparent-
ly one such, which is certainly not to assert that one can not still
fall prey to self-delusion and other such ill-begotten perceptions
within a life of seclusion, and I would say that it is extraordinarily
commonplace, yet as a tool—as an option—in particular, it does
certainly fall from mind.
The pillow is always plumper on the other side of the bed.

In the beginning I held to several innocent but misguided as-

sumptions, as in the idea that every listener is also a fan, and for a
while I attempted to spark a conversational friendship with near-
ly everyone who showed even the slightest interest in my work.
It felt quite wrong to be so aware of everyone who was interact-
ing with my work, but I had nothing else to do with myself. I
entertained some pleasant interactions in the process and I am
genuinely thankful for as much, but all the while I was battling a
growing sense of shame and could not continue to do as I was.
I would send them out as promotional boxes to indie record la-

bels and radio stations which, based on weeks of careful research
and planning, I expected would appreciate my ethos and aesthet-
ic. I fully expected my efforts to pay off, yet I would never re-
ceive so much as the slightest acknowledgment in return. I tried
to take it in stride, but I am particularly vulnerable to ignorance
of this sort as it makes up a standard pattern throughout my life:
never being told yes, never being told no, only being ignored
and having to come up with an explanation on my own—this
to the detriment of my confidence (and sanity). I never spoke
to anyone of my attempts to actually put my work out there be-
cause I felt like I had compromised my values only to be reject-
ed. As I became more and more frustrated my merchandising
became all the more questionable, e.g., headless Aladdin figures,
custom-printed mouse traps to be sent with dead rats, skinned
goat heads bought from a butcher with USB drives lodged into
their throats. I was spraying the packages with Nasonov
pheromones to attract swarming bees, so those little ‘swarm
warning’ stickers were not merely a joke. It surprises me that I
never got in any trouble considering that the packages reeked of
citrusy chemicals.
I am neither an acceptor of strange candy nor am I a philosopher

of empty speculation, and the victory of my soul is the victory of
all.
My passionate stint as a vocalist is public knowledge, while my

abilities as a dancer are more or less unsung. I would have liked
to show off my versatile dancing before all the world, considering
it ancillary only to singing in terms of where my passion lies.
This is but one of several alchemical motifs which have seen

frequent use within my personal symbol set since late youth,
although my understanding of said symbols was often gleaned
through intuition and personal experience in being that I never
actually committed to any formal alchemical study—a fact
which some may find difficult to believe. All in all, I contain a
very general idea of only the most general principles and symbols
associated with alchemy as a practice and any further similarity I
attribute to a sort of parallel thinking. In other words, I believe
it possible that the alchemists came upon the truth of our Exis-
tence (something I would say of no other group or sect whereof
I have knowledge), and the fact that my path tends to resemble
that of the alchemists is not because I am a student of alchemy,
per se, but because I, too, came upon this same body of insights
which was beheld by the early alchemist: a case of parallel think-
ing which I am pleased to acknowledge, being like a roadway sign
to tell me that I am on the right track (and there aren’t many of
those to be found out here in this desert of ash).
[The following was cut from the Ashlands chapter, and although
the Menarche was significant to the fall of 2019, I worried that
it complicated my story beyond what was wise. The book to which
I awoke was originally a book of pornographic materials which
burst into flames, becoming the Algorismus. Prior to the start of my
third astragon, I worked on a book called Menarche which focused
more on the Ashlands experiences, although my priorities shifted
once I continued on with my astragon and undertook my trial. I
was originally intending to release a strange pornographic book be-
fore killing myself, exactly ten years after my previous attempt at
suicide, in the aim of creating what had the potential to be the
strangest, most unexpected valediction that I could muster, given
my nature. All passages relating to the Menarche were eventually
removed from Clyssus of Man, despite a handful of vague tie-ins
occurring through the storyline. It should be readily obvious that
the contents and symbolism of Menarche mirror the events occur-
ring in my life in the year 2019, what with my attempts to social-
ize and start a business, and allowed me a chance to see that effort
through to its bloody end via a semi-fictional and highly allegorical
account.]
It was then that I awoke within my bed, or a bed: I was back
in the ashlands. I lacked all answers as to what had just taken
place. I would have liked to ask Thummim, but he was nowhere
to be found. My log was gone, as well, and in its stead was a book
of pornographic materials. Sifting through its pages with both
eyes squinting in disgust, its contents were bizarre beyond what
I could describe, for beneath all of the erotic imagery (which no-
tably incorporated religious iconography and spiders) there did
exist a seemingly coherent story, although the overall tone was
such that one could hardly hope to differentiate a business deal
from an orgy of cancer-eaten cassowaries and the result was sick-
ening.
The story followed a nameless magus traveling through the

desert of ash in possession of a logbook, similar to mine own. It
described a similar locational setting, also—even mentioning the
presence of voices calling out from below the ashes. Unable to
block out the taunts coming from below the dunes, he decided
he must venture down below the surface so that he may eliminate
all distractions from his life once and for all.
He burrowed through the ashes until having managed to
break through the surface of a lower realm. An auction house,
perfectly preserved, lies beneath the grounds of sacrifice. This
realm came to be called the casinosphere: a subterranean world
in which worth was determined and diminished by the necessity
of the people in their greed and insecurity. At every turn there
takes place auctions and gambles and incorrigible transactions of
which I will not speak. So begins our end at the spoiled mercies
of pornographic entropy. There is no atlas willing to take on such
blasphemous territory.
The young man wandered first into a human auction with
the intent of observing local hierarchies and, with any luck, iden-
tifying the worthy among him. Fate so seats him within prox-
imity of a fashionable brunette—the dark-hearted Heirophan-
tissa—whose bitter and contemptible soul he could not overlook
so simply. He eavesdrops from his seat as she speaks aloud of her
plan to acquire a certain few youths out of a perverse and self-
righteous desire to harm and humiliate them, and what starts out
as an attempt on his part to abolish the auctions quickly trans-
forms into a complex and multi-level scheme through which
he would instead seek to achieve the highest authority on this
earth: a hand in shaping the overarching values of the populace.
Lacking in resources, he leveraged his occult insights as a
means to gain the favor of the wealthy, whereupon he came to be
revered in a way similar to court astrologers unto kings and their
empires. Within this guise he was able to convince the afore-

mentioned woman to take part in his scheme with a propos-
al designed to appeal to her bitter and self-righteous outlook,
and with her fortune they managed the acquisition of a young
woman—the pure-hearted Archwhore—via auction who he de-
sired to bring into the fold of his scheme. With these two serving
as his aides the story takes a sharp turn for the sociopolitical as
they go on to exploit the system in an attempt to overtake and
recreate the casinosphere: an apparent effort to immanentize the
eschaton.
The main contention arose with the introduction of a certain
antinomian sect with which he became obsessively preoccupied,
viewing their beliefs (or the dearth thereof ) as a threat to the
progress of civilization. As their presence continued to interfere
with the furtherance of his operation, the plot became increas-
ingly hostile and his focus became less about growing his empire
than about eliminating the presence of opposing or even alterna-
tive empires. Among the many scuffles taking place at this point
in the plot, he came upon a young woman among the antino-
mians whose gaze arrested him. She looked at him like no other
had ever looked at him before and he felt himself seen and un-
derstood. Her willingness to acknowledge him restored his hope
for the situation and he then sought to bring her into his opera-
tion—primarily in the hopes that it would allow him to convince
his opponents to comply with his campaign. He was cautioned
strongly against associating with her by his aides who looked up-
on her nature and intentions with suspicion, yet he failed to see
their worries as valid, allowing his fixation to lower his defenses,
and as it occurs to him that the girl is blind of sight, his aides end
up murdered by her hand.
Through the use of strange, thaumaturgical means he man-
aged to fuse and resurrect the corpses of his aides, whereby they
became a single draikana, vile and large (a subtle reference to the

Apollonian themes of my childhood agonographies). Fooled in-
to believing that it had retained its loyalty to him, the draikana
now acted against the magus with a vengeance instilled by the
blind gazer whom it now served and subsequently stole from
him at the request of the girl who had asked for his log in which
he had documented his various grievances and other thought ex-
periments amid his travels. The data collected from this book
was then analyzed and used to conceive of what is called Algoris-
mus—a dark revelation having to do with the nature and destiny
of mankind—and it was used against him as a means of nourish-
ing his contempt against the people of the sphere.
The details of this realization sent him spiraling out in a fit
fueled by nihilistic despondence and he called down fire from
above to wipe out the population. His time in the casinosphere
was thereby punctuated by a frenetic holocaust—a mass immo-
latory event which came to be known as ‘The Menarche’: first
blood of a new womb.
I couldn’t say if that was where the story ended, since the
book suddenly grew warm and quickly heated up before catch-
ing fire in my hands, causing me to throw it to the ground. I scur-
ried about in a panic, using the ashes to extinguish the flames,
but once all the flames were out I was holding in my hands what
looked to be a very different book: a book with pages made of
soft, limp flesh on which was written only numbers in the ab-
sence of words. It seemed so unassuming to my eyes, but as I read
on and on I gleaned from those numbers a terrible message and I
saw something on those pages I wish that I had never seen. Mis-
ery overtook me and I hurled the book through the air, throwing
it as far as I could manage and not wishing to have even another
glance at its cover or its contents.
The since-aborted novella in which I sought to document

this visionary experience in greater detail opted for an unusual
approach which saw plot taking a backseat to genre, becoming
a violent and highly surreal erotica, with sexuality being used as
a vehicle for my commentary on worth, merit, potentiality and
transaction. This framing forms a not-so-subtle nod to my ado-
lescent works in which sexuality was frequently used to horrify-
ing effect as a means of expressing the darkest and most vulnera-
ble aspects of our lowly, mammalian existence. Nonetheless, the
actual philosophical underpinning of The Menarche says noth-
ing of sexuality and instead examines the ways in which the pre-
tense of currency ever diverts our attention from the real trade in
which we willingly take part within our day-to-day lives, be it in
how we distribute our time, our talents, our belief, our allegiance,
dezinezinet. It also merits noting that the original vision was not
at all sexualized in the way of my retelling.
With its violent, pornographic imagery and holocaustic
plotline, it was set to become my most hysterical work to
date—the sort of tale which, dare I say, could only be penned
by a suicidal, sex-repulsed solipsist in the throes of sensory de-
privation. While being inspired by my past agonographies, this
was not itself an agonography in the purest sense but an attempt
to allegorize my most recent attempt to integrate into society
and the concomitant entrepreneurial undertakings which ended
abruptly in the summer in response to the disturbing insights
and existential reflections which came upon me as a result.
All was originally slated to end with the event of the fire, into
which I intended to sacrifice mine own life both figuratively and
literally—hence the frequent portentous allusions to martyrdom
which are found within the original texts. I anticipated there be-
ing a week at the end of the year (the holiday week) during which
my father would be out of town, leaving the house vacant, and
in the early fall I had begun preparations for an elaborate suicide

in which I, along with my home property, would end in fire and
join with the ash of sacrifice, coming exactly ten years after my
previous plan to commit suicide.
In my dealings with society I have found myself more often ac-

knowledged for that which I lack (in the eyes of men) than for
my achievements. I am thought a bore due to my sobriety. I am
thought a prude due to my asexuality. I am thought unrelatable
for refusing to spend my precious time before a television with
mouth agape.
Another fixation of mine which comes out in communication is

that I seem always so eager to humanize myself and to present
myself as relatable—a natural development stemming from my
life as an unentitled outsider. This seemed a notable problem
when I first began using social media in 2017 because I was never
able to simply speak in my normal manner and every post and
message was but some thinly-veiled attempt at proving to the
people of society that I am not so different from them at the fun-
damental level. I still struggle with this a bit in most interperson-
al contexts and it prevents me from ever speaking on that which
I genuinely wish to speak about. The result ironically has me ap-
pearing very alien, desperate to sound attuned to popular cul-
ture, throwing out names of no real relevance. Overall I can say
that few people (and growing fewer all the time) have ever com-
municated with me in an absence of these insincere, albeit justi-
fied, fixations.
Through these means we may clearly observe in what ways Exis-

tence is engaged in a process comparable to our mundane idea of
self-development, and knowing this will allow great insights to
come our way.
In my personal opinion, the Tendon Levey discography truly

reached its peak between July and December of 2010, corre-
sponding to the ten-album run from Traps of Fact (47) to Car-
nage Near and Far (56). This judgment takes many things into
account, and altogether it is just the period which comes first to
mind (and with the most fondness) when looking back on my
discography. This also includes Vulgar Gold (44-51) and Abra-
cadammit (52-56). The vocal injury in December brought a new
darkness to it all, a new pain, and the childlike attitude and
messiness left in favor of something more tragic and refined. I’m
glad that I was able to pull Countertorch out of my hat, which
is surely my most refined work, if my most minimalistic, but
I miss the emotional messiness of earlier releases. That two-to-
three month break really wounded my spirit, and I was no longer
trying to “save” myself through music, but to quickly say what
needed to be said before I lost my voice again... and I lost it for
good.
They bothered to argue with me that agoraphobia was insur-

mountable in the absence of psychiatric intervention, but they
could not be bothered to smile for me when I overcame it on my
own strength.
Three decades of being subjugated, invalidated, dehumanized,

ignored, abandoned, betrayed, contradicted, denied and not
having a single pleasant interaction to counterbalance the nega-
tive encounters, and you’re left in such a condition that, even if
you can pass as ‘normal’ like the others, you can never have an
honest conversation about how you feel or what you think with-
out people being put off and deciding that you’re not worth it
because, for all that you have to offer, the only word they see is
‘complicated’, and between their second job and third job they
just don’t have the time for any more stress or complication.
The Algorismus did ravage all my remaining will and desire to

continue with my lifelong search for something of worth among
the plains of this earth.
There are several plot points which have been cut from Clyssus
of Man for bearing off into complex subplots which seemed to
detract from the main points of the book. In addition to the
Menarche, the chapters which suffered most from these cuts
were Mrtagrha, which lost a lengthy study on our relationship, as
individuals, to spaces, as well as insights into the Court area and
the fact that I had been there before but forgotten everything
due to an apparent attempt to escape into Agnosis. Another part
that got cut was a lot to do with the King’s Gnomon, which de-
tracted from the story through its strange and violent compo-
nents.
If I am remembered any differently than I am, then it is not I

who is memorialized and my person was forgotten long before it
was ever gone. This idea partially informs my openness regarding

all the intimate particulars of my lifetime. Honesty is the immor-
talizer.
I have been living off of a sort of oatstock since early 2019: pre-
ground raw oats blended together with a hardboiled egg yolk,
kale, ginger, salt and turmeric. It tastes quite a lot like chicken
broth, or at least what I remember of that taste. Then I will of-
ten mix in B complex, vitamin D3, zinc and magnesium sup-
plements. It is a high anti-inflammatory and high oxytocin di-
et. Sometimes I will add bananas and avocados. These make up
slightly for the chemicals I lack by not interacting with people or
feeling secure. My rings have slipped right off my joints...
Long since my youth I have been aware of the fact that my mind
functions on a different so-called wavelength than that of most,
and my cognitive profile is starkly unlike that of my family; how-
ever, throughout most of my existence I didn’t really chock up
these differences to intellectual capacity; after all, a lack of for-
mal education had prevented me from viewing myself as an in-
tellectual—that, in addition to coming from a place where in-
telligence is not particularly prized as is faith and obedience. So
this has affected my way of viewing people, where by instinct I
view all conflicts as a problem of values and morals. It took me a
while to finally begin to grasp just how few incidents in life actu-
ally represent some deliberate stance or deliberate offense on the
part of the individual, let alone some glaring vility, and more and
more I am realizing the degree to which others are simply lack-
ing the mental capacity to transcend their lowest, most primitive
instincts. I would surely argue that most people lack the capabil-
ity of forming informed value judgments on the basis that they

lack all basic ability to question what they are told and to consid-
er for themselves. They are naught more than a commodity that
can be bought by the richest advertising agency or politicoreli-
gious institution in their midst. My father is one among them
that are not capable of succeeding their environment, their em-
bodiment. He is not capable of showing love because he is not ca-
pable of loving. These things must necessarily come through Ex-
istence which offers Awareness. It is a difficult concept to wrap
my head around simply due to the richness and depth of mine
own experience, yet I have no doubts about his lacking capacity.
He is capable of developing needs and reliances, whereby it may
seem that he experiences loving attachment. But that is the ex-
tent of his ability to care for me. And this is surely not some rare
occurrence. It is the standard of human existence and the society
before us is built and razed on such standards, wherein words are
gradually stripped of all worth as they are used to approximate
the infinitesimal burps of an insentient breed.
Right around the end of my social period (in spring 2019) I re-
call I had spent a bit of money on skincare products—some-
thing over which I never concerned myself before—seeing as
video shoots and photo shoots were coming up, and I remember
cleansing my face before the mirror using an assortment of beau-
ty products I had just purchased and having a sincere “What am
I doing... what has become of me... ” moment. This was like the
Tendon equivalent of waking up in a puddle of vomit and sur-
rounded by empty bottles of alcohol. This simply wasn’t the life
I wanted for myself.
I was eager and willing to die on this hour: a creature of condi-

tional flesh whose spiritual destiny is precluded by idiot procliv-
ities. I was eager to see my brain turned to ash so that I would
never again have to face the realizations which had come my way.
I cried and carried on in scorched clothing, demanding answers

from my guide, for I could not understand why he would allow
me to waste my time; why he would send me to experience such
horrible, incorrigible sights.
The sensory deprivation practices in which I had recently been

engaged were no longer necessary to sustain my altered state and
all sensory was overtaken by an unknown force which possessed
me with intent to keep me.
I hesitate to speak of my trauma, for I have worked so hard and

overcome so much to then be ravaged without mercy by a life
of mistreatment. Moreover, I am skeptical that the nature and
severity of my circumstances will be believed, given that most
popular portrayals of trauma focus on very specific events in
a person's life which, in turn, created for a very specific set of
triggers—which, with enough care, can usually be avoided (and
hopefully overcome). Yet in my case it is not one significant,
life-changing event but thousands upon thousands of lesser in-
stances of indifference and betrayal and invalidation and un-
kindness which bury me like a swarm of locusts. Violence and ar-
guments and slights and betrayals run in a constant loop in the
background of my mind, and I can just feel my body cannibaliz-
ing itself in every moment that I am awake. Horrid though it is,
it is the only life that I know. But it can be very difficult to live
my life when every noise, every media clip, every conversation
somehow forces me to relive the nightmare. I am caught like a
fly in an intricate web of unwanted memories, an unwanted life;
and when the triggers are so numerous there is simply no hope
of evasion and I must go about my life normally, not changing
my behaviors or becoming avoidant, though as much as I wish to
be able to say that this dauntless approach has worked for me, I
don’t see how it has benefited me at all.
[...] wondering how can I be both so old and so young. I recall a

time about five or six years ago when my eyes welled with tears
as I watched a dance performance, knowing that I was growing
old in isolation and believing that I would eventually outgrow
the image I held of myself and I wondered how I would deal
with that emotionally—the loss of the boyish qualities which so
define me. That moment never arrived for me and I have man-
aged to become more and more like myself in each successive
year—physically as well as psychologically. It is as if the self-con-
cept which I have carried through a lifetime has finally fallen into
perfect harmony with the reality of my soul and my youth shall
remain with me forever and always.
I knew better than to seek directly after love and salvation. I

knew better than to seek directly after power and influence. Sub-
sidiary, them. Only a thrall seeks directly after outcomes which
will require the determination of outside forces. Such is the
dessert which follows naturally after the establishment of sub-
stantial foundations, yet seeking after them directly will leave you
weak, stupid and heartaching.
For the last and final time I have poured out my whole soul to
the chirp of crickets, willing that the crickets should benefit from
my sincerity if no man will!
Our modern world is bent on ideas of “loving yourself as you are”

and anyone who stands adamantly opposed to such dangerous
and occlusive drivel is considered by the young masses to be an
antagonist, an abuser. I see a world so uncomfortable to acknowl-
edge the idea that greatness is not an innate or effortless fact of
existence that it is willing to alter and subvert definitions for the
sake of itself.
I have forgone all urges to comment on the underlying mechan-

ics of the situation, not willing that I should clutter up these
pages with psychoanalytical breakdowns and miscellaneous
semiotic disquisitions when it is only likely to detract from the
narrative I try to maintain throughout this convoluted plot. You
must therefore pardon me for neglecting to account for a signif-
icant portion of details and discoveries which have been left as
merely implied, if even that much.
Work makes up the majority of his time and attention and he

is quite okay with that. It simplifies his existence, as he appre-
ciates not having to sit around wondering what to do next. He
spends most of his free time watching kid’s movies. I can almost
guarantee that if I go upstairs I will find him on the couch with
a beer watching the LEGO Movie, which, by my estimation, he
has seen upwards of a hundred times at this point. I find the task
of tackling this topic to be so emotionally taxing that I have not
been able to write up any sort of article on his nature and its im-
pact on my late family out of worry that the emotional taxation
will take a toll on my physical health (as it famously did in the
spring of 2018 when it forced me to take a six month break from
typing).
Nightly altercations occurred within the household over my fa-

ther wishing to go to bed at a reasonable hour, prompting my
drunken mother to scream at him and call him demeaning
names, calling him a horrible, unfair and unfun husband for not
wishing to watch a movie that will keep him up past midnight.
Notwithstanding the insularity and nicheness of my pursuits, I

will not deny that I expected to receive a certain level of respect
and acknowledgment from the outside world. It is natural to an-
ticipate as much, even if that is only because I subconsciously ex-
pect others to hold similar values to myself.
The aseitic process notably demands humility of its practitioners

which, despite superficial similarities, is not meant to be looked
upon as some tired, tropified subservience but as an acknowl-
edgment of our nature as it stands, whereas accurate self-assess-
ment is absolutely essential to gaining and maintaining higher
self-awareness, and the reality is plain: we are naught insofar as
we are uncreated, lacking Actuality, and our ability to progress
demands that we acknowledge where we actually stand in rela-
tion to Existence.
They look upon the pages of my life with pity! The pity breeds
guilt and guilt breeds anger. Then suddenly they are looking with
hatred upon me! I am an unwelcomed poignance! A long-haired
tarantula! Beware his complications! Beware his strange inquisi-
tiveness! Beware his mythopoeic renderings! But I have asked for
nothing from you! I would have been content to witness a smile.
There is no place for me within this weak and spiritless sphere in

which politics have trounced the empathetic response of man.
One who looks on from afar upon such wonder is called a

dreamer. One who looks to involve themselves therewith is
called a seeker. One who is overcome thereby is a madman and
they are called ill. One who mounts the mysterious and wonder-
ful is a magickian and they are all-potent.
The presence of multiple issues within the same general region

has created for a very strange situation which is as helpful as it is
hurtful. The muscles seem to be situated in such a way where the
attrition of one will react against the other in a way that lessens
the other. If my palate or larynx appears to be swollen and is caus-
ing me to suffocate, I can help myself by doing some exercise with
my arms which would cause my muscular injury to flare up and
this will usually help to relieve the other issue I am experiencing.
It is very interesting since 99% of the time I am unable to do even
basic things with my hands and arms without suffering tightness
in my throat presumably as a result of thoracic outlet syndrome
reaction badly with my inflamed SCM/scalenes. However, when

my throat/airways are swollen, I can actually use my hand and
arm again (within limit), which is so surreal, although it does
add a slight plus side to my condition if I am able to use a com-
puter or do some physical task like clean my room. A similar in-
teraction exists with my neuralgia pain. The two do not seem to
flare up at once, which shows me that this can be traced back to
the vagus nerve or trigeminal nerve which is pinched by the mus-
cles in my neck. During the time in which I was studying anato-
my (2018) I was very interested in exploring and searching for
the elements which might have connected these issues so as to
know why only one would act up at a time. I do know that my
thoracic outlet issue does not affect my larynx and only feels like
I’m being strangled from the outside, whereas my laryngeal is-
sues involve a bit more direct airway obstruction.
Those who use their art as a means to flaunt their ability often
do so at the expense of genuine self-expression.
I look with grandest satisfaction upon the determination which

has brought me to this place of victory. And even where it seems
that such honesty, drive and idealism was incompatible with my
environment, I could not be prouder of this fortress I have built.
It is fascinating for me to reflect back upon the early stages of my

mystical operation, observing in what ways my intuitive grasp of
my objective was nearer than anticipated to approximating my
outcome. Yea, in a time when my aim was as vague and as two-
dimensional as a worthy echo, I would speak of my primary aims,
or expectations, as entailing the union of inner existence with

outer existence—or, conversely, the union of conscious existence
with unconscious existence.
It was often difficult for me to spend my time with someone or

share a special moment and not attempt to write them into my
greater story somehow. This was a part of my will to see every-
thing as meaningful and necessary. It became problematic when
it led to my returning over and over to the same individuals from
my past who had hurt and abused me, because I was seeing them
as some part of the cast which was necessary to the completion
of the puzzle. I think this became problematic because no one
else saw magic in these scenarios. When I first reentered the so-
ciosphere after my long absence I was so extremely picky about
who I would associate with and the order of events. I was like a
script writer. Not once did it go as I had hoped and planned.
My thoughts on the state of mankind are so tangled up in emo-

tion at this point that I can hardly hope to provide an honest,
unbiased view of my stance. I am disturbed by what I have en-
countered. I am so disturbed, so saddened, so tired. This goes be-
yond feelings of betrayal. This goes beyond my being upset that
I didn’t find anyone alongside whom to grow in this life... and it
has me wondering... where are they... I dedicate all these things
to man, but to no man I’ve known.
I hypothesized that it is often our lack of insight into our avail-

able options in life that causes us to make the wrong choices so
consistently—our instinctual choices—turning to the same old
patterns of sex, violence, addiction and self-harm in cases of in-

ner disharmony. If we had continual access to some sort of list,
some database of options within any given circumstances I imag-
ined that this could change how we live our lives—I know that
it has changed the course of my life to live in such a way, having
lists which I must often consult in dark times to remind myself of
all that I could be doing. I feel like my personal life is defined by
and large by my consistent ability to find more and more strange
but highly effective means of combating my seemingly hopeless
circumstances and I wanted to make this my legacy.
Thus this project was intended to become a massive network
and community established upon creative problem solving, Ex-
istentialist philosophy and the idea of ‘life as art’—an existential
inspirations network; a vast interactive database of unorthodox
motivational ideas with which to inform a new breed of self-
authoring, self-healing, self-overcoming individual—all filtering
into a sort of neo-Bohemian adventurousness and my usual
avant-garde flair. It was my hope to create something of the sort
which could actually have a positive spiritual impact on the land-
scape, as opposed to merely feeding into the egos of self-entitled
termites who for some reason seem to think that their ability to
rhyme words or strum strings entitles them to crown and scepter.
I am upset that I couldn’t manage to create a community, or

something with the ability to generate more favorable circum-
stances and outcomes for those operating on a similar wave-
length and containing similar needs. The Comprachicos project
(2018) was gearing up to attempt this sort of thing but I couldn’t
find the support or strength in the allotted time. With any luck,
I, myself, can become that community, as it were, and those who
identify with my works can find other likeminded individuals in
places where my works are discussed. Those who are aware of my

aborted Comprachicos endeavor have been given but a glimpse
of what I willed to make of all mine experiences, all my knowl-
edge, all my philanthropy. It may do me no good to be saying all
of this now, but I do wish to set the record straight before I go.
I was oh so eager to take part in such a project, but it was set on
the back burner due to a lack of connections and my immediate
need for community interaction.
The Magician’s Frenulum is, at its most simplified, a mystical

pact which ensures the success of my venture insofar as I am able
to put up with the Thummim’s commandeering of my existence,
and participating in nothing which distracts or detracts from my
mystical operation, lest the Thummim incapacitate me. It’s be-
come a very delicate matter, as over time it became impossible
to differentiate between The Magician’s Frenulum, failing health
and somatization, wherefore I have found it difficult to discuss
openly.
It’s not a studied phenomenon, being just something that
I came up with to explain a particular agreement that we had,
where I simply asked him to do whatever he must to keep me on
the path so that I can achieve my aim before death. I refer to it
as such on account of a frenulum exists to restrict the motion of
an object, usually in anatomy, and thus prevents deviations from
occurring.
As saddened as I was, I have honestly never felt so relieved. Thir-

ty years of walking back up to the bar and trying to force myself
to be content with dog food and lettuce; and I kept telling myself
it’s all in my attitude and that I can learn to appreciate it. Some-
when I stopped believing in finding happiness or belonging and

it became about changing my attitude. I’m so happy that I can fi-
nally accept that these are my feelings. Yet it is also saddening. I
don’t like to acknowledge the boredom, disgust and hatred I feel
toward others in the sense that I don’t like to know that my rela-
tionship with the masses is being judged by the emotions that I
feel (as opposed to the attitude with which I approach them and
my commitment to the betterment of mankind).
I have never known a man so incapable of formulating connec-

tions and extrapolating known information. He has watched me
break bones and then go on to handle it without a fuss (and
without medical intervention) but then if I should speak of pain
relating to some other issue then he dismisses it outright, declar-
ing me incapable of diagnosing the severity of my painful and
distressing conditions. There is zero consistency in his under-
standing.
Traumaturgy (the autobiographical drafts) was a mess, being es-

sentially designed to demonstrate how dishonest honesty can re-
ally be. It was designed to show my erstwhile so-called friends
who I really was and to leave them feeling surprised or ashamed
at all that they did not see taking place in their midst. I didn’t
consider pacing or readability, let alone entertainment value, be-
cause my only goal was to explain how one thing led to another
and to set the record straight on certain events. It was never
meant for a public audience. It was intended only for a dozen
people who couldn’t be assed to read it. There was a lot of crap in
there that was misrepresented and stupidly cliché because when
showing it off I was self-conscious about how my methods of
mysticism didn’t really seem like ‘magick’ to most people and felt
like I needed to Hollywoodize it in a way just to get the desired
reaction out of them. I’ve since fixed it, though, so that problem
doesn’t remain, or not to the same extent.
It can be a challenge to acknowledge the progress taking place

from this side of horizon, referring to the lesser paradigmata, in
which the view isn’t always so encouraging, especially where hu-
man spiritual development is concerned—but progress is being
made behind the curtain, so to speak, and it is a progress which
is better than any picture I could possibly paint. Humanity as
we know it is unable to properly assess the progress and devel-
opment of Existence due to the confusion which has arisen as a
consequence of the false chronological paradigm, with “history”
becoming a reference point of the past. Yet the past does not tru-
ly exist, and what we know as history is only an aspect of our pre-
sent and ongoing circumstances. Therefore our gauge of progress
is corrupt by design and we cannot see how well things are actu-
ally moving along.
With names like Steulugalnemraiant and Parashurna cropping

up regularly within my work you might be anticipating little
more than some outlandish cosmology penned by a forlorn fan-
tasist desperate to find sense in the senseless. Now, I really can’t
say how you’ll choose to interpret the nature of my offering,
though I do intend to offer the public something more practical
and universal in application and not just a bunch of bizarre be-
liefs to be adopted in defense against your fear of a meaningless
life.
It seems somewhat silly to make such a display of my consent in a

world that is constantly looking to see what it can get away with
and will inevitably do what it will and as it will regardless of what
I or anyone says, but I don’t think that displaces the worth of our
actual consent and, moreover, our intention. Let not the will of
the creator be trounced by laws and other impersonal exercises.
[From my outline of Cover Songs Permissions and Merch Permis-
sions]
My whole life has been spent in battle, and to many that would
be cause to be called a soldier, yet I still tend to see myself as
more of a boy thrust onto a battlefield. I was not a soldier, nor a
philosopher, nor a master of anything at all.
With fame comes the creation of some bizarre egregore that

overlays or even possesses a person: a collective delusion regard-
ing the nature and identity of an individual.
And I am a confident man, confident for I know the heart in me

and I know that it is well-meaning, well-analyzed. A confident
man does not employ manipulative means—not even when his
confidence is unsupportable; so it is simply enough that one be-
lieves in the potency of his own means. When someone does not
show interest in me or seems put off by my being I do not fret,
thinking they’ve simply not seen enough of me, so I give more of
myself, and I share more of myself. I am not saying that it is wise.
In fact it almost always leaves me disadvantaged. I speak only in

this case of my innate tendency.
It frightens me to reflect upon the lies of my progenitors, know-

ing that had I eaten the dish that they prepared and served to me
I would have become as them: fearful, ignorant, bigoted, self-de-
luding fools clinging to beliefs and practices in which they main-
tain no actual faith.
And while I, personally, have never subscribed to any belief in

reincarnation or anything of that sort, the possibility of recur-
rence should not be written off entirely, for even though one is
swallowed into Agnosis, it is arguably the case that the opportu-
nity is never lost outright, it just becomes increasingly unlikely.
It is the same that can be said of thoughts. When they are new
they are relevant but after twenty years have passed it's very un-
likely we are going to remember a specific moment or problem
occurring on some random date. Anything said on the matter is
mere speculation, however. It is also not something I wish to pro-
pound since, even if it is true, it is surely not something to be re-
lied upon.
How many people will remark on my unique life experience

without realizing how much of that was within my control and
related to outlook! For Christ’s sake, I’ve spent half of my life
within a single underground room! Not exactly the definition of
excitement. However, my surroundings did not dictate my expe-
rience, and I wish people would realize what that means—for me
and for all.
We often make the mistake of thinking ‘unconscious life’, as ob-

served in dreams, as being somehow a hazy iteration of ‘waking
life’, a twisted reflection devoid of its own autonomy. While I
consider this to be absolutely false, I will say that it is as inaccu-
rate to think of them as distinct as it is to think of them as indis-
tinct—terms which see no application in this case which defies
all standard reasoning.
These efforts of mine to integrate with the wayward world have

bred in me an impassable seed and I am filled with so much re-
gret, so much mortification, so much despair. I may not allow
others even a glimpse of my understanding lest I be branded a
murderer for what it shall do to them.
My only means was thus to present the most comprehensive pic-

ture within my ability and I stood by the belief that if I mer-
ited any honor in this life then it would be accredited to me,
and thus I should not have to concern myself over attempts to
influence anyone on my nature, which I deemed dishonest. It
was once very exciting to imagine the image that others might
hold of me, especially with my comprising such a vast and varied
pool of traits (including quite a few popularly so-called contra-
dictions) from which no two people were liable to focus on the
same specs. I no longer anticipate what they have to say, for I no
longer expect such objectivity from tired men.
However firm is my stance in this case, the stance which I have

adopted in recent times would have once been considered entire-
ly unacceptable if taken up at an earlier point in my journey, and
the Thummim confirmed as much in the aftermath of my abort-
ed attempts at integrating with society, where he exhaled warm
breath upon my scars in response to my rebuke of his guidance.
What a fool I was to fault him, saying “Your demands have dis-
tracted and detracted from my holy inquest!” But his demands
have laid the great radix in me.
The reality of Essence involves a closed set of potent mytholo-

gems and mythemes as produced by the originary transaction
which, itself, is a product of the originary Volens. These apparent
concepts, objectives and personalities which manifest continu-
ously along the way expand as they lessen, doing so unto the
last coming acknowledgment which constitutes the resolution
of lower Essence. Where there are no additions or diminutions,
these concepts exist ever within our purview and must eventually
be recognized and called upon so as to be integrated intentfully
into our self-concept: but these concepts, objectives and attrib-
utes whereof I speak are understood to change form in response
to the demands and expectations which take us over, and at every
point along the way we witness a perfect recursion of Potentiali-
ty which has formed between the borrowed pillars Presence and
Absence. All of that is to say that the same set of elements have
been with me always throughout the ages, seeing me through
every moment—whether are we talking about the tendency of
the Dipas, Parashurna and others to move from form to form in
accordance with my lifestyle so that they were never actually ab-
sent from my life at any point. I don’t know that this is the set
explanation, and it does feel a bit sloppy, but hopefully it makes

some sense.
[Family] In the years when I should have been focused on tran-

sitioning from microcosm to macrocosm I was so bent on saving
them from themselves that I pissed away all opportunities until
eventually my body was so ill that I could no longer hope to
achieve physical autonomy and all the time and strength I had in
life was wasted utterly on foulest flotsam.
Even as these things have been described as resulting from dis-

crepancy, that isn’t to say that they weren’t without justification.
My noted tendency of viewing myself as a sort of criminal or
despicable person was itself realized to be a defense mechanism
whereby I was able to justify the perceived unfairness of my ex-
istence, in that I needed to be convinced that I had deserved it
in order to be able to accept it, surely as punishment is more
easily swallowed than senseless tragedy. This mentality dominat-
ed from the period of 2007 until around 2013, and while it has
something to say for why I was so strangely embracive of these
villainous self-portrayals, it leaves several questions unanswered.
Similarly, it is acknowledged that my fixation on homicide was
seen not as genuine bloodthirsting but as a need to maintain a
sense of control and option within situations in which I knew
myself to be overpowered. And while that may not minimize the
risk I once posed to myself and others, it does add some clarifica-
tion as to the greater function of such ideation within my life.
In the past I have sometimes caught Jeiezza holding me in the

night. Had it not been for my hypnognostic competency, as in
my ability to manipulate my lucidity, I might have never known,
since she is adept at letting go before I become conscious. The
first time it happened I couldn’t even tell who it was. I never
brought it up with her as I wouldn’t have known what to say, and
I didn’t want it to turn into an issue, considering I made it very
clear to her in 2008 that I didn’t wish for anyone to touch me so
as to maintain the meaningful commitment I had made.
I am a bit of a hoarder in the sense that I find it difficult to throw

away anything which I consider to be meaningful, and... well, I
ascribe meaning to so much in life. My entire childhood toy col-
lection can still be found in the next room over, divided amongst
half a dozen boxes. I would often save the cups, receipts and stubs
from times I went out with people and enjoyed myself to remind
myself of kindness. I went through a big suicide purge in Octo-
ber 2019, not wishing to have my world ransacked and sifted by
strangers (or worse) after my death, so that was a big deal for me.
I had tons of things marked “for my son” which I purchased as
a kid, at which point I was often buying two of all my favorite
toys/posters and putting one away in storage.
The original Ashlands chapters featured numerous lists and

charts which were later removed once I made the switch from
Dirgha Svapna to Clyssus of Man. A lot of them were simple in
essence, meant only to plumb my mental state. Note that when
I refer to Dirgha Svapna, I refer to the book that I originally set
out to write at the end of 2019. It began with Ashlands and end-
ed with the chapter Manus, explaining why the style of writing
see within these chapters does not fit in perfectly with the rest of
Clyssus of Man, into which these chapters were later forced.
All are given access to this water that I drink, leaving no defense
for them who opt to thirst.
I may make a lot of contradictory statements, and ideas often be-

come dropped or disacknowledged along the way. That is neither
incidental, nor is it to suggest anything apart from the fact that I
do not contain all the answers and am learning as I go (which is
one of the reasons for why a lot of my older works contain inac-
curate or contradictory statements in light of new knowledge).
Why did I bother to fight for so long! This is not a world that
can understand the value of man! And if I were to one day find
healing after decades of fighting, what then! I would receive not
claps but conspiratorial claims which say that I was never suffi-
ciently sick to begin with. There is no means of winning!
[...] even to the point of putting my worst foot forward—some-

thing joked about by those who have read my biography or heard
my music before ever meeting me in person, who will often ex-
press surprise at the fact that I appear neither as dark nor as
‘twitchy’ as my experiences apparently paint me. And that’s ex-
actly it: I am not my experiences.
We are raised being told that if we behave as good children and

avoid negative and compromising situations then our reception
and reputation will reflect that, and one naturally goes on believ-
ing as much until some event or circumstance comes at us in a
flurry and demands to separate us from our expectations, our se-
curity. It is not something we are ever taught, necessarily coming
as a violent seizure of our reality.
One downside to releasing my work a decade after its original

creation is that I had matured quite a bit in that time and so I
struggled with reversionist behaviors, unsure of whether it was
more authentic to speak as my old self or my current self.
One who reaches heavenward without first distinguishing one-

self from the raucous masses reaches in vain.
[Conversion disorder] I have mentioned it less and less over the

years, at times downplaying or altogether omitting it from my
health reports, which I have done primarily in hopes of preclud-
ing misunderstanding, fearing that my ongoing physical condi-
tions would be seen as somehow less valid or severe once it was
realized that I am (or once was) susceptible to psychogenic con-
versionary processes, in which case healthcare officials are likely
to write me off as requiring psychiatric attention without suffi-
cient analysis of my physical being. As far as I have determined,
I have had the condition under control since around 2014—an
achievement which heralded the start of a more stable and self-
possessed way of life.
Consider it like a heart without a body and a body without a

heart—both of these elements bear an important function, but
are comparatively useless on their own.
Lynchburg, Virginia is a frictious little location—a fact which

often goes denied by its target demographic; however, the hold
of Liberty University on the town has created an environment
which seems intolerant to alternate lifestyles and ideologies. I
can’t always tell if my feelings toward this place represent the
most accurate view of reality or if they have been distorted in
time by the need to defend myself, but regardless of what is ac-
tually taking place I haven’t ever been able to shake the sense of
judgment and, as much as this place frustrates me, the dynamic
has informed so much of my mindset of loneliness, persecution
and vilification, while also creating for a pronounced antipathy
towards religious institutions. As much as I wished to see my city
through new eyes, I could never get over feeling that no matter
what I said and did and accomplished herein, I would never be
beloved by my town, as in this town would never do anything
to commemorate my life and achievements. The chokehold of
Falwellian Christian Conservatism on this region is such that
no cellar-dwelling mystic would ever be allowed to represent its
offering, and this has often left me feeling quite betrayed, even
causing me to lash out preemptively (and it’s hard not to when
everyone with whom I interact is likely to look upon all that I am
and have achieved through the lens of “You're a lost soul who is
going to hell”).
...that time as a teenager I accidentally knocked over a wine dis-

play at the supermarket; this little game I used to play all
throughout my youth and into my early teen years wherein I
would convert my bed into an emergency storm shelter and
brave the storm (a high-powered mechanical fan) to bring the
locals to safety, though not without finding love along the way;
that weird song I sang every week on the way to and from Sunday
school between ages seven and ten about who I would marry;
that time as a teenager when I accidentally knocked over a Prego
display at the supermarket...
As a small child, around the age of two, I was strolling with my

mother in public when a strange and eerie man approached us in
passing, laid his hand on me and solemnly spake “Grow to be a
giant!” before walking away without providing any explanation
for his actions. My parents recall that I received strange attention
as so on several occasions early on, but this encounter in particu-
lar was often recalled in my household as something of an amus-
ing story, as well as it being (jokingly) used to justify my being
significantly taller than all other members of my biological fami-
ly.
I remember my birth. I have memories that I am told I shouldn’t

have, wherein I am able to detail specific settings and people.
I didn’t want to leave New Jersey. I caused a lot of problems

when I told my family that the Devil was waiting for me in Vir-
ginia. The first time I entered into my room in Virginia I thought
“Here is where the devil will find me.”
I often have difficulty separating the wheat from the chaff when
it comes to writing, and if you look at the Traumaturgy drafts
you’ll see just what I mean. It is mighty difficult for someone like
myself to say that any information is irrelevant, or unworthy of
inclusion, or what have you, especially given my personal philos-
ophy which reveres utterly every aspect of living. The point that I
am here to make is that the whole idea of the Cactus Patch really
helped me to mature as a writer, and quite swiftly, since I was able
to get rid of the unnecessary text without casting it off into the
abyss, giving it its own text which would be released separately,
as supplementary. It made these otherwise difficult editing deci-
sions quite easy, relatively speaking, since none of it is really un-
necessary or irrelevant, but would often subtract from the book
by adding too much bulk.
Many strive all their lives to feel complete, yet completeness

means recognizing all that is: something not contrived but ac-
knowledged. No other form of completion will ever exist. And
in my own life, I seek not only to acknowledge the meaningful-
ness of Existence but to attain greater intimacy with that force,
which comes only to those who can allow themselves to be vul-
nerable, and it is for that reason that I have chosen to publicize
all aspects of my life which I consider meaningful to me. For me
it is thrilling to see how much I can divulge without fear; though
it merits to be said that I didn’t come so far on courage alone, and
for many years I struggled with a paralyzing perfectionism that
prevented me from typing up even a basic shopping list. Unlike
the name suggests, I wasn’t averse to imperfection, but to misrep-
resenting myself; my nature. My willingness to take the dive and
open myself up in such a way was spurred on, or largely so, by
my nearness to death and the ever present reality of mortality, as

well as my total lack of friends, family and ‘fans’, which left me
in a constant state of disconnection, within which the concept
of consequence, at least in the social sense, did not seem real to
me, as though I were simply speaking to myself within some void
of inconsequence. And upon noting the effectiveness of such a
mindset in allowing me to overcome my perfectionistic tenden-
cies I took every effort to sustain that mindset: I pulled away
from social media, what with its metrics and popularity contests,
and I began posting to mediums that provided me with no indi-
cation of who was looking or how many, allowing my audience
to be as few or as many as I willed to imagine in that moment. As
it turns out, no one was really looking after all, but by that point
I had more or less stopped caring, being so caught up in what I
was creating. That being said, do not think less of yourself if you
haven’t the determination to do the same. It is no simple task,
and I expect that it would come with additional complications
for those who are still existing within and dependent upon a so-
cial structure (unlike myself who essentially answers to no one).
Still, I consider it to be one of the best decisions of my lifetime
and I have great respect for anyone who takes up the challenge.
Cactus Patch takes its name from the fact that a cactus icon was
used as a markup to signify the lines and paragraphs which were
to be cut from my book, so each paragraph contained within this
text was initially preceded by a cactus, signifying text which was
considered ‘rough’.
Oh, hair and skin and night-scented breath! I am recalling all the
days of my life; I am calling on fire from the apex of my final war-
ring winter.
Though I sleep at night, I don’t actually rest my being. I like the

thought of getting into bed at the end of the day, conceptually
speaking, but I don’t feel that I have the same experience as oth-
ers. It’s not relaxing to me. It’s not a respite. It’s like climbing into
a car and traveling across town. I essentially just go to a different
place. I’m used to it at this point and rarely think about how this
is not normal to never be unconscious. Nearly all of my dreams
are lucid. I actually have to relinquish my dream control just to
take a break from it all.
With enough concentration and willpower I can sometimes

overcome my ails, yet it will require much mental energy over
a protracted period of time, and then I might slip on the floor
when exiting the shower and undo a year of effort.
It is the ubiquitous presence of death and destruction which has

allowed me to savor in that which remains of this life. It is the
suffocating level of restriction brought about by disease, injury
and interpersonal trauma which has forced me into new territo-
ries of being. It is the insecurity of my existence which has al-
lowed me to appreciate the potential offered by every moment.
In every second I confronted my terminus and my termini they
became, genuinely allowing me to live each day as though it were
my last on this earth. This mindset is reflected in all that I do
and say, through which can be heard a peculiar amalgam of ur-
gency, despair and absolute ardor: the desperation with which

my name resounds. I know positivity and negativity to be inex-
tricably linked and representative of a false set of distinctions de-
rived foremostly from our ignorant experience of Actuality and
Potentiality.
I do not seek to downplay the extent of my suffering and I
will not deny that my thoughts have been consistently suicidal
for over ten years at this point, but I hope my persistence speaks
for itself (and without undermining the substantiality of my
ideation, given that most persons appear to hold to the ignorant
view that one who does not attempt—or even succeed
with—suicide was not ‘sufficiently’ suicidal). It's a preposterous
supposition which, as per usual, robs the strong among us of all
honor and credit. In fact, all this world has done is made me
feel like I must substantiate my suicidality, and on thousands of
nights I have been weakened further by feeling I must prove my-
self to the world: end my life to prove the weight on my soul.
I miss baking, though it sort of loses its pleasantness when you

lose your ability to eat most dishes. For years I aspired to have my
own wedding cake company. That would have been enjoyable, I
imagine.
I was actually considering using this image of the tonsure with

the kiss in the middle of it as a shirt idea for Megacandela—just
for fun, of course.
Overall, I urge you to be very conscious of your expectations in

life, especially when dealing with the mystical and metaphysical.
Expectations will work against our ability to experience the truth

of reality.
I have traveled an untrodden path through this life, having no

one to whom to reach out for direction; having no one to whom
to look for inspiration; for estimations. Some of this may be
mine own fault, considering my eschewal of the world’s stock-
pile; yet that does not negate the experience which I have
known. Some may be prone to romanticize my experience, but it
has been a very lonely and difficult existence and I know full well
the meaningfulness of feeling like someone understands you.
I know that I was homeschooled, except I wasn’t. What that

means is that I was kept in a cage and manipulated into believing
that God would be here soon to pick us up, saving us from the
evil world that he created. I was often staring into vents and
holes. My interests include electrical fans and the twilight of
morning. I would wake up at 7 AM and sit in front of the win-
dow and listen to Caribbean Blue by Enya, which remains my
all-time favorite song. I seemed to have a lot of intellectual po-
tential, but it went entirely untapped. At the age of two or three I
was already deemed to have a genius level IQ. I was already com-
posing music, art and fantasy novels at age six. Though most of
them were confiscated for the fact that they contained so-called
dark elements, such as third eyes, magic powers and people being
brought back from the dead, which my parents could not un-
derstand, seeing as they prevented me from watching any media
which might otherwise contain such symbology (which is funny
to me since the Bible itself contains a lot of these elements they
forbade).
When not stewing in the juices of her own chronic, sedentary

self-neglect, she was acknowledged as dramatic and oftentimes
humorous, although her sense of humor was such that it caused
her to receive everything as a joke and her responses were very
often inappropriate as she was unable to take anything seriously.
Nonetheless, her humor style and interest in topics of art and lit-
erature (even if a lot of it came off as insincere and done to sat-
isfy her self-image, a la peacocking) made it possible for us to
get along, if erratically, in spite of the heinousness of it all and
it drew a clear line within our household between my mother
and I (who were dubbed passionate and quick-witted) and my
father and sister (who were dubbed unhumorous and generally
subtle, if not stale... at least from our perspective). In fact, our re-
lationship could be described as being sibling-like much of the
time. My mother and I had a very “I know you are but what am
I” type of relationship, like that of two teenage boys. It certainly
wasn’t a normal mother-son dynamic. You’ll hear a lot of name-
calling in our interactions, but that was only between us. Not my
father. Not my sibling. It was often seen as acceptable, but when
she wasn’t getting her way she would turn on me and weaponize
things done in good humor, taking it out of context. She would
call me a bitch and flip me the middle finger and then if I did
it back to her she would sometimes laugh, but other times she
would go tell my father and try to get me in trouble. That’s just
a general example, but she was very inconsistent and unfair in
that way. What was funny at certain times was off limits at other
times, and it was very arbitrary. You can hear this kind of talk in
the available disputes (sound files).
Given the prevalence of paradigm locks, I must sometimes resort

to parabolic and semiotic approximation, where if I can not offer
you a sword, I shall offer you a staff in its place. It surely won’t be
enough to satisfy the analysts among us who seek to take it apart
and study its components, but it allows me to advance the story
through approximation.
“We are here, after all, to ensure your victory. Pull out my blade
and you shall see a surgeon’s bistoury!”
Even as our species acknowledges the varied ways in which nega-

tivity appears to feed into our experience of positivity, it isn’t of-
ten that you will hear the reverse being acknowledged; so just as
light informs darkness, darkness informs light.
There are multiple facets to my existence which others may
find desirable in and of themselves, such as my talent and creativ-
ity, and it may be your instinct to regard these as positive factors,
yet the inherent positivity or negativity of a given event or ele-
ment is rarely self-dependent but contingent on context and in-
teraction.
A metaphor I’ve used at various points over the past decade
is of being an explorer and experiencing a cave-in after having fi-
nally reached the chamber of treasures. I am stranded and cut off
from the world with all the riches of man. It does not improve
my situation. Additionally, my situation does not remain neutral
as it was. In fact, it becomes worse with the introduction of new
potential, for tragedy is in many ways determined via the dispar-
ity existing between perceived actuality and perceived potential-
ity.
Every talent, every work, every hopeful and determined at-

tempt to overcome grants power to the tragedy of man. So has
every effort on my part ricocheted against the unknown vari-
ables of an indomitable sphere. It is our tendency to experience
some degree of surprise when a gifted or otherwise resourceful
individual commits suicide, as often is observed in the case of
celebrities (who we tend to view as leading a more charmed exis-
tence overall).
I behold no wonder in the eyes of the people. I sense no warmth

in the tone of their hearts. They are legs, lungs and livers laid
out on a plastic sprue and seeking to pass as autonomous entities.
They say, oh they say “How great my art! How great my gall! My
sperm spurts forth in the image of God!”
My stance is more nuanced than I imagine I will be given credit

for, what with my tendency to fly my crudest antipathies on a
hi-viz banner before all the land. Though I have shown myself
as willing and capable of making the most of what I am given
to work with and it should not be seen as so wildly vicious and
out of line for me to acknowledge the trying conditions through
which the willing must develop.
I do not seek tournament. This is not about superiority and infe-

riority. I speak of no such things and with no such interest. It is
a shallow assessment of what is fundamentally a tragedy. I don’t
feel superior to anyone or anything. I very often feel like the loser
in this situation, for it is I who eats alone and speaks in code.
I feel alone. I feel like the last man on earth. This was a lonely
life. Each and every day for thirty years I have had to conscious-
ly shape my existence. I’ve had to cook up thousands of fun and
creative ways and games which would allow me to reap enjoy-
ment from the world and to need the people. Diligently I rose
and diligently I fell. This is why I get so touchy about matters re-
lating to my relationship with the population and the realization
that my stance is going to have me discredited as a misanthrope.
I have never met anyone who truly excited me. I have never
met anyone who made me feel more passion than I felt in alone-
ness. So what I have to do is give out tickets without anyone
meriting such in the hopes that I will be surprised. I am always
putting myself out there hoping to be proven wrong, hoping to
be caught off guard. I walk away from every interaction feeling a
mixture of shame and anger. I’m sad to admit this, because I have
convinced myself that to feel this way I have failed to adapt, as
if it’s all on me. I have made it my aim to make this work, and I
have worked endlessly at it.
I spent decades arguing against the idea that a higher intel-
lectual capacity must necessarily lead one to depression and lone-
liness, arguing that one with sufficient intelligence must neces-
sarily be competent enough to create a workaround, or else must
his intelligence be disputed! And let us not even factor in a high
empathetic capacity which is arguably far greater as a burden.
That belief of mine fueled this last decade of my life. But I can’t
overlook the menagerie. I can’t overlook the barking and hump-
ing and biting that passes as intelligent, sentient existence. I can’t
consider myself a part of this species. I don’t, really. If this is hu-
manity then what am I? Of course we aren’t allowed to speak
such things lest we be pulled down into the depths of censure
and condemnation by the pool of corpses which constitutes our
society. My worry of being dubbed arrogant by the lot of them
often keeps me from expressing the full scope of my emotions.
And what you’re left with is all of these defensive and torn rants
which consist of justifications and are likely as exhausting to all
my readers as they are to me... (no, not quite).
To the lost and uncertain I have only this to say: allot the entire-
ty of your focus to matters of ardor and intent and the pathway
will form thereby on its own in accordance with the verities of
this existence. Honor the will of the fire, allowing it to burn as it
must!
The superior paradigm(s) of awareness to which one aspires shall

observe a diminished distinction between subject and object;
but where most may hear these words and think of it as the
diminution of some element or elements with which we current-
ly exist, it is not merely taken away but supplanted by a high-
er concept relating to Intension. As touched on previously, it
counts for a notable flaw in our human perception that we so
quickly assume that the absence or negation of an assumed ele-
ment must also indicate the absence of an alternative. A lack of
space and locality do not imply disorder. A lack of time does not
imply cacophony. A lack of egoic compensation does not imply
a soulless existence. All such concepts are not gone but replaced
by higher principles of being.
One of the most damning mistakes that one can make in this life,
and coming with especially severe consequences for the mystic,
is to believe that they are somehow responsible for the redemp-
tion of others. I say this as one who has struggled immensely with
such a sense of responsibility. There aren’t a whole lot of honest
conversations being had on the topic, and may it be because so-

ciety is quick to denigrate those of us who live our lives for such
purpose (and often for valid reasoning, with most so-called bur-
dened individuals behaving in ways that are both misguided and
intrusive—attitudes from which I am not myself exempt). But it
is a complex issue not to be written off so quickly as some egoic
heave. It is built into our hearts to give of what we have to those
who have not. This burden of responsibility has incidentally en-
forced a lot of positive habits and come with other benefits to my
person, and I do not regret the fact that I impart high value on
the success of others. My investment in the victories of mankind
has informed my willingness to release a forthright record of my
practice in the hopes that it may inspire and affirm others, or per-
haps give them the sort of ‘permission’ that they are looking for.
But it has also come with many negatives, some of which have
been explained at length within this very text and others. It is
damning for one to believe that the reason that the sick and in-
curious are as they are, the way they live their lives, is the prod-
uct of some accidental oversight, or that they spend their lives in
need of someone to reach the proverbial box from the top shelf.
Of course I am referring primarily to matters of spirituality and
psychology and am not saying we neglect those in need; but it is
in everyone’s best interest that a more accurate, if cynical, reality
be acknowledged in this case (if it is cynical to acknowledge the
responsibilities of each and every individual when it comes to, at
the very least, getting themselves to a point where they are both
open and able to be helped).
All us individuals who experience a certain obligation or
conviction to serve, support and dare I say ‘save’, rarely have the
sensibility to acknowledge that others do not wish to be saved,
unless salvation should fall in line with their sick and narrow de-
finitions of comfort and paradise. This returns to my belief that
all who seek in earnestness and humility will come upon all that
they seek after. It even seems pointless, from a rational level, that
one should ever attempt to provide others with any sort of wis-
dom or counsel at all when I must expect that those who wish
to be here are already there by their own strength, for which rea-
son I aim not to inform but to affirm and validate the weary. We
are all where we are meant to be in terms of capability and prior-
ity. Those who have the capability for more will naturally desire
more and, by nature, will achieve more. It took me a long time to
understand this basic sentiment...
On a similar note, this experience does remind me somewhat of

an exercise which I employed frequently within my practice as
a hypnognostic. When working with lucid dreams, I would of-
ten seek to manipulate my corporeal body in an effort to record
the details of my dreams without ever fully waking therefrom, by
which means I seemed to be both awake and asleep concurrently.
As much as I wish that I could provide some informative break-
down on my method, for me it did not seem to require anything
more than great focus and will. I had become rather adept at it
over time, often sleeping with one eye open (literally, not figura-
tively) so as to allow a blending of sensory input. Having made
that comparison, I must note that my current circumstances are
markedly more complex on account of I am fully awake and no
part of me is paralyzed.
[Cut from “Traumaturgy” part] It started off simple enough: I

would utilize such means as starvation and sleep deprivation to
bring about the desired state of vulnerability. It was largely by
this reasoning that I began using psychoactive drugs in the fall of
2006. Brief a stint though it was, all of this contributed to my de-

clining sensibility and somewhen along the way my process was
poisoned, when my reasoning saw a shift from a healthy respect
of vulnerability to experiments intentionally seeking to exasper-
ate my traumata in the aim of achieving a sort of self-induced
psychosis. In 2009 I took an interest in matters of hypnosis, sug-
gestion and other such cognitive avenues after having become
enthralled by the possibility of overriding my physicality with
my mentality. This, for me, was a means of accessing a wide ar-
ray of talents and abilities beyond my natural scope. I was much
too naïve at the time to realize the effect that this would be hav-
ing on the body, being myself ultimately ignorant to the reality
of infirmity, and perhaps I only anticipated experiencing altered
states of consciousness and heightened physical ability. It is no
wonder, then, that my fight or flight response became so fright-
fully damaged in the process. In addition to the physical dam-
age incurred by my body, I would struggle for roughly four and a
half years with a horrific psychological ailment known common-
ly as Conversion Disorder which refers to the somatization of
fear and anxiety. In other words, fear manifests as physical symp-
toms (wholly distinct from hypochondria, in which case symp-
toms are considered illusory). This disorder stems from fixation
on a particular body part and, with sufficient fixation, can re-
sult in seizures, blindness, numbness, paralysis and, in my case,
choking and asphyxiation (among other ailments). And when
the reins began to slip from my hands I so readily justified my
choices under the belief that it is the path which brings about the
most suffering that is most fertile, most true. Narrow is the way!
And no way is narrower than that which promises pain to our
psychical and physiological being! My concept of traumaturgy
thus developed in line with my aspirations of mystical self-real-
ization, but not without years of trial, error and NDEs. (In ret-
rospect I believe that the presence of Conversion Disorder was much

less than I took it to be, having since grown in my understanding of
some of the physiological issues at play, and I would sooner attribute
many such effects to the basic effects of tension and anxiety within
the body.)
As a child I didn’t get out all that much. I didn’t attend school
and I didn’t socialize outside of church. My father would some-
times drive my sister and I to one of several large, wooden play-
grounds that were everywhere in the nineties. There were bridges
to cross and stairs to climb and blocks to spin and crests to con-
quer; but these things, they did not appeal to me like a certain
secret spot to which I would sneak off in every visit to this play-
ground: a sandy area on the far end of the structure where I had
found a missing board in the wall into which I was able to fit my
body. Once inside, I would find myself within the very structure
of the playground—a shadowy space replete with beehives and
plastic wrappers—and I would scour the dark underbelly of the
playground searching for lost toys while pretending that I was
some accursed creature whispering through the cracks at the oth-
er children as they passed.
Your average child finds their identity in that which brings them
comfort and joy. Why did I differ from this, finding my soul in
that which evoked feelings of confusion and overwhelm?
It has not been easy for me to describe the sound of her voice,
since a lot of the adjectives coming to mind might be deemed un-
flattering and may be taken the wrong way, presenting an unlove-
ly impression which does not match the reality. She has sort of a
stuffy, headcoldy kind of voice, which sort of cracks (but not like
what we normally consider voice cracks). The adjective I some-
times use is shimmery. It’s very cute, in my opinion. I just wish it
wasn’t so difficult to describe. I have heard some female Japanese
singers who have a similar vocal type and so I would surmise that
it is more common with that population.
I fell down an actual staircase in November, breaking an un-

known number of bones within my left foot. As aggravating as
it was to experience—especially when considering that I had to
ride it out without medical attention—I view it as a high mark
for equanimity, having suffered my fall in total silence and with-
out so much as a grunt!
I once awoke to find myself amid what I would describe as a

semiotic constellation as agnostic particles drifted about my
room, crying “Greeha! Greeha!” in their desperation—Sanskrit
for “home.”
*It was also my personal belief—based on a series of studies

and experiments conducted with the help of various associates
throughout the years—that consciousness is, to some unknown
extent, a shared phenomenon, consequently begetting the color-
ful supposition that the music recorded via this method is ulti-
mately accessible to any individual who is sufficiently skilled in
intermediate hypnognostic or oneironautical exploration, and I
have left plenty of track listings and other information behind
in the hopes that some will take it upon themselves to seek out
some of these works in lucid dreaming. (From Tendon Monony-

mous section)
They were also very strict in terms of what they would allow into
the household, permitting next to nothing of secular origin. This
created a most notable problem in my teenage years due to my
love of music, and so I was required to go to great lengths to
smuggle in secular music.
Then there is also the matter of homeschooling and the fact
that, despite removing me from the schooling system at age six
and claiming to homeschool me, it is arguable that such can re-
ally be said when I was essentially given a stack of books and
locked away within my room without much, if any, accountabili-
ty, thus resulting in a very lopsided education. I may demonstrate
a fair level of insightfulness in many situations, which has often
allowed me to skirt by in the absence of textbook knowledge, but
I consider myself uneducated in the traditional, scholastic sense
of the word. After all, they believed we would soon be raptured
by God and all the world before us would be overtaken by fire
and plagues and literal horsemen. As a direct result of their be-
liefs, we lived in a most insular and detached manner and they
neither taught us about nor prepared us for the real world in any
legitimate way.
The extent of my ignorance led to an awful lot of embar-
rassment in my teenage years as I rarely seemed to actually know
what my peers were talking about and it became a part of my
character in which others found amusement, especially when it
came to matters relating to sexuality. It took me well into my
teenage years to come to learn the names of genitalia. For some
unknown reason I thought that women had a pinochle (pee-
knuckle? right?). An insufficient and late-coming sexual educa-
tion is often considered as having been the catalyst for the in-
ternal revolt which ultimately led to the Ritual of Nullity and,
therefore, my entire mystical practice, in that it not only left me
feeling foolish before others but because it shocked my system
to be learning of something so momentous so very late into the
process of living.
Along with working on the Clyssus of Man, I had been working

on a screenplay and pilot for the tentatively-titled “Tendon”—a
biographical television series. It’s highly unlikely that I will end
up submitting it before I leave, but if anyone wishes to submit
my story to networks in my wake then please make sure that
the lead has good hair and that the series ends with a wondrous
dance sequence, hahaha.
My illness has left me with great uncertainty regarding my ability

to actually finish this book. What an uncertain experience. I
can think of over eighty occasions during the writing process in
which I fully expected my body to die. I have worked through
nausea and high fevers, suffocation and bereavement.
With my mother being a hairdresser, I never had to visit an actu-

al barber or salon in all my life. She cut my hair for much of my
life, but as her alcoholism worsened to the point where I stopped
trusting her to stand behind me with a pair of scissors I began
wearing a hat and eventually started cutting my own hair.
My voice box is still intact. My hands are perfectly dexterous.

This leads others to doubt the magnitude of my predicament,
as they do not fathom the complexity of the problem or the
fact that each malfunction feeds into the next in a most horrific
way—some vicious circle which defies my understanding.
It is prominently my right hemisphere which is ill, containing

nearly two dozen ailments while the left hemisphere is nearly
without issue.
I was a damned fool, having slipped my dearest diaries into an

entertainment bin in some misguided attempt to find under-
standing.
[From section regarding my stance against substance use] Lastly, in

the interest of clarification and transparency on my own habits,
I will acknowledge that I had a short but active run with psy-
choactive substances between late 2006 and early 2008, but not
since 2009 have I indulged in anything apart from alcohol (until
2017), nicotine (until 2015) and kratom. The craziest thing I
take these days is magnesium and Vitamin D3 tablets. As for the
relationship between said drug use and my mystical practice, I
ask you to take note of the fact that my originary mystical expe-
rience(s) preceded my first psychoactive experience by two years
and my practice has continued on more than a decade past my
last experience.
Call it as you will—asceticism, purism, idealism—but know that

the foundation on which I stand is rooted neither in fear nor in
ignorance of the matters whereagainst I speak out, but in praise
of the potentiality of our species and the boundless potency of
the willing mind.
I have sometimes created fake setlists if simply to muse over all

of the interesting performances I could have put on. I imagine
how exciting it would have been to never play the same setlist
more than once—pulling from a list of over two thousand tracks
to make each performance unique and exciting for my audience
as well as myself. Even though I never had an audience to deter-
mine which of my songs were more (and less) popular, I am still
working off of my own idea of what constitutes my ‘hits’ and so I
get all excited to mix in some of the smaller, more obscure tracks,
while thinking to myself “Oh, they’ll never expect this one. This
will be a surprise!” It’s like a pack of trading cards: some circles,
some diamonds, then BOOM: holofoil “To Bare You What You
Are” to close out the set (although that one seems hardly unex-
pected).
I wanted people to see the same person whether was I on stage

performing or squeezing a tangerine in the produce aisle. To
most it didn’t seem to matter—such consistency—but it did to
me.
Truly, I believe that the struggles that we face—from basic con-

fusion to suffering so unbearable—act as our gateway to the sort
of coalescent ends after which we must all seek (a motif seen in
so many of our myths: salvation through suffering, absolution

through mortification).
And while my mother quite clearly suffered from a host of men-

tal illnesses ranging from personality disorders to affective disor-
ders, it was easier to think of my father as sane, for his fault re-
lates more to what he lacks.
There was but one upside to my lonely, isolated circumstances

that I know of, and it is that, by seeing how easily I fell through
the cracks of society, of life, I have become convinced that there
must be more like me on the basis that I, myself, exist; and de-
spite how it disturbs me to think that the world can allow this
to happen to those who have offered so much of themselves to
this life, it gives me hope that there is more to this existence and
this species than what is seen on parade; than what is immedi-
ately visible. [Written before I ever came to a better understanding
about Idem, Homo Spiritualis and Existence]
Even though my personal space has always been important to

me, my bedroom was quite unremarkable throughout much of
my teenage years. It wasn’t until 2008 that it really became a pro-
ject and a focus of mine. Actually, my childhood bedroom was
incredible—the best I could have asked for. My father really put
all his abilities as a carpenter to use on that one. Yet my teenage
bedroom was quite lame (maybe because we were simply renting
the house and couldn’t modify the property, which meant that I
was unable to ‘get creative’). Amid the years of my first astragon,
the walls were more or less bare with the exception of a large
art print above my bed of Salvador Dali’s “Le Sommeil (Sleep).”

I’m quite surprised my parents even allowed me to have that one
since, first of all, “He wasn’t a Christian,” and second of all, it was
‘weird and creepy’. Apart from that, my bedroom was a bedroom
in the most literal sense, having a bed, a desk, a radio, a chair and
a computer so old that it only worked for writing and creating
Powertabs. It couldn’t even play CDs. The lights were often off
within my bedroom so I suppose it didn’t matter much that the
space was so bare, since after all I could have been anywhere.
I find her sitting on the floor beside a sink on the downstairs lev-
el. It would seem that she has suffered some sort of moderate al-
lergic response and it is upsetting her. I bring her a cup of lemon
water and sit down beside her to provide consolation. Later on
we move to the upstairs kitchen and she sees that I have baked
a batch of muffins to make her feel better, although they appear
like cupcakes since I have chosen to frost them. Every time she
takes one for herself she removes the buttercream flower from
atop the cake and transfers it to a separate cake in the corner
of the tray which, by now, stands at about six inches tall—two-
thirds of which are entirely made up of frosting—and, according
to her, I will be eating that one.
There is intent behind my decision to make public my torment:

a purpose which extends beyond honesty and intimacy and has
all to do with the Volens and my desire to bridge the way to a
new standard. May the intricacy and intention of my offering
one day be realized by them who now look with pitying eyes up-
on the whole of my outpour. And may they learn, before long,
that neither my unwieldy pains nor my reactions thereto defy the

greater script.
Like with a game of charades, I feel that your greatest chance at

grasping what I am actually saying comes not from an analysis of
my actions in this case but through attempting to step into my
thought process, wherefore I urge you to look beyond my words,
focusing more on understanding my processes than the words I
have spoken.
Our capitalistic system holds up a different standard of worth

which necessarily diminishes spiritual worth, which is the worth
of our humanity, and not until these neo-feudalistic conditions
are overridden and forgotten will humanity reclaim its weight.
I stand in profound amazement upon seeing what develops from

the seed of desire and I will take every opportunity to confute
my ‘uniqueness’ if in doing so I may encourage the people of so-
ciety to see that this absolution is theirs also, should they stand
for it. Divine is the potency of the human will and its place in de-
termining the worth of being.
[2017] It wasn’t merely the rejection of my work but the story of

my lifetime. It was like the earth telling me that all these years of
suffering were experienced purposelessly.
These experiences left me noticeably disillusioned with the so-

called arts, having gone into the year believing that “These were
my people.” Yet this community which is held in such esteem
for its spiritual and existential value consists largely of the same
that you will find elsewhere: people with days, months, decades
to kill and wanting only entertainment, popularity; bored peo-
ple with nothing to say but fearing silence; fearing insignificance.
The world seems a lot duller once it is realized that nearly all of
the films and music that we enjoy are made by people desperate-
ly seeking to ensure their place in the tribe. It’s a mating dance.
It’s a survival mechanism. Art should do just the opposite, in a
sense. So little of what lies in our midst is created for the sake
of itself. Similar can be said of all these companies and prod-
ucts and practices which enrich our lives and boil down to an
individual or team of individuals’ attempts to survive life or to
achieve recognition. Then, once I would finally find the beetle in
the shitstack—someone with artistic vision or a passion to move
the world forward—there would be something damaged and in-
sufferable about them, and they would find a way to turn all of
my sincere attempts at forming a connection into some incorri-
gible and insulting competition as if I was some threat to them
and I simply couldn’t put up with it any longer.
I am a hateful man, how hateful I am! I could unleash fire on

these bathers in bile. Yet the dead can not develop! The impris-
oned can not be free! The sad, stupid patzers cannot relish in the
victory of the soul. How can we wish to inflict pain and pun-
ishment upon the people, seeing how much they already punish
themselves.
[2016] When seeing our relationship as a trust fall, it can be said

that she was constantly assuring me that if I fell back she would
catch me, convinced of her ability to do so, but upon falling back
she would move away and not catch me due to some reason like-
ly relating to her reputation or insecurities, and then if I showed
any sign of being hurt or upset by her actions she would find a
means to victimize herself until I was having to apologize for be-
ing hurt and assure her that all was fine. I was asked to be patient,
and I did just that, but I continued to fall, each day and night,
through her arms and onto the rocks below.
The romance, the sensuality, the excitement—it was all ab-
sent from the relationship. We were like two mismatched kids
playing house, and my general excitement prevented me from ac-
knowledging this for far too long.
At present I have not acknowledged even a single published re-

view of my work or any sort of acknowledgment from the pop-
ulation at large. I would have accepted even a forum post. And
perhaps it is all to my favor. In this age of fashionable apathy,
memetic decontextualization and shallow allegiance, perhaps it
is all for the best that one is locked outside the gates.
I may maintain incredibly high demands of myself, yet I never

demanded the same of others. I may be highly opinionated re-
garding religion, philosophy and the state of the world, yet I did
not seek to influence the beliefs of others. Even where I find the
beliefs of others to be shallow and based on basal fear, insecurity,
and tradition, I have often said that I do not wish for my legacy
to be as one who robs people of their faith, regardless of how I
may feel about it. That won’t be enough to prevent me from stat-
ing my beliefs, though I strive to remain ever empathetic when

approaching such matters.
The primitive mind does not look upon the details and merely
forms its conclusions in response to a set of impressions. This
is not caused by laziness or inability, but due to a need respond
quickly to stimuli and intimations for the good of its own
longevity, as it is based on none other than fear, security and
ensuring its survival. Mystery, complexity and intensity are all
things that the uninspired know to avoid, seeing all things
through the lens of such primitive survivalism, and it has left me
tragically disadvantaged when it reached a point in which I was
in need of help. To others I am only a risk. Their minds were
not made to compute such supposedly contradictory things. No
matter what I give of myself and no matter how I behave, I shall
always be regarded as a threat if only due to the complicated na-
ture that I embody.
I have always felt the need to earn my victory, my earnings, my

respect—meaning that I must satisfy mine own criteria before
accepting the reality offered by others—and even now, with the
achievement of something so great, it would seem that I wasn’t
allowing myself to relish in the satisfaction of what it meant for
me. Yet it seemed to be more involved than some personal stan-
dard.
And yet they have sought to disqualify my efforts outright, as

though to say that all my efforts do not count as anything more
than the pitiable fit of an untamed child.
I believe wholeheartedly in the universality of my findings, and

without attempting to force my ways upon anyone, I both wel-
come and encourage others to incorporate my practices into
their own systems, believing fully in the worth of my beliefs and
methods and wishing that I, with this pitcher, may stimulate
your thirst; wishing that I, with this flame, may illuminate paths
not seen previously by you, and that these things may allow the
modern seeker a better handle on the meaning and worth which
abounds in their Existence.
[...] and at this stage of mutation it is often the case that the de-
sires of the self have coalesced with the demands of the spirit, or
rather the will of Existence, whereby the requisite integrity is nei-
ther experienced as a chore nor as a struggle requiring great dis-
cipline but as a rewarding experience to which one is naturally
inclined.
[2016] I may have even bought into the spiels of the soulless,
where after a lifetime built upon a sort of superstitious idealism,
I became convinced that the development of a more grounded
and worldly set of expectations was a natural part of my develop-
mental process. “This is just how the world operates!” I sought to
convince myself. “This is the reality of relationships!” and in my
mind it was presented as a choice between learning to accept and
acclimate to a miserable existence filled with abuse and invalida-
tion or be left to die alone on my hill of sad ideals.
I recall one event in particular in which I was leaning out a win-

dow beside some girl and a huge bee arrived ‘out of nowhere’,
startling her. “Calm down, it’s just a bee,” I said as I held out my
palm, upon which the bee landed and remained for minutes. For
someone as uncool as I... that was just the apex of coolness, ha-
haha. It wasn’t the only time that I did something of the sort.
I was often using the bee to such ends in 2007-2008, whether
was I frightening people, flirting or both. And when I spoke to
that person several years later, I was really glad that they brought
it up even when I had not thought of it in so long, saying that
they always associated bees with me because of that experience,
despite being unaware of other ongoing associations (which I
would have kept quietly to myself in that time of life, wishing to
dissociate from occultism).
I had waited for such a moment for many years. A release from
my prison; an embrace from someone who claimed to love me. It
was all I thought about for a decade, during which I disallowed
all hugs and affection amid my greatest hardships in avoidance
of lessening the victory that I would one day know once I found
Anita. Of course this was not that girl after whom I aspired so
long, but still I anticipated I would cry and never stop. I was
looking forward to it in a sense, if symbolically, if cinematical-
ly. I looked forward to it with certain anticipation. I imagined I
would weep so profusely it winded me. I wanted it all to come
out like an exorcism bringing all the demons out into the air.
It never came—not a glittery tear. And it bothered me, since at
the time I couldn’t understand why, after all those years of agony
and suffering and believing I would never experience another
embrace... believing I would never get out of my basement... It
was like that moment when you have a false awakening within a
nightmare. It took me too long to realize that I was still in the

nightmare; that I was still asleep.
I am not the type to stifle my tears. It’s healthy. It’s powerful.
It puts me in touch with my own context. Yet at the same time, I
went for most of this past decade without shedding a single tear,
having promised that I would not cry for myself; crying not for
loss but for victory, for goodness. So if something actually brings
me to tears it is likely a moment of sweetness, to which I am quite
emotionally sensitive. After all, darkness and despair has been my
world for so long, if not forever, and I am simply not used to
goodness. So while my life of abuse and agony has allowed me to
develop a certain aplomb and resiliency in these situations that
would normally cause others to weep or lose their minds or act
shamelessly, I have been able to think clearly within the darkest
moments. I can’t recall more than two or three moments in the
past twenty years in which I cried over something negative, be-
ing mostly while having to plead with someone to acknowledge
what I am saying. Yet a moment of goodness can rip me apart
and reduce me to tears. Even something as simple as those online
videos showing human kindness or animals being rescued will
get me to cry like nine out of ten times, often making me feel sil-
ly for doing so.
I cry, also, for those who don’t understand. I was emotional,
if intermittently, following the death of my mother, though it
was when I put myself in the position of our little Maltese dog
that I really grew emotional, since I knew that he wasn’t able
to comprehend the situation. His world just changed overnight
and the one who he spent all his time with was never coming
back. He went from sitting at her feet all day to my father locking
him in the dining room during the day. That had me emotional,
and I started playing more with the dog after that point. It’s not
just dogs though. Children, too. Even most adults. Ignorance is

tragedy.
Is it not the truth! Yet what of the truth? For it is also true that
I must suffer and celebrate in solitude. It is also true that I must
spend my holidays alone, drinking my meals from a plastic cup. If
a tree experiences its birthdays and no one is around to acknowl-
edge it, does it age at all?
In that sense I believe that we inhabit our dream bodies in pre-

cisely the same manner that we inhabit our so-called waking
bodies, rather than our dreams being some subsidiary vision tak-
ing place within the braincase of our ‘other form’. It is like trans-
ferring from a vehicle to a separate vehicle, rather than like dri-
ving a smaller vehicle within a larger vehicle, if that makes sense.
The song “I Want You In My Open Eyes” has always seemed to

me like the quintessential representation of my musical discog-
raphy. It’s not even one of my favorites, but something about its
melody and lyrical content just seems to me like the best summa-
ry of my output: the isolation, the illness, the romance, the ur-
gent determination.
Science has crumbled like a column beneath the weight of this

mystical intrigue and I have never felt so unknowledgeable as I
do now. I struggled a bit in the beginning with the high volume
of new input, especially in cases where it canceled out my estab-
lished understanding. I worry that my framework has become
confused and I am unable to properly account for the reality

which digests me.
Some may be aware of the fact that, amid my surreal, agnostic

fugue taking place in the spring of 2008, I recall perceiving my
head as a scarab (based only on how it felt). I now understand
that this giant, wriggling scarab was no scarab at all, but a man-
ifestation of Agnosis—a ‘visard’, if you will—furthering the link
between this surreal period and the likes of the symbolic Child.
The period in question—referring to the spring of 2008–in
which I was said to experience a bout of strange, catatonic en-
chantment was undeniably among the profoundest periods of
my existence, second only to my originary astragon, and only re-
cently have I begun to recognize in what ways this experience
which I had sought to diagnose was in fact demonstrative of
a mixed agnostic state. I have therefore come to a deeper un-
derstanding of the noteworthy memory-related issues associated
with this period, being that I had entered into a deep, mystical
trancelike state and knew it not.
I am an unabashed purist in my approach to life and I have al-

ways given much thought to the authenticity of my representa-
tion—a fixation which I relate to my youth during which I dealt
with substantial disappointment upon learning that the individ-
uals whose works I appreciated did not align with their self-por-
trayals. Even as an adult with a more sensible grasp on the na-
ture of the species I am not immune to experiencing a twinge of
‘betrayal’ upon finding some noteworthy disparity between one’s
portrayal and the manner by which one lives their life. Surely
I am not alone in feeling this way. You hear someone’s words,
someone’s melodies, and you think there is the chance that they
suffer like you, that they love like you, that they dream like you,
and then their social media account is replete with pictures of
cars, kids and casseroles. Oh, and the worst of all is perhaps the
amount of times in which I have found the artists who I enjoy
complaining about writing and performing music, treating it like
some chore and not a choice. It destroys my attachment and it is
a terrible shame.
A lot of this has to do with the seriousness with which I
treated music and art in my formative years as a result of limited
socialization—a seriousness which has remained relatively intact
into adulthood. Throughout the course of my life, music has
comprised my only company, my only friendships, my sole affir-
mation. It was never merely a source of entertainment for me. It
was seen as a lifeline. And once I became a composer in my own
right I sought to build my empire upon all such things, incorpo-
rating all that I looked for as a child, by which I refer as much (or
more) to the person that I am beyond the songs and art.
As all our erstwhile heroes and celebrities are outed one after
another as wretches and rapists, I experienced a certain sense of
satisfaction in the security of knowing that I could not disap-
point others in this way—which isn’t to assert that I am beyond
fault but that, in addition to my dedicated striving for excellence,
I have left my closet door widely ajar and sufficiently lit. My aver-
sion to disappointing others as I have been disappointed in mine
own life has even informed my infamous ‘worst foot forward’ ap-
proach which seeks to forestall such an outcome by putting my
most controversial facts upfront.
In fact, one may even say that I had previously conflated the con-
cept of a ‘collective unconscious’ with the likes of some navi-
gable universal domain (which I frequently attempted to access

via means of hypnagogic engagement and other hypnognostic
means—the results of which are debatable). In retrospect it may
be claimed that I was actually referring to a sort of agnostic state
all along, as opposed to what is traditionally known as the collec-
tive unconscious.
In my world, there is no distinction between work, play or any-

thing else. I spend all day, every day, laboring over my projects.
With an exception being made for 2016 while living with some-
one and moving around, I would say that there have been fewer
than fifteen days within the past ten years in which I’ve not cre-
ated or otherwise achieved something. For me to take a day off
I would have to be so sick with fever and flu that I could not
see straight and must sleep, and even then I would likely still
end up working since my bed is essentially my desk/workspace
anyway and I would be bent on seeing what kind of strange or
profound material I could produce from within my altered state.
The few times that I have deviated from my normal work rou-
tine I end up experiencing a strange sort of withdrawal which
amounts to lightheadedness, restlessness, irritability, depression
and other minor symptoms. I experience a similar sort of with-
drawal if I go for more than a couple hours with music playing.
Given the nature of my lifestyle, I’m never really in a situation
where I can’t play music, so it’s been running continuously for
most of my life, and without it I crumble quite quickly, falling
into a rather severe depressive state.
As a man I have achieved rare inner liberty; and I am grateful for

this honor, this gift, even where it leaves me disadvantaged and
vulnerable.
I must always be careful of putting pressure upon my right foot,

especially at the heel. There is apparently some nerve which runs
from my right foot and up through my perineum. It is for this
reason that I experience difficulty walking. Each step adds stress
to that nerve and causes intense, sharp pain within my perineum.
These ailments, in turn, feed into my abdominal ailments and ex-
acerbate the swelling which is assumed to be the cause of all of
this in the first place—a vicious circle. And because of these is-
sues relating to my right foot, I must favor my left foot which, as
of late, is broken in several places, having fallen down the stairs
amid a trance-like state.
It may often seem like I am operating within a completely dif-

ferent reality than that with which you yourself are familiar, but
so would we say that the organs and guts of the body represent a
sharp contrast to the sheeny skin of the body’s exterior.
The dichotomy of the mystic and the madman is age-old and

ever worth our acknowledgment, though the distinction is often
more subtle than can be gauged by the onlooker and requires a
level of discernment going beyond that with which the masses
are generally equipped. The reason for this is that the two states
generally involve the self-same elements and the only distinction
is to be observed in the orientation of elements. My own record-
ed history blurs the line more than most, and willfully so, though
it has presented me with no shortage of problems along the way

when it comes to presenting myself as a source of sensible and lu-
cid counsel.
[Parents] To that end, it may be tempting to imagine me as some

ornery and confrontational individual who speaks to them as I
speak of them—a level of attitude which might seem to justi-
fy some of our interactions. On the contrary, I have maintained
a certain uprightness in my dealings with them (especially since
around 2012), and while such behavior was sometimes informed
by my basic efforts to avoid needless conflict, it was more fre-
quently attributable to a conscious effort being put forth in the
aim of inspiring them to consider their behavior and cultivate
self-awareness. I have never been one to withhold my opinions,
and I can be quite blunt if given the go-ahead, yet my attitude
does differ significantly from my rancorous rants which are more
or less exclusive to text. The only time that I ‘bite back’ is if and
when I am feeling myself endangered or when words are being
put in my mouth.
Imagine how I felt after all my years of suffering when I had fi-
nally worked up the strength and resolve to meet with medical
practitioners, having decided I could not go on any longer like
this, only to be denied the help. The trauma of being told that my
illness can not be identified and having the more asinine of the
doctors trying to write it off as psychology before even giving me
any imaging... it was utterly traumatizing to me, and I have rarely
been willing to talk about my gripes and experiences for fear that
it will cause others to take the side of the incompetent doctors.
That is what my father did, being all too willing to believe that a
doctor who has seen me for eight minutes of his time knew more
about my body than I did. They themselves seemed to think so,
sometimes becoming irate when I would ask questions or chal-
lenge their cold conclusions, in which case I was never discour-
teous or out-of-line in my tone but only a trusting individual ex-
pecting to get what such industry is promising. Once I finally be-
gan to receive some actual diagnoses (around late 2016 and early
2017) I was out of money and out of time.
I am not unaware of the ways in which modern society, especially

here in the west, often expresses fascination with the loner, the
outsider, the disturbed artist and similar archetypes. Now, I am
not particularly fond of the prevalent stereotypes, but the ac-
knowledgment remains, and it only has me wondering: where
did I deviate from something worthy and deserving? Where did
I sink into the uncanny valley? I see the people standing in line
for every film; they dogear every page of every book, yet there
is something which prevents them from acknowledging that the
living, too, might be capably compelling. It can be very confus-
ing to experience. It can be very confusing to find myself being
called uncool and unrelatable for having not watched or read
the “Harry Potter” series, while the details of my life are not
somehow enough to pique their interest. And it makes sense, be-
cause if they actually recognized the worth of life, the worth of
man, they would not waste another moment behind a television
screen.
It seems far easier for others to assume that I am off in my esti-

mates than to think that I am actually as ‘bad off ’ in my condi-
tion and circumstances as I so claim.
My working model of reality dictates that life does not ‘unfold’

but is ‘uncovered’. I thereby side with the belief that one does not
move among frames of consciousness as one moves among loci.
I reject a life which is lived passively, believing in the necessity

of the active principle. Those who go on with a ‘wait and see’ at-
titude are doomed to fall short of realization. Where time does
not exist, it holds no power to resolve.
Where time and chronology are irrelevant as concepts, how do

we describe childhood but as a state of heightened absence, de-
pendence, need, desire, and curiosity (unknowingness)? We
readily know it for its wonder; then why not as a question in it-
self ?
I looked out upon the world with new eyes—a new perceptual
paradigm—yet as altered were my perceptions, it did not affect
my ability to gain the favor of the masses. I was ever able to do
the same old things, but I couldn’t always allow it of myself. It
was becoming more and more difficult to act in the way that
I once did, indulging in that which I now found wasteful and
worthless. I went through phases, but I could never manage to
maintain my social presence without experiencing some sort of
dissociation. My appetite for meaning has caused a rift so un-
mendable.
In recent years I have suffered non-epileptic seizures and
other psychogenic symptoms following occasions of significant
emotional shock. It was a few years back that I realized that

whenever I spoke my mind (like in the context of a conflict), or
was required to defend myself, I would shake uncontrollably, for
I know from past experiences that I will only lose from doing so.
I have never been in a position in which I can speak my mind
safely.
As I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that perhaps I am just not that
into art for its own sake. That will likely sound like a strange
thing to be coming from someone who appears at a glance like
the quintessential artist, but I’ve often denied that I am an artist.
I am someone with a lot to say and no one to say it to and my
body of work is the natural result of such lonely circumstances.
That’s not to say that I can’t enjoy something aesthetically—sure-
ly I can. This is especially true of music, in my case. But the
context is so important to me, and if something doesn’t tie into
something larger... something ‘realer’ than itself, I find it difficult
to become engaged with it I think that the value of my own work
is not in the work itself but how it fits into my life, forming a
constellation which, when seen from a distance, forms a whole.
I like constellations as a symbol, as opposed to random floating
stars, which one cannot identify so easily among the night sky. A
thing’s value is regularly determined by its context and relation-
ships, after all.
Having got my start with prog rock, I still consider myself a prog
musician to some extent, despite the fact that my available works
lack a lot of the most fundamental elements of mainstream prog,
such as long-form songs. I still think in terms of movements, sto-
rylines, motifs/leitmotifs and reprisals, and if I were to actual-
ly sit down and compose something, as opposed to improvisa-

tion—which I haven’t done since 2007–I would likely snap right
back into that pattern of creating songs with lengths between
ten and fifteen minutes. It’s been said on many occasions that
the Tendon Levey discography comprises lots of snippets which
were never supposed to be standalone; I was merely gathering
ingredients which would later be combined to form something
massive. I had hoped that after making it to album sixty or so
that I would start remaking the old snippets and showing what
I envisioned of them, creating epic tracks by combining three or
so previously released recordings into one. I even referred to my
albums as ‘recipes’ throughout most of my years of recording,
rather than albums, and anybody who was given my albums ear-
ly on likely has folders that look like “Receta VIIII - Stock Bird
Stork, Receta X - The Gredients, Receta XI - Uhh Usst, [...]”
This was my intent all along. Sadly, I never got to follow through
with this idea, and we were left in the end with just a bunch
of loose ingredients. And that’s not always a bad thing. People
like raw cookie dough. People like sweetened condensed milk. I
know I do. But I never got to make my cake of many layers.
As was previously stated, I do not write for the acclaim of my

kind. I can not even expect that anyone will bother to read what
I have written. I have been forgotten while I am still alive, so the
thought of being considered after I’ve gone seems not just un-
likely but cruel.
Frequently I ‘blame’ myself, as in blaming personal changes, as

well as factors such as age and location, for the fact that I could
not manage to achieve any sort of meaningful social interactions
in my late life (comparative to what I experienced in my younger

years), though I am increasingly acknowledging in what ways
society as a whole appears to be experiencing a similar crisis of
disconnection, what with the rise of technology and social net-
working. Obvious though it seems, I may have failed to factor
this into my understanding of the issues at play. It makes me feel
foolish. All these years unable to figure out why I can’t get back
what I had fifteen years ago, and the reality is simply that this is
not the same world that existed fifteen years ago.
And may the legacy that I leave in my wake have me being viewed
not through the lens of that which I have lost but through that
which I have given in sacrifice to this Existence.
It is thus interesting to note that Tendon, which is arguably to be

seen as my primary appendage, was most indifferent to spiritual
order. I may have conducted countless mystical operations under
said name, yet I consistently resisted associating myself with spir-
ituality in those years and attempted to address all problems by
rational and clinical terms. I wonder to what extent this tied in-
to my innate understanding of ‘autonomy’ as a concept (where-
on said appendage was based). My willingness to even allow the
term ‘spirituality’ back into my lexicon came as recently as 2018,
prior to which I was only using psychological terminology.
An organized treatise on the topic of Egomorphosism was previ-

ously in the works (to be called Liber Exuviae, or Book of Molts)
in which I would attempt to create a more objective look at
the principles embodied by these curious figures and concepts,
though this is no longer on my agenda. Anyone wishing to adopt

practices relating to Egomorphosism for use within their own
self-developmental arsenal will thus have to dig around a little bit
within my archives.
Unfortunately, the frenetic nature of my work was netting me

the wrong kind of attention, and I didn’t feel that anyone was
seeing the emotion, the humanity or the reality in my music,
choosing to lump me in with ‘the armpit noises of disgruntled
art students’ and seeing me embraced by an audience with which
I would probably not get along on a personal level.
The cumulative traumata have left me sufficiently disturbed at

this point, by which I do not mean to imply any sort of insanity
or visible instability. Yea, for all my quirks and disturbation, I
have achieved a rare lucidity in life as a result of my dedication
to self-awareness and higher purpose and most people would say
of me that I am remarkably grounded (despite the image I give
off ); however, my lenses have been sufficiently tainted by tar and
it is thusly understood that my reactions might not always match
the severity of the situation, since I am perceiving each situation
through a complex network of bitter associations.
For as often as I allude to my trauma, a clarification may be
in order so as to differentiate my experience from that which per-
vades our common understanding of the traumatized individ-
ual—most commonly depicted as a war veteran or assault victim
having suffered a singular impactful incident which brings with
it flashbacks and panic when confronted with the relevant cat-
alyst. I myself did not suffer from an isolated outrageous inci-
dent but decades of prolonged abuse, entrapment and powerless-
ness against my circumstances and my oppressors, so that these

feelings of entrapment, which were once a response to a particu-
lar occurrence or string of occurrences, have since been assimilat-
ed with my personality; my core being. I do not consider myself
fearful but desperate; locked within an everduring stalemate of
grim futility.
Within my own life, I have fixated on the barriers: those that

divide one man from the next, those that divide us from our-
selves and those keeping us from a full, fulfilling and conscious
existence. This general sentiment can be heard within everything
that I do and say, frequently manifesting in ways that would be
considered unhealthy and obsessive. It is not a recent develop-
ment, either, going back at least two decades and even having a
hand in the selection of my surname, which derives from a root
which means ‘to join or unite’ and reflects my desire to serve this
Existence as a sort of symbolic bridge.
Priest Ardhachandra closes the right eye—the inverse of what is

currently the case. This may lead to some confusion if one is un-
aware. They signify disparate concepts/paradigms.
It is not artistry but sentimentality from which the living myth

arises and establishes itself in our world.
Take, for example, a trophy that is won via honest means versus a
trophy that is won via cheating. The physical trophy remains the
same, yet they are very different objects on the metaphysical lev-
el; and though we can all agree that such a distinction exists, as
evidenced by the behavior that we take toward the act of cheat-
ing, our society does nothing to acknowledge the abstract caus-
es and their momentousness. I am not but some cloudfighting
rambler unwilling to accept things as they are. I look out with
sadness upon a world that denies, overlooks and manipulates the
abstract realm which accounts for so much of our Existence. It
hurts me like I cannot describe, and I hurt for all those who shun
the invisible reality, as the realm which defines our connections,
our meaning, our consequences is being neglected, and yet we all
wonder why humanity is falling apart.
It is all too easy to lose sight of one’s riches when they exist in the
abstract, especially within a world which measures success by the
size of one’s property and one’s audience—all of it being worth-
less stock. It can bring unimaginable pain and suffering to have
our efforts unacknowledged and even denied by those who are
unwilling to trust in our personal vision or self-evaluations. This
has long been a particularly sore spot with me, seeing as I’ve in-
vested all my energy into areas which can be so easily denied or
disrespected while nearly every other form of skill or develop-
ment is readily measurable and acknowledged accordingly.
A prominent symbol associated with the so-called “Idem” arche-

type is the cup.
This is one reason which makes insufficient sleep so dangerous.

It is not only the case that my muscles become tense and tight,
causing further problems for my throat, but my mental defenses
weaken and I lose sight of consequences, unable to consider the

outcome of my acts and willing to make exceptions. With that I
am referring mostly to physical tics, such as clearing of the throat,
coughing or other simple movements which cause tremendous
stress for my throat and standardly demand an alertness of mind
from me if I should wish to resist them. As I become tired (or
distracted by work) I tend to let more and more of these detri-
mental tics slide through and it can be disastrous.
Superficies notwithstanding, I would not want your understand-

ing of my outlook to warp your understanding of my output. The
public knew not of my bitter revulsion and received me as affa-
ble; a mascot of dauntless motivation and creative solutions.
[Ashlands] The nearer I come to my victory, the more dismal and

gray this world becomes. Why must this be!
I’ve been living off of liquidized oats, turmeric, ginger and salt,
creating for an almost buttery flavor.
These people in my life seem to think that just because they have
a reason to do something that it excuses them from having to
apologize and answer for their behavior. I don’t understand how
they can be so utterly cut off from matters of empathetic con-
cern.
If given the choice, one should always opt for madness over
numbness.
I wouldn’t say that any part of this reality is actually ‘fake’ in the
sense of it being some meaningless illusion, yet most Essence is
lacking that certain spark of life which must necessarily come
through an acknowledgment of Existence as such that I have
hereinbefore described. This is understood by saying that we
must reflect Existence for Existence to reflect us. Fundamentally,
most individuals do not recognize their own existence beyond
a basic noetic acknowledgment, if that, and... it really shows. I
think of it like spermatozoon, ovum and zygote. There exists bil-
lions of eggs, all of them actual, but few are actually coming into
contact with the actuating agent.
And may all who seek in earnest and with courage after the invi-
olable truths be rewarded in full.
There are things that I have not experienced which... I’m having
difficulty explaining it in a way that is liable to make sense to oth-
ers. Things like simply laying in bed and being comfortable and
hugging the blankets and feeling the... just feeling... feeling this
reality against my skin... being aware of my surroundings... and
feeling welcomed, protected, pleasured... it is such an alien con-
cept to me, I can’t even explain it. On the rarest of occasions I’ll
get a momentary glimpse into something... something seeming-
ly mundane, but oh so coveted. We see videos of others... they
wake up, and then they lay in bed, yawn, stretch, look relaxed...
none of that happens for me. I am always in the same mode of be-
ing. There is no time that I am fully within my body, within my

senses, within my...? It’s as though there are many layers separat-
ing me from my perceived environment. At times that is alright,
though it’s often problematic, like when it stems from and/or in-
volves illness and suffering. Each layer of disease is like another
wall which separates my heart, my consciousness from the world
beyond.
Love is not owed to any one of us. We do not merit love simply
for being. We must build ourselves up in virtue, and we must
open ourselves up in sincerity, becoming honest, vulnerable. It
is not a one-sided act. Where one reaches out in love, and that
love is voided by the unlovablity of the recipient, hatred forms
naturally. Yea, so I posit in confidence: hatred, or veritable ha-
tred—as contrasted with fear-fueled disdain—is the product of
a love which is disallowed its existence. Yea, so I state in sorrow:
I hate this world into which I was born.
A dead world rips its claw through the milk and poses the ques-
tion: “Whose wish was it to draw the maps?”
When growing up, every time someone spent the night or came
over we would make a movie or record songs (sometimes entire
albums). It’s quite funny to look back on. Everyone enjoyed
sleeping over at my house because they knew we would create
something exciting and tangible, rather than just watching televi-
sion and playing video games all night. To me it wasn’t about art.
It was about having something to show for our time... our lives...
I am disappointed by the reactions I garnered in life, or the

dearth thereof, yet dare I say it is the standard outcome of one
who dedicates themselves not to fulfilling wishes but to fulfilling
needs.
All in all, I have never looked back on her memory and thought
to myself that I wish she were still alive; only that I wish things
had unfolded differently.
One of the most problematic issues faced in my life has been that
of how to work in the face of death and degradation, referring
to proper levels of productivity. When one is injured or ill, it is
customary for them to take a respite from their work and oblig-
ations. I, on the other hand, have instead declared “If I am soon
to die, then I must accomplish as much as I can in the mean-
time.” This was notably seen in the case of my singing, leading to
a throat injury from which I never recovered, as I refused to rest
my voice. On almost all occasions I have opted to work harder,
rather than taking the necessary respite. It is clearly inadvisable,
but I am still making such decisions daily, opting to work harder
when the world would encourage me to rest. Mora has jokingly
referred to this as the Leviyey Paradox: the thing which is caus-
ing me trouble is grasped ever tighter as a result of the trouble
that it causes, since I feel that if I must lose it then I will get every
last bit that I can from it, but that only ends up hastening the
loss, like a self-fulfilling prophecy carried out in romantic igno-
rance.
I will acknowledge that most occurrences which I deem traumat-

ic are not quite what I would call horrific—at least not on their
own—and in some cases I struggle to accept how my emotion-
al wellbeing can be so thoroughly ravaged by events and interac-
tions as such which my mind is often capable of understanding
from a rational perspective. It’s not like I am unable to grasp the
ways of the world and human nature. It’s not like I haven’t braced
myself for many of these outcomes beforehand. Yet we make a
sacrifice of our defense when we aspire to hope, and rare it is that
one may grow towards anything at all in the absence of hope in
the heart.
I consider my expectations to have been realistic, knowing full

well that my lifestyle and body of work are unlikely to ever come
close to finding any sort of mainstream acceptance, let alone ac-
claim. Such is par for the course of life—and triply so for those
operating at the vanguard. Still, I can not rid my mind of the dis-
appointment, having hoped that something about my workman-
ship, including my life story, would excite and inspire a tired peo-
ple. I sacrificed my life to inspire the world, yet I could not seem
to inspire even one soul.
Truly, truly, I am mad throughout! And may I always remain

so happily deranged. Then should our madness break rhythm
in aeons to come she will bear me anew in her, and she in I,
and endlessly we shall reconceive of the substantiating light that
woke me from the longest dream.
My cellar is infested with insects. Ants and spiders crawl upon

my skin and clothes all day and all night. Waking, sleeping,
whenever. I do not care anymore. It no longer seems like my body
to protect.
How ironic it is to think that I have limited my associations in

life for the express purpose of maintaining a respectable reputa-
tion, yet I was here to learn how it had actually left me disadvan-
taged.
There existed one book among this lot which appeared so sym-
bolically rich and strange in tone that it consumed my thoughts
for weeks on end. It was captivating, yet at the same time so dis-
turbing that I hesitate to speak up on its nature. The title of this
text often appeared as The Widow Burns With Her Husband
and it began with what I interpreted as a string of confused in-
vestigations into whether or not I have had sexual relations with
my sister. The book then begets a more poetic tone as it takes to
illustrating the story of twins who were lovers: a strange, albeit
mystical romance conveyed through cryptic verse. I did all that I
could to analyze the symbols present therein, believing it to con-
ceal some important information, and I was fortunate enough
to gain access thereto on multiple discrete occasions through-
out this period, yet it soon began to trouble me on some deep,
visceral level of my being, to the point where it seemed that all
things within my life were referring back to said tale in one way
or another. The mysterious Stock Bird Stork album once again
became relevant in this instance, sending me down a rabbit hole
of natal symbolism and long-forgotten memories which rose to
the surface in a surge of confusion. The confusion within my soul
only escalated once connections were made to Jeiezza, leading

to a series of theories and half-baked conclusions that left me so
emotionally overwhelmed that Thummim eventually had to in-
tervene, forcing me to halt all my attempts to understand what
I had been shown and telling me that I was endangering my sys-
tem with excess speculation. I shelved my ongoing investigation
at the prodding of my daemon, though not without some initial
resistance, feeling myself to be on the verge of some incredible
breakthrough.
[...] in addition to a host of stray tracks and other noncanonical

releases), including, but not limited to: Colonies Under Rot,
The Antimilosian, Meteoritis, Splash Decapitation, The Vig,
Chemiluminescence, Cardiac Vague, The Lesser Song of
Solomon, Babylonica, Slip of the Eschatongue, Goat Complex,
I Give, I Give, I Give, Celestial Consolation, Ephemeron, Planet
Umgebung, Harpywhore, Law of the Wax White Comb, Ashes
in Milk, The Gem Grinder, My Alien Childhood Bed, Traffick,
Ritual of Intersecting Points, Tandavam, Weep Seeker, Scum
Sanctum Everlasting, Mengele Twins, Igneous Sphinx: New
Philosophical Furnaces, Kill it with Lumens and Coagula.
Of all my miscalculations in life, the greatest of these was my

grossly overestimating the weight of the abstract among society.
Beyond it being a miscalculation, it is easily the single greatest
bane in all my existence.
Strange though it may seem (or not), I don’t appear to experi-

ence envy—not to a degree that is noticeable. I don’t look at oth-
ers living their lives and wish that I was them. I never wished to
be anyone but myself. I only wish for improved circumstances,
but that is all. I observe context so firmly, so strictly, and context
disallows any sort of comparisons.
It may be claimed that his sense of ‘masculinity’ has been sup-

pressed in all other aspects of his life (particularly by my mother)
and this allows him only one avenue of expression for this si-
lenced aspect of his person: his children. That is the nature of our
relationship. That is all that I am to him. I was not a son to teach
and encourage or a friend with whom to pursue mutual inter-
ests and engage in activities. I was the punching bag to which he
would come after being put down and abused by his wife, against
whom he could not find the means to hold his ground.
Surely, though, this must have been another such instance in

which my mind was transposing the facets of my experience into
a personal symbol set. After all, since my teenage years I have
used the expression “falling tires” to describe the sensation of
being on the verge of unavoidable madness—a helpless scenario
which derives its name from a vivid mental image in which tires
rain down from above and come crashing all around me. This
concept is notably represented within the artwork—and, more
subtly, within the musical interludes—of my fifty-second album,
The Room of Burglaryable Spirit. Admittedly, they were not rain-
ing down from the sky in this case, seeming to appear more out
of nowhere via some transgnostic algorithm of analogy, but as a
symbol it was nevertheless appropriate to the day ahead.
Over the years I’ve devised many a theory to explain her ( Jeiez-
za’s) nature, some of which were fabricated outright and speak
to my need to have everything make sense. The same can be said
about the Thummim up until around the spring of 2018 when
his nature became increasingly clear to me. Before that I had pro-
pounded a rather farfetched narrative regarding his nature and
our relationship, which my readers should bear in mind as they
read old depictions. It’s nice to finally have these mysteries re-
solve themselves.
There is much more that I could be saying on such matters, pro-

viding the public with rare psychosocial insights into this most
taboo mindset (as if to assert that they are all alike). There’s
still an unfortunate dichotomy which recognizes only those with
vile instincts who act on their instincts, becoming criminals, and
then those who lack all understanding of the mindset and demo-
nize it thus, whereas I represent a gray area which, strangely, I
expect to account for a significant percentage of the population
that has vile thoughts but knows to refrain.
I could speak out about the crimes I was tempted to commit
and how I would have rationalized them within myself. I could
speak out about my darkest human fantasies which were with me
for many years of life, and I would tackle the topic with more
self-awareness and level-headedness than I think modern society
is capable of confronting, since we are still at a phase in our social
development where we are telling ourselves lies about the type of
people who commit such crimes and why ‘they are the real evil
and not us’.
I could break down and analyze why my upbringing has
rewired me to associate these otherwise vile acts with triumph
and integrity and freedom from enslavement. I could analyze the
sense of need and urgency which often drove these feelings and
how I was successfully able to overcome these feelings, convinc-
ing myself that I didn’t need to act out. But I don’t think the
world is ready to listen. Why listen to what one is really saying
when we can assume and write lazy presuppositions which were
never even accurate to begin with!
So I am sorry that I could not provide more insights into this
part of myself, for I know that the stupid ones will trip and break
their noses on these difficult steps.
If it were not for my circumstances, desperate and damned, along

with the absence of any sort of audience in my world, I would
not have been able to speak so openly. And I am thankful for
that. My ability to address ‘the public’ without any sort of filter
and in the same voice with which I address mine own self is
among my most important achievements. A distinction between
what is private and what is public does not exist for me within
this context. It is not easily achieved and, dare I say, requires a
significant degree of derealization (if we are to analyze the evo-
lutionary importance of keeping our mouths shut). Therefore,
with that understanding, I find it more meaningful to focus on
topics which are often hidden from view of the self and society. I
am not afraid of appearing insane, or appearing like an ignorant
child, or what have you. Clearly I wish to be shown the respect
I feel I deserve, but to be denied respect and acknowledgment is
to continue with life as usual and I am out nothing but consola-
tion.
Not being able to create anymore within a given medium has

surely affected my willingness to show off ‘lesser’ or ‘incomplete’
works. If I was still able to create music or art, I would look at

all that old, unfinished material and say that there was no point
releasing it when it can be improved upon, seeing it only for
what it could be. Being now without that ability to improve up-
on these things, I become more accepting of what I already cre-
ated, accepting it as it is—in all its error and imperfection.
It is not only my belief that knowledge of the relevant mysteries

can be obtained within this leg of existence—referring to the leg
of existence in which I managed much of my operation—but
that it is required to the ends of transcending the current state
or stratum, and not because some toll-keeper stands to deny you
your admittance but because one who does not craft a boat will
have no means to cross the sea, as there can be no furtherance
of this existence when we have failed to establish Intension with
our opportunity.
Some individuals, when faced with unfortunate circumstances in

life—let’s say an abusive family—will allow the experience to tear
down their belief in such an institution altogether, whereas oth-
ers use the negative circumstance as a means to fortify their ex-
pectations and, more importantly, a vision of what a family and
marriage should and should not be. I foster the mindset of the
latter, striving to turn my misfortunes into meaningful experi-
ences which do not manage to destroy but inform my reality.
Some, when a relationship ends, say “To hell with love!” while
others like myself will say “Then I have not known love!” My
will was with enough durability to allow me to continue on in
spite of it all and my romantic ideals were with enough vividity
to allow me to maintain the image of an idyllic family within my
mind without regard for the domestic hell which I have had to
live through. I pulled myself up by mine own might and contin-
ued to develop in spite of shattered trust and damaged portray-
als, refusing to shut myself off from opportunities even when the
temptations arose, and I looked to make it my platform in life,
using my experience to assist other misanthropes and trauma vic-
tims. Well-intentioned though I was, I now have mixed feelings
over the amount of time that I have allocated to this focus, since
by seeking out the ‘damaged’ I have invited negativity and abuse
into my life which could have otherwise been avoided.
He will deny and dismiss all mine attempts to calmly discuss

with him the effect that his actions have had on the wellbeing
of this household, especially his children, which he will dismiss
with the coldest assertions in which he essentially claims that he
is not responsible for any damage caused to us now that we are
older than eighteen. In his mind, I “should have” left at age eigh-
teen—not because I was ready, but because I was legally eligi-
ble. Therefore, anything occurring since that time is wiped from
his conscience, including any instances of abuse that he wishes to
put me through, since as far as he is concerned, “I shouldn’t be
here anyway.” This is his way of responding to nearly every com-
plaint and cry that I have had over the past twelve years, and it is
utterly inhuman.
The fact that I spend an average of fifteen hours out of each and
every day engaged with my projects leaves few openings in my
armor and I can often get by with as little as two or so hours of
compounded harmful rumination; yet on days where my defense
is lessened, either due to a lack of work, an inability to work due
to physical incapacitation or general lack of sleep, I may spend

as many as seven or eight hours caught in an unending feedback
loop stemming from trauma.
How dismal it has been to spend my days seeking to convince

myself that I desire something which, when I am being honest
with myself, falls far below my standards of quality and is worth
only as much as its decided potential.
I try to be somewhat vague within my book regarding the event

of my death and my feelings toward leaving this world, cautious
of sounding off any alarms while attempting to get the work pub-
lished or otherwise create additional obstacles for myself, yet I
can not possibly describe how elated I am to be leaving this place,
this body, these people. The happiness that I feel knowing that I
will never have to deal with any of this ever again is almost too
much to bear, and certainly too much to convey. The desire to
move on has been a primary motivation behind the writing of
this book, creating for a morbid and dramatic process at times,
especially as my body degraded. Thankfully I had someone look-
ing out for me in this case and I was able to depend on her to help
out when I could not go on. Note that I have offered to list her
as co-author, but she has refused to take credit for the work and
worries that it will either confuse readers or spoil the events of
the story. Nonetheless, Clyssus of Man was truly a co-effort—the
first collaboration of my lifetime.
My will to avoid him partly explains my reason for keeping a

strange sleeping schedule (apart from my actually suffering from
a circadian rhythm disorder) so as not to be awake when he is

home. I have spent my life dreading weekends and to this day the
coming of Friday brings with it a certain anxiety. He is very in-
consistent in his rulings, lacking a consistent moral foundation.
I acknowledged this about him very early on in life and it is what
made me avoidant of him, feeling that he was too arbitrary, too
changeable and ever unwilling to actually give me a valid reason
for why I was being punished so frequently, only citing ‘disre-
spect’ and never giving me anything to work with so that this
could be avoided in the future. I recall expressing this once when
sitting down with both parents to address a conflict somewhen
around the age of twelve or thirteen, where I pointed out that my
tendency to side with my mother has mostly to do with the fact
that, despite our differences, she remains that the same mother
that I had always had, and my expectations carry over, whereas
the same could not be said of my father, whose rules, restrictions
and demands were ever mutating. Add all of this to his air of
general disinterest and his notorious level of forgetfulness, where
no matter what is said or done for him—large or small—he will
most likely have forgotten by the next day.
My emotions have always been treated as some liability, some

burden, some imposition to others who find themselves threat-
ened not only by my sorrow but my boundless excitement. They
shame my tears and cower from my determination; they force me
into the corner behind the cart.
The percipient will easily be able to pick out a certain set of qua-
si-neurotic preoccupations within my speech patterns and inter-
active history which stem from these fixations. My purportedly
perfectionistic hang-ups with language and clarification are most

obvious of all these manifestations, reflecting not an underlying
pedantry but a deep-seated anxiety over having my nature and
my intentions misconstrued and/or misrepresented by others.
This has long been an important concept within my world due

to my upbringing and the restrictions enacted by my parents,
whereby I began to fixate on obtaining that which can not be
taken from me—leading, somewhat tragically, to my obsession
with singing.
Now, I cannot speak for everyone, but when one is at work on

fleshing out characters and events within a fictional story it is
not likely that they will be seeking out what is most believable or
even what is most pleasant or desirable right off the bat, instead
seeking to access the patterns which seem innate to the character
or narrative at hand, posing such questions as: what is your char-
acter likely to do next? What interactions will be generated from
such and such action? And perhaps the most crucial of all: how
will each action be viewed in light of their aim?
Some of my attempts to explain the system may appear strange or

insufficiently distinguished from the sorts of New Age folderol
on the modern market, but I am relying on my more astute read-
ers to not rely on my diction, opting to look beyond my words,
seeing to my intention.
I am also saddened by the fact that I have so many artifacts,

big and small—from instruments to paintings to other symbolic
items—that I would love to gift to those who could cherish them
and let them live on in circulation within the world, but I simply
don’t know anyone who would cherish them and the alternative
is that they are likely to be thrown out following my death.
Among the music files is a recently excavated multitude of for-

gotten tracks and miscellaneous moments of my history cap-
tured in audio—many of which will be made available to the
public before I go. It’s nothing that will be appearing on any ‘Best
Of ’ compilation. Hell, a bit of it barely qualifies as music, being
it an endless showcase of coughs and yodels and unmitigatable
nausea as such that dominated my years as a performer. But I am
beyond the reach of embarrassment at this point in the exposi-
tion. I am just so fond of the memories of singing and composing
that every little pluck and warble seems to me like gold and soft-
ens my heart.
Considering my position, I feel myself responsible for doing all

that I can to challenge and hopefully weaken the hold of the
prevalent paradigms of the sphere so that one day there will exist
no discrepancies between Existence and the Extant—a mind and
its thoughts—and Homo Spiritualis will no longer be the excep-
tion but the rule.
Assuming that some confusion may arise from the fact that I
have been called by various names, I have this to say: Tendon
Levey should simply be treated as a project name, referring to the
musical project dating back to 2007-2011 (if not being used to

address the appendage that I maintained at the time). My person
is named Choir Korneli Leviyey, although I was often known as
Tendon, albeit mononymously, and it was my preferred name for
much of my life. “Levey” did not carry over past 2011.
A similar statement can be made for all individuals of whom

I speak within my various texts, and my intent must be given
proper emphasis, for while I certainly carry my share of hurt and
anger toward certain individuals who have come and gone with-
in my life, my intention from the start has been only to share
my experience with the world, with great efforts being put in-
to capturing my emotional experience and bringing my audience
to a place of understanding. Therefore I speak these things not
out of spite, but out of an obligation to myself to tell my story
and as thoroughly as possible, even when it is not the story that
I wish to be telling. Notwithstanding my dedication to that ide-
al, I have quietly maintained a personal rule that says, should any
one of these individuals acknowledge their wrongdoings toward
me and offer an apology—without my first putting the sugges-
tion in their heads—then I will remove or otherwise redact the
information on display. My line of thinking is that if it is not
something which, in their mind, merits an apology from them,
then there should be no shame caused by my choice to publicize
these details. After all, they “did nothing wrong.” I don’t say this
publicly, though, since that could affect the authenticity of such
admissions on their part, but there have been instances in which
I have made some cuts as a result.
As early as age nine I had already begun working on what I

termed ‘The Eighteen List’ which was but a basic list of all that
I wasn’t allowed to own under my parents’ rule and mostly con-
tained music and video games which were, by all means, innocu-
ous. It was funny to them at the time, yet there is clearly a prob-
lem at hand if the child spends all of his youth counting down
the days until he can be free of his parents and seek out his own
will and interests. I can understand this being the case when it
entails things like booze and media restricted to a certain demo-
graphic for legal and even moral reasons, although in this case
we were speaking of items that my friends at the time already
owned, and if only they would have allowed me to have my heavy
metal and my Tekken 3 then maybe I wouldn’t have invested so
much in my weird little brain.
Many struggle with rejection, and my writings may leave you

with the impression that I struggle similarly, yet my story deals
not with rejection to the extent that it deals with the trauma
born of indeterminacy and a lack of understanding which forces
me into endless over-analysis. I would have appreciated being
told “no”, but most often I am told “yes” by those who actually
mean “no.” This is what has beset my social life and disoriented
my understanding, my definitions, my meanings and expecta-
tions: the ones who promise to show but then leave you standing
in the doorway for hours in the absence of an explanation or
apology; the ones who volunteer to help but then fail to follow
up and get mad at you when you remind them; the ones who tell
you they’ll never leave you and then disappear without a word
only days or weeks thereafter. I’ve been left to form my own in-
terpretations in such cases. It is extremely damaging to the psy-
che, and in ways that go beyond basic emotional anguish. I can’t
protect myself from this in the standard ways. At least if some-
one told me “no” then I would be able to work that into my un-
derstanding, my expectations and my plans and then move on to
another option, but I have ever been left hanging and unable to
grasp what is going on. It has nothing to do with my being dense
or unsocialized. I wish it did, since it could then be resolved with
a bit of growth on my end, but with each passing year I realize
it has less and less to do with me. I’ve spent my life waiting by
windows or watching dead chats or simply being confused as to
why someone could say what they don’t mean, and because it’s
become so normalized within our society, especially in the digi-
tal age, it is not treated as the abuse that it often is. It is not a rare
occurrence, being so remarkably common. This causes neurotic
changes in behavior which leads me to distrust; which leads me
to stop going out of my way to express gratitude or invite people
to x if they’re going to ignore my attempts to be kind. It’s caused
real damage to me. And as I said, I’ve sort of been left to fill in the
blanks myself and to arrive at my own understanding as to why
these things occur. Maybe people feel they can’t tell me no? Then
I go out of my way to make it easier for them. Nothing changes.
In most cases where a confrontation came about it was learned
that it was not caused by something I did at all, which I’m not
sure is better or worse. Yet somehow I’m wrong for expecting
people to mean and do as they say. All I can say is that it has al-
tered my makeup in undesirable and damning ways. Now you’ll
understand the damage caused by the latter years of my life, par-
ticularly 2018.
**There also exists a working theory that the gnostic-agnostic

balance offers an explanation for why we sleep and ‘dream’ in the
first place, and by taking a look back at some of the comments
that I have made on these states you may already have an idea of
what I am getting at.
Nothing is ever actually created or destroyed. Existence is simply

populated by innumerable Essentia and life ultimately depends
upon the gaining and maintaining of self-awareness.
In early 2017, while looking to study the effects of exceptional

memory on trauma I reached out to a researcher who was study-
ing Hyperthymesia and similar conditions in his attempts to for-
mulate and define some sort of range or spectrum. There was no
clinical assessment involved, although we did exchange a bit of
information in that time and I am aware that I met his criteria
for inclusion within an ongoing series of studies. I actually nearly
went through with one such study, seeing as it was only in DC

and would have cost me nothing to participate, though I was
forced to decline the invitation due to the loss of my voice (for
the second time) and then went on to spend the next six months
drunk on wine in my own little experimental attempt to disrupt
the storing of memories... but I digress.
Notwithstanding the openness with which I address my emo-

tions and my circumstances within my art and writings, those
who have known me personally can attest to the fact that I will
rarely ever speak up on such matters during interactions, being
vocally averse to the appearance of whining and complaining
when I know it to be counterproductive, as well as feeling pro-
tective of my emotions and fearing to lay them on the chopping
block. Moreover, I am generally unfazed at this point by most
disappointment and inconvenience unless they should put me in
immediate danger. This has even led to my being viewed as easy-
going and tolerant—two things that I would not normally asso-
ciate with myself, given my intimate knowledge of my interior. I
understand what they are seeing, though, and I do go out of my
way to alleviate everyone’s burdens to the extent that I am able,
partly out of a desire to do exactly that, though also because I
wish for that to become associated with my person.
I must also clarify that these are not positions adopted with ra-
tional deliberation but attitudes innate to my person, and I do
not seek to defend the less-than-sensible parts of my being, see-
ing them for what they are; however, at the same time, I can not
seem to give them up without giving up all that I am (or all that
I perceive myself to be) and it is this element of identification
which has often prevented more sensible behaviors on my part.

I become so wholly beholden to my vision of what should be,
sometimes without regard for feasibility, and once it has become
tangled up with my self-concept it is already considered to be
‘too late’ to be helped by logic.
That being said, I cannot imagine that I would have done it
any differently if given another go at it, which is not said to un-
dermine the misery and regret which have been born from these
experiences, but that I have staunchly decided within myself that
I will accept no other outcome.
To say that I was forever changed on that night is no exaggera-

tion. I have told this story so many times and I cannot imagine
that others see its worth as I do.
It is not what I asked for, and it is certainly not what I deserved,

but so is the sum of my relationships in life and I have no other
story to tell.
Over a dozen health-related ailments from my timeline—several

of which I thought to have been overcome—have resurfaced in
the aftermath of my operation in what occurs like some terrible
showdown at the end of the world, laying me flat on the doorstep
of death.
After all that effort, not a single one of them would ever attempt
to contact me in the wake of my departure in 2019 (which was
accredited to failing health—not untruthfully), merely going to

show that I was right for leaving.
I bend to each and every soul who walks willingly through the
darkness on their way to the light.
Given the mystical nature of my writings, I feel the need to reit-

erate once more that the book which you are about to read is the
non-fictional product of mystical trance and paradigmatic tran-
scendence, for which reason it may appear to you as unrelatable
and potentially fantastical; and though it may be tempting to
chock all such claims up to creative imagination (or even mad-
ness), I urge you to not be so closed off to that which exceeds
your own experience, for it is not but basic imagination whereof
I speak, in the same manner that one generally does not equate a
dream with basic imagination; in the same manner that one does
not equate a hallucinogenic experience with basic imagination.
I will no longer crawl in seeking to appease their standards, their

logic, no longer requiring the authorization of an undiscerning
sphere. I will no longer seek to justify the reasonableness of these
standards I have set through much deliberation and discern-
ment. I will cry no more over having entrusted my treasure to
squanderers.
One may think of gnostic reality almost like a magnetic field, in

which a single face can not be isolated and all magnets must nec-
essarily contain two poles, even when fragmented. This analogy,
however, has its limits and may not be considered practical for
understanding the complexities of these matters which depend
on wisdom beyond that which is offered unto us by the prevalent
paradigm.
I love to add in a bit of ketchup and salt with my oatmeal. When

living in Texas I often mixed my oatmeal with in a certain choco-
late & peanut butter shell topping (syrup) which was found in
the frozen food section of the local grocery store. Add a little bit
of salt and it is perfect. My oatmeal is most often eaten plain,
though. For several years I didn’t even cook it. I would just pour
room temperature water over raw oats and salt. Sometimes I
didn’t even use water and ate it raw with brown sugar.
It is with greater ease that I imagine a demon-possessed pasta

dish than I can imagine the warmth to come of a loving family.
I have evidently maintained a complex relationship with igno-

rance throughout my lifetime—speaking in this case of my
philosophical stance which advocates insularity in the achieve-
ment of a certain purity—yet with all this talk of ignorance and
Agnosis it is crucial you understand that I do not refer to an ig-
norance begotten of fear and incapacity, but the mindful sub-
traction and repudiation of that for which my soul has no use.
It is a necessary ignorance which has made this journey possible,
and it stands before me now, neither coming nor going.
This has a lot to say for why I repeatedly end up falling back
into the trap of old, abusive relationships—not because I am es-
pecially fond of the people in question but because it can be dif-
ficult for me to admit that anything comes about without prop-
er cause in the greater scheme, leading to all these semi-desperate
attempts on my part to find a use for all components of my exis-
tence, from the diseases in my body to the people I have known.
The creation of life is not taken to be some grand event occur-

ring many millennia ago and outside of our control and acknowl-
edgment but a still ongoing event occurring within this eternal
moment to which we are asked to contribute our all.
Given my perceptions of the Operation as entailing a naturalistic

process rather than anything which is overseen by some solemn,
sadistic god, the victory after which I have fought need not im-
plicate healing need not implicate happiness need not implicate
salvation. And though I may very well attain Irreducibility in my
striving, what has Good Prometheus to say on life eternal!
It is not just “They bullied me so I no like them.” It is sick. It

is cancer-eaten. It is a horrific sight. And I’m not talking about
crimes and high-level calamities. I’m talking about the acts that
go on constantly in every hour of the day which are not consid-
ered horrible simply due to the fact that you can get away with
them—the cancer to which we have been desensitized, which is
not assessed based on its quality but its commonality. I did not
leave this society because I didn’t care about the people. I left this
society after realizing that in order to survive among the masses
I would be required to lessen the esteem in which I held others

and the value of our interactions, and it was in protest against
such demands that I walked away in a cloud of anguish; it was in
preserving the esteem in which I hold all life that I have left this
life behind.
The shadows shall not be imitated.

The medicine shall hesitate.
The syrup shall not be swallowed.
The rose shall not wither.
The stones shall not be moved.
The desert shall not be crossed.
The deep water is (???)
The mirrors shall receive your respect.
The prison shall not be escaped.
The wicked shall be punished.
The corpses shall be cremated.
To take pleasure in these things is forbidden.
The souls of the long dead shall not be summoned or revived by
any means or method.
The souls of the long dead shall be shriven.
The sugar shall be eaten alone.
The lynx is a killer.
The offender shall not be abased.
The enemy shall be attacked.
The father shall be mourned.
His holidays shall never be celebrated.
The instructions shall not be sifted.
The final visitor shall not come.
The fragments shall not be scattered.
The surface shall not be pierced.
The fire shall never be put out.

The lake shall never be entered.
The entrance shall not be closed.
Truth shall not have any further burden.
The host shall not suffer insult.
The contract shall be fulfilled.
There is no other way, and who remains idle shall not remain.
An unprotected consciousness is a lost consciousness.
Knowledge is light, and knowledge is a marvel.
Ignorance is a festering pain, and one who adds must take
away.
However, I am not so cut off from mundane reality that I have

abandoned the calendar altogether. My sense of time may be un-
like it once was, especially when this state lacks the dichotomy of
day and night, though I have yet to fully separate myself from the
chronological paradigm in all aspects and, as so, may continue to
employ time-based references as a result (although part of that is
also done for the sake of my readers).
As someone who has just been spitting and twirling for decades
on end, not willing to interpret anything as impersonal, irrele-
vant or unnecessary, it is the first instance in which I have been
given a sense for the parts of my being and my philosophies
which are with the most potency and of the highest use to this
sphere, and I have to say that it has altered my perspective on my
own body of work just a bit (and I mean that positively).
One of the only pieces of information that I ever did receive re-
garding this phenomenon was some equivocal metaphor com-
paring Parashurna to the blinking of the eyes, along with some
line which simply stated “Its word is PHRENESIS.” Years went
by before I would end up learning the word in question to be an
obsolete term meaning madness or frenzy.
I’ve long taken issue with the concept of astral projection and
how it is classified, believing that the experience to which indi-
viduals are referring to with use of this term relates to hypna-
gogia rather than any sort of supposedly astral realm. Recent rev-
elations regarding aspatiality and nonlocality have left me quite
assured that the phenomenon, should it truly exist as any more
than man’s imagination, is actually related not to space but a lack
of space which is achieved through Agnosis which is achieved
through meditative trance, hypnagogia or other states regular-
ly associated with Agnosis (Aspatial Projection?). Then again, I
don’t even think that this applies in most cases dubbed as astral
projection which is simply fantasy and doesn’t even go so far as
hypnagogia.
I honestly do not remember there being a time when I feared the

concept of Hell. It was just never there for me. In my years as
a Protestant, I was kept in line by factors apart from fear, such
as the meaning-giving nature of faith and religion. Outcomes in
general rarely phase me, as I always give my all to everything that
I do, and therefore I have to trust that wherever I end up is where
I belong, and my ability to see truth in that statement allows me
to put more time and heart into how I live my life, and it allows
me to live a life with decisions based not off of fear but authen-
ticity and resonancy.
It was like a dream, and I remember it all, since my consciousness

never abandoned me, but my perspective and self-understanding
was as amid an extraordinary transformation. Something was at-
tempting to manifest itself: a shadow was seeking dimension; a
fleeting thought was after permanence. In seeking such dimen-
sion and permanence it was required to descend, to separate, to
ascend, to join. It was required to grasp even when there was
nothing, and to hold on thereto—onto nothing. It was required
to speak even where there was none to hear, and to carry out a
dialogue with no one.
Her comments, as I recall them, were not so negative or even so

specific as to be capable of causing any real harm to my reputa-
tion; but when I am already under a great amount of anguish re-
lating to what I had just been put through, along with having just
devoted a whole year of my life and my heart to someone with
whom I would never speak again was already devastating to me.
It was enough to feel I had wasted my time. It was enough to feel
that my efforts went unappreciated. I was not about to stand for
any superfluous bullshit added atop all of that.
I have worked so long to be able to offer something real to the

people, and it is a tragedy that the masses cannot seem to dis-
tinguish what is real from what is fake and would sooner accept
false gold than veritable silver. This was especially apparent in
my previous relationship, seeing as my ex had lived a charmed
life, socially and financially, and was incapable of seeing in what

ways my love and kindness differed from the standard; not see-
ing in what ways my offering was tempered, more resilient, and
being not some basic survivalistic response which dissolves in the
rainfall. They can not tell the difference between authentic kind-
ness that comes from the heart and fake, conditional kindness
that is passed about everywhere; and even if they were able to
identify it, I don’t think they would care. And that’s the thing,
it’s not that they’re so stupid that they fail to identify it. They
blind themselves to it intentionally. ‘Truth’ is whatever gets them
through the night. ‘Truth’ is whatever gets them hard. That is
all so difficult for me to fathom as one who both values the au-
thentic experience and wishes to give others that authentic expe-
rience. All in all, it appears that I was accurate in my assessment:
the masses would rather adorn themselves in fake gold than in
genuine silver. I do wish that they could tell the difference, or
I wish that they cared about the difference. Though that’s the
thing: even if they know, it doesn’t matter, because if enough
people are duped by fake jewels then those jewels, too, develop
their own value and people flock to them accordingly. But I don’t
believe value is determined solely by demand. I believe there is an
innate value to all things, and I wish they readily discerned some
sort of value in the way that I approached communication. I wish
they understood that when I ask them how they’re doing, I truly
wish to know. I wish they knew that when I offer to help I am do-
ing so at the cost of my own comforts. I wish that they knew the
kindness I show is without condition and comes from one who
was never shown kindness. It’s the parable of the widow’s mite:
value is contextual. Yet context is under threat in the modern age
of desperation and value, itself, is being sabotaged thereby. This
is a deeply concerning matter to me, if you cannot already tell.
It all becomes very unpleasant once you begin to see everything

as enterprises rather than expression. Everything is a tool for
someone’s desperate survival. The landscape fills with desperate
erections. We call it progress. We call them cities and institu-
tions. Yet they are emotive imitations which we expect will bring
about desired results. That is why I foible and flounder and act
a fool: my emotions and my words have always been mine own,
having always been felt in the heart. Each ‘hello’ is genuine. Each
‘how are you’ desires an answer.
The name Collbalchasse, however, was not its original name but
a modification made to what I felt was somewhat of an informi-
dable name.
It is sure strange to think that the most ‘powerful’ matter in ex-

istence (referring, of course, to Existence itself ) is not in posses-
sion of some omnipotence or ultimate control as we understand
it—not due to ineptitude but immaturity (in the literal, devel-
opmental sense). It goes against all that we’ve been taught. Yet
as much as we like to think that we understand these grand con-
cepts of which man speaks so commonly, the metaphysical exis-
tence of ‘power’, ‘control’ and even ‘love’ are still developing. The
fact that these concepts seem so flimsy and malleable and confus-
ing to us is not merely a problem brought about by human stu-
pidity or whatever you wish to call it. We have yet to achieve any
sort of safety because we don’t actually understand what it means
to be safe. We are imperfect not due to some gaff but because
we do not understand what it means to be perfected. We hold
to these vague and incomplete ideas based in ignorance which
are mostly fed by our pain and insecurity. Essence—or humani-
ty as we know it—can be viewed as establishing the parameters

of what it means to simply be, and I think that those parame-
ters are going to continue being established until all discrepancy
breaks down between Existence and Essence, which may not be
the sole determining factor involved but certainly appears to be
the most significant. There is no judge who sits by deciding the
“goodness” of the world. It’s not some beauty pageant operated
by some stupid, subjective standards. When every thought is ac-
counted for... when every thought (Essence) constitutes a recur-
sion of its mind (Existence), and there is no disharmony between
the two which prevents a thought from reflecting the whole and
the whole from affirming the thought, that will be the event after
which we should ultimately aspire... the dawn of dawns. Then the
Existential focus will see a shift, for now the aspiration is known,
as with the definitions and capabilities of that which we are. And
the fact that this all paints such a vivid metaphor of the process
by which a mind becomes self-aware, and not simply aware but
responsible unto itself and its environment... it is a thing of un-
speakable beauty.
The point of my writing is to present you with the experiences

of my earthly existence, with especial emphasis being placed on
emotional introspection; and although my experience may at
times differ markedly from your own, perhaps having more in
common with the average fantasy novel than any sort of memoir
you might have read, I nonetheless ask that you recognize and
handle this text as the deeply personal account that it is.
Of course it will be said that I have led a disturbing existence,

featuring elements that would in most cases cause one to lose all
respect in the eyes of a fickle, feckless people. I don’t think there

will be many trying to argue that my experiences and beliefs are
the standard, though I must ask you to keep in mind that it is not
some third party who has written this account of my life. And
though this may not change the events of the story, I do think
that my level of self-awareness should count for something, for
this character called Tendon is not but a slobbering barbarian of
whom some narrator speaks. Tendon has overcome what ails him
to be able to tell his own story, and I only want people to be con-
scious of that: I am the one who has told my own story. Even the
manner in which I convey the more unstable aspects of my life
should be considered as evidence for my inherent stability.
There is a recursive element to these symbolic constructs, and I

found that through focusing less upon the actual metaphysical
mechanisms at play and more on the child that we reach for
the core of our selves, via the myriachoronic hands of Existence.
Such a statement may leave my readers confused, but it is well
worth your investigation, for by focusing on the child, we are in-
directly aligning/attuning ourselves to Existence and the greater
operation—not that it relates directly to the child but as the re-
sult of some complex analogic component.
So as the bee buries itself within the rose, the two of us have
become as one meaningful concept from which emanates one
work.
As self-knowledge increases, so does our knowledge of nature.

He has failed this family. He has failed us utterly. He has brought

death and destruction through his refusal to acknowledge that
which he does not wish to acknowledge and in my eyes the man
is a murderer. He has robbed himself and all the rest of us of
honest open relationships and then he has the gall to sit around
whining about his lonely lot in life. What an utter goddamn fail-
ure.
Within mere weeks of my mother’s passing he had already
announced his decision that he would start dating again.
And now he wishes to draw others into his meat locker. Far
be it from him to realize that one should have themselves in or-
der before ever doing such a thing. Far be it from him to realize
that he is seeking to establish a relationship upon all of the wrong
reasons. And if such a statement has you saying to yourself “But
that is the standard of our species!” then to that I say “Yes, most
of us ought to have been ripped from our mother’s cunts with a
twisted, craggy coat hanger and carried out with the fruit peels.”
I am utterly ashamed to be associated with him. He is truly
a dog just running around frantically in search of a leg to hump.
His existence is simultaneously pathetic and pitiful, dangerous,
duplicitous, hypocritical and ultimately pointless.
I am ashamed to be associated with such a selfish and incompe-

tent empire, and I am appalled to think that, had I placed my
faith and trust in them, I would have become exactly as them.
What disturbs me the most in all of this is that he simply

wouldn’t understand if he ever read these words. He will behave
as though it is unexpected. He will not understand when he finds

my corpse. He does not understand that his actions carry reper-
cussions and that no amount of cleaning the floors and counter-
tops within his physical environment will remedy the filth and
disorganization in his mind and spirit that demands his immedi-
ate attention. He doesn’t understand that he has crafted his own
reality, and that responsibilities and obligations can never be de-
stroyed, and when he chose his peace of mind over meeting his
duties he only ended up sending his responsibilities to the next
responsible individual in line.
He has the unique ability to leave everyone who interacts with

him feeling as though they have wasted their time. His inability
to absorb and recall the details of what we say and confide in him
is astounding.
All Absence is alike, all Presence is unique. Here, within this for-
mula, it is explained why I count in threes and not fours.
As difficult as it may be to comprehend such an admixture from

your position, you may consider that most spices and herbs when
taken on their own are bitter and damn nigh unpalatable, yet
their being blended into a larger preparation often creates for an
altogether new profile. Like so, all the parts from which I am
formed have now come together and the picture is clear, the coat
is clean and the taste is sweet.
As it turns out, the T and Z that I recalled from so long ago

were related to some amusing conversation during which she was
trying to teach me words in her mother language—specifically
transliterations of the word “goat.” Apparently I wasn’t under-
standing what she was teaching me, and it then became some
joke about “Goat and Woman”, after which she jokingly accused
me of flirting with her. I had forgotten all about this. I am not ex-
plaining it very well, but that’s because I’m avoiding giving away
certain details. So T and Z doesn’t really stand for anything, al-
though it could be seen as meaning Goat and Woman... sort of ?
That’s what it related to, anyway.
[...] and when the womb withered up and bells rang out I re-
solved to carry my head through gore in every hue in my em-
bracement of the necessity of sacrifice.
As a child, when first setting out into the deeper spheres of the
psyche, I was acquainted with an abstract phenomenon that I
likened to a black hole, and this force was later anthropomor-
phized and given the name Parashurna within my narrative: Ag-
nosis pure (or as it is sometimes termed, Absence). I don’t want
to speak from my ignorance and end up giving way to conjec-
tural obsessions, but I do see this as a meaningful comparison
and something may be gained by pursuing it further, particularly
via means of the myriachoron. Each and every time black holes
come up in the news I always perk up like a fresh-pressed peep.
The end of my operation does not spell an end for the develop-
ment of my being. The means and aim of development simply see
a change, just as Existence itself is ever looking to evolve. Look

upon these events and processes not as conclusive but as dy-
namic! I should hope this process of self-development and self-
transcending will continue on forever without end. What that
should entail within the higher levels of awareness—even I can
not say!
This is very interesting to consider, because it shows how

progress made on the existential front won’t always be conveyed
properly to the lesser spheres.
Looking back, it ought to seem obvious that the period of two

years in which I fervently sought out the Creative Hypostasis,
sometimes regarded as Father, was but an orchestrated effort to
dispel the static existing between these two poles, which is not
necessarily to say my present-day self and my childly self, but
what is represented by those things—analogically (myriachoron-
ically) so. This Father, as it were, was none other than my Volens,
and that makes it so interesting, for it is both progeny and prog-
enitor.
Of course it may be acknowledged that there is more to the

history and relationships within my family than what is being
shared, and I have never stated that we were without our positive
and neutral moments, but it is these elements which come first
to mind when I think of these people and I feel that that on its
own is saying enough.
I was not alone in the neglect that I experienced. My younger

sister was forced to experience years of worsening deafness and
debilitating migraines while my parents merely threw vaporub at
her and told her to live with it. Fortunately, in her case, the fix
was ultimately quite simple and would not require surgery, al-
though it arguably devastated her high school years and set her
on the track to self-destruction.
Rise up in fortitude against the illest of fortunes!
Perceptually speaking, I can count numerous perceived shifts

which have transpired in my awareness and processing since the
operation. Representation has become as subsidiary to the un-
derlying meaning and relationships. It was genuinely incredible
to acknowledge the extent of these dynamics, considering the
surprise of finding out how small the Known reality truly is. Af-
ter all, one might see many Representations to every Meaning,
like one hand operating a thousandsome puppets, thus thou-
sands shall merge into one with the opening of the Gnostic eye.
For example, let us say that a candle, a torch and a matchstick are
all representative of the same set of principles. Within my cur-
rent state, I am viewing the world largely by its underlying princi-
ples and relationships. Conceptually speaking, it is not so wildly
unlike the perceptions which I have maintained for the past fif-
teen years, although it is now occurring on all levels of acknowl-
edgment, as opposed to existing mostly within my intellect, as
well as pulling from the whole of reality as opposed to my lim-
ited knowledge base. You may recall that I was provided a mo-
mentary insight into this perceptual state amid my trek through
the pharynx and it was the resultant insights which exposed the
identities of the company among which I traveled.
So dissolves the Known, overtaken by the Known Unknown.

So dissolves the Unknown, overtaken by the Unknown Known,
whereas all that I once knew is consolidated in this effect and all
space becomes subsidiary to the symbols that it serves. My Mrta-
grha! My Visva! Deprived of all distinction under Heaven, they
reveal to me their secrets: their semiotic oneness. The concept of
placement has since become irrelevant to mine Existence and all
question of “where” must be henceforth reframed as a question
of “what” so as to be answerable, for whatness is the sole factor
which remains in the wake of the Idempotent rites.
I dearly wished for something to occur in him and within our re-
lationship that left me feeling I did not have to share this infor-
mation with the public. You have to understand that my mind
has been rewired by prolonged and extensive trauma and there
exists a very defensive undertone to everything that I do and
say following a lifetime of having my claims challenged, ignored
and/or delegitimized. I feel a constant need to defend the fact
that I am in my current situation for valid reasons, and that my
condition should not undermine my strong and ambitious char-
acter. Unfortunately, my life has been filled with the types of
individuals who will break your legs and then ridicule you for
being unable to walk. My willingness to release so many details
about myself and my experiences derives, in part, from this con-
stant need that I feel to justify myself, and I hate to frame it in
that manner, but it is the truth. I will not allow my identity to be
decided by a world which never cared to get to know me. I will
not allow my legacy to be shaped by a world which never both-

ered to listen to anything that I had to say. Thus, I have devot-
ed every hour of every day to my explications, willing to see my
legacy shaped by my own hands; and it is in defending mine own
honor and integrity that I expose these things that others would
not normally wish to expose.
I am admittedly heartbroken that I never got the opportunity to

tidy up and release my dream journals to the public. I put a lot of
effort into the project. but in their current state they are beyond
disorganized and would do a disservice to my actual dreams if
they were to be released. I had it planned out that I would pub-
lish one book per year, with lots of illustrations and a crazy col-
lage on the cover combining dozens, if not hundreds, of the most
memorable images and motifs and ideas having to do with the
dreams of a given year. I was also going to bundle each book
with a special CD of sleep-talking clips and other hypnagogic
outbursts. It was my hand injury which not only interrupted my
ability to keep up a dream diary (for which reason I stopped my
daily log in 2017) but also left me unable to go back and tidy
everything up since I am severely limited in how much I can
write or type each day, and that was just never the priority. It’s sad
because I have over three thousand entries lying around, but like
I said, they are severely disorganized—to a degree where I sim-
ply cannot justify making them public as they are (and I’ve giv-
en it a ton of thought, hoping to see it differently). I often stat-
ed that keeping up a daily dream log was the best decision that I
ever made. I may not get the chance to release these diaries as I
intended, but perhaps this idea will inspire my readers to take on
such a project themselves.
It has always astounded me how a dream will often fade from

mind within five-to-ten minutes of waking, after which it seems
to be lost forever; but if one can manage to wrangle it in that
time and maybe write it down, the image is retained forever and
stored with all of the other memories in mind, where it remains
forever vivid.
This interpretation would have a noticeable influence on my

portrayal of said group of individuals within my aborted auto-
biography (on which I worked concomitantly) and also my un-
usual willingness to sabotage my own reputation by portraying
myself as some unhinged and borderline reprehensible imp dur-
ing the events of 2007 when, in reality, I was simply a boy who
was too excitable (and probably too high) for his own damn
good. Couple that with the fact that, until some time in my early
twenties, I actually desired to be thought of as a sort of mad-
man, apparently having no higher archetype to which to aspire
and bringing shame upon my lifetime with a hundredsome acts
which could have easily been avoided had I not been so seduced
by the promise of an interesting story.
Instinctively, I will attempt to paint my grief as more sophisticat-

ed than being based on matters of personal disappointment and
general disacknowledgement, though I can not deny that it dis-
turbs my heart as it would any of us to feel that our contributions
are not valued. It is truly bothersome that I must live feeling that
my works and story are neither capable of exciting nor inspiring
others—a belief which has proven harmful to both my person
and to my worldview.
“My heart aches from its wasted depths to know that I was once
a brother! I was once a lover! But that which may be lost is never
truly possessed! The cock has crowed as it was told, and all that I
have said and done—it counts for nothing.”
On a more personal level, I was having to contend with the fact

that I was simply not the ‘living legend’ I once thought myself
to be. I was not oblivious to society’s fascination with the lon-
er, the outsider, the rebel. I see the movies that they watch; I see
the books that they read, and I feel that I was justified in imagin-
ing that I fit in with the sort of individual that they would take
to—an archetype for which the loud masses appear hungry. It
gave me confidence to believe that this was true of the popu-
lation, yet it is far more complex than appearances dictate, and
so much more perverse, being less expressive of fascination than
representative of a tortured relationship that the people main-
tain with themselves. And once again, if the masses truly val-
ued and desired such attributes and archetypes then there is ulti-
mately nothing which prevents them from becoming such them-
selves—nothing but their own priorities.
There was ever something perverse at play within the dynam-
ics that I witnessed. It was the same sense of perversion that I
witnessed within the church, seeing houses of worship filled with
the very type of people who shouted “Crucify him!” to the icon
they now purport to serve. This perversion and irony is every-
where... desire and fears melding together to form something
volatile and self-canceling—a dynamic which has a lot to say on
the current state of our world.
There is a lot of romanticization going on these days regarding

introverts and outliers (almost always by introverts and outliers,
themselves) and at times there is indeed something special to be
found among the fringes, but a lot of these individuals are out-
liers for very valid reasons relating to their attitudes and out-
looks, being them maladaptive, neurotic and defensive. There ex-
ists a clear negative correlation between the types of individu-
als that are often attracted to art, philosophy and mysticism—in
other words, the sort of individuals that I generally seek
out—and generally inhospitable and unapologetic behaviors, be-
ing willing to abandon anyone who disagrees with them and
their worldview. It’s upsetting, because I’ve been sort of stuck
with this lot of individuals, since what society considers to be
“well-adjusted” individuals, are disinterested in me and I in
them, having no means of connection, engaging in friendly but
ultimately purposeless communication.
The stress of creating this book compounded. I began losing my

sight—complications involving my throat and soft palate. I have
suffered from blurred, dizzy vision for days on end.
In most cases of artistic experimentation, the experiment seems

to occur for the sake of itself. My music, though sometimes un-
usual in format and presentation, was ever a vehicle for some-
thing beyond itself, whether was that mad love, or visceral fear,
or homicidal anger as such that society would rather condemn
than understand. I dearly love my musical creations, but they
simply weren’t intended to stand on their own. The music is
merely the score of a greater story. And though a soundtrack can
be enjoyed on its own merits, its worth is often diminished with-

out knowledge of the plot it represents.
I am often handled as a surrealist, though I find it more accurate

to say that I am a realist existing within unordinary conditions.
Lock Manet within a psychedelic cellar of nightmares and you
won’t be getting flowers out of him, though that ain’t to say
that his style, in itself, has seen any concrete changes. I think
that’s why I tend to get so pissy about how my work gets labeled,
as I get all these wastoids coming at me, saying “Whoaaaa...
trippppppy,” and, as for me, I’m just attempting to depict the on-
ly world I know.
I do not care for the type of crowd that the term “avant-
garde” often attracts and I am not enthusiastic about seeing them
among my audience. I would hate to see my work intellectual-
ized and treated as social currency, or being enjoyed ironically, as
if by circusgoers. My music, in particular, is a record of an igno-
rant but well-meaning child losing his head over that which he
can neither control nor understand. It is an account of my expe-
riences with illness and infatuation. And my preferred audience
is the same: young individuals seeking to better understand their
own disposition and maybe requiring a cathartic means of cop-
ing with the unanticipated mutations and losses of life. For many,
a sad song is simply not enough to express those feelings. I dis-
courage any approach to my work which is not led by the heart.
And to really understand my work one must not go into it fix-
ated on our differences. One can only get so personal before ar-
riving once again at the universal. Anyone who peruses and con-
sumes my vast multimedia output should come away feeling an
intimate connection with my person. It has been curated to elic-
it such feelings, and in being mindful of this purpose, I have en-
deavored to make of myself a good ‘friend’, as it were (especially

in my approach to vulnerability and sincerity).
How maddening it is that I can think of countless means along

the way of improving the [Clyssus of Man] story and all sorts of
events and details which would make for a more interesting plot-
line, yet I am confined to the details as they occurred, for though
it is surreal in its elements, it is nonetheless a factual account. Yet
I am so goddamn frustrated and I struggle to convey it in a way
that is anywhere near as interesting as it genuinely was and is.
This life is genuinely a lottery, and even where our efforts grant
us each our own ticket of entry, the chances of a given ticket be-
ing called upon remain woefully unaffected.
Please note that the names Thummim and Steulugalnemraiant,

despite referring to the same entity or phenomenon, carry differ-
ent connotations, with the latter not only being more all-encom-
passing (Thummim + Parashurna) but more official and formal.
The former, however, sees more use in casual, everyday life when
I am referring to my daemon. Another way that they are used
differently is that Thummim never refers to my Existence and al-
ways to my teacher/daemon.
Consider it once again like a mind and its thoughts in the sense
that, in order for our thoughts to be truly useful to us, we must
meet many preconditions relating to our grasp on context. If our
understanding of our circumstances and how we fit thereinto is
wrong, we will struggle to arrive at a solution, being that all of

our needs and ideas are based on a faulty premise. Think of it,
that, when the outer spheres and inner spheres are aligned in a
person, their thoughts are wiser, more relevant, not filled with
foolishness and inaccuracy.
I ever desired to be a bridge in the symbolic sense. The name

Tendon Levey itself essentially means “tendon bridge” or “joined
by tendon”, with tendon deriving from “to stretch” and Levey
meaning ‘to join together’. The idea of a bridge has been a recur-
rent and all-important symbol throughout my life, with my see-
ing it as my purpose to connect two contrasting lands... worlds. I
spoke of this with greater frequency in the years 2007-2014.
There are those who cross the bridge, and then there are
those who broaden the way. In other words it may be said that
if it was just about getting myself to safety it would have been
very different and I would have succeeded many years ago in the
silence of solitude, never to be heard by the masses. I needed to
understand the formula so that I could replicate it, and so that I
could disseminate it in the hopes that it would help others.
After all, it must be acknowledged once again that I was not

aware of this distinction prior to the completion of my opera-
tion, in which case I thought Idem and Homo Spiritualis to be
entirely synonymous. I was aware of my aim, including the fact
that I was determined to complete my task while living so that
when I left this world I may do so with a sense of certainty, but I
did not realize that I had chosen what could clearly be called the
more difficult of two paths.
Menarche (including the Ashlands chapters) was in some ways

meant as a continuation of another unreleased text, called Cen-
tury of Drought (2012), which tells a partly fictionalized account
of Steulugalnemraiant and transpires mostly within the desert
(which I also associate with Steulugalnemraiant) and portrays
him as a suicidal god. This, in itself, was meant to act as a preface
of sorts to our meeting, and much of it was based around state-
ments actually spoken to me, albeit with added speculation and
creative license. In that sense it was a bit like Mengele Twins
(2018), which did something similar for Jeiezza and puts us as
twins in a situation similar to the one in which I have lived—un-
der the rule of abusive parents. Taking little bits of influence
from Stock Bird Stork and The Widow Burns With Her Husband,
the twins are locked away in confinement and punished ruthless-
ly as children, and that isolation leads them to the occult arts,
with which they attempt to escape their circumstances. Their re-
lationship grows increasingly romantic along the way, although
they struggle to abstain from a engaging in physical relations.
This romance drives them to madness, and an occult ritual leads
the twins to suicide, after which the male is reincarnated, con-
suming the girl’s fetus in an attempt to protect her from their
parents, which leads the male to being born with two conscious-
nesses and retaining his asexual orientation. This ties in with my
consciousness experiments at age fifteen, which catalyze the sec-
ond consciousness and attempt to lead into my experiences of
2004 which were never answered until 2020 (and were quite un-
like any of this). You can see why I was asked to scrap this project,
and why I now realize that that was a good idea. Every story that
I’ve written connects to one another, and even where it is fic-
tionalized, it builds upon reality. Some may recall my mention-
ing some of these details back in 2018 when propounding the
‘twin narrative’, which I was then considering putting forward as

canon—not that it was ever true, but that I simply hated the idea
of leaving any mysteries unsolved.
While writing my book, or any text for that matter, all question
of whether or not something embarrasses me or causes me dis-
comfort is ultimately trumped by one question: “...but did it hap-
pen?” I am so indebted to the facts of my lived experience, and to
reality as I know it, that such reasoning always wins out, as I do
not see myself as having the rights to be ashamed of that which
genuinely occurred, and if I am indeed so ashamed of my actions
at some point in time, then it is my responsibility to make sure
that these actions are not carried out repeatedly; but I will not
deny their existence or their inclusion within my accounts.
I have lived my life in the company of those who do not respect

the suffering of others, if believing in it at all, when they are
quicker to assume that all utterance of pain and toil is funda-
mentally manipulative. And until the very end, they all looked at
me as though I live this way by choice. They don’t seem to grasp
that I want to speak, to eat, to walk in the sun with friends and
loved ones. Most irritatingly, many fail to grasp the distinction
between one who lives in fear and one who has the sense to ac-
knowledge their limits.
As some may recall, early merchandise packages (2017) included

little scrolls which featured a line from Phantom of the Opera,
by Gaston Leroux: “If I am the phantom, it is because man's ha-
tred has made me so. If I am to be saved it is because your love
redeems me.” On the reverse side of the scroll was written a short
bio. And on some occasions, I decorated the entire outside of
the (shipping) box by printing out full pages from the above-
said book onto clear sticker paper which then overlaid the card-
board. The landing page of the original Tendon Levey website al-
so contained a quote from The Phantom of the Opera: “He had
a heart that could have held the entire empire of the world; and,
in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar.” I have also
been known to pull lines from The Man Who Laughs and The
Divine Comedy, the latter of which I have not actually read (de-
spite having a decent idea of its story, and my imagining, accu-
rate or inaccurate, of what said story is actually about has actually
served as an inspiration in some cases).
For one, I’ve never even really known anyone in my personal

life who thought of existence on a large scale and wished to do
something with large scale ramifications—to ‘change the world’,
as it were. Everyone I’ve known has been fairly satisfied to just
sit around and keep to themselves, being content as long as they
have a stable job and decent relationships. I know that there are
many others who feel the need to effect change and be part of
something big... bigger than themselves... something to benefit
all of mankind, but I’ve not had the privilege of knowing such
ambitious folk, if that’s how we are to know them. I haven’t
found anyone committed to making an impact, and I cannot un-
derstand it for the life of me. I was always mocked for my am-
bitions, and I don’t understand how that is still the case in this
day and age. Silly though it sounds, don’t they watch enough
movies to see how their behavior and utterances align with those
of some detestable, discouraging antagonist? Is there no disso-
nance?
In my late teens I often listened to an opera radio station in the

shower, and there was one day of note in which I found a par-
ticular song enjoyable and came running down the stairs in a
towel yelling “Respighi!” at Jeiezza, trying to hold on to the ti-
tle just long enough to write it down, while Jeiezza had no clue
what I was doing or saying. The particularly sing-songy manner
in which I kept on saying the composer’s name has continued on
as an inside joke between us two unto the present day, especially
when addressing one another by name.
It is no secret that I have spent much time working on the walls

and ceiling of my living space. What most people do not realize
is that, in the years 2007-2014, I had an extra superficial layer of
paper and images covering the more sensitive material I did not
wish to have photographed or seen by others. Then, beneath that
outermost layer of colorful artwork one would find a more in-
decipherable lot—very little of which can be seen in the avail-
able photos, in which case my walls appear more like a basic artis-
tic collage featuring cartoons and pointless cigarette cartons than
anything of actual meaning.
I don’t do any of this for the ‘art world’, the ‘literary world’, or
what have you. I do it for the child that I was, and I do it for
all those curious adolescents on the cusp of youth and adult-
hood who sit now in silence, weighing out whether to pursue a
life of security or one of meaning, because surely you can’t have
both—not within our current climate.
Water tastes funny since the trial. I’m not clear on whether it is
physiological, psychogenic or... funny water.
The individual versus the masses... oh the undying drama! I hate

dearly to perpetuate such an ageless contention, but worse it
would be to discount or deny its significance within each and
every one of our lives.
It was fun for a moment to play out this role-playing fantasy

that I had become as the gods from our storybooks, but no such
beings exist who are without vulnerability and suffering and it
is more valuable to us that we face the truth. Verily, the higher
one stands upon the mountain the more vulnerable they shall
become, for their investment is greater, and their burden weighs
heavier, and their wails bellow louder, and they bow without
complaint, by will, unto this Existence which grows still. It is
strange, though telling, that we should even see power and invul-
nerability as synonymous concepts when true power reflects the
ability of one to maintain vulnerability in the face of weaponized
ignorance and unknown variability. The courageous ones aren’t
those who are without fear, but those who see fear as no reason
to stop. So to think of greatness and power as commensurate
with invulnerability and imperturbability is an image I wish to
see scratched from the minds of the many.
It is utterly alien to me that I can turn to someone and say “I

am dealing with troubling or stressful circumstances. Can you sit
beside me?” and for them to not run the opposite direction or
hit me with some uncalled-for monologue about how everyone
has problems, as if that is any reason to disrespect the struggles

of the individual. To be receiving such courtesy here and now, at
the end of this life so long... I hardly know how to respond. I feel
like one who has spent forever knocking on doors, only to go ig-
nored. And so on that day when the door finally opens for me, I
am caught so off-guard that I do not know where to take it from
there.
I am often hesitant when it comes to making my bolder state-

ments as I am wary of drawing so much attention and scrutiny
upon myself, for I am not some well-studied, researchful acade-
mic, after all, but a cartwheeling child, and those who wish to fire
at me have been given an easy target. In my want for intimacy I
have had to make myself vulnerable, sacrificing all security in the
process. My empire is not weak, but it is without defenses. My
expositions are not well written and seem more like hastily writ-
ten diary entries or drafts and that may lead them to be taken less
seriously overall. Thus it may be said that I do not resemble the
standard Saint, to which I say “Right you are, for I am honest.”
We do not exist within a vacuum, with our deeds seeing their

sole substantiation through the acknowledgment and approval
of our own species. Of course it is natural that we believe as
much, in a world where ‘it doesn’t count as long as you can get
away with it’. Yet we are directly connected to something greater
than ourselves, and our actions transform the structure of real-
ity in a very real way. This was one of the most significant re-
alizations of my lifetime. It is so easy to feel insignificant as an
individual among the massiveness of this earth, but so much of
our understanding of this earth before us and its processes are... I
won’t say illusory, since even where it is analogic it is still a reali-

ty, albeit highly misunderstood by us. We feel that in order to be
heard we must reach the ears and eyes of the people, yet this is a
shallow take on how it all comes together, which fails to consid-
er how Existence itself is drawing directly from our thoughts and
deeds.
Oh, but I would sure hate for this (and all else that I am saying)
to be appropriated by poorest bastards in the wake of my death,
becoming some hollowed-out New Age concept after being
ripped from context and turned into a consolatory memetic sug-
ar pill for some cat collector.
It frustrates me greatly that I never got the chance to try my hand

at fictional storytelling due to having so many real events and
thoughts that I felt obligated to write down. I imagine I would
enjoy it, but I could never justify it.
Every so often I experience a sternal ‘rip’. The muscles in the cen-

ter of my chest seem to tear suddenly, likely as a result of so much
labored breathing. It is sometimes audible... a quick, audible rip.
I must then lay for hours or days without moving.
It was in 2018, following the return of Steulugalnemraiant and

the fulfillment of our Acknowledgement, that an ax dropped
down upon my world. The suffering of my days was subsequently
brought to a most dizzying culmination, creating for many a
metaphysical shift which we would be foolish to write off as ir-
relevant. The suffering has produced detachment and changes of

perception. It has disconnected me from certain beliefs which
were limiting me. The trauma that I have faced in life, especially
as a consequence of endless efforts put forward with no results,
has caused a disconnection to occur between action and result
within my mind, and this disconnection proved instrumental in
my ability to achieve certain paradigmatic acknowledgments pri-
or to death. The futility broke down a wall. Endlessly dying, but
without ever seeing death... it broke something down. The end-
less betrayal and resultant misanthropy: all of this not only dis-
connected action from outcome, but it dismantled my expec-
tations and broke down my sense of attachment. And it’s easy
to look at all of this as damaging, but I’ve begun to look at it
through a separate lens. I don’t really have the desire to record a
full list of all the events and their transformative outcomes, but
it should be obvious in a lot of cases.
A bolt of excitement enters me when I consider how others

might react to news of my death. I really don’t expect much in
terms of a reaction, if anything, though it does excite me to feel
that I will soon have my every cry substantiated.
For the most part, people can only be so conscious of their ac-
tions and intentions (and the ripples thereof ) and for so long be-
fore it drives them insane. Accountability and awareness are sim-
ply not as engaging as pornography and video games for most.
Amid the infamous Ashlands exercises I set out to write an addi-

tional book, as of yet untitled, which offered an extensive study
on thirty or so emotional states and how I experienced them,

how I expressed them and what elicits these states in me. This
project was proving to be highly insightful, and I remorse that I
could not organize and complete it in time to release to my au-
dience, not only as an insight into my nature but also as an in-
spirational template which could be adapted and used by all who
desired to gain in understanding of their own emotional seat.
How strange it is to now be almost at the age that Lajos and Ru-
bid were when I took part in the fraternity.
The ‘midnight constellation’ scene relates to the temple. I wake

up nauseous due to these layers of meaning which are shuffling
continuously, while lower layers are ever appearing. They keep
getting lower and lower. I felt that I was waking up in what was
not ‘my room’ as I knew it. I would wake up in the middle of
the night, feeling trapped beneath a frozen lake. It was only when
I slept during or after lighting my candelabrum that this would
all take place, and it happened 100% of the time. Correlation
does not imply causation, surely, but how can I overlook such
coincidence? It’s a jarring state of mind. There is no floor. There
is meaning beneath the meaning, and something more beneath
that. And I keep searching for an answer, but the more I look, the
more problems it creates. It’s bottomless, because new layers are
being created as I am searching. And I need to stop... or cut off
my head.
I feel myself fortunate that I was able to work the imperfection,

the delirium and the incompleteness into my ‘image’, as it were,
and these elements which would detract from the reputation of

most individuals and performers do nothing to affect mine own.
It has not affected my recordings or habits, but it does affect
what I release to the public, and let’s face it, if I cared about
looking good or proving my abilities, my 2,000 publicly-available
songs would have been reduced to thirty—if that—and even
then I would have insisted on referring to them as ‘demos’. That
seems quite drastic, but it is not an exaggeration, and I wish my
readers would really analyze that statement for what it is saying,
and how, if we only rewrote our understanding of what is and
isn’t valuable or “complete” within the context of art and music
(or in life as a whole), we would all have so much to show for
ourselves. Not only that, but I imagine we would experience a
more pleasant and fulfilling experience overall. Of course, I did
not plan all of this out. It wasn’t until a decade after I had lost
my ability to sing and create art that I actually bit the bullet and
bared my all. It took some pretty harrowing circumstances to
bring me to such a point, but goddamnit I am glad it happened
as it did.
I’ve never really been allowed to express my case, telling my side

of the story, having always been the weaker one in relationships
of power. “I don’t want to hear it.” Therefore I’m stuck in this
eternal loop of formulating arguments and defending my exis-
tence, a la Traumaturgy. And I’ve become really adept at disguis-
ing my justifications as stories, pretending as if everything that I
do and say is not just some gigantic defense of my existence. I’m
sure it must come across as obsessive... the way that I speak of
such matters... but I can do nothing to help it. It only gets worse
in time, as I continue to try to save myself, as I continue my at-
tempts to “put myself out there”, as I continue telling myself “this
world can’t all be bad.” I’m stuck in a fractal that goes on forever,
and if you do not understand this about me then I’m afraid you
understand nothing at all about my offering.
As honest as I have attempted to be with Clyssus of Man, I fret

that my desire to see it take the form of a veritable literary work
has meant that I must observe a basic set of rules relating to for-
mat, whereby I must judge certain details as unnecessary while
trying to maintain a cohesive, digestible flow, and the drawback
to aiming for cohesion as such is that there is a lot of content
being cut from the work and a lot of the rawness and phrensy
which so characterizes my work are being given the airbrush
treatment until rendered sufficiently smooth. So as honest are its
words, I do tend to feel as though my voice has been lost in this
process, for which reason I wished to maintain Cactus Patch and
other texts on the side—a good move if ever I had made one.
Multiple lists exist on file to provide me with some foundation

and direction dependent on my level of restriction.
A list of tasks to be undertaken when I cannot use my hands.
A list of tasks to be undertaken when I am confined to my bed,
unable to walk.
A list of tasks to be undertaken in severe cases where I am re-
quired to focus on my condition and distraction becomes a possible
detriment (tasks which can be tackled without stealing my intense
focus).
A list of tasks to be undertaken in emergency cases where I feel
myself to be on the verge of death.
Indeed I have a file that I consult in any case where I become
too lightheaded from suffocation, or experience too many pal-
pitations and dysrhythmias in a short period, and I would run

through my final checklist which mostly constitutes making sure
that certain texts and files are updated, backed up and made
public and/or scheduled. Since the end of 2019 I’ve had a post
scheduled on my blog and unused social media account an-
nouncing my death and providing links to my unfinished drafts.
I typically set this post to the first day of the following month,
and in the days leading up to it I will set it back another month,
being that I am still... well... alive.
She is the only one who has ever looked at me as though I am

of value. She is the only one who listens with understanding, as
though I am truly unexpendable to her.
I’ve come up with a lot of theories throughout the years regard-

ing certain ailments that I face, such as tendinitis. Ultimately, my
muscular system (and everything else, for that matter) is failing
due to a lack of oxygen in my blood. The tightness of my throat
and larynx is simply not allowing in enough oxygen and I am suf-
fering many issues as a result, which is having a big impact on my
extremities.
My sister didn’t have to deal with any of the abuse directly. A

negative environment, yes, but she was spared of the worst of it.
I had already been designated as the family scapegoat long be-
fore she was even conceived. Then will she not understand my
story? I don’t know. I want to think that she will, but her ac-
tions demonstrate an ignorance of who I am and what I’ve expe-
rienced and I don’t expect that to change, given her living condi-
tions.
There is no part of me that could even imagine a positive review

of or reaction to my work. There is no part of my mind that
can even imagine someone cherishing what I have created. Odd-
ly enough, that doesn’t change how I feel about my work and
the quality thereof. I believe my works are powerful and liable to
provide value to the lives of those in need, but again, action and
outcome are so disconnected from one another within my mind
after the events of the past five or so years that I just can’t imag-
ine a positive outcome as such. I could create what I consider to
be the greatest work of all time and that wouldn’t change my ex-
pectations for it. It’s a really unsettling place to be at, mentally.
I would have liked to do traveling lectures. I would have liked to

try my hand at the medium of film, including script-writing, pro-
duction and scoring. Acting, even. More art. More books. More
music. Networks. Boxing. I’ve even considered comedy, work-
ing with my own brand of sleep-based comedy in the vein of
my sleep talking/dream recall clips. I think those are funny and
I’m not sure that that’s really a genre at this point. What is espe-
cially annoying is that I had specific ideas for all of these things
and even the time and will to execute them, but my execution/
projects were stunted by my health or funds or limited connec-
tions. So this is not just me listing off things that I might have
wished to work with, but projects for which I had actually assem-
bled some material already. I already have scripts in the works.
I already have blueprints for networks and businesses and polit-
ical campaigns. In 2017, just before losing my dexterity, I was
working on a video game in which I attack the town of Lynch-

burg with an overlarge, blood-stained honey dipper (Leviyey
vs. Lynchburg), though it was only an attempt to test my pro-
gramming and developing abilities before moving into some-
thing more surreal and involved. It is rather bittersweet, since
I have thousands upon thousands of creative ideas which were
never able to see fruition on this sphere due to a combination of
wealth, health and connections. I am saddened by what I never
got the chance to do, when my talents overpower my body and
my time, but hopefully I will be able to contribute to this sphere
still. I have achieved only a small fraction of that which I wished
to do. I wanted to put together some elaborate physical releas-
es for both discographies. I was working on a play. I would have
liked to get back into writing poetry and lyrics as I did when I
was younger. The project I wanted to carry out more than any-
thing was called Comprachicos, and I sort of hope that someone
picks this idea up after I’m gone. I have probably achieved just
8% of what I wished to achieve, although I did as much as I could
with the time, health and finances that I had to work with, so I
say this without implicating any regret, but of course I’m going
to be sad that I never got to materialize what I consider to be my
greatest ideas and innovations.
If I had more time and funds I would work to have beautiful il-
lustrations created for Clyssus of Man, and I would add a lot of
additional research materials and charts. I am a fan of elaborate
layouts and luxurious packaging and would never put out any-
thing so ‘bare bones’ and basic, but I am fading fast, and the fact
that I could actually manage to accomplish as much as I have
with this text is so utterly unexpected that I must be grateful.
Since it is just so difficult to explain Mrtagrha, perhaps I should

clarify upfront that I must deviate from all attempts at an ac-
curate depiction in an effort to make it more ‘visualizable’. The
place was very needy, very demanding. I want my readers to visu-
alize it even if that vision is wrong, believing you have no way of
actually understanding what I experienced in this case.
She is his will to pour, his love of pouring and the reward that it
brings!
She mumbles into my belly. I have forgotten what she said.

Everything is a blur. My tongue is rubbery and black. I am in
my bed, my room, my cave. Too cold to sleep! Lemon-like, the
summer's last kiss! I think, I wish! She squinches her eyes shut,
she draws my blanket up over my eyes and above my head—then
she's gone.
It is not some daft, lowbrow conspiracy theory, nor some New

Age platitude, but a firmly considered ontological position en-
forced by a lifetime of critical observations and mystical experi-
ences.
In never being allowed to know comfort, I felt the constant need

to improve and develop. I strived constantly. The demise of my
physical reality was the victory of my spiritual reality. I lived out
all my days working to be loved and respected, working to sur-
vive, and even if physical reality remained a dark and unaccom-
modating place for me right up until the very end, the personal
progress achieved within these conditions is beyond anything I

would have believed possible.
It’s amusing to me how my openness evolved over time. It follow

a natural progression which is visible even in how I handled my
photographs: at first I would only publicize that which enforced
my self image. Eventually I released any photograph as long as
they weren’t deemed unflattering outright. Finally, I lost all de-
sire to flatter, knowing all aspects are required to be visible if
wholeness shall be achieved, and they are all relevant to telling
the story, and the mere fact that it exists is enough to see it in-
cluded among the rest.
At fifteen I surrendered my security, my soul’s fate. At seventeen

I surrendered my nerve. At eighteen I surrendered my love. At
twenty-two I surrendered my song. At twenty-five I surrendered
my voice and my breath. At twenty-six I surrendered my mobil-
ity. At twenty-seven I surrendered my hands, my art. At twenty-
nine I surrendered my family and its ghosts. At thirty I surren-
dered human society and earth altogether. And now I have sur-
rendered my very pulse to know the splendor of Existence.
Without her there would be no book. Every morning and every

night I turned to her and I would say “I am not this body, I am
not this place,” with the will to abscond being written over every
centimeter of my body and soul. She knew that it was better to
listen to what I had to say than to discourage my fantasies out-
right, aware that that would be enough to resolve them.
It would be difficult to describe what happened next, and frankly

I do not wish to attempt it in this case out of a distaste for reduc-
ing the experience to words on a page. Even I have what I will not
share with the public—these things which are beatific beyond all
comprehension.
I fully expect to be working on this text up until the day of my

death. Therefore, instead of leaving my readers with a story that
stops suddenly and lacks a suitable ending, I have opted for an
approach to writing which has me getting the entire story out
in the most vague way possible and then going over it again and
again, each time adding slightly more detail and richness to the
scenes and whatnot. This way, the worst case scenario is that my
incomplete work will appear to be lacking dimension rather than
lacking plot. But as of yet, it is nowhere near the level of dimen-
sionality and richness that I would prefer. I’m just running out
of time and stamina really fast. In that regard, some of the events
that close off the book didn’t actually take place at the very end
of my life, although they did happen.
Other stories were written in that period which have received

relatively little acknowledgment over the years. Among these was
a sort of side-story known as Hospital Ship. More obscure was
a series of writings called Escape the House: The Seven Illusions
of Parashurna (sometimes spelled Parashurne). The work was as-
sociated with an incomplete musical score called Bulducci. Each
chapter was dedicated to a different point in the process, referred
to as an appliance or an illusion: To The Cup, To The Tarantula,
To The Window, To The Chute, To The Oven, To The Menoroth

and To The Hose. On one hand it was what it sounds like: a
guide to escaping my house. Yet it was so surreal and nightmar-
ish—more than I can express. Some well-known lyrics appearing
within my output reference this story, e.g., “Point me to the slide,
point me to the witch’s mouth, to the menoroth.” This was ‘the
escape formula’, and despite eventually turning “The Menoroth”
into a love song (“By the Candelabra”), the original was actually
quite dark and frenetic. In fact, the original title of this song was
“Half the Steeple Worms in Parashurne / Pan Dement.” More
significantly, all of this was based on a short story or comic writ-
ten as a very young child, circa 1996, simply called Escape the
House. I had several comics drawn as a child. I might eventually
scan and upload some of these. I found one not long ago called
“Collusion of Demagogues” and I laughed aloud at that name,
considering that I would have been about seven or eight at the
time. That’s what you get when a child is only allowed a Bible and
a dictionary (though the same can probably be said of everything
I’ve written since, hahahaha).
Those years (now speaking of 2004-2006) were odd and I am
fond of them. It was a fine time in which I was able to convince
myself of anything at all. I would have happily told you about the
worm (Akochkeeam) that dwelt within my wrist feeding off my
anger and causing convulsions. I wrote without having an under-
standing of what I was actually saying. I’m not convinced it was
even I who was writing. That’s the weird thing about The Pour.
The Pour is not regarded as a single entity. What then?
The thing about this (third and final) astragon, or this story, is
that it really wrote itself, taking hundreds of symbols which have
festered, born from nothing, and bringing them at once unto
their culmination. The most difficult part of the writing process

was creating something that is both cohesive and accessible. It’s
not something that I am accustomed to doing, and I am really
having to simplify my experience to make that happen.
My innate style of writing, which builds upon defensive and
unfiltered emotional ranting, does not lend itself well to the
standard book format and required a bit of cleaning up in the
case of Clyssus of Man, whereas Cactus Patch has retained the
rawness of which I speak. I feel that I’ve still been able to say
what is needed to be said regardless, but if you want that raw and
unfiltered energy then you will probably like Cactus Patch, not as
an alternative to but as a supplement to this text.
I thought to make a story which embodied the most straight-

forward principles of Aseitism, and although it [Clyssus of Man]
does provide great insights into what I have gone through on my
way to Aseitism, it was not written to be some allegory as much
as it was written to embody my personal experiences. Again, it
may be viewed as helpful to understanding the process, but it is
not written with the intent of embodying that process and there
are points at which the story may even be misleading in the sense
that it seems to deviate from the philosophy or otherwise has
nothing to do with it. It was a very difficult decision for me to
handle everything in this way, since I am working with a pro-
found metaphysical system, and I feel the need to spell it out for
the public in the most obvious way possible and give them some
book that is personal from start to finish, but that is not what
this is. This is an account of my personal adventure; and its re-
lation to my philosophy is natural rather than forced. It is for
that reason that I should wish to now attempt a more straight-
forward delineation of my beliefs and the greater meaning be-

hind the narrative.
The thing about genre is... if you create something decent, you’ve
got an instant audience. If I should pump out a metal album, for
instance, I would have a community already at the ready. That
doesn’t necessarily translate to having fans, but I would have a
target demographic, and that on its own would go a long way.
I would have labels that are willing to listen, I would be eligible
for being added to specialized playlists, dezinezinet. I would at
least know where to start a campaign, or who might actually ap-
preciate my work. With Tendon Levey I had absolutely nothing
to work with, and it has been a very upsetting experience since
2017. There is no niche carved out for what I’ve done, and... sad-
ly, I no longer take pride in that. The pain outweighs the pride.
It is so awful to me that, were I still recording, I think it would
have definitely influenced my direction going forward. That isn’t
to say that I would have abandoned my style and sensibility out-
right, but I would have been more conscious of conveying my-
self through the more common tropes and means people could
understand. I hate feeling as though no one can grasp the dark-
ness, sorrow and romance of my music without my having to tell
them that it’s there. They just hear my weary opiate voice and
dissociated melodies and write it off as meaningless avant-garde,
or worse—silly. So I would probably make my music “dark” in
a way they could easily understand, playing more into their de-
finitions so as to avoid such confusion and the hassle it brings
with it. Honestly, I often wish that I had a different audience/de-
mographic than my output naturally allots me. ‘Genre dyspho-
ria’, I’ve jokingly called it.
I am immensely proud of the fact that I have not experienced any

nightmares within the past fifteen years—nearly as proud as I am
of having never had a single sex dream.
If nothing else, perhaps I will come by a world record for greatest

effort expended in the absence of a reward.
Swollen palate, swollen larynx, swollen gums. The interior gums

behind my lower teeth are highly sensitive. I do not see much
physical swelling but there is something seriously wrong with the
nerves in that area, and if I touch them with my tongue or with
my finger even a little bit my larynx will constrict in a way that re-
sembles a severe asthma attack. It even feels like it’s coming from
my lungs, and I have to struggle for breath. This will lead to fre-
quent tears in my sternal muscles which then make each breath
not just extremely labored but extremely painful and I must lay
down, immobilized. This is the very same muscle that has been
ripping again and again since late 2019. It will let out an audi-
ble rip as I am simply sitting around, not exerting myself in any
way, and I’ll lose all ability in my arms for days or weeks depend-
ing on how (and how quickly) I act. The risk worsens in cold-
er temperatures, so I am often having to shower in avoidance of
cold. My low salt intake my also contribute to my frequent mus-
cular spasms, although it is difficult to remedy, since salt creates
causes my throat to become raw and inflamed and I will some-
times eliminate all salt from my diet for many months at a time. I
had some transdermal pain relief cream that seemed to do won-
ders for the pain in that area but it also led to a host of con-
cerning heart-related systems, such as frequent palpitations and
chest pains, and so I couldn’t make use of it more than a cou-
ple times. I am often having to take “sips” of air, like sipping a

drink, since that seems to be one of the only ways I can catch my
breath. I have acknowledged the likelihood that there is some-
thing extremely wrong with my histamine levels and I’m think-
ing that this may be behind so many of the weird symptoms that
have cropped up since 2017 and led me to become instantly “al-
lergic” to almost everything... from alcohol and peanuts to not
even being able to step outside for a minute without having my
sinuses seal shut. Even a whiff of perfume, or a little soap on the
hand, and my throat and sinuses close up. I’ve modified my di-
et and habits in an attempt to fix this issue and I do notice some
improvement after three weeks, but the sensitivity is still far be-
yond what is acceptable. I dearly wish that I had known of this
possibility earlier. Headaches have become more commonplace.
It doesn’t just feel swollen. It feels like the whole internal struc-
ture of my face is collapsing in on itself (referring to my palate,
which is currently inflamed due to inflammation in my larynx).
It’s a most dehumanizing sensation.
My daily diet now consists of kale, oatmeal, blueberries, turmer-

ic, ginger, zinc (1x), vitamin B complex (1x), vitamin D3 (2x),
magnesium (3x) and marshmallow (4x).
I have lapsed in and out of over sixty fevers during the writing of
this book, with my larynx having become so swollen that it has
caused my nasopharynx and palate to malfunction. This has led
my nose, throat and airways to clamp shut with any sniff, cough,
or anything at all, and I constantly feel as though I’ve knives in
the back of my nasal cavities which feel like an endoscopy. My

body has lost so much weight in this time—how much, I am not
sure. I experience ever-increasing disturbances in heart rhythm
which bring about dysrhythmia and palpitations almost every
hour. My body is living kiss to kiss. The strangest part of all is that
I am not afraid. It is like watching a ship sink in the distance.
I have a designated ‘fainting spot’ where I will go when I am feel-

ing that I am about to pass out from suffocation (on the floor be-
fore my altar). If the suffocation becomes unbearable I beat my-
self in the head with a water jug in a desperate attempt to reroute
the blood flow and open my larynx. Then there’s also the “rip-
cord technique” which refers to my pulling frantically at my cer-
vical muscles in the hopes of staving off suffocation (only in the
most desperate, dangerous circumstances—as in after the cold
sweats have begun and I’ve started to dissociate from my physical
body—since it is such a risky move with the potential to worsen
my circumstances as I don’t have the best understanding of what
I am pulling, although I try to pull the SCM and trapezius but
on one occasion I may have misjudged and disturbed my jugu-
lar). I haven’t written a whole lot about this in my book since I
desire to see my final year remembered as the time in which I was
able to be with my beloved one, but my health has been at its
worst in this time—far beyond anything experienced previously.
I’m so far past the point of a conveyable experience at this point
that I don’t even attempt to explain what I am going through. It’s
just this strange haze of fever and suffocation and...
My interest in perfume has a lot to do with memory. I consider

olfaction to be the most nostalgic sense as it tends to have a
greater influence over my emotions and memories than any other

sense. You would not be wrong to assume that this must some-
how relate to Steulugalnemraiant and the infamous Pomander.
I always painted it up to be some bizarre supernatural matter,
but it was all quite simple. It was directly relevant to my active
paradigm in his presence, and it was foremostly used as a means
to manipulate memory and awareness. Of course it was Thum-
mim who got me interested in perfumery, albeit indirectly (not
to mention the fact that “Thummim” of yesteryear was seem-
ingly not Thummim at all...). For many years now I have used
perfumes and other scents to manipulate my mind. Sometimes
when recalling events or writing I will seek to the replicate scent
of the period (which is very easy to do when that scent derives
from store-bought perfumes). I have a lot of experimental ideas I
may share at some point. I also think it’s very important to asso-
ciate your own presence with a scent when interacting with oth-
ers, if you wish to be remembered or if you wish to influence the
context in which your memory crops up.
As for the work featured in my cloud drives: while it represents

the bulk of my achievements, I have chosen to omit all collabo-
rative works, most of which dated back to the era of 2006-2008,
with the exception of a few entries from the so-called Sleepover
Series. That said, there exists a handful of projects that are not
represented, mostly as I do not wish to affiliate with certain indi-
viduals.
Three altars exist within my room. I call them altars, which,

like the word ‘ritual’, may invoke a certain idea or association,
yet these shouldn’t be taken to mean anything more than “aids
to Acknowledgement.” Maybe you imagine me as some spell-

casting, Latin-chanting boob, but apart from a brief interest in
evocative magic as a teenager, I’ve always turned my nose up to
that sort. It’s about surrounding myself with meaningful repre-
sentations of the abstract elements of this life which I wish to
keep in focus, and this court, as I called it, was exactly what I’ve
been representing all along with my order, my artistry, my all.
The track ‘Stag of Charm’ references the stag to which I was tied
and sent off to the Edge of Knowledge amid my first astragon.
The cover artwork of Ear to the Oven depicts this event, or these
elements, and features a snakelike man in a mask and turban
(representative of a dipa) showing me to a stag. Following the
events of this past year (2019/2020), I find it very intriguing that
this symbol featured prominently within the spring of 2008, and
was preceded by the stork on the following album. Truly, this
most mysterious period of my life was inspired. I also find it very
curious that the stag appearing on the cover of Ear to the Oven,
based on the stag from my first astragon, was skeletal, while the
stag I once knew wasn’t skeletal at all; however, in its recent re-
turn to me it was very clearly skeletal.
I am not sure that I’ve ever completed anything I started, cre-

atively speaking. For me it’s never been about when something is
‘complete’, but when its relevance to the moment has faded and/
or I feel like moving on to manifest the next thought or emotion
in me. This was quite clearly the case with my music. This book is
the same. It’s not finished. As I’ve labored on and on over these
pages, its relevance to the present has diminished and I just feel
it is time to move on to something more relevant.
When one lives so transparently and in the absence of guile and

pretension it is instinctual to believe that all who interact with
me are seeing me as I am and all that I contain. After all, I am
wholly exposed, so how could one not look? How can one not
see? When your life story and all your most visceral thoughts
and emotions are posted publicly online you walk the world as-
suming that everyone has had a look. This creates for issues in
my life, as I often assume that others understand everything there
is to know about me right off the bat. I assume they know my
heart, my soul, if only from a short interaction. I don’t under-
stand when they doubt me, or when they distrust me, or similar.
It doesn’t register properly within my mind. Objectively, I know
this to be fallacious, but it is about my instincts, and, as I said,
when you’ve put all of yourself out there within view of the pub-
lic, your mind expects that everyone has seen it.
I speak a lot on the topic of paradigm locks. A paradigm lock

refers to any instance in which it is not ignorance but (false or ir-
relevant) knowledge which prevents a meaningful acknowledg-
ment; any instance in which an alternative is unimaginable to the
observer, having already been programmed to accept a particular
reality. It is a difficult concept to explain. It is like a wall, albeit
nonphysical. Yet I experience it just as I experience any damn
wall. I hear the people knocking, begging to be let in, and I can
do nothing to save them. It’s traumatizing. The condition of this
world is even worse than they will understand... the falseness of
its offering. It is more tragic than is commonly understood. Their
chemicals protect them from the acknowledgments. Their sens-
es turn away their focus from the horror that crouches before us
all. These facets of pleasure and entertainment allow us to accept
things that do not merit our acceptance. I must acknowledge my

inability to change it directly, but I vow to fight everlastingly all
to see that ignorance does not win. I will fight to grow this Exis-
tence for the better of us all.
A silly little anecdote that I sometimes use to explain the
frustrating nature of a paradigm lock is the scene from This is
Spinal Tap in which Nigel Tufnel complains about the size of the
bread, and his manager is unable to get through to him due to
Nigel working off of a completely different (and faulty) premise
of what happens to be the issue:
“But if you keep folding it...”
“Why would you keep folding it?!”
It’s a hilarious scene, though I feel much like said manager as
I write my final text, knowing I can offer the greatest, most ap-
propriate counsel in all the world, yet it can not be heeded in the
absence of a shared contextual foundation.
We venerate and idolize those whose occupation it is to act, pre-

tend and entertain: individuals about whom we know little to
nothing; and then when reality bleeds through we opt to call it a
scandal. A sorry sphere, truly.
But whatever I thought myself to be experiencing, it wasn’t being

experienced by my senses, and so it is beyond me to say that
any of this was really taking place within this endless absence. I
would compare the experience to a hypnagogic vision, as in those
moments when one is nearing the threshold of sleep and a voice
yells out or a door slams shut, and in these instances we are un-
likely to have actually visualized a door, or whatever hallucinato-
ry experience it was that startled us so, though we will typically

have no doubt as to what it was that we heard.
Meaningless as it all tends to sound, these silly apples served sev-

eral major purposes: the most important of which was as a clever
attempt at getting me to venture out further and further, explor-
ing different locations when I naturally had minimal interest and
so much anxiety. To be focused on planting my apples in as many
places as possible, my mind was wholly distracted from all else in
which I was taking part and I did not register the discomfort of
my experience. I then began to take pleasure in visiting new loca-
tions, seeing it not as venturing ever further away from my home
but finding new places to mark with my apples, my symbols.
My whole world is like a sigil that is imbued with purpose and

intention.
If I had three wishes I would ask for perfect health, a loving fam-
ily and a singing voice limited only by my imagination.
As much and as often as I have painted up my 2007 self with the

blackest paint, I do so in defense and embarrassment, for I was
only an excitable boy who came rushing headlong into a world of
which he knew nothing and made a handful of foolish mistakes
due more so to a lack of proper guidance than to a faulty moral
compass or absent sensibility. I curse that time for the reason that
I want to feel that my actions, at some point along the way, left
me deserving of the suffering that would soon be mine, but my

only crime was naïveté.
We look at those who are vocal in their love for their parents,
their families and/or their communities as virtuous and upstand-
ing, and I shudder in my heartache, for I would have given any-
thing to be able to be in such a situation where I could feel love
and warmth and closeness with those in my life, and it should be
evident in how willing I was to give my all to anyone who would
have simply listened to me, looked at me. All my life I have felt
myself judged for my inability to speak highly of the people in
my world, yet how else should I respond to those who abuse and
mistreat me?
At the start of 2016 I was trying to finish up my Traumaturgy

drafts and be done with them once and for all, and I thought a
funny way to end it would be by filling out a questionnaire of the
sort that you find on dating profiles. After all, one of the main
aims of my book was to show ‘how dishonest honesty can be, and
how much we are able to get away with on a clear conscience (in
the sense that Traumaturgy was not meant for a commercial re-
lease but as an extended letter to old friends established on the
idea that they didn’t really know me at all, despite the fact that
I never lied to them—or not much). It would only be funny to
those who had read through the contents of my book. For exam-
ple, a simple question like “Dogs or cats?” could be answered by
my simply saying “Cats,” although anyone who knew me would
know that, behind my simple statement of preferences lies the
fact that I have a long, neurotic history tied to the sound of bark-
ing dogs (although I’ll admit that in the last decade since that is-
sue died down I’ve shed my frustrations and would now consider
myself a ‘dog person’, after all). While looking for the perfect dat-
ing questionnaire I incidentally came upon a network for asexu-
als. I quickly got sidetracked, forgetting what I had come there
for. Most of the people on the site seemed to just be interested in
friendship, as was I, and I made a couple pen pals in the process,
although I only clicked with one of them. You can probably fig-
ure out what this is leading into, although I don’t know that I
ever offered an explanation on how, exactly, the two of us met,
preferring to keep it vague and mysterious. Or maybe I did offer
an explanation. It has become so difficult to keep track of what
I have said in all of my old documents, and sheer embarrassment
keeps me from sifting through anything older than six months.
Others leave me feeling as though I must apologize for my suf-

fering, all while showing no interest in my interests and what I
do. They liked me like they do their streaming services and games
and for the same reason: I distracted them for x amount of time.
When I actually turn to someone for help or simply looking for
company I am made to feel guilty or like an inconvenience. There
has never been a single instance in my life wherein someone has
‘checked up on me’, as in writing to me simply to know how I
am doing. I never did anything to deserve such cold indifference.
Anyone who claims to have been my friend: do not believe them,
unless I have explicitly stated otherwise at some point within my
works (and I don’t know how I ever could).
The tide is growing tired now.

...
What else!
She is beautiful and agreeably short.

Or have I grown too tall...?
I follow her to an open row.
I wear my Coat of Many Maculas which leaves me [...]
Her fat is taken into his mouth and the whole earth seems
to applaud the appetite. Eighty-some operants can then be heard
pounding away at the plexiglass, having seen what becomes of my
irides, and there is nowhere for me to run to.
She follows after me into the [...] after removing a necklace and
[...] and assumes the shape of something true.
...
What a shock it would be to [...]
Yet it is all a satanic feint.
...
Why are you here!
I am a worm in a leper in a car beneath the waves.
...
Filling the glove, wearing it out. They grope her semantics like
a washed out and petrified glyph, growing always more white.
...
There sits a Floss in my cellar, on my bed by the headboard.
Make it stop!
A God-condoned dish is delicious.
This tongue is full with flavor. This breadth is twice my imag-
ining.
Sleep, servitors. There is your worth.
Bash the mirror and cut the scalp!
It’s the only way out!
Teased a while longer by this Faustian algorithm.
It can only be an it, for we shall not engender an engorger.
We are locked down, the Hierophant and I, and with us the en-
gorger.
We are watching the finger most carefully. We are analyzing the

air quality. Our arms, they lock. My hands go numb. My jaw juts
out / distends and bites the driver.
...
It is all a boy could want. These are her names, charming as the
day. They wrap around me.
I haven’t the glands to accomplish this task. I’m too exhausted
by my tongue.
This is a ruse in disguise.
At rest they are the boy’s nemeses—.
...
...since I was going to have to wear myself out in order to enter
the waxy cave that was her.
The Hierophantissa was waiting for me inside with the bar-
tender who was another fool in disguise.
I reached into my pocket where there is nothing. Nothing is to
be expected.
I root around with my tongue. I tell the Hierophantissa to in-
troduce herself. She continues to give me nothing.
I can’t reach for it.
I endure the soft white garments of the day. I’ve been humiliat-
ed by what comes next.
The sense memory is screaming. Their eyes are also. Their lungs
are intolerant of breath.
I exploit your skeleton. I make a new X-ray of your ribcage.
...
I would like to take everything by storm—smash into the world
with violence and drive out its natives.
...
Though I worry, I find it is yet too early to wail.
Violence is the harbinger of success in today’s society.
...
I sometimes dream of success, violence in the real world, but I

think that it’s an impossible and possibly evil use.
...
To the best of my knowledge, I am the only one left alive in this
world.
I’m naked, covered head to toe in this foam. They’ll be here
soon. I’m not sure what I’ll do when they arrive. Or if I can do any-
thing at all.
The eunuch in the tuxedo has learned, given the new world or-
der, that this is not really a meaningful state of being.
I take her mouth and heave.
...
The worm collapses and I am alone again with the / remnants
of her. I have not yet come to know myself.
I have cleaned the grills and performed the proper rites.
...
I also love her.
We sing, we dance, we shout slogans.
...
I approach the table of the year with the utmost caution.
The table is suspended in a clear atmosphere, but the atmos-
phere is so thick with uncertainty that I cannot guess what is sitting
upon the table.
It is heavy, whatever it is. And, as I get closer, I see that it is a
metal sphere.
It looks so familiar.
I reach out with my eyes to drink them dry.
And it hits me, then, what it is I want to say.
...
I discover that I am the mummy in the sarcophagus, or rather,
the mummy in the [...]
...
The sound is flat, the sound is clear.

Two of us, one sitting on a stone, holding a toothpick. The other
is a woman I crave.
I realize that it is not I who is out of place here, but the two of
them.
... Unfortunate that I can’t say anything to her.
...|
Her flesh dissolves, now, like sable.
And when we were young, I wrote everyone off as a mathemat-
ical error, but now my mouth is full with the bitterness of broken
teeth. I am speechless, and it is because a stranger has walked into
my mouth.
...
There is a pile of crumpled metal beneath his legs. It is some-
thing. It is not much.
...
They flail on the table. The heap clears. I am the architect of
this table. The exultation flows from my throat. I am the wall upon
which this arch descends. The silent language comes for me.
...
One by one, the bars are lifted to uncover the length of the face.
Its face is white and vast. Yours is the most beautiful sight of all, a
single face on the table.
...
It says, “This is the golden length of the pyramid. This is the
marvelous division. The natural partition.”
...
If I were to discover the solution to the problem of the silent lan-
guage, no one else would know it.
...
This is the language of all that is known, and the language of
all things to come.
...
I hear the voice of the ancients rustling like the dry paper of this
book, and they say these words:
...
We are going on [...]
And I say, and I say, and I say [...]
We are going on a trip, to see the face of God, and to find the
house that houses the pyramid.
The pyramid is hollow. The pyramid is open. The pyramid is the
gateway through which the darkness can come and go (preferably at
the height of winter).
The arch opens.
The prophecy of the pyramid being hollow itself fills me with a
kind of longing. It is a shortsighted feeling, perhaps, but I wonder if
the pyramid may conceal a secret or two about the universe that has
yet to be found.
It is impossible to discern all of the strange things that we are all
about.
And the more we are, the less we see.
And the more we can do, the more impossible it is.
No, not impossible.
Nothing of real, or of expected value is impossible.
I hope to take it up with the ancients.
Now we have to go—
Make it stop!
...
I’m ready to off myself. The Hierophantissa is still carrying the
baby sphinx.
I’ve been trying to keep the body going, but I’m failing.
I’m giving you nothing.
This is lava and ashes. It is not a thing that I’d want or pass
along to another generation.
...
Incomplete.
Curse me. I am not to be trusted.
No one should ever listen to these two.
Cleft, cut, gash, and lacerate.
I am content to creep and hover and make my own.
This is what I am.
Here we are offered a strange and valuable insight into the value
of the void, for as Gnosis is likened to an open eye in that it rep-
resents the sum of what is acknowledged by Existence, and Ag-
nosis, a shut eye, represents the sum of that which lies beyond
its purview, Gnosis requires Agnosis, ignorance, for its own ex-
istence, since it is within the darkness of ignorance that the so-
lutions to its plights are to be found, and Essence is the probe
which reaches into these abyssal cracks. Consider it as the rela-
tionship between society and the outsider: those lying outside of
the norm are shunned for their refusal to play by the rules and
standard logic, yet society depends upon these same individu-
als and their risk-taking behaviors for its progress, being that the
masses are confined to building upon what is already known and
established. New knowledge must be gathered from unknown
voids where Existence does not look: Agnosis. Is this a decent ex-
planation of what I mean to convey? No, I don’t think so.
As a mystic philosopher, you are ever digging through burrows,

through hollows, in search of the untold truth, while sometimes,
albeit very rarely, you will encounter certain realizations which,
like trees, like burrows, seem to be inhabited. And even I don’t
know what I mean when I say that, apart from a vague and terrif-
ic impression which means to imply that, when touching upon

certain thoughts, usually quite difficult to access and based only
on foggy intuition, there is something... as if a creature... staring
back from within the thought. These phenomena have inciden-
tally come to be regarded as ‘asps’, like the snakes, in the absence
of a more official term, and refer to an instance in which a partic-
ular thought or train of thought is perceived as hiding something
threatening within itself (of course I don’t refer to actual living
creatures). It is similar in some ways to the phenomenon which
I originally associated with Parashurna, and may still be related
in some manner with Absence, although I suspect that it differs.
These thoughts cause me to shiver and I experience a foreboding
energy for reasons not immediately obvious. It’s like being able
to sense eyes staring back at you, even though you can’t see them.
Certain thoughts just seem to exist on the border of what is ‘al-
lowed’.
I don’t know if I have given it sufficient attention in my writ-

ing, so most of my readers may not realize how varied my throat
condition(s) really is, involving a multitude of sensations and
variations, all of which rank with different intensity and danger
and require a different response from me. Most people would
not know this. In fact, I don’t know that anybody knows this.
Even my family were only ever told things like “My throat is act-
ing up,” or “I’m having difficulty breathing,” and they weren’t so
caring and sympathetic to my condition that I would feel com-
fortable sharing with them the intimate particulars of my daily,
hourly experience in this Hell.
In the thirteen-plus years that I have dealt with illness and
injury of the throat, I have made note of ten distinct issues which
I will now go on to describe. Note that there are other troubles
that have come and gone over time, though they may not be so
easily differentiated from the other variations as to merit their
own identification.
All of this was written off the top of my head and without
referencing past texts and materials, so you might learn more by
searching through my biographical texts, although I am not sure
why you would want to learn more.
I never received all the answers that I was seeking in my
life due to limited funds and incompetent, unkind medical pro-
fessionals in my area who would rather pass me off to others
than draw upon their knowledge, and it became an endless circle
wherein I was being passed from specialist to specialist until I
was out of money or had landed on a dead end of incompetence.
To Hell with privatized healthcare and the inhumanity it breeds.
Therefore I will be sharing my intimate experiences of these is-
sues both in the hopes that it may inform, and potentially help
others struggling with similar issues (although I struggle to imag-
ine someone else getting to this point...). If this leads to new
breakthroughs or discoveries, like a dysfunction or a cluster of

dysfunctions, the least you can do is name it after me, yeah?
1. STRANGLE
2. GLOBUS
3. STRAIN
4. SUFFOCATION
5. NEURALGIA
6. TONGUE
7. PALATE
8. NERVE
9. GAG
10. SWALLOW
1. STRANGLE (2008)
STRANGLE, which is the oldest of these sensations and ar-
guably the most prominent, was first noticed in the fall of 2008
(although I am convinced that it was lingering for a bit by that
point, if below my radar of concern, and so I wasn’t paying it
much attention). My earliest specific memory pertaining to this
condition was as I was sitting in a parked car outside of a bank
and took a swig of my friend’s energy drink, only to experience
the sensation of my throat growing tight. It was very uncomfort-
able, although I don’t think that I ever mentioned it to him at the
time. A similar sensation occurred only a month later when re-
turning from a trip to Michigan with that same friend and I had
taken a swig of espresso. The caffeine, combined with the cold-
ness of the weather, was creating for great discomfort in me and
my neck was very tight for hours during the ride. A couple of
weeks later I went to stay with another associate at their apart-
ment and my throat was so constricted during the drive that I re-
quired my father to pull over so that I could go and lay down on
the floor of a gas station restroom and recover. Once again, I be-
lieve that the issue was occurring more often than just these in-
stances, although these are the moments that I recall most from
early on. That being said, I don’t recall it being much of an issue
over the next couple of seasons. My next memory of dealing with
throat tightness was July 2009, during a period in which I was be-
having erratically and prone to frequent shrieking and screaming
and other abnormal behaviors which were acted out as part of
a quasi-therapeutic process in which I was then engaged. In ret-
rospect I look at these actions as leading into what would come,
and by September the problem would develop beyond what I
ever thought possible, becoming one of the more notable night-
mares of my lifetime.
In the early years, STRANGLE was prominently associated
with anxiety, physical tension and vocal abuse, however, over the
course of time, as anxiety has become less of an issue and I have
stopped vocalizing altogether, it has come to be more so associ-
ated with the use of my hands. Thus, when you hear me speak-
ing of my inability to type and carry out other tasks involving my
hands, this is the ailment that is invoked when I use my hands
overmuch, tying into my Thoracic Outlet Syndrome. So if I type
more than the allotted amount within a given period of time,
strangulation comes on strong. I do not understand the mechan-
ics perfectly, although I assume that my brachial plexus (which
innervates the hand and forearm and is often implicated in cases
of TOS) is trapped by my damaged SCM muscle and every time
I use my hand I am inadvertently tugging at the nerves in my
neck. I have tried various techniques to tackle this issue, such as
massaging and manipulating my neck, hand and underarm in the
area where the nerve passes through—at which I have sometimes
noticed a palpable bulge—although I have achieved no notice-

able results. This struggle with Thoracic Outlet Syndrome on-
ly became an issue in 2015, at which point I recall that I was
struggling to play my guitar and other instruments, which would
cause my throat to tighten. That said, I only really remember it
affecting my ability to play instruments early on. It wasn’t until
2017 that the problem worsened to where I was no longer able
to use a PC computer or draw or paint or use a video game con-
troller or anything necessitating certain movements of my hands
and joints—movements which I have never yet been able to iso-
late, despite my many attempts. It began around April of that
year when I sprained my thumb, or both thumbs, and was forced
to wear a brace on each hand for several months. See, I have, or
had, this nervous tic where I would just... I don’t really know how
to describe it... I would just flex my thumbs several times rapidly
from time to time. It wasn’t cracking the joints, but I was kind of
popping them in place... although I don’t have the perfect word
to describe it. You ever feel like the skin and meat on your thumb
just ain’t fitting properly and you just have to pop it back and
forth to sort of get it to sit right? Eh, in any case, it seemed like
this directly contributed to the problem and worsened my al-
ready poor condition. Since that time I have been forced to man-
age all my tasks on my smartphone, which I utilize 99.9% of the
time. And while I will sometimes experience trouble even while
using my smartphone, it is nothing near the level of trouble that
I will experience when attempting to use a mouse or a keyboard.
Once again, I was never able to understand the exact mechan-
ics of my situation and why some things are off-limits while oth-
ers aren’t, and which movements define those acts. Honestly, as
much as I would like to know, I am also hesitant to really get into
an intensive analysis of the muscles in that area and how they act
in regards to different activities, mostly fearing that it will some-
how backfire on me and I will end up becoming more self-con-

scious of my acts and movements in a way that negatively im-
pacts my ability to type on my smartphone (which is the kind of
shit that happens to me).
Strangely, STRANGLE seems to counteract SUFFOCA-
TION, meaning that for some reason these two do not appear
capable of occurring concurrently, and I have sometimes lever-
aged this knowledge to my advantage, as in when the suffocation
becomes so intense I feel I will faint or my brain is be deprived of
oxygen, I will begin using my hands in ways that I wouldn’t nor-
mally use them. For example, I actually save little chores for such
a scenario, like shaving. I have an electric razor and it often exas-
perates STRANGLE when I attempt to shave my face and scalp,
so what I do is I tackle such grooming duties when I am suffocat-
ing, and a lot of the time this helps, because, as I said, STRAN-
GLE counterbalances it, although my counterbalancing meth-
ods have seemed to grow less effective in my latter years as the
problem has grown ever more complex. Nearly all of the prob-
lems that I face seem to counterbalance another problem, and I
try to figure this out as soon as a new infirmity crops up in my
life as the exploitation of this matter is often among the best ways
to counteract flare ups (although I have to be very careful—for
obvious reasons).
At its base level, it can be like a tight turtleneck sweater or a
stiff neck of the sort that you might have when waking from an
uncomfortable nap. As it worsens, it can feel like someone has
got their hands wrapped around your neck, and at its worst it can
be so tight as to disallow all movement of the neck and where
I am having to forgo food and water due to the level of tight-
ness. The sensation is mostly felt on the outside—on the neck
rather than within the throat—so it is less invasive than some
of my other throat-related issues, although I do not play games
with this one, as it comes with a huge debt (possibly the largest
debt of any of my ailments) meaning that the consequences are
long-lasting and a singular, ill-considered action, like cutting out
a couple of small pictures with scissors or something seemingly
benign in nature, will leave me suffering for several months with-
out ease, both from incessant strangulation and also heavy re-
strictions on what I am able to achieve. This is especially a prob-
lem due to my writing, and I can often not type at all in these
situations without exasperating the issue. I have put in great ef-
forts to understand the cause of the problem and why I can type
1,000 words on my phone but can barely type a single sentence
on my desktop keyboard before it becomes an issue. This issue
has loomed over the last many years of my life, restricting my ca-
pabilities and rendering most hobbies off-limits.
This ailment, along with many others, is directly impacted by
the ‘rawness’ of my throat. So if I am coughing and clearing my
throat more than a little bit within a given time frame I am go-
ing to be far more sensitive to injury, so if I should take a seat
and write out 2,000 words while my throat is raw it could lead
to months of suffering, while on a day when my throat is not
so raw, I can put out that same amount of words with no trou-
ble. Physical tension also has a direct effect on my condition, so
if my tension gets out of control and goes unchecked for an ex-
tended period of time—say, a couple of days of straight tension
and anxiety—it is very likely to be followed by weeks of tightness
in the throat, if not longer, as seen in the spring of 2018 when
an interaction with my abusive father caused me so much pain
and trauma that I had to give up posting in my blog for roughly
six months. This occurred once more in December of that same
year following a damaging incident involving a sudden outburst
from someone in whom I had placed my trust and the resultant
anxiety amounted to strangulation which left me limited in my
ability for several weeks, although I was able to regain my abili-

ty relatively quickly on that occasion since I was making sure to
keep active, socially speaking, and the chemicals that I was be-
ing supplied by my social ventures were aiding my body’s abili-
ty to recover. This next occurred at the start of 2020 and then
again at the start of 2021—in both cases forcing me to take sev-
eral months off of writing and nearly forcing me to give up on
writing my book.
It occurs more often than you might expect, since I am al-
ways pushing the limits of what my body can handle (merely in
the name of my creative achievements) and believing I will know
when to stop, although I would say that there is usually one in-
stance per week (at the very least) in which it appears I have tak-
en it too far, perhaps by typing up too much text within the al-
lotted window of time or carrying out some ‘unnecessary’ task
such as shaving or vacuuming the floors which really shouldn’t
be a big deal but unfortunately leads to moderate levels of stran-
gulation, thence leading to hours of despair in which I fear I’ve
gone too far and must allow for a cool-down, during which I sit
and worry if ‘this is the end’ and how I will cope if I’ve final-
ly lost my ability to write. If my audience understood how com-
mon was the feeling, I have to imagine that you would see me
differently. I just don’t think that people will be aware of the con-
stant push-and-pull that was taking place in every day of my life,
and that it wasn’t just this static “He has throat problems which
limit his abilities and dexterity.” No, for as I said, I am constant-
ly brushing up against those limits in my refusal to surrender to
my illness, and the only times that I have let my illness stop me
from carrying out my creative works is when my life is literally
endangered by the act. I may be disabled and restricted by illness,
but my lifestyle is not comparable to the paraplegic who sits up-
on a corner chair staring at photos of youth. I would say that my
life unfolds more like the Olympics, and perhaps it’s the Special
Olympics in that it entails a high level of restriction and may not
scream excitement and intensity from the outside, yet it’s calling
on all that I am and I am risking all that I have just to be able to
achieve that which most people can achieve with ease and in the
absence of thought and planning. Say that the average, able-bod-
ied individual is given a thousand credits to spend each and every
day, and those credits relate to the abilities of body and mind
and the liberty that can be achieved thereby before a breaking
point is reached, while I am given a mere one-hundred credits in-
stead. Whereas the commoner man will maybe spend two hun-
dred credits daily, or one-fifth of their allotted allowance, I will
spend ninety-nine of mine own, taking it right up to the ceiling
of what I am authorized so that each day resolves with me gasp-
ing for air and barely pulling through—but oh so glad to look
back upon a day of accomplishment. You must understand, that
without the accomplishments of today, I cannot provide a reason
for why I did not kill myself yesterday. Thus is the nature of my
work: I am forever justifying my decision to remain in this Hell.
Through the deeds of today I justify tomorrow.
It is seldom acknowledged but unfortunately the case that,
despite the pain, discomfort and sheer danger brought on by my
ailments, I focus more often on the tasks I am to accomplish than
on mine own comfort levels. That shouldn’t imply that I neglect
my health, as I am very much on top of it, doing all that I can
to stay out of the danger zone, so to speak, though suffering is a
given at this point in my life and if I am to live to see tomorrow
I must focus on something more constructive and life-affirming.
And so I view the severity of my illness not so much through
how it makes me feel but through how it limits me. When my
physical body throws me for a loop, I foremostly fear what it will
mean for my ability to write and express myself, caring less that
I should be forced to live out the next several months of my life

choking and suffocating (although that isn’t to act like I don’t
care, when I very much do, and I don’t see any way around that
given the extremity of the situation). I hesitate to say all of that,
since, again, it not only seems to imply recklessness and mispri-
oritization on my part but could also undermine the terror of my
experience and that is not my intention.
I work with a rating system with which I rank my condition
from 1-10. This mostly exists for my partner’s benefit so that she
understands where I am at in a given moment. I would say that
8 is the standard of my life as of the past three years, with my
having not seen a 7 since 2019, although I tend to oscillate be-
tween 8 and 9 most days, usually hitting only a handful of tens
each month (as long as my discipline keeps up). I mention all
of this within this context because only once reaching 9.5 does
my mindset shift from “But what about my work?” to a more
survivalistic mode of thought in which I’m willing to put down
whatever I’m working on and force myself to sort of just curl
up on the floor and fight for my survival. My partner often be-
comes upset that I have such a small buffer zone, as it seems like
I am not taking my condition seriously until I am at death’s door,
but it’s not something I’ve decided consciously. It is how my
mind naturally works; and it’s sort of ironic that that is the case,
because the fierceness of my work-oriented focus was formed,
in large part, by my need to overcome the horrid psychological
ramifications of my physical illness, so the idea that it may be
harming me (which is probably quite obvious to any outsider...)
is embarrassing at best. It’s a bit of a paradox, as I am working
so that I may complete my body of work so that I may leave this
world in fullest satisfaction, though my ethic is, itself, putting me
at risk.
2. GLOBUS (2009)
The earliest incident that I can recall, in terms of GLOBUS
variation, occurred in the final weeks of September 2009. It was
a dreary day. I was working on the I Recant album. The lights in
my bedroom were ambient, having been swapped out for blue
bulbs. I was laying on my mattress, waiting on my father to re-
turn from the grocery store with snacks or some such, and I recall
feeling the need to burp, as in the feeling of there being a little
air trapped in the throat, but it was very slight, and when I tried
to burp, it didn’t come out, so I tried to force it, and I don’t recall
it being anything crazy. I don’t expect that anything about this is
uncommon; yet in trying to force it, I incidentally brought about
a very, very uncomfortable feeling in my throat which stayed
with me all throughout the day. I’m foggy on the exact time-
line, though I’m pretty certain that this was where everything be-
gan to fall apart for me. I was very young at that time (twenty)
and not all that used to health problems of this sort, so I had no
means to expect that it would last, or grow worse. Within days
I began to choke on food, from pasta dishes to candy. I fought
it at first, thinking it a fluke, but after a couple weeks I modified
my diet as I couldn’t continue to deal with the constant anxiety
while eating which only appeared to get worse over time. I then
began to eat oatmeal for each meal, with yogurt taken between
meal times and serving primarily as an electuary in which to take
my kratom and other bitter herbs which I would not swallow as
pills.
That September afternoon would give way to a most un-
forgettable period of time known in retrospect as ‘the win-
ternecine’: a period of three months coming at the close of 2009
which were so nightmarish and jarring as to haunt me forever-
more. GLOBUS was by and large responsible for this shift in
quality of life and refers not to a sense of strangulation but some-

thing more akin to the sensation of choking on food.
Even oatmeal and drinks posed their share of problems, and
I had to distract myself while eating so as to keep my mind off
the swallowing process. For several years thereafter I would be-
come anxious as I neared the bottom of the bowl, knowing that
I would soon be taking my last bite, and I would always tend to
swallow my last bite all wrong due to anxiety, so I would have to
find a means to fake myself out, like by convincing myself that I
was going to eat it but actually stop shy of the last bite—weird
little mind tricks like such. I even had a little green bowl set on
the floor beside my computer desk into which I would spit my
final bite of oatmeal, and I did this for years. I had a lot of odd
rituals in that time, like I couldn’t swallow unless I inserted my
index finger into my right ear, as it eased the swallowing mech-
anism, if psychosomatically. It was just an unnerving process for
me and the fact that I ever managed to overcome it is a true mir-
acle, especially since the condition of my throat has only wors-
ened with time.
GLOBUS and STRANGLE were the foremost problems as-
sociated with the Tendon Levey years and my singing career es-
pecially. GLOBUS is what forced me to resort to eating only soft
foods, while STRANGLE is what forced me to stop singing.
GLOBUS has not been much of an issue for me since 2014
or so and only crops up very, very rarely since then (thankfully),
although it was a horrible, horrible problem in those years. Every
little bit of food passing through would leave a residual sensation
that was very difficult to live with. Even with it being so great a
problem, I was persistent in my attempts to overcome it, believ-
ing that it had a psychogenic element and believing I could con-
quer it. I kept a little Tupperware container beside my computer
desk in which was stored my ‘risky’ foods, such as pretzels (nib-
blers) and sugar wafers which, as I recall, were often stale and I
would rarely go a day without forcing myself to take a bite, al-
though it rarely went well. I did also eat saltines with some fre-
quency and for some reason they never caused me as much of a
problem, as I could grind them up to a paste within my mouth,
though it seems I could not do the same with the pretzels which
often caused me to choke. Still, I kept with it over time, never be-
ing one to resign myself to inability. Sometimes I would utilize
the chew and spit technique to enjoy chocolate and other sweets,
which I had done quite often during my years as an anorexic.
In 2016 I began consuming solid food on a more regular ba-
sis, branching off into more and more complex territory and it
came without any notable incidents or suffering, being a great
success which I owe to the chemicals in my body at that time
from being in the company of my ex-partner. It seemed, at that
point, that fewer foods were off-limits than the opposite, and I
was very pleased to have made it so far when I never imagined I
would be able to eat solid food once more after the never end-
ing nightmare that I experienced in life, choking alone in a base-
ment day and night. I continued with a fairly regular diet until
the late summer months of 2017 when SUFFOCATION began
and I feared I was suffering a sudden allergic reaction to certain
foods, such as peanuts and coconut, yet I could not pinpoint the
issue and ultimately reverted to an oatmeal-only diet once again
to avoid flare-ups. Though I never ended up getting tested for al-
lergies, it later occurred to me that I may have developed a prob-
lem with my histamine which, as of 2020, has made it impossi-
ble for me to step outside for even the merest minute, regardless
of the season, without suffering an array of disturbing symptoms
within my throat and sinuses. Perfumes or scented soaps are also
off-limits to me at this point and I require a special hand soap as
most cause my throat to tighten. This was not a problem prior to
2017, at which point peanuts and other sensitivities cropped up

as never before (I had no known allergies growing up and often
boasted that fact).
It wasn’t until September 2018 that I began my attempts to
broaden my diet once again and started eating familiar staples
like sushi and rice and whatnot, although that only lasted until
around May 2019, when I was forced to take up a restricted liq-
uids-only diet (prominently consisting of oatmeal and kale, with
various fruits and veggies entering in and out of the equation
over time) by which I have been sustained ever since. My cur-
rent diet has naught to do with the fear of choking as it once did
but relates to the condition of my larynx which forbids excessive
movement of the tongue and even mastication.
There was zero joy or comfort to come from eating. It was a
burden; a punishment. The funnest that it got for me was hav-
ing my red wine and those little Ensure bottled milkshakes that
I would drink twice daily to maintain my nutrition. I was act-
ing on a very strict schedule at that time of my life, and it’s not
like that has ever actually changed, but even my drinking was
scheduled. I also had everything set up strategically so as to keep
me having something to look forward to all throughout the day
and that would keep me going. So I would have an Ensure af-
ter waking up, and then I would have half of one after my sec-
ond nap, and then I would have a bit of red wine before my sec-
ond nap, although I wouldn’t truly begin drinking until after my
third nap and then I would keep on drinking all throughout the
latter half of my day. That was the standard for several years, from
about 2010-2014. I eventually cut out Ensure when cutting out
all dairy from my diet, and I upped my intake of red wine to
compensate to where I was drinking day in and day out.
There was a noted psychogenic element to GLOBUS vari-
ation, although I do not believe that it was purely psychogenic
and it is possible that I have overestimated the role of anxiety

in the matter—a misconstruction left over from a time in which
I was willing to blame absolutely everything except my singing.
Rather, I believe that the increased strangulation coming as a re-
sult of my vocal techniques led to an increase in physical ten-
sion which, in turn, amounted to a couple of choking incidents
which, in turn, led me to becoming anxious during meals. This
caused me to swallow strangely and other little things brought
on by anxiety which, in turn, increased the amount of choking
to where I was choking on just about anything with a texture. At
first it was only food that catalyzed these episodes, but as it be-
gan affecting my ability to drink as well I realized that the prob-
lem was complex. That, in itself, needn’t implicate somatism, al-
though I made that assumption at the time. While it may have
benefited me in some ways to view it as psychogenic, it also did
cause some trouble for me, and for a while I was so willing to
believe that it was all in my mind that I paid very, very little at-
tention to all of the physical activities, such as singing, which
could be exacerbating my condition, leading thus to the loss of
my voice.
A recent malfunction of my cricopharyngeus muscle (pre-
venting me from burping) has shined a new light on the origins
of my GLOBUS problem, going to show that all of this may have
begun with a legitimate dysfunction caused by a straining of the
aforementioned muscle which caused me to choke on food an
drink. Even if there existed a somatic or anxious element to come
of it down the line which saw my throat tightening out of stress,
it becomes clear that this was not the cause but my reacting to
what was a terrific malfunction.
3. STRAIN (2010)
STRAIN, formerly called ‘Pain Vein’ (in a time when I

lacked a proper understanding of anatomy), refers to injuries to
the muscles of the throat and neck—namely the sternocleido-
mastoid—leading to intense, sharp pain and long healing times.
This variant is less prominent and is mostly associated with the
period of 2010-2011.
On the date of November 25, 2010, or Thanksgiving, I tore,
strained or otherwise injured my sternocleidomastoid muscle, or
SCM, while singing the high register vocals in “Blood Over the
Dam” and “Dancer Photo” which were performed back to back
(in a notable instance of post-incidental correctional hysteria).
This forced me to stop singing for over a week. In that time I ex-
perienced severe pain when eating, drinking, breathing, speak-
ing and, of course, singing, with most of the pain being located
in the front and bottom of my neck. I returned to singing in ear-
ly December, not willing to stay away from recording any longer
than I had to, despite the fact that my injury had yet to heal in
full, and on the tenth of December I suffered yet another muscu-
lar injury in a nearby but seemingly disparate region of the neck
which infamously prevented me from singing for two and a half
months and resulted in the space between “Carnage Near and
Fear” and “The Cloud on the Altar”. I continued my daily regi-
men of ibuprofen for the next three years—perhaps unnecessar-
ily—in an effort to battle the lingering effects of this injury and
other throat ailments.
The sternocleidomastoid is a complex muscle divided into
two divisions, having one of its heads connect to the sternum,
while another head connects to the clavicle. It seems that I some-
how pulled both heads, if that is possible, with the sternal head
being injured on the night of Thanksgiving, while the second
sprain was felt in the clavicular head and came about on the
tenth of December. Whether or not that is an accurate take on
what took place, I can at least say that the location of those heads
match up with the locations in which the pain was concentrated.
Symptomatically speaking, it was a muscular injury, so there
was a lot of heat, especially in the first few weeks, and the worst
of the pain ran from the base of my shoulder to right under my
right ear (the length of the SCM).
I medicated with alcohol, kratom and an excessive intake of
ibuprofen. I was taking three ibuprofen pills in four hour inter-
vals from November 2010 through all of 2011, 2012 and 2013
(in which case I was taking them long after my sprain had seemed
to heal, taking them as a sort of preventative or in the hopes that
they would decrease the overall swelling within my throat). I’m
sure that it didn’t do my system any good to be taking such large
daily dosages for years and years. It was my sudden abdominal in-
jury at the end of 2013 which caused me to switch off of ibupro-
fen and start taking turmeric powder as an alternative, although
I am not sure on its efficacy.
Shortly after injuring my SCM for the second time I began
to suffer from a debilitating gastroparesis which manifested with
the most intense and overwhelming abdominal pains that I had
ever experienced at that point, coming on so suddenly and with
such intensity after eating that I would be forced to lay in a very
particular position on my mattress for anywhere from a half hour
to several hours while waiting on the pressure to subside. The
pressure, which was so intense as to take my breath away and
leave me unable to sit up or stand to my feet, was not confined
to my stomach, but could be felt within my neck when at its
worst. As I later realized, my condition (gastroparesis) was like-
ly to have been caused by an interaction between the injured
SCM and my vagus nerve, which appeared to be trapped or oth-
erwise restricted by the inflamed muscle. This was a significant
discovery, as the vagus nerve is a very complex nerve which trav-
els through much of the body and seems to relate to a lot of the
issues with which I have suffered over time (along with appear-
ing to have a very mysterious link to that which we regard as the
mind-body relation, which could potentially have something to
say for my apparent susceptibility to somatism between the years
of 2009-2014).
At that point in my life, the muscular pain that I was experi-
encing in my neck, coupled with the pain of gastroparesis, were
the worst pains I had ever experienced in all my life. My battle
with these ailments is subtly depicted on the cover of my 57th
album, The Cloud on the Altar, which was my first attempt at
recording after returning to singing in early 2011.
I have pulled a couple of muscles in the neck and throat re-
gion since then, often as the result of excessive yawning or la-
bored breathing, although nothing to the degree that was expe-
rienced in 2010-2011. This singular injury seems to have come
with many ramifications ranging from the aforementioned inter-
actions with the vagus which are still ongoing to issues with the
brachial nerve (as seen in TOS). I have noted elsewhere that the
texture of my dextral sternocleidomastoid muscle is very hard,
inflexible and bears all the roughness of a tire, with many palpa-
ble nodules.
4. SUFFOCATION (2011)
The proper medical term, I believe, for this issue, is VCD,
or Vocal Cord Dysfunction, although whereas many sufferers
report shorter episodes lasting only minutes, my episodes have
been known to last many hours, if not days at a time, making this
among the worst of all issues I have experienced.
This ailment made its first appearance in the holiday season
of 2011, in which case my family and I suspected it to be an al-
lergic response brought about by dust or something associated

with Christmas decorations (or potentially the tree itself ). It felt
to me like an asthma attack that was always ongoing, and it was
utterly horrid to deal with. I have often compared it to breath-
ing through a stirring straw. It was a serious issue for months and
months and died down around the time that I began taking res-
piratory herbs, such as Mullein, leading me to believe that that
had fixed it (although I am no longer sure that they had any re-
lation). It was unknown to me, at that point, what the real prob-
lem could be, since I was then also a regular smoker and that
didn’t seem to affect it at all and so I was ever puzzled as to what
was happening. I now believe it to have related more directly to
my recent vocal injuries which cost me my singing ability.
It has come and gone in bursts throughout the years, al-
though the next major incident wouldn’t occur until the summer
of 2017, at which point I discovered it to be not asthma or al-
lergies, but VCD. In this case it was caused by excessive throat-
clearing resulting from my stint of intoxication in 2017. In addi-
tion to weakening my defense against such bad habits, the wine
itself could even have been irritating my throat. It was for this
reason that I stopped drinking for good and I haven’t touched a
single drink since 2017.
It typically comes about when there has been damage to my
vocal cords, so if I clear my throat excessively or cough and it
becomes raw and scratchy, this problem is very likely to devel-
op and it will possibly go on for months and months if I do not
cease all abrasive activities immediately. If I should pull a muscle
in my throat, which I will sometimes do from excessive yawning
(since, ironically, yawning is one of the only ways to actually get
a full breath when I am suffocating, as it changes the shape of my
throat temporarily and allows me a little bit of oxygen), it will
typically lead me to SUFFOCATION. I am currently struggling
from this and I have been for several months. It is like an asthma
attack that never ends, although it does ebb and flow throughout
the day depending on my activities. I would perhaps consider it
the worst of the lot if simply because of how long it lasts, but al-
so because it has brought me nearest to death. My throat literally
changes shape during these instances and my temples tingle and
my extremities go numb and my bowels loosen. As breathing be-
comes labored, I breathe via sporadic sips and slurps. Yawning, as
I noted, is another measure of getting in my breaths. In the worst
scenarios I will be trying to catalyze my trigeminal neuralgia by
pushing the notch behind my right ear in an attempt to coun-
terbalance the symptoms of suffocation which are more danger-
ous and more difficult to bear than the severe, cutting pain of the
neuralgia. It is unfortunate that I am forced to choose between
the worst discomfort of my life and the worst pain of my life, but
sometimes the situation calls for it.
When you hear me speak about low oxygen levels and other
things of that sort, I am referring to this issue in particular, since
my other issues, while debilitating in their own ways, do not nor-
mally hinder my ability to breathe (unless they are combined
with this particular ailment to make up a hideous and frightful
combo). This facet is also associated with what is colloquially re-
ferred to as “Animal Mode” by my partner and I, which refers
to a point that is reached when the suffocation is at its peak and
it will be so overwhelming, so all-consuming, so alarming, that
I just enter into this survivalistic trance state where I’m not re-
ally capable of listening or paying attention to what’s going on
around me and I sort of just begin to wander around or crawl
upon the floor doing random things based less on sense than
on instinct, as I am simply trying to figure out a way to survive
this moment, this minute, this second. And that’s really what it
is... the issue has become so severe that the mind begins to take
life on a second-by-second basis, and it’s really scary when you

think of the implications of such an act and what it says about
the threat of the situation. I’ll just start picking up random items
around my room, or moving in strange ways. In some cases I will
strategically hold in my urine until the bladder becomes so full
as to distract me, if by the merest degree, from the danger that I
am in. Likewise, I will sometimes feel it necessary to inflict pain
on my body in these instances, such as by hitting my head with
a jug or dropping a hammer on my feet—all done in desperation
to reroute my attention (or my circulation). There have been a
handful of occasions, all occurring within my final years, where
the suffocation was so intense that a sense of euphoria and sur-
reality will set to set in and I can no longer feel my head or my
limbs. Often, in this case, I will begin to smile, and I will tell
my partner that I love her, and I will sort of just lay there in a
daze until something eventually changes. In these moments I ful-
ly expect to die, and it is so very surreal. The duration of these
episodes is dependent on a wide variety of factors and, as so, an
episode can last anywhere from hours to days at a time.
One thing that you ought to know is that whenever I enter
into a particular dangerous state of health I will quickly make
sure to back up all my works and upload them to the many places
in which they are hosted online so that I leave the public with
the most recent versions of whatever I was working on at the
time of my death. I have updated my servers over three hundred
times in the past two years since I experience multiple such in-
stances within the average week wherein I fear I could finally die,
and so there will come several days within each and every week
wherein I will be forced to devote a half hour or more of my time
to simply uploading my revisions to all relevant channels. When
I publicized the Rejectamenta collections on my music account
in 2021 it was done prematurely because I was in an especially
difficult position and expecting to die on that day. The anxiety

and adrenaline from my hurried behavior and my sharing them
with the public caused my sinuses to clamp shut and worsened
my condition and I nearly fainted from suffocation amid the up-
loading process. It’s a good thing that I survived that experience
or otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten to see the reaction of the
public to my 900 new songs, which was literally nothing (except
for the three people that chose to unfollow me, since I guess re-
leasing nine albums at once is a nuisance rather than anything
worth being excited about).
You can tell when I am in a desperate state by looking at my
last.fm log, as I will often return to the same set of songs in such
instances, with Enya’s ‘Caribbean Blue’ being the most common
go-to during mortal struggles. So if you see clusters where this
track is repeated many times back to back, especially over the
course of several hours, that is a fairly obvious indication of my
circumstances. Part of this is done to calm me, but it is also my
favorite song of all time, so I’ve decided that I am satisfied with
it being the last song that I ever hear, and so it’s not just played
with intent to calm me but also to conclude my listening history,
so to speak. I simply dislike the idea of my last song being some
random and unplanned crap track. Sometimes I do this with the
Widowstone melody. You can tell a lot from my last.fm log. If
you know what to look for, you can tell when I am undergo-
ing a near-death experience, contemplating suicide, sleeping and
even... sexy time.
5. NEURALGIA (2014)
In December 2014 I developed trigeminal neuralgia, likely
as a result of nerves being pinched beneath my muscles and also
entailed or interacted with sinus/dental troubles. It first started
up in the final weeks of 2013, when I awoke with severe pain

in my jaw and an enlarged lymph node within the dextral hemi-
sphere of my neck. The issue came and went over the next sev-
eral weeks and seemed to subside around the time that I saw a
dentist, having two teeth pulled in the hope that this would fix
my problem, though despite a brief window of hope and relief
it would come back stronger than before in May 2015, amount-
ing to a severe pain which radiated all along my right jaw and
seemed to increase when I spoke and ate. After a couple days of
fighting it, I stopped speaking entirely and spent much of the
following year mute and forced to communicate via pen, pa-
per and text messages. The condition improved for a bit after
I had left my abusive home environment and went to live with
my then-partner in... what was essentially just a different abusive
home environment, although the joy, hope and thrill of being
out and about and experiencing the world and experiencing af-
fection filled me with chemicals as such that I had long been de-
prived in my life of isolation. As so, the nerve pain dipped in and
out over the months and I was able to continue speaking until
April 2017 when it returned and I couldn’t overcome it, being
that I had now returned to my former household and lacked the
same buffers. I would then go without speaking yet again until
July 2018, although it cut in and out over the upcoming months.
I would end up losing my voice once and for all in April or May
of 2019, although at that point it had naught to do with NEU-
RALGIA. The pain, itself, largely dissipated when SUFFOCA-
TION took over in early 2018, although as I began socializing at
the end of 2018 I recall that it became a problem for a couple of
weeks once again. It has occasionally appeared for weeks or even
a month at a time but will never occur at that intensity (but it al-
ways brings absolute dread with it)
Apart from the oxytocin to come of human interaction, gar-

lic was considered the only working solution when it came to
managing the pain, outdoing kratom, alcohol, ibuprofen and
whatever else I tried; however, eventually I noticed that as the
garlic took effect and eased my pain, STRANGLE would come
suddenly into play and I would have to confront a tight neck for
many hours instead, so I ultimately had to ease up on the gar-
lic and ceased using it entirely for a while, except in the case of
emergencies. This was perhaps the first instance in which I real-
ly noticed that certain issues were counterbalancing/counteract-
ing each other, like some strange, sickening seesaw, and my being
aware of this ‘seesaw’ has created for interesting strategies along
the way.
It took me a very long time to get this problem diagnosed,
since trigeminal neuralgia is not that well known and doctors are
quick to write off jaw and facial pain as TMD (TMJ), although
I experienced none of the symptoms associated with TMD apart
from pain. I also suspected several other diagnoses along the way,
such as relating to my salivary glands (due to the affected area)
and other sinus issues.
Known triggers include touching my nasal cavities/sinuses
and upper right gums. Also, touching behind my right ear within
that little notch behind the lone will trigger it. As noted, NEU-
RALGIA never occurred alongside STRANGLE and typically
cancels it out, so I would use this to my advantage when one issue
got so severe, so I would try to lessen it by invoking the other.
It also sometimes even cancelled out SUFFOCATION, which
is when it came most in handy, since if I’m on the floor about
to pass out from suffocation I’ll just start pressing into the notch
behind my right ear.
Origins:
The issue was presumably caused by muscular/neural entrap-

ment caused by throat and neck damage. The SCM is a major
culprit, seeing as I went several years unable to even turn my head
since all that singing really hardened my SCM. Only in 2018 did
I begin pushing through that by exercising and massaging the
SCM, trapezius and scalenes regularly. It is possible that it was
also related to acute sinusitis, although whether was the sinusitis
secondary to the neuralgia, or the neuralgia secondary to the si-
nusitis, it is not clear.
Catalysts (Episodic):
Things affecting my sinuses, such as touching my right inner
nostril, potentially crying, an area in my upper right gums where
a tooth was once cutting through the gum often seemed to relate
to the problem, touching the notch behind my right ear. My
whole face was extremely sensitive to the touch, and even things
like wind and air temperature could cause a flare up. The first
time that I met with my partner of 2016/2017 I had to mark the
bad side of my face with a little red mark so that she knew where
not to touch.
Reactions:
Misdiagnoses: TMD (TMJ), dental problems, sinus prob-
lems, salivary gland problems
Coping mechanisms/winning strategies: hot showers, inges-
tion of garlic, oxytocin (from human interaction). I began using
a nasal irrigation machine in late 2017 to keep my sinuses clean
(a SinuPulse Elite) and I used that on a semi-frequent basis
throughout 2018.
Behavioral and dietary Restrictions: I stopped talking alto-
gether because of this problem.
Average duration (episodic): it lasted pretty much incessant-
ly for years on end. Relief, in this case, was not completely base-
line, but just a lesser, more manageable degree of pain.
Pain and discomfort scale:

Fear scale: fear was not the prominent emotion associated
with this facet, although my suicidality was very, very high. Most
of my throat problems trigger my survival instinct and force me
to fight to live, but with this I just constantly wanted to die. I
couldn’t think straight. The pain was just too constant and too
intense that I could hardly do anything with myself. Add to that
all of the abuse that I was under from my family at the time and
the fact that they were trying to limit the number of showers
I was taking daily despite the fact that I was offering to pay. I
was taking up to five showers daily, with each individual show-
er lasting an average of thirty minutes. I notably used my cir-
cumstances as a way to break my addiction to alcohol and nico-
tine, but I didn’t notice any notable benefits to my circumstances
in doing so, beyond from simply knowing that I had overcome
my addictions (which really didn’t mean a whole lot at that time
when I wanted so badly to die).
Timeline: PEAK 2015-2017
6. TONGUE (2019)
On the date of my thirtieth birthday I suffered a major set-
back in my condition. I had cleared my throat a bit over the
course of a day or two making my throat slightly sore, and then
attended an all-day concert event where I was talking a lot. This
caused for an increase in pain and rawness in my throat, and
partway through the event I had to swing by my home to pop
some ibuprofen pills to manage the pain, and while that seemed
to mask my pain enough to where I could speak, it was a very
poor decision on my part to continue my activity.
This was made worse only a few days thereafter when I con-
sumed an antacid tablet which had been sitting for an unknown
length of time within a bowl of coins on my desktop (pennies,

quarter, dimes and whatnot) and the antacid had absorbed the
taste of the metal coins, catalyzing a negative reaction which
bothered my throat for several days to a week and forced me to
cancel all plans.
I fought it for a couple weeks before my throat issue had be-
come so severe that I resolved to take some time off from social-
ization while working on a website for my upcoming venture,
opting once again to go mute and avoid all speech.
The problem did not improve and in July 2019 my larynx
was in such a state that all movements of the tongue became sud-
denly problematic. The base of the tongue, after all, is attached to
the top of the larynx, and so one can assume that as the tongue
moves it tugs on the larynx. A normal, healthy voice box should
know no problems from this, but my attrited throat was not
capable of handling such seemingly simple tasks and I suffered
greatly from even the most minor movements.
Whereas NEURALGIA is what caused me to stop speaking
between 2015-2018, it is not pain that caused me to stop speak-
ing in 2019 but inflammation and dysfunction and I have not
since spoken a word (with the exception of incidental somnilo-
quy over which I have no control).
In addition to going silent, I resorted to an all-liquids diet,
resolving to liquify even my oatmeal—not so much out of a wor-
ry of choking but because mastication, on its own, what with
its involvement of the tongue, was causing its share of problems.
Saliva was pooling in my mouth as I was unable to swallow. I ex-
perienced some relief when I switched to a diet high in anti-in-
flammatory foods, among which was included raw kale, turmer-
ic, ginger, chia seeds, bananas, egg yolks and various supplemen-
tal vitamins, from D3 to B-complex to Zinc. This seemed to al-
low me some relief, as well as giving me a bit of a high which last-
ed several months and had me feeling quite relieved that I had

found a source which provided me with not just the proper nu-
trition but the chemicals I was lacking due to a life of abuse and
isolation where oxytocin was uncommon. The anti-inflammato-
ry effects of my diet were apparently such that all of the rings be-
gan to slip off of my fingers (I’m honestly not sure why that oc-
curred, since I have such slender fingers as is, although the joints
themselves must have shrunk).
Unfortunately, the problem would never heal, only becom-
ing slightly less sensitive in the passage of time as I learned to live
with limited tongue mobility. In the fall of that same year I suf-
fered a huge upset which drove me to the brink of suicide and
made for a suicide purge (which means to prepare my room for
suicide by ridding my life of excess possessions and getting rid of
things that I don’t want to be found or confiscated by those who
may find my body) in which I ended up throwing out a lot of my
childhood possessions.
This variant remains a problem even now and prevents me
from both eating and speaking all these years later; however, like
with most variants, it peaked in the first several months to a year
of its first appearance (which is fairly common since in the be-
ginning I am still adapting to and trying to identify the mechan-
ics of the issue so as to know what to avoid and how to proceed).
I usually tend to gain an understanding of my condition
rather quickly since I am very investigative and observant when
it comes to identifying catalysts and limits. I don’t know that my
audience will readily grasp how much of an investigative process
this has been for me, whereas it is probably more natural to imag-
ine me as some punching bag resigned to my fate. No, I’ve been
studying and fighting and devising plans and strategies each and
every day since this all became a problem back in 2009, and that
only adds to the pain that I am experiencing, seeing as it has on-
ly continued to get worse and worse despite all of my efforts to

heal (although I don’t doubt that my living conditions and on-
going traumatization at the hands of an abusive family, negligent
doctors and false friendships played an integral role in my prog-
nosis, regardless of their initial cause being largely my own fault
and being caused by vocal misuse pure and simple).
7. PALATE (2020)
A more recent problem affecting my palate cropped up late
in life, first becoming an issue on the date of September 26, 2020
when my palate and sinuses became so inflamed (as a result of la-
ryngeal attrition) that I felt my whole head was caving in on it-
self and was required to sleep in a sitting position while wearing
a helmet just to be able to breathe—as the helmet applied pres-
sure to the bridge of my nose which, for some reason, alleviated
the worst of my symptoms just enough to where I could breathe.
It genuinely felt as if my head was caving in on itself, with
my palate and the back of my sinuses feeling swollen to the point
where most movements were often cutting off my air supply.
When I inhaled through my nose it would clamp shut and cut
off my breathing and it was extremely frightening. I can’t even
imagine what must have been taking place anatomically. The ap-
plication of pressure to the bridge of my nose worked sometimes,
though not always, and that was mostly in the early stages of the
issue.
The issue was at its worst between September and November
of that year and has not since reached that same level of intensity,
although it did manage to shake me up in ways that few prob-
lems before it could. And for all the terror that it caused, it did
bring with it one advantage in that it largely seemed to counter-
act STRANGLE (arguably by reshaping my throat) and thereby
allowed me a little extra leeway when it came to using my hands.

As so, I took this time to accomplish a lot of writing. That’s pret-
ty much the extent of it, and I don’t refer to anything crazy. It’s
not like I could suddenly play an instrument or anything of that
sort, although I could get away with maybe writing down a little
symbol or using a staple gun for a small job or cleaning my bed-
room. As so, this problem seemed especially easy to counteract
and that made it a little more bearable for me, despite the aw-
fulness of the sensations involved, which were among the most
uncomfortable that I have ever experienced. Unfortunately, this
immunity only lasted until January of the following year, when
in the first week of the new year STRANGLE would return to
prominence after a combination of throat clearing and laptop
tinkering amounted to a most debilitating spell which left me
unable to type for months and forced to pass along several duties
to my partner.
Potentially related to this particular variant is a concerning
set of symptoms which cropped up in March 2021 which I ini-
tially chocked up to springtime allergies, although they have not
since dissipated. I am referring to a swelling in lining of my in-
ner gums, as in the gums which line the area immediately sur-
rounding my tongue and lower-level teeth. The gums have been
inflamed since that time and feel as if they are filled with pres-
sure. It is deeply uncomfortable. Even touching them can lead to
SUFFOCATION, and this forced me to stop brushing my teeth
for long stretches of time before I began cleaning them with a
stream of concentrated water and cue-tips which were dull and
less likely to upset my gums. The most apt way of describing the
sensation in my lower gums is ‘tightness’. They feel as if they are
stretched tight, and it is very, very uncomfortable. If I should lick
the area at all with my tongue, or poke them with a toothbrush,
they will become tighter, and so it seems that they are sensitive
to the touch.
8. MOLAR (2021)
In September 2021 I began to suffer severe pain in the area
of my back molar (left side). Since part of the tooth had eroded
or broken off in the previous year or two (as a result of a cavity
which came from my favoring that side of my mouth when chew-
ing, which I had been doing since 2009), I assumed that it was
a problem relating to the nerve and tried approaching it with
ibuprofen, garlic and clove oil, though nothing really worked.
The only thing to minimize the pain was peppermint oil applied
directly to the molar, although the problem with that is that it
would also trigger SUFFOCATION and that just wasn’t a wor-
thy trade, so I don’t know if the peppermint oil was actually
numbing it or if it was all just being counterbalanced by a sepa-
rate ailment which was triggered by the oil.
This I consider to have been the worst pain of my lifetime.
A sip of water could be felt entering the cavity and I could feel
it traveling down... traveling down where? I don’t know. Into the
gums? Riding the nerve? I don’t know, but I would feel this hor-
rible sensation as if the liquid was traveling down some passage
within me and it was so abhorrent I can hardly speak of it. It felt
somehow surgical, like when you’ve got an IV pumping you with
contrast. I would have to brace myself before each drink of liq-
uid, and at this point I’m already on an all-liquids diet so I can’t
even imagine having had to chew in this condition. I tried fa-
voring one side of my mouth and swallowing without first hold-
ing it in my cheeks, though it was very difficult to pull off and
risked exacerbating other problems, such as choking, because I
was swallowing quickly and urgently and trying to get the whole
thing down quickly and in as few gulps as possible before my

body registered the pain and seizures overtook me. Meal time
became an absolute nightmare and I was having to reorient my
day so as to limit my intake in a strategic way. Each kale drink
would cause me such unbearable pain. I would have about forty
five seconds, on average, between when the pain began rising to
when it would peak, and the most severe, unbearable pain in my
life would come on suddenly like a demon of blades. It some-
times lasted hours, but the first few minutes were almost always
the worst, and in those first few minutes I would regularly lose
all control of my body and just start thrashing—most notably
in bashing my head against the side of my bed or dresser in an
attempt to distract myself from the pain. I doubt that even the
pain of childbirth could top the pain of this ailment. I would
convulse uncontrollably, and the fact that I did not go uncon-
scious at any point amazes me. It began in the final week of Sep-
tember and began to taper off in the second week of October,
though in those weeks I received almost no rest and was ex-
tremely dehydrated and undernourished.
I would have to sleep in a sitting position, having lined the
wall with pillows against which to lean. The pain was incessant
and for some reason it would become worse as I began drifting
off to sleep. It would not even wait until I was fully asleep, begin-
ning as soon as numbness began to creep over my body and relax-
ation seemed a promise. Yet the most horrible pains of my life-
time would jolt me upright. I do not know why that was the case,
although I suspect that it has to do with the changing circulato-
ry patterns occurring in the event of sleep as different body parts
are given different priorities and some muscles give out in relax-
ation. I eventually had to settle for getting whatever I could, and
so I would lay there attempting to fall asleep, only to get about
thirty seconds of haziness before the pain arose and forced me to
my feet where I would start pacing and bashing my head. When

it subsided, even a little bit, I would return to my bed, propping
myself up against the wall, where I would repeat the process, all
to achieve just thirty seconds of restfulness in the hopes that it
would add up and spare me from delirium and other dangerous
side effects of sleep deprivation. This went on for two or three
days and they were, without a doubt, among the worst of my life-
time. I wrote about the experience elsewhere, wherein I recalled
how, during the experience, I was flashing back to long-forgotten
memories of events which had taken place before my overdose
and near-death experience of 2007, and these are all memories
that I don’t think that I had considered even once since they oc-
curred, so it was highly unusual and perhaps a bit eerie.
I will never forget that surreal moment when I caught myself
turning over and looking at the clock to see that four hours had
passed in an instant. I grabbed onto my partner, saying “Four
hours! Four hours!” with excitement, having not been able to
garner so much sleep in days at that point. A day or so later I
achieved six hours of sleep in a similar fashion, and before long I
was back on my way to a more normal routine.
The pain finally tapered off in the second week of October.
My initial belief was that the nerve had died, as is commonplace
in cases involving an exposed nerve, even though I could still feel
a degree of pain in that area (if relatively minor in comparison to
what I experienced at its peak). However, over time, as the pain
has come and gone in short, alarming bursts, as if to remind me
of darker possibilities, I have paid close attention to what seems
to be causing the issue and I am convinced, at this point, that all
of this relates in some way to my larynx, as I had been clearing my
throat a bit before all of this became an issue and it seems to have
amounted to some sort of neural damage or entrapment affect-
ing the area of my back teeth. It is still possible that the nerve has
died, though my original assumption that I was dealing with an

abscessed tooth or something of that nature was given up in time
due to a complete lack of other visible symptoms in that gen-
eral region of my mouth (apart from the obvious broken tooth
and cavity hole). I have learned to never underestimate the sheer
number of problems that can stem from the singular cause that
is my throat, seeing as so many nerves and other vital things pass
through that area and if something gets pinched or sprained or
blocked we are looking at a miscommunication as such that will
make itself known in all of the worst ways. And I find it so ridicu-
lous, that with each issue that crops up I can hardly believe hav-
ing developed another issue, as if it is its own thing, only to even-
tually conclude that it refers back to the same source which has
been at the root of nearly all of my issues for all this time.
This was a very emotional time for me as I was strongly con-
sidering leaving this life on October 11, so while all of this was
going on, I spent the first week and a half of October prepar-
ing to leave and completing all of my to-do lists. In this week I
also experienced a multitude of concerning heart-related symp-
toms—culminating on the morning of October 11, no less, in
which I was suffering extreme pain in my chest, back and left
arm, along with numbness in multiple areas including my left
arm—and I still question if I suffered a minor heart attack or
otherwise prevented one from occurring.
While the gums don’t normally appear different from the
outside when this issue crops up, they do become inflamed so
that the tooth raises and it feels like a rock sitting within my
mouth, almost like a foreign object, and it is constantly scraping
against the top layer of teeth as it is protruding past where it
should be. Again, it doesn’t look to be swollen or odd from a
glance, but surely it must be if this is occurring. It is a very ob-
noxious feeling and it is often accompanied by cutting pain.
I began consuming garlic after this event to manage the pain,

although this exasperated other aspects of my condition and it
worsened my already frequent fevers, forcing me to stop.
9. GAG (2022)
Finally, in the early days of 2022 I suffered a new variation
in which I felt as though a finger was pushing firmly upon my la-
ryngeal prominence (Adam’s apple)—more so from the interior
than the exterior—and not just strangling my throat, but bring-
ing me to the brink of vomiting. I spent nearly a week unable to
move while waiting on the issue to subside, although it contin-
ued to crop up over several months whenever I would cough or
make use of my hands. It is believed that this related to a sprained
thumb in my right hand which came as a result of attempting
to carry too many water jugs at one time, leading to mixed com-
munications between my hand and throat and resulting in a new
type of tightness. It doesn’t sound nearly as severe as a lot of
the other problems that I have been up against, though it was
strangely severe and frightening. What was strange about this
particular ailment, to me, was that activities which would have
normally evoked STRANGLE were now evoking GAG instead,
which seemed much worse in that even in its lightest stages it
could incapacitate me. I would be keeled over on the floor trying
as hard as humanly possible not to vomit, knowing I would suf-
focate at best, and at worst the acidity would do so much dam-
age to my throat that I would be dealing with some serious con-
sequences and for who knows how long. This problem lasted for
roughly two months before it began to subside and it seemed to
heal up alongside the aforementioned thumb sprain, as was sus-
pected from the outset.
Further complications arose when, on the morning follow-

ing the onset of this issue, I suffered an intense spell of vertigo
which was catalyzed by quickly turning over in bed; and while it
fits with what I have learned of BPPV and ended up lasting ap-
proximately a hundred days (though the effects and sensitivities
lingered for up to six months), I strongly suspect that it was cer-
vicogenic (as arguably all vertigo is) and caused, if in part, by this
pressure placed upon the center of my throat (and indeed I did
notice the vertigo to be worse on days when the gagging sensa-
tion was more pronounced).
The issue later resurfaced in April of this year when, follow-
ing a brief rest, I suffered a sort of spasm of my swallowing reflex
and could not stop swallowing; and so after about twenty swal-
lows within only about a minutes time, GAG came back for a
couple days and caused serious problems for me almost resulting
in syncope and suffocation.
10. SWALLOW
In recent weeks, after clearing my throat a little bit too much
one night due to sheer nervous energy—which merely means a
handful of times spread out over several hours—I ended up with
a very raw, painful throat which would lead to all sorts of prob-
lems over the coming days and weeks. It is the worst pain that
I have experienced within my actual throat, which has not been
associated with much pain in the past (whereas trigeminal neu-
ralgia and the molar pain were not belonging to my throat but
to my face and mouth, respectively). The slightest movements of
the tongue, laughter or throat-clearing will lead to extreme pain.
Over several weeks of time I worked day and night to get the
attrition down through basic discipline and hoping that ‘time
would do its thing’, so to speak, but following a painful episode,
I awoke one afternoon with a most unusual and alarming prob-

lem: I was unable to burp after eating. The muscle which is sup-
posed to relax for burping to be possible has malfunctioned, and
gas (carbon dioxide, nitrogen and oxygen) is becoming trapped
within my esophagus. As if this wasn’t terrifying on its own to
have these large pockets of gas rushing up my esophagus and get-
ting caught in my throat with no means to get out, it was caus-
ing me to suffocate. The trapped gas then began leading to in-
creased intestinal pains and nausea. This same muscle also con-
trols our ability to swallow food and drink, so it’s been a terrify-
ing experience as I know that if the problem is to worsen further
then I will be forced to starve myself completely. After a couple
days of this, I developed a technique where, once I feel gas ris-
ing within my esophagus, I will quickly rise to my feet from a
sitting position, and if I manage to time it perfectly then grav-
ity will usually do the rest for me and expel it from my esoph-
agus with greater ease. I have also changed up my eating habits
in an effort to decrease the potentiality of gas, which means tak-
ing breaks between sips and also exhaling before each sip so as to
limit the intake of air which is essentially what is causing the gas
in the first place. The problem, as of now, still persists, and it is
very, very worrying, considering all that it is affecting. My throat
is extremely raw and the slightest movements can render me un-
able to breathe. Also, during one of these instances I unthink-
ingly walked into a dresser in a way that poked my mid-section
right at the point of my herniation, therefore increasing abdomi-
nal pressure and worsening my already-strained breathing all the
more. The issue worsened as the days went on, and the aforemen-
tioned symptoms were eclipsed by what was the tightest that my
throat has ever been. It was so alarmingly tight, causing all four
of my limbs, along with my face to go numb and tingly. As it now
stands, I’m in a significant amount of trouble and my only con-
solation comes from the fact that I don’t know everything. Oth-
erwise I am bed-bound and barely able to move or consume any
food or liquid. My eyes also have a dark red ring around them,
which might look cool if I wasn’t dying. Writing and meditating
are all I’m good for at this point, and even those have become in-
credibly difficult due to the intensity of my situation.
I haven’t been able to achieve a sound night sleep in days out
of worry that I will do something within a state of sleep that will
upset my fragile condition (which is a very reasonable thing to
be worried about). I am unable to eat or drink, yet I am neither
tired, nor hungry. I am spraying my living space and my mouth
area with a spray bottle to keep the humidity up. My hands, my
arms, my legs, my feet, my face—they tingle intensely due to in-
adequate circulation. It’s like my whole body has fallen asleep
and prickles with electrocutionary jolts. I do not fear for myself. I
am concerned only for the people, and for Existence. I lay on the
floor before my farthest altar in my extinction pose—somewhat
of a haphazard pose which I will often take when on the verge
of death. I’ve been able to go hours at a time without swallowing
even once. I would be able to go longer if I wasn’t having involun-
tary swallows which force themselves into the weirdest moments
like a hiccup.
It’s gotten to the point where I must essentially decide each
day between whether I wish to eat, hydrate or sleep (since it is
impossible to sleep when it is at its worst, not only due to the
risk of aggravating it while unconscious, which can be done with
the merest vocalization or movement of my tongue, but because
I am often waking up in confusional arousals, unable to breathe
and blaming my condition on the weirdest scenarios or think-
ing that it is not I, but someone else who is suffocating). I try
to swallow no more than three times in an hour, unless when
eating and drinking, in which case my standard drink of water
(at this time) consists of four swallows plus one supplementary

swallow, whereas my standard smoothie will be about six or sev-
en swallows and encompasses roughly two spoons (or one fist-
ful) of ground oatmeal mixed in with various crushed up muscle
relaxants, pain killers and anti-inflammatory meds. Moving my
tongue even the slightest bit is problematic. Coughing, too, is
highly problematic. If the hiccups set in, I immediately do away
with them with a bit of ginger powder mixed in with water. If
itchy throat sets in, I tackle it with a couple Marshmallow pills in
water. These simple, everyday occurrences could amount to dis-
aster in my case and cannot be allowed to run their course. An-
other precarious danger, and one without any remedy, is muscu-
lar pulls, which unfortunately come very easily and very often in
my condition. I am often yawning due to low oxygen levels, and
yawning will sometimes result in a muscular pull. Sudden sniff-
ing will result in the same. Deep breathing, too. And when I’ve
pulled a muscle, it isn’t simply pain against which I must con-
tend. No, pain is easy. The muscular pull inevitably disturbs the
functioning of the muscle in question and those which surround
it, creating for greater difficulty when it comes to breathing; and
unlike the breathing difficulties which are caused by clearing my
throat or other matters of attrition, breathing issues caused by a
muscular pull will not subside after a few hours of careful inac-
tivity but will remain for days or however long it takes for the
muscle to heal.
If I end up offsetting my condition, which is unfortunately
much easier than one might even think possible, I must lay stilly
and silently in a particularly position on my floor from anywhere
between two and eight hours at a time with my head and neck
in a certain posture and attempting to maintain a state of equa-
nimity through the utter horror of the sensations that I am expe-
riencing—like an invasive surgery. It isn’t required that I lay on
the floor, but for some reason I find it more suitable than the bed
in these cases, and it is possible that the discomfort caused by the
hard floor keeps me focused and not growing distracted by the
comforts of bedding. During this time I cannot eat or drink, and
so my throat becomes dreadfully dry to where it feels I’ve a dry
rock in my throat and it becomes more and more impossible to
deal with in every passing second. I keep a spray bottle on hand
to help me hydrate in these moments, and it has sure come in
handy. I find that laying in front of a cool fan helps, though it
may not be good for the dryness, because it chills the air that I
am taking in and therefore lends to the illusion that I am getting
more air than I am, since it is more overtly experienced, and this
can be very helpful in such situations when I’m barely able to get
air (as long as I’ve a water bottle on hand to remedy the dryness).
Given the coldness of my environment, I have often set up camp
in the upstairs bathroom, in which there is a shower, so what I
will do is run the shower for a couple minutes to heat up the
room and then spend a few hours sitting on the floor beside the
shower. This alleviates some of the physical tension and appears
to reduce the occurrence of throat spasms and unintentional, re-
flexive swallows—the latter having become a persistent and un-
usual problem in this time (and very, very problematic). In each
instance that I feel I’ve got a handle on it, new problems and
side effects crop up. The worst of these was tonsillitis, which ap-
peared in conjunction with all else that I described here, bringing
not just pain, but increasing the inflammation within my throat.
This was utterly horrific, and fortunately I was able to nip it in
the bud within a single day, as I don’t think I would have lasted
any longer. After the tonsillitis went away, I was left with a lot of
phlegm which was causing me to cough and amounting to much
pain in my throat, along with other problems. After all of that, I
was unable to go to sleep due to the inability to breathe and kept
waking up within minutes within a spell of confused suffocation.

Then, on the next day, I was unable to sleep at all, putting me in a
horrible headspace and vastly lowering my defenses against these
issues which require the utmost focus. I would now consider this
to be the worst period of my lifetime, in terms of health, and I
still don’t know if there is any hope of getting out of it or if I will
simply wither away, wondering whether it will be suffocation or
starvation that finally does me in.
I could be saying more on the physical mechanics, but some
of the details are too disturbing for me to even consider recount-
ing, especially when I’ve not yet made it through the smog and
am lying starved on the basement floor as I write—my mouth
full with forty minutes’ worth of saliva I’ve not the strength to
swallow or spit. Even after all I have said, I don’t imagine that
my readers will truly be capable of imagining the depths of this
darkness I’ve been forced to endure for so long. It just doesn’t
seem possible to me. None of this seems possible, really. Though
it is my hope that by providing these vivid, detailed accounts of
my condition that I will somehow be able to supply medical re-
searchers with necessary information that will put these matters
on the map and prevent them from destroying any more lives.
After all, even though I may feel alone in my struggle, there is no
telling how common it actually is.
I will stop there for now, although this still presents an in-
complete and detached picture of my condition. Take note that
while my throat and neck are considered the site of my most seri-
ous and disruptive ailments, this is only one of several issues with
which I have struggled on a daily basis, with there also being ab-
dominal masses and walking difficulties at play, among others.
My throat is so sensitive that I am unable to cough or move my
tongue without suffering hours of suffocation which, in turn, ex-
asperates my abdominal condition and feeds thus into a most vi-
cious cycle which, in the most unfortunate occasions, leads to

muscular sprains being caused by my erratic breathing patterns
that usually entail deep, sudden breaths (which not only put
me at risk for spraining the muscles in my neck and throat but
seem to weaken the muscles in my sternal region). Any muscular
pain or spraining between my throat, sternum, hand and arm is
known to interfere with my ability to type as well as causing a se-
vere choking feeling which is not so much like a tight turtleneck
or even the sensation of having choked on food, but like a finger
pressing into the gagging reflex or right into the laryngeal promi-
nence.
At what stage of suffering do we become able and willing to em-

pathize with others who are suffering similarly? And I ask this,
because it is so common that in the early stages we are particular-
ly needy and this lends itself to us viewing others as... well, sort of
competitively, or through the filter of some misplaced cynicism.
Not everyone seems to run through the same stages, so there are
certainly variations in experience and it may have to do with a va-
riety of factors relating to disposition, maturity, upbringing and
whatever else. People like my mother and my sister’s husband are
extremely competitive when it comes to abuse and see everyone
else’s negative experiences as a threat to their own and are there-
fore liable to put everyone else down, feeling it a threat to the
sympathy that they so desire for themselves. I had my own phase
not so unlike this which carried tones of “You think you got it
bad?” And it was just like I had an excuse for not needing to be
considerate of others’ feelings. When, and for what reason, did I
venture over the hill? What conditions were suddenly met in my
life that I was able to see beyond myself—not just to where I was
willing to treat the suffering of others as being as valid as mine
own, but frequently even prioritizing theirs above mine own in

terms of how I responded to their situation and how I have been
willing to inconvenience and even endanger myself if to be able
to be of aid to someone else in need. I’m usually lightning fast
when it comes to being able to identify a cause, but this one I’m
going to want to sit with and really think about, because there
is so much to it, and I don’t think that it can (or should) be
chocked up to basic maturity. It seems to me there must be some
sort of acknowledgment that is made in the mind of the individ-
ual.
There are other questions of a similar nature that I find my-
self wondering, as in why does the suffering of others overwhelm
certain individuals to the point where they become hardened
and cynical and commit to seeing life as hopelessly dark, while
the same suffering can light a fire in others to do more? Well,
that’s not exactly a difficult question to answer, though I guess
I’ve just been surrounded by a lot of people who take the dark-
ness of the world as a reason to become an asshole, not seeing
themselves as responsible, by virtue of their awareness, to do
something about the problems that they see before them. The
more curious question is why the former subset occupies a far
larger percentile of our population. I don’t understand that one
bit. Why do they become desensitized? Why are they so easily
able to convince themselves that the suffering of others doesn’t
concern them? How can they use blood to justify more blood?
Though Clyssus of Man is being released as my last work, it has

mostly been complete since 2020, with just a few final edits I’d
like to make at the very end of my time. I took six months off
from writing it thinking I might refresh my eyes, but when I
came back, I now found myself in a place where even though I
see a lot of issues with it and am not perfectly happy with the
progression, it is what it is, and changing it is like changing his-
tory. This is Clyssus of Man, for good or for ill, and I have to ac-
cept it just as I accepted Countertorch and all of my other al-
bums, knowing it is a period piece and not meant to be a canvas
which is constantly being updated to tell my story until the end.
I have to accept that not everything I have become will be told
in story, and that I have progressed and developed beyond what
is shared with the public. The misanthropic and bitter overtones
present in so much of Clyssus of Man (and The Dissolving Path)
seem almost like another life to me at this point, which is not to
say that I don’t still suffer with sadness from the state of society
and my relationship thereto (or lack thereof ), but so many of the
things I said are so unlike where I now stand after my trial, hav-
ing become so much more... objective in my paradigm, and all
the nights I spend weeping for the plights of the people...
I began employing this term, with this usage, back in 2019 when,
after tonsuring my hair, someone made a comment about
Thomas Aquinas, and while skimming his bio I recall reading
about Essence and Actus Essendi and I simply kept with the
term, not bothering to change it. As so, it is not the most original
term, though I don’t want to choose something that is so unfa-
miliar as to seem alien.
Each day I confront my own mortality, though my experience of

illness and death seems different from that of most who are living
with terminal illness or disease, since it is not as simple as know-
ing that something within me is growing, festering and will one
day take me over. Compared to my experience, that seems very
strange, passive and relatively peaceful. For me, my illness is a lot

more reactive, meaning that my actions have a direct and imme-
diate effect on the severity of my condition, to where I am of-
ten only one or two missteps away from ending up unconscious.
I’ve often claimed that it is like balancing a knife on its edge, as it
isn’t just this generic understanding that I am going to die soon.
I can die in any moment that I let my guard down. And each
and every day for decades I have watched that knife wobble. It
might be difficult for most to imagine, though you can see how
this has influenced my attitude and lifestyle. When I speak of
confronting my mortality on a daily basis, it’s more of an intense
confrontation which requires all of my energy and focus and not
simply my sitting around in a corner chair as I grow stiffer and
sicker. That’s not my experience. If I would have come down with
a flu or some such virus at any point between 2019 and now it
would have very likely killed me due to a complicated respirato-
ry condition, although I have managed to resist all viruses within
this period (with no thanks to my COVID-denying father). It is
very strange to think about. I wish that people understood this
about me, because for years now I’ve spoken of my nearness to
death, though it has yet to take me. For many, that will be seen
as an indicator that death has yet to arrive for me, when that is
not so. Death is here. Death has resided with me for years and
years. Death glares my way from beneath the card table, awaiting
the moment that I forget my limits and let my legs dangle. So it
has never been about time-based degradation and always about
focus, determination and discipline. This interactive element has
simultaneously removed all quality from my life and turned me
into a hardy, fortitudinous and by all means ‘monkish’ individ-
ual.
[The following was pulled from an email that I typed up at one

point] Mentally speaking, I am a highly autonomous individual
powered by the constant need to evolve and overcome, though
I haven’t had the opportunities to establish my worldly autono-
my to the same degree. In all my life, for example, I’ve never just
wandered out alone into public, and I always struggled to imag-
ine how others were capable of as much. I always struggled to
understand how they can drive cars, or how they could wander
through cities and banks and universities without apprehension.
I don’t even know if it comes back to fear. It is simply alien to
me. I was raised to be distrustful and dependent, and my limited
experiences in the world would sadly only enforce these harmful
notions that I was fed in my youth.
For three decades I naturally blamed it on my own nature,
thinking I was just missing something, and I did so despite
knowing of my parents’ failure to guide me. It wasn’t a self-
loathing attitude that I harbored, but that may only be because
in my lowest, most vulnerable times I covered up my sorrow with
a coat of anger, spite and vague villainous promises to ‘do un-
to others what had been done unto me’. Though under it all, I
just sort of understood myself as deficient in something, whatev-
er it might be. But what? Courage? Autonomy? Again, that nev-
er made sense, since I’ve demonstrated these traits in all other ar-
eas of my life.
Only a few years ago did it finally click in place and I realized
how little this actually had to do with my actual nature. See, I am
naturally against blaming others for the misfortune that befalls
me, even where I have an easy out, simply because I believe that it
is important to our personal growth that we learn to take respon-
sibility for where we land ourselves; but it isn’t always wise to do
so, and I finally had to confront the part my upbringing had to
play in what became of me and it was so very bizarre to finally
be able to delineate the abstract distinction between nature and

nurture in my case, like oil and water separating into layers. It
was heartbreaking to see, knowing how much of an influence our
childhood can have on the whole of our lives, especially when we
live out those years at the mercy of whoever will have us, though
the realization absolved me on some fundamental level and al-
lowed me to rectify my relationship with my youthful self.
One aspect of it all that really broke my heart to consider
was how long I’ve harbored the belief that I was some horrid
and unruly child. I was ‘hyperactive’, yes, and I definitely had the
propensity to be obnoxious, though not only was it all within the
bounds of childly behavior, but all such behaviors which were
being viewed as character flaws by the adults in my life were
merely reflections of my circumstances growing up, i.e., the so-
cial isolation, as well as a reflection of what I had been taught
(or not taught), and for so long I bought the justification that
these things constituted a valid justification for the discipline,
the punishment, the ‘fate’ that awaited me. I was treated as un-
trustworthy, ‘disrespectful’ and irreverent and it influenced how
I saw myself, but it wasn’t an accurate reflection of my behavior,
which was often obedient and well-meaning—and it took me
nearly thirty years to acknowledge the simple truth: that I was
a good kid whose greatest flaw was not that he couldn’t follow
instructions, but that he followed along too well to instructions
that didn’t have his best interest in mind.
In the end we must look back upon our lives and truly con-
sider the following: does the fault lie within our inability to fol-
low these maps that we were given, or does it lie within the maps,
themselves?
It’s so easy to fall into the trap of thinking that our circum-
stances reflect our abilities, our potential, our purported ‘pur-
pose’, when it is more often the case that they reflect our acquired
expectations; our paradigm. I can be upset that I didn’t make it

to a ‘destination’, especially when it seems like everyone else in
society hit all of the usual ‘existential checkpoints’, but when I re-
visit my maps, I am confronted with the fact that a specific desti-
nation was never specified to begin with, and to be where I am is
all but the natural outcome of such.
I cannot help but wonder if and in what way(s) the nature
of the relationships that we maintain with ourselves tie into our
family dynamics, as in I have a horrible relationship with my
family, while someone with stronger familiar bonds might be
more likely to shoulder the blame for a ‘faulty map’, so to speak,
in the name of love.
I also wonder if the noted militancy of my approach relates
to the fact that I didn’t really have anyone to fall back on, and I
wouldn’t have had anyone to really nurture me if ever I wanted
to lay down and weep. These can be difficult considerations to
confront, but the result is so worth it.
I simply believe that most issues faced by adults, if not all of
them, can be traced back to childhood and all of the collective
preparations and expectations comprised thereby, and a con-
frontation with that reality need not require us to think less of
those we love. And it merits noting that in my case, I didn’t sim-
ply shift the blame from myself to my parents, but these realiza-
tions allowed me to really see that I was no more a child than my
parents and I would say that ‘blame’ suddenly became a non-fac-
tor in my investigation. These realizations also increased my em-
pathy for children—both abstractly, as a concept, and literally, as
a population—all the more and I grew in my desire to do all that
I can to fix this torturous pattern in place in the belief that most
of us aren’t actually flawed in our ability to follow the courses be-
fore us, but that we have been handed faulty maps by those who,
in like manner, were given faulty maps by those who, in like man-
ner, were given faulty maps.
It is surely strange to think that I would never enter a studio, per-

form any concerts or create any music videos in my lifetime de-
spite all those years spent putting on fake performances and test-
ing out moves before the bathroom mirror. I was never asked to
do an interview, nor have I had my work reviewed, and I expect
that I would still find myself being rejected from most encyclo-
pedia entries on account of my lack of ‘notability’. I don’t say this
to complain, but in the aim of providing a snapshot of reality
as it stood in my time of dying. It’s very strange to have borne
my all before the world and to still have no insights into what
others think of my work—nothing—and I must make of that si-
lence what I will. I did attempt to compensate with my online log
by anticipating the sorts of questions and comments that might
have been posed to me, and though it may make little difference
in the end, it was just something that I had to do for myself and
I hope that I have managed to answer all your questions in the
process.
I stood before the rectangular mirror in which Dismas first ap-

peared to me with a second rectangular mirror outstretched in
my hands and there I caught sight of something truly bizarre. It
was like a hallway had formed, and while that was certainly cool
to look at, it is not that which I considered bizarre. There was no
one holding the third mirror. I then created a sort of alcove in
which was contained many mirrors of varying shapes and sizes
within my cellar bedroom.
I feel I am constantly trapped within a third person perspective.

I’m wary of making it out to sound like this is the cause of my
problems, although this has definitely become a notable issue
for me (especially since 2019). I think back to a perceptual shift

which took place in the summer of 2019, not long before my
third astragon, and I couldn’t stop arguing with myself. It’s not
that I had never done so before, though at that point it really
took hold of me and became a new way of life: a constant. Every
thought received by my brain appears to be split. It is that I am
seeing every thought from multitudinous angles. And I’ve long
experienced something of the sort, if to a lesser degree, so for a
while I was hesitant to attribute it to my paradigm when some of
this could very well have been neurotic—especially when consid-
ering how it interacted with my trauma. I am also adept at seeing
situations and issues from multiple angles and that has been the
case for much of my life, so it’s not that; it’s not merely the ability
to approach issues objectively or from another angle. There are
clearly multiple paradigms at play. Ever since the trial, it has been
so intense that I no longer have any doubt that this relates to the
coming together of the greater and lesser paradigmata. It seems
I’ve been gradually working up to this point. It didn’t just hap-
pen overnight in one big leap.
I recall in 2012 being told by Thummim that in his absence I

would not exist, and my interpretation of this statement devel-
oped into a lot of far-out theories which I no longer observe re-
garding the nature of our bond, for I hadn’t yet realized the sim-
ple truth that he was actually ‘my life’ in the most literal sense.
My belief was that my body had essentially expired and was only
being supported by him at this point, like some demoniac, and
that once he left me I would cease to exist.
Absence is not the denial of Presence but the demand for Pres-
ence.
‘Omnipresence’ as a concept relates to acknowledgment, if to

anything at all. “How can we be in many places simultaneously?”
That is the wrong way of phrasing it as it is not different than
asking “How can one believe in or accept multiple facts simulta-
neously?”
I have spent the latter half of my life fixating on what could be

the problem that keeps me from knowing the life that others
know, and it took me until so late in my existence to consider
that my poor relationship with society related less to the faults of
which I am ashamed than the victories of which I am proud.
I have previously admitted to the fact that I didn’t learn about

masturbation or semen until I was fourteen, and that this played
into my so-called paradigm shift, as I was so disturbed to be
learning about such an act so late in life when I thought that I
already had things figured out to some degree. I made a fool out
of myself in front of certain friends, to whom I would speak of
“super-piss” since I thought that I was simply pissing the bed and
had concluded that urine becomes dehydrated in sleep, becom-
ing viscous (my rationale is hilarious, looking back... and there
was always rationale). No one had the courage to correct me un-
til one day I casually remarked to my mother that I had been
wetting the bed all of the sudden. “But here’s the funny part,” I
said to her innocently, “It only happens when I have romantic
dreams.” Her immediate response was a nervous “Ohhhhh boy,”
as she reached for the phone to call my father. It was horrify-

ing to me. I didn’t like it one bit and infamously stopped listen-
ing to certain songs and albums which made me feel a little too
stimulated, fearing I would ejaculate. It seemed so unnatural. I
didn’t even want to talk about it. I would refer to it as “uhh usst”
which is how I described the feeling. It took me quite some time
to overcome that fear. I don’t think I actively masturbated until
2006, but once Jeiezza came into my life I started having ‘acci-
dents’ in her presence. The first instance in which I ever ejaculat-
ed while awake came about in one such event. She was humming
and her breath was so warm on me and she was so close to me. It
was late at night and I remember the nervousness in me at that
moment. I remember it all too well. It felt like the world was end-
ing and I had to just accept it.
Given my highly opinionated nature, mixed with my forthright-

ness, sincerity and my tendency to be firm in what I believe, it
may surprise some to learn that I am very gentle in how I go
about expressing my opinions and carefully avoid projecting this
part of myself onto others. I am very aware and respectful of the
fact that everyone is on their own path, or I like to believe that
they are, and it is more important to me to exhort them than
to attempt to steer them my way. I will be glad to give my opin-
ion when it is requested, though I regularly attempt to minimize
my opinion, or the relevance thereof, in all other cases, especial-
ly when others are simply showing off what they have created or
sharing with me a part of their world, e.g., what they value, what
they believe. I have never left negative feedback for anyone on-
line or in person, even when getting screwed over or being dis-
appointed with some aspect of a transaction, product or post. I
speak when I have something positive to say, and otherwise I will
keep my thoughts to myself—typically finding something posi-

tive to say, after all, even if I have to dig for it. This has, on oc-
casion, left me feeling a bit conflicted within myself, especially
when I am not returned the same favor, as in when I attempt to
uplift someone who then goes on to attack mine own values and
creations. Ultimately, it is not by weakness but because of per-
sonal values that I act in this way, and this has long been the case.
My sense of self simply isn’t dependent on these forceful and ar-
rogant displays and so I lose nothing in the process. It’s the psy-
chologist in me who seeks not to provide the public with an-
swers but to ask the right questions that will generate action.
Objectivity does not equate with literalism in this case; yet to at-
tempt an explanation of spiritual reality and the weight of the
myriachoron would require more from me than I am currently
willing to give.
A disclaimer previously included in the draft of the Mrtagrha

chapter: I had originally presented a very different picture of the
period in question, particularly out of a desire to maintain the
Idem Triunity narrative of yesteryear, however, some of this was
found to be a misconception (or misinterpretation). I also felt (at
least initially) that it would be better to prioritize legibility over
accuracy, resulting in something which was likely to paint a more
vivid picture in the minds of readers, though the resultant pic-
ture was quite boring, as well as unrealistic in light of my experi-
ence. I will be seeking to describe these abstract experiences in a
better, more accurate way without being too surreal. It turns this
into a more ambitious project, certainly, but I won’t be satisfied
with less. I have sometimes sacrificed accuracy for legibility; for
something that can be imagined by the mind. Still, I am not sure

how I feel about this approach and it regularly leaves me feeling
that I haven’t said what I set out to say.
I had recently shelled out a bit of money on a tech product and

it ended up having an overheating problem which can be very in-
convenient. Most persons would be apt to seek out an immedi-
ate replacement; however, it was more natural for me to excuse
this flaw altogether, convinced that it is somehow necessary to
my experience, as if it will benefit me somehow in the long run,
perhaps by limiting the time that I spend with said product when
there are more important things on which I should be focusing
my attention at present. It becomes very easy for me to justify
every negative occurrence via these means.
I want to plunge my blade into their forehead and drag it around

the face like one tears through an ugly, bungled canvas which
once had the potential to become anything, and yet all the red,
blues and yellows of our allowance have amassed to form a hor-
rendous and meaningless black.
As has been stated in times before, I do not normally favor my

‘odder’ musical material, which was more so about expressing
how I felt than it was about creating something from which to
derive pleasure. I did enjoy capturing my nature—do not get me
wrong—but it’s simply not the sort of stuff that I can play on re-
peat.
Northern Thorns tapped into something so hauntingly au-
thentic. It was a strange and dismal collection, but I dare say that
it pulled off ‘strangeness’ in a way that one doesn’t regularly hear

in music. It was not weirdness for the sake of weirdness. It was
something blisteringly psychotic; so unaware of itself. As a side
note, I find it interesting that its ‘aura’ is somehow reminiscent of
Parashurna from the period of 2004-2006. It is perhaps the ‘most
Tendony’ album, for better or for worse, and possibly also one
of the most important albums to my name. The music conjures
up disturbed imagery: oozing, warping; a psychedelic nightmare
with medieval overtones, if in theme only. It is the shadow on the
wall.
The Northern Thorns/Evil Guest List era was the pinnacle
of my emotional disturbation. The focus of that period revolves
around my asking the dark question: am I suited for love? Espe-
cially through the lens of my history on the occult and declining
health, and it tortured me. Comprachicos, while similarly twist-
ed, was not as dark and disturbing in tone. Obsessive, yes, but al-
most lighthearted in comparison (although ‘lightheaded’ is the
better term to use, since lightheadedness, head fog and dehydra-
tion were a known issue in the summer of 2009!). The Rifles in
Mind Recoil... the “other” highly disturbing album... is not quite
so detached, given that my illness was forcing me back to earth
so as to confront my dying body. It was deranged, and yet still
seems more grounded overall, if only because it felt more hu-
man. Northern Thorns is just utterly disconnected from human-
ity in the most uncomfortable way. It has its human moments
throughout, but they sound like warm memories being recount-
ed by a monster; memories from a time when I was a human
child.
The original draft of my story was to include little drawings of

dancers as chapter breaks. Each little image pictured the dancers
in a different pose. These were to represent my writing breaks,

during which I would spend time with my beloved, often danc-
ing. I liked the idea that these dancing images wouldn’t have
made any sense to the reader until the end of the book or close to
it.
It’s interesting for me to look back on my lifetime, seeing how

my circumstances have enforced a stark and humble view of my
self. I do not feel that I was ever offered the respect of anyone.
Humored and rejected—such was the outcome of my efforts to
communicate that which mattered most to me. Of course, a lot
of that falls on my unusual living conditions and the fact that se-
vere physical illness has left me unable to properly maintain an
autonomous lifestyle. It has come with negative ramifications to
always be treated like some lowly straggler with nothing to say,
and my silly, ecstatic nature made it all the more difficult to pre-
vent myself from being viewed as naïve, eccentric or insane out-
right; yet when I sit down to ponder the nature of our ‘respect’,
I cannot help but acknowledge the flimsiness of the empire we
have built. For what we call respect and admiration is so often
utilitarian and illegitimate, acting only to further one's own per-
sonal security. This is seen most overtly within an occupational
setting, wherein employees are obliged to bend for their employ-
er, though many such individuals quietly long for the day when
they have graduated to a position wherein they no longer have
to answer to or bow down to anyone at all. Such is the respect
that is ‘earned’ (demanded) by authority figures, employers, cler-
gymen, teachers, dezinezinet. It is something that we give of our-
selves in exchange for something else, be it hope, attention, love,
status or financial security. It has brought me great sorrow in life
to feel myself and my accomplishments so disregarded, under-
mined by all, though if we disentangle and erase all of the inau-

thentic offerings from consideration, I realize that I was given no
less than my neighbor. What, then, have I missed out on apart
from this delusion of power which perverts our self-perceptions,
causing us to miscalculate our natural allowance, ability and au-
thority! And what authority exists in nature? Power is a fasci-
nating concept, since despite its prominence as a concept within
our world, it is largely a ‘social’ construct in that most forms of
power derive from interactivity between two Essentia and do not
exist in isolation: the power of influence, the power of compari-
son and the power in numbers are just some of them. In solitude,
all are vulnerable and equally so. My argument is somewhat se-
mantic, so hopefully you get what I am saying without getting
too hung up on the semantic issues at play. And it isn’t just pow-
er; most advantages that we get in life come to us via social av-
enues. Love, too, tends to be used in a utilitarian manner with-
in our society, having very little, if anything to say of the indi-
vidual who garners such acclaim and everything to say about the
person projecting their emotions about. It sounds a bit cynical
to declare all (or most) such displays as false within our world,
even where many of us would be willing to acknowledge the shal-
lowness of society and its grasp on worth. Yet you have to look
at it at the psychological level: all human conduct is condition-
al in that it exists only to service the needs of the individual. I
certainly don’t like that idea, and I have gone to great lengths to
abandon the conditionality of the lesser paradigms, yet it is un-
fortunately something to which all are subject. But at the end of
it all, I walk among flowers and weeds with a certain satisfaction,
seeing fortune in the misfortunes of life and knowing that it has
done me well to be held no higher than I stand.
It is not just the cruelty that I know to avoid. Irony has been
overdone by the modern generation, to whom all acts seem as a
grand joke. But it’s a means of distancing themselves from how
they really feel, and it’s reached a point where it all just seems in-
sidious to me. It’s not humor. It’s dissociation. It’s avoidance. It’s
inauthenticity.
The mind tends to anthropomorphize, and it is for that reason

that I interpret these happenings as beings. After all, they do ap-
pear to communicate and move about as entities would; howev-
er, their entitiness truncates straightaway thereafter. And so if I
were seeking to present you with accuracy at the expense of legi-
bility, I might refer to them not as ‘prosecutors’ but as ‘prosecu-
tion’, considering that these nominal creatures of which I speak
have more in common with events and happenings and oper-
ate in the absence of autonomy. I wouldn’t normally care to em-
bolden such points, especially when it seems to detract from the
overall narrative, though I feel that it is essential for my readers
to know that, despite my highly personalized portrayal of their
being, these matters are not considered unique to my person.
The reality of ignorance and doubt lives within and without all
Essence, and just as spiders build their webs and lay their eggs
within the darkest, most undisturbed corners of space, so does
our ignorance attract spiders, so to speak; and while it might not
appear before you like the devil and his demons, in all absence it
is present. Yet all danger to our person may be reliably dispelled
with compliance unto the standards of Agnosis which is consid-
ered to be of no threat to those who are without discrepancy and
willing to face down their existence with stark sincerity.
“with each passing day, creeping, i fear a terrible siren... of me, there
is no fall; the spring will fall by my feet in coffins of brick and gold.
when there is a flame in the wind, and once in a way it is
seen, it is one of the plainest signals, and perversions of the promised
man, and these are the mistakes of the woman who saw me, the one
who must bring the story to pass... she couldn't know i would leave
her for so many to lose.
“did i not break the limbs of all who denied me? and now, what
is a man who plays the gauntlet of constriction? there is no way to
get out of the bathroom with the glass of the mirror all upon the
floor. i see no way to comment. i feel dead, as i am, incomplete as a
parent. there is no toll more dreary than the voice of a child. any
parents' ears that listen to my words are rather deafened... by the
sounds of their own... to disobey. i listen for the creatures trapped in
those two pools... the blisters, not quite so pretty... always with the
desire to be reduced... to little more than the nothing they're told to
be, so i choose my poison in a world of grey-faced depressives. and i
will tell you why you are wrong: i see no evil in looking at 10,000
things you could never find any use for... but i can't see any good in
taking one away, ever, if it wasn't wanted! (heaven forbid god favor
that long unspoken-for finger).
i locked myself in a bathroom to see if any of my family's words
could still reach me. i am a water-locked bubble... for the time in
which i am stuck in bitterness, i cannot speak. but i can listen. i am
sick of the zoo... beware the open birdcage by a man who is scarcely
a man, and might’ve fathered me. we are easy targets for the power-
ful, driven by a distorted pain. why are we so easily fooled? though
we're not? they are the ones to feed us, the ones to control us!
without choice, no judgment—and though there will be a judg-
ment, that is a simple truth—i see no redeeming of the wicked. i see:
a demised child, a son, who refuses me food. that boy holds the in-
terest of the person with ties to my stomach... and oh, i see he came to
me as a starving dog, but that he will be the one who will eat me on
my floor. i know the face behind the door; i know the man as well as
any other who holds me prisoner. he is a shadow within a shadow,
a man in a nightmare who makes himself worse. he sits on chairs
with his bloated legs spread, and weeps without cause. i feel a need
to let him know that if it is all there is to love, then he should seek it
out in the world itself.”
“in the end, everyone leaves. it breaks him. he is koolaid, pulp
and prime TV. broken but more reliable than an empty can. i love
you.”
“i'd rather die tonight. caught up in the stench of this blasphemy,

the grind of my fellow young children belittled and brainwashed by
our masters, drowning in our own denial, it is one's only hope. burn
till we're numb. that i'm still alive is nothing short of a miracle. this,
i know. soon i will be forced to fight a monster much bigger and
stronger than me, knowing all along that the match is rigged, as it
has been every single fucking time. the monsters have all the pow-
er. here is what it feels like to experience true horror. time and time
again. it's a true tale.
“the christians keep whispering in my ears, no, a figment of your
imagination. and i whisper back, killing you with my dying breath.
this is the end of a shining star. this is where the dark lord shines his
light and it is far brighter than the oldest light. each word you've
said, i can never tear away from me, the lifetime of disrespect that
this place has brought.
key word: limping. another example of my wounds, scars. the
skin grows cold but i'm not sure if it is fear, perhaps fear feeds on it-
self. an ugly piece of self-loathing. self-conscious. yet not pretty. i was
that. so it seems i was almost in time. nearly. i can feel my wings
melting. i can feel the skeleton beneath my skin coming out through
the pores. had i misplaced or trampled the monument i covered in

smooth decay? the whispers, the murmurs from the row of trees, oh
who could be so slow to crumble apart, oh who could so blatantly
ignore the rants of my destructed mind? i sat with the trees, embrac-
ing, a stray tear falling to the surface of the earth. awe and disbelief:
was this how i would prove to be misunderstood? i stood and as i
did a pinkish tear dripped from the knuckles of the tree, oh my boy,
where was he? would i find any more beautiful thorns to conquer?
would i ever be as gorgeously accompanied, would i ever feel this lus-
cious emotion again?
It is utterly bizarre for me to think that a life can be enjoyed and

provide one with pleasure, as opposed to being some constant,
grueling test of will, endurance and audacity peppered with bits
of manic elation along the way. I’ll never understand it. And the
fact is, it doesn’t boil down to attitude as some will tell you. At-
titude plays a crucial role in our perception of this existence, yes,
but not more crucial than experience itself, and my acknowledg-
ment of the dismal experience before me could only be manipu-
lated so much.
It almost feels like the purpose of conversation has shifted in

time, although I dare call it conversation at this point, for it is no
longer about the exchange of ideas but the exchange of affirma-
tion, and if the other party cannot affirm our viewpoint they are
promptly and unabashedly demonized.
Yea, it is understandable to think that even with my previous dis-

claimers, some of my readers may fail to grasp my ongoing expe-
rience and ignorantly assume that I speak in metaphor when, in

fact, I mean this text to be taken as a literal account—mystical
though it be.
A romance disguised as an ontological dissertation disguised as a

psychomythic katabasis disguised as an autobiography, Clyssus of
Man reads like one long, breathless farewell to a world that won’t
hear it.
Absence does not simply represent dearth, as nonexistence is not

a thing. Relevance is the matter. Desire, Demand, Need: these
are each tied to Absence. It is not a lack, but our necessitation. I
don’t believe we are to accept that some parts are simply uncon-
scious. They fight to become real; to become relevant.
All that I remember eating amid the now-notorious period re-

garded as my first astragon (ages fifteen through sixteen) was tor-
tilla chips and raw ramen noodles. I would split the ramen block
down the center, following the crack, so that it would seem like
two pieces of bread, and I would pour out the bouillon powder
onto the blocks and eat it like a sandwich. Sometimes I would
spread peanut butter on it instead. It fills me with such nostalgia.
I miss it... I miss sitting in bed with Jeiezza late at night and just
licking tortilla chips and secretly listening to the radio (I couldn’t
listen to secular music, with my parents awareness, until I was
eighteen). The lights were always out, and I would sit in the glow
of the PC monitor, reveling in the most inexplicable trance.
One way to understand the paradoxical distinction and sameness

of Agnosis and Gnosis, Absence and Presence, is best charac-
terized as QUESTION and ANSWER. Agnosis isn’t some
damned void of nothingness. It is a question, a need, which has
yet to find fulfillment. This is why the Law of Orsa comes into
play within the mystical operation: the unionization of Agnosis
and Gnosis coincides with the thoroughgoing understanding of
the self-sameness of questions and answers. Agnosis, as well as
the Volens (frequently identified as a child), must be understood
through this light if they are to be understood at all. Void and
nothingness are different as concepts. Nothingness does not tru-
ly exist and cannot be perceived. Void is the absence of presence,
the need thereof. This shows how Agnosis is considered fertile
despite being compared to death in certain analogies. Note that
this is a poor and imperfect explanation, but I hope that the
point gets across.
Moreover, it is my belief that all things in our purview are ap-

proximations of a higher reality and therefore to be understood
analogically—myriachoronically—as symbols and representa-
tions of something greater overall. That is a rather vague way of
putting it, but I will have more to say on these matters in due
time.
To the ends of meeting these requirements I have undergone

attempts to create a quintessence from the five Appendicular
Priests over which my Essence has been suffused—this to ensure
that the individual is of unified telos and that all limiting distinc-
tions see their erasure, setting in motion a process of consolida-
tion which will assist in the breaking down of the interanalogic
forms, thereby preparing my mind for the ensuing rites. Thus, the
ritual commenced with the First Rite of Consolidation which
has aimed to bring the Appendicular Priests into union, result-
ing in the essential unification of the ego-self, or self-concept.
“there are no ever-lasting wounds.” our control has been lost by the
magic we placed in the dogs and the courts and the bellies of the
houses. the police and the fire departments are not here to save us
from our operation. the buildings have fallen down. the beach has
gone away. we are living in another time. take our hearts. take our
lives. take our story and burn it to ash.
(Pharynx) I suppose if it were to be rendered into a film or

video, most of the interactions, with the exception of the corpses,
would have to be conveyed via subtitles, since no one actually
communicated in the usual sense. There is just an acknowledg-
ment of what everyone meant to convey. We each embodied our
intention, and to acknowledge one another was to acknowledge
that intention.
With the exception of Parashurna’s ‘corpse crowd’ voice and
the Coagulantula’s horrifically organic gurgles, everything occur-
ring within Mrtagrha should be completely silent until after the
final ritual. The drumming within the court should be audible
and loud. The water can be heard streaming through the area.
Yet communication should not be sensed in the normal sense.
Another aspect that made the pharynx so terrible was the per-
spective. Imagine a camera zooming in too far, and I’m seeing
just a bunch of jerky, writhing, indiscernible textures, especial-
ly during crucial and dire moments. There was ever a disorient-
ing disconnect, and my ‘vision’ did not follow normal rules, as
in I wasn’t perceiving the circumstances via through my eyes. It

was very cognitive, as in being tethered to my actual acknowledg-
ments, in the way that my ‘vision’ moved around. I think if this
work was ever cinematized this would be a real challenge, giv-
en the way perspective just ping-ponged from one thing to an-
other. Typically we have our ocular vision to ground us in one
sight while our thoughts shift around, but this was very different
(if what I am saying even seems to make any sense). Something
like this, if rendered into a film, might be more artsy than could
be readily accessible, not so unlike cult film Begotten (to which I
have sometimes compared certain elements of the experience).
A key:
DEXTER —————— SINISTER
OPEN EYE ————— CLOSED EYE
GNOSIS —————— AGNOSIS
CONSCIOUSNESS — UNCONSCIOUSNESS
PRESENCE ————— ABSENCE
“THUMMIM” ——— “PARASHURNA”
CHOIR —————— “THE CHILD”
BEE ———————— SPIDER
CANDELABRUM —— AFTABA
FIRE ————————WATER
I struggle with how to portray it, not wishing to cheapen these

concepts with my boyish renderings.
Between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, I experienced numer-

ous visions amid prolonged hypnagogic trance depicting a face-
less man standing beside a large wheel, like those witnessed at a

carnival or on a televised game show. The man would spin the
wheel, and once it stopped he would read out a strange state-
ment to me. It was always very eerie. I maintained a visionary
journal in that period, and in it was included many instances of
this wheel. I no longer have the original journal as it was lent to
Lajos’ in 2007 for copying and never returned, but many of the
most profound visions found their way into song lyrics from the
time, such as the line “Red is Spine RED” and “Triangle, Square,
Circle.” I could never figure out the former, and I later conjec-
tured that it might somehow tie into the notoriously creepy ora-
tion from 2007, sometimes known as “The Spine of Solomon”
(inspiring a song of the same name). The latter was the tentative
name of an unreleased disco album in 2006, and it wasn’t until
2018 that I realized it could be an alchemical reference since I
always drew the shapes side by side and not overlapping. It was
then that I began using this symbol within my work, although
I hesitate to use it, seeing as I do not formally identify as an al-
chemist (even if I tend to agree with just about everything that I
have learned about alchemy).
This world harbors an increasingly limited and shallow view of

adventure, or what it truly means to ‘live one’s life’, often depict-
ed as an expensive photoshoot taking place underwater or upon
the cliff tops. The idea that my life was replete with adventure, or
that it even required great courage, will be scoffed at in favor of
an interpretation which paints me as a sad individual who missed
out on all that life has to offer (which seems to involve shuttling
about from locale to locale in some sad state of denial over the
fact that it changes nothing of our inner landscape and under-
lying restlessness, and that healing must always require a direct

confrontation).
To illustrate Irreferentiality: if I am to encounter a bee within

such a state I will acknowledge its existence in the most objective
of ways, by acknowledging that it is a bee (in the sense that my
understanding is limited to observable facets, e.g., appearance
and actions). However, notwithstanding ample experiences and
associations established throughout history between myself and
bees, I will find myself incapable of making such connections on
my own strength. I can only acknowledge the creature within
the context of the present interaction, seeing as Agnosis cuts
through the falsity of past and future in its abolishment of spuri-
ous establishments. Though if one should decide to enlighten me
to these established associations, weaving present circumstances
and relationships into a broader context, and in what ways my
current situation relates to past circumstances and relationships,
I am not hindered from grasping at what is being said on an in-
tellectual level (although there is expected to remain an emo-
tional disconnect due to the exogeneity and artificiality of the
context with which I am working). It is basically to say that one
can not erect bridges of their own ability, yet there is nothing
that prevents them from traveling across bridges laid by others
since, after all, our intellectual capabilities do not actually appear
to be affected in any way by circumstance.
If you will not come for my heart, then will you come for my
soul? For years I tried to meet with you. Even in dreams you
failed to show. Only when I struggled on the verge of death
would I feel your presence. Only when I overdosed. Only when
I passed out from suffocation. In turn, I began to think of you

as a sort of reaper of souls. I felt so cruel to think such things
of someone so beautiful, so life-giving, but the association could
not go unnoticed. My one consolation over endless nights of dy-
ing is that at the end of it all, I might see you one last time.
Essence may integrate or otherwise associate with Meaning al-

ready acknowledged by Existence, which is deemed Irreducible,
and that which is considered to be Irreducible is not only capable
of withstanding this threat but may also act as a sort of stabilizing
agent—an anchor—albeit within certain limitations. This plays
into the importance of the symbol or symbols that we are often
given at the outset of our spiritual journey, to which we must
hold tight, for they have been acknowledged when we have not,
and with our focus firmly upon them we will be spared by Ag-
nosis. The Candelabrum or Manus Dei with which I myself was
presented early on is mine own anchor, as its fires had previously
been acknowledged by Existence. I would not consider this a
perfect explanation, having its flaws, though it shouldn’t be too
difficult to see what I am getting it, if partly. I’m much too tired
to get into a proper analysis, but it is a very important consid-
eration which is touched upon, if somewhat subtly, within my
book.
Yea, though I have been made Irreducible in the water’s drip,

having been guaranteed a sturdy floor at the very least, I am not
yet at the end of my process and not until I have dealt with cer-
tain matters relating to my assignation will I experience the full
breadth of my new liberty.
The furtherance of my Essence takes precedence above all other

wants and wishes. Magis Quam Ante!
It troubles my spirit that I could not be for others the remorseless

light which I so desperately desired within mine own life, but if
in this void you see reflected your own eager eyes then you will
have found more in my absence than I could ever offer through
my presence.
It’s quite like that moment in which a dream begins to fade

into reality and one finds themselves in two worlds concurrently.
I will fight no longer to retain this dream! Something greater
awaits me and I do not wish to keep her waiting.
The intricate complexity of considerations required for this... it

is absolutely mind-boggling and beyond what I can cover in my
condition and the remaining time, so I hope dearly that others
will take to the challenge of growing some of these buds to full
height.
There is no ‘good’ or ‘bad’ about it. Gnosis refers to that which is

acknowledged by Existence and the consequences thereof, while
Agnosis refers to the opposite.
“The holy man knows that knowledge is not his and ignorance
is not his but belongs to this Existence.”
How does a man become wise? By making himself heard by
Existence, and by having his traits resonate.”
How does a man become alive?
No man is alive, and no man is dead.
Creation and destruction, as we understand them, do not exist.

It is all acknowledgement. “Every permutation of every Essence
which can ‘exist’ already exists” just like our thoughts require no
concentrated construction to be found by a wandering mind. It’s
already there. All sensible conclusions and permutations thereof
are already within reach.
I would be so upset to learn that my audience has not taken it

upon themselves to travel the unfinished roadways I have begun
in my explications, as there is so much here that I have left you to
explore and I dearly hate to think I must point it all out.
At thirty years old, I still shake visibly when he calls me. My

heart still sinks when I receive a message from him. I know that
I am about to be violated and deprived and I will have no way of
standing my ground; no ground to stand on. It feels like rape in
each instance, and I do not make such a comparison lightly.
“I tried to save you! I tried to bring you into my lifeboat! But you
have mocked my attempts and you have put a hole in my raft so
that I struggle even to save myself.”
You have convinced yourself that everything which brings you

discomfort is false: a meaningless emotional outburst, if not
some deliberate attempt to degrade. I am not so blinded by my
own anger that I can not see how you came to be this way. You
married an ogre of a woman who gave you every reason to be-
lieve as you do. Yet that will not excuse the abuse that you have
leveled on those who you pledged to protect.
“I do not believe that you ever truly believed a word of these

teachings which you so proudly parrot. It simply isn’t possible to
believe in such things and to also live as you have lived. A tree is
known by its fruits, and your fruit is withered and rotten.
I speak so matter-of-factly, yet it took me years and years to
come to terms with the realization that your spirituality was a lie;
a pretense wielded in self-defense. Yea, for even though I did not
believe in your doctrine myself, I wanted to believe that you ac-
tually did. I cannot tell you how much this realization hurt me,
surely as I would rather you devote yourself to something that I
do not believe in then to live such a pointless pretense.
I may have rejected the label and dogma of Christianity long
ago, finding fault with its inconsistency and ahistoricity, yet I
have not parted with my aspirations to lead a passionate, prin-
cipled existence as such that would be considered commendable
under any steeple. You were once even willing to acknowledge as
much, commenting that my behavior and motivation were ‘more
Christlike’ than any of the so-called Christians encountered in
your life—an idea with which you struggled on the basis of what
it was implying. You actually used those words, and I felt some-
how embarrassed by just how much it meant to me for you to
make such an admission. It meant more to me than perhaps any
compliment that I had ever received; but when I brought it up in

conversation a few years after the fact you no longer recalled hav-
ing ever made such a statement. One would be wrong to expect
anything more from you.
How sad it is that we can not even bond over spiritual matters.
After all, I seek to live in honor of that which I serve. I seek to
acknowledge my purpose in every breath that I take and in all
hours of my day and not just for two hours on a Sunday. I want
to overcome my ignorance with knowledge and I want to hum-
ble myself in awe of this life. Yet you sit around claiming you have
already learned all there is to learn, and that you are ready for the
return of your God. Your arrogance is unparalleled!
Oh how horrid is the sight of your hollow carapace as it sits
around ‘in wait’ before the television while you indulge in all
the booze and nicotine and vice that you can justify, having no
meaning in your life, yet trying to tell everyone else that you have
all the answers to life and the universe. A man so joyless, so unin-
spired, so empty, so heartless.
It is no wonder that you refuse to accept that I am as I say I
am! It is no wonder that you refuse to acknowledge the success
of my spirit! It is no wonder that you seem to despise me so!
After leaving the church I went through many years of being

treated like a faithless defector: the unspiritual one, the ‘slave
to science’. How surreal was the moment when it eventually oc-
curred to me that I was, in fact, the only spiritually-inclined in-
dividual among the lot.
This goes back much further into my history—to 2006, I would

say. In fact, all of this falls neatly in line with my idiosyncratic
methods as a magician, especially the concept of Rivcorvpeu,
or concealed semiotic curvatures, which refers to active princi-
ples concealed within objects that are often wrongfully associat-
ed with other functions or mechanisms. In other words it may be
regarded as misattributions caused by sensory and gnostic limi-
tations. It is a catalyst which has had its function misattributed
to something else entirely. To use a rather stupid example: we as-
sociate blades with the ability to cut, but perhaps there is an un-
seen force within the blade's center which is what actually does
all of the slicing, having nothing to do with the blade itself. As
I said, it is a stupid example, but that unknown catalyst would
often be called a rivcorvpeu, and for years I was interested in
creating and manipulating them for the purpose of concealing
them among society as a means to influence nature (especially
in my latter teenage years). My means of ritual have long been
starkly unlike those employed by other so-called magicians, be-
ing standardly established upon a personalized framework of al-
gebraic formulae, self-referential paradoxes (strophae), semantic
perversion and concealed semiotic curvatures (rivcorvpeu). This
was especially the case within the earliest years of my practice
before I became more staunchly psychological. My inspiration
for such methods came only from Steugalnemraiant and natural
tastes and, as of yet, I’ve not observed anyone else using similar
methods.
Seek out friendship in those who support your myth, look for
family in those who uphold your myth, and reject all those who
denigrate your myth: they will take without trading. There is no
worth in being ogled by eyes or adored by tongues. This is not
respect as such that I am after, and I will trust only those who
opt to see me as a character, a symbol, within their own story, for
theirs is the only loyalty. All other relation is recreation.
While I recover my strength in the cooling shade she decorates

her body in pollen and petals and invites me to lay for hours with
my eye to her navel, wherein I fervidly sought the source of all
her magic. Scenes unfold within our midst—scenes which ap-
pear so common in form though having the rarest of heart.
We are in what appears to be a subway car. She is flipping
through notecards with a smile while I lean against her, soundly
sleeping. That is all, as that is enough.
Next I find myself standing poised upon the balcony of a tall,
medieval-style tower overlooking the midnight ashlands, from
which can be seen only ashy dunes for miles. Beside me, on the
balcony, my beloved paces back and forth. Together we are look-
ing out for wolves which are known to roam the desert in the
darkness of early morning. That is all, as that is enough.
Within another scene I am seated on a tall staircase, staring
soberly through the rails at a dancing beauty who dominates the
floor. Tears trickle down my face as I watch her performance for
the fourteenth time and I hope to God that I remain ever sensi-
tized to such grace and perfection. That is all, as that is enough.
I slip in and out of consciousness like a diver, leaving traces
of drool along her lower abdomen.
I must imagine that if a passerby were to overhear the sorts of

things we speak about and the way that we behave ourselves they
would doubt our sensibility altogether, but that is the rich and
gooey cake that we are allowed after a long, excruciating lifetime.
...and in your acknowledgment may you wear a smile in my hon-

or, seeing as her existence embodies a most wondrous and unex-
pected revelation; and though I long to share that meaning with
the world and all that it entails, I have decided against saying any
more than I have already implied, neither wishing to enkindle
controversy nor fantastic trends—both of which would threaten
to overshadow the beatitude of my lot.
Note that the part within Clyssus of Man wherein I black out
from illness and come to in the garden did not occur exactly as
I depicted, in that I didn’t actually black out, using that only as
a convenient means of breaking up the chapter and retelling the
story of the creation of the “amrita.” Given the state of my con-
sciousness, it would not be possible for me to black out in such a
way. All other details to do with this scene are factual, though.
What is madness in a man but the aspects of the self for which
he has surrendered all accountability!
As so, by the time that I have finished with this text, I hope to
have achieved a rare peace, and I will lay my head down upon my
lover’s lap and sleep to the song of my heart.
Oh, sacred dehiscence! I long for the moment with all that I am!
[The following has been cut temporarily from Clyssus of Man and
could originally be found preceding the event of the First Rite of
Consolidation. I have always hesitated to expound upon the ap-
pendages and their associated priests, worried of misrepresenting or
otherwise locking in a certain symbol set. It is a very complex con-
cept and I typically offer only a very basic and superficial rundown.
I might just avoid descriptions altogether, though that feels wrong.
In any case, the following is considered overly laconic and largely in-
complete.]
The first egotectural appendage, known as KORNELI—the
name by which I was called during the first half of my earthly ex-
istence—represents automaticity, or the Automatic Self, which is
acknowledged as the natural standard of existence, whereas we
all start out in life as malleable dolls in the possession of greater
hierarchical powers, e.g., society and family, and few will ever de-
velop beyond this automatic and ambling state to realize their
purpose.
Accordingly, The Pour was the first such priestly manifesta-
tion to come about, representing the pinnacle, as it were, of the
Korneli appendage and serving as my active paradigm for the du-
ration of my first astragon (2004-2006). While it represents my
coming to awareness, I was still then operating under the ban-
ner of automaticity, a puppet unto the panes of life. I retained
my dependency in many ways, not yet having the knowledge,
the strength or perhaps the gall to seek fullest liberation, but I
had been wrenched from the hands of man and placed under the
ownership of a greater force, as it were.
My second and most notable appendage—TEN-
DON—represents autonomy, or the Autonomous Self, and may
be reframed as “the self which one decides to be”, operating on
the need for meaning and identity.
The priest associated with this appendage, called Magna

Iudex, represents the highest form of Autonomy—which, some-
what ironically, necessitates a willing surrender unto the forces of
existence, thereby establishing a connection to Korneli (via The
Pour) and forming the diprosopous prince. It would be a diffi-
cult matter to explain when our modern grasp on the concepts
of surrender and/or servitude appear inherently diminutive and
the alternative might not appear to be self-evident or even sensi-
ble in light thereof.
The third appendage is called by the name AMANITA and
deals primarily with the concept of need. The word Amanita,
which most may associate with an oft-toxic class of mushrooms,
was selected in my case as it forms an amalgam of the names
Adam (Florentin) and Anita—two individuals in whom I have
invested a great deal of mine own cathectic energy throughout
my adult life, by which I have managed to build them up into
these rather unique archetypes which ultimately have more to
say about mine own needs than they do of the individuals on
whom they were based.
This appendage is associated with the need which drives us
to seek outside ourselves; the desire which propels us forward
through this existence. Only when our desire is recognized to be
an expression of our own dearth and reoriented toward the Self
will it be able to serve us. Whereas countless religious and mysti-
cal sects promote a detachment from desire, I do not follow this
path myself, believing in moderation over abnegation; however,
I do count it as being a victory worth celebrating where one has
become self-fulfilling and self-perpetuating, relying on nothing
beyond one’s being.
Yet through externalization all things are made vulgar, be-
coming the sport of bored and fearful animals, in which case
their greater analogic value has been disgraced, though by no
means diminished. It is as the paradoxical tragedy of worship:

that our veneration and seeking will often become the greatest
agent of separation, being that we have established our reverence
on the deception that the object of our seeking is not already
within and upon us.
The associated priest is called Coniunctio and may be seen
as representing one of the most necessary aspects of the psy-
chomythic operation insofar as it establishes a nexus between
personality and transpersonality, thereby allowing the individual
to reclaim all the power which one has externalized, surrendered
in ignorance to their environment in an unconscious drive of
preservation. This may deal with the archetypes of the creator,
the mother and father or even the spouse, among others; and the
result is naught shy of a self-contained romance as far as I view
it—hence my decision to know said priest as Coniunctio, which
is a Latin word meaning ‘conjunction’ and often refers to a high
concept in alchemy which is also known as the Rebis or alchem-
ical marriage: a symbol of great importance to my life.
The fourth appendage, which goes by the name
EVERYCARCASS, relates to the boundaries of the individual
and is epitomized by the idea that the self is defined as much or
more by that which we reject than by that which we have allowed
to represent ourselves. And whereas Everycarcass acknowledges
my accountability unto the broader scheme of the species, Ard-
hachandra, priest of Everycarcass, befittingly evokes a sort of ide-
alistic/nondualistic principle (as in that which so loudly charac-
terized the period from August 2018 to August 2019).
The fifth and final such appendage is none other than
MRTAGRHA itself. Mrtagrha, pronounced ‘mreeta-greeha’, is
a Sanskrit word which literally means “House of the Dead.” A
mystery among mysteries, it is by all means a unique appendage,
resembling not a living entity but a sort of location (or seemingly
so). While very little was known about this appendage until re-
cently, I was long aware that there existed an inexplicable con-
nection between Mrtagrha and the Everycarcass ap-
pendage—both of which appeared to be somehow tied to the
greater mystery of Parashurna.
The aforesaid elements first came to my awareness some
twelve or thirteen years ago via a series of dreams set within a
dark alley which appeared to be a part of an apartment complex
in which resonated the sound of operatic vocals—a most curious
detail. Therein I would meet up with a cloaked stranger (called
Corpseweaver) by a dumpster to accept its exchanges, and by
exchanges I am referring to the fact that it appeared to collect
and ‘reanimate’ the rejected elements of my self-concept which
had been wrongfully refused and abandoned along the way, or
at least those which it considered essential to my being. The
Corpseweaver would take these refused contents and fashion
them into unstable versions of their former selves which must
then be reintegrated into my being if I ever wished to regain
my quality of life, resulting in what is known as Mahanava—the
nine murders of Everycarcass. Though these scenes first came
about in dreams, I eventually acknowledged them as being of a
mystical nature and canonized them thus (especially after learn-
ing Corpseweaver to relate to Parashurna).
The priest of Mrtagrha is Ism, dissolving priest, which took
its place as my active egoic paradigm in August 2019 following
my aborted attempts at social integration. While I have said rel-
atively little on this priest, the whole of this text was itself estab-
lished upon its empire of dissociation and dissolution and points
to its most transcendent application.
And whereas the Appendicular Priests are said, as a group,
to represent the nexus between the personal and the transcen-
dental, none of them embody that concept more literally than
Mrtagrha and its archpriest. The nonspace in which I have expe-

rienced my final warring winter can be described as the Personal
Universal: a self-similar division of being in which the uncount-
able is made countable and the eternal is given blood.
It’s like a sick obsession, always seeing how much more I can vul-
nerate myself. My standards are constantly shifting in terms of
what I will allow. I become fixated if I feel that I cannot show
something off to the public. I become fixated on embarrassment
and shame. It inflates the worth of that which it guards. The ob-
ject of my shame eventually converts itself into gold and I can
show it off in an absence of irony, with new perceptions. I can’t
possibly explain how much I think about it. I do consider it a
positive experience though. It’s addictive, like psycho-emotional
exhibitionism. That’s a base comparison and you shouldn’t take
it too literally, but I wouldn’t doubt a similitude of chemicals at
play (in that what I’m doing produces a high like exhibitionism...
perhaps on some level).
I was doing this even with my music, where my performances
would often leave me on the verge of passing out, and I would
spend my days dizzy and choking—possibly even suffering mi-
nor concussions from all the quavering that went into my vocal
performances. The outcome of my musical career is obvious. I do
not honor my own discomfort when it comes to expressing my-
self, believing nothing of worth comes about in the zone of com-
fort.
And though I have spent the last five years of my earthly exis-
tence mute, with it being twice as long since I was singing for the
Tendon Levey project, my voice still finds itself at the center of
my existence in a most meaningful way. Truly, there was nothing

that I loved more in life than to sing, and I achieved with that
voice what could never be achieved with words, with paint, with
vegetables in a drain. Had I not lost my singing ability, it is un-
likely that I would have ever moved on to do anything else in life.
I would still be sitting there upon that spitty carpet in the corner
of my lightless room warbling into a beat-up microphone unto
this day, and I imagine that I would have enjoyed every moment
of it.
[2007, Glasspeckers] At some point within the summer I felt my-

self increasingly dissatisfied—perhaps bored—with what the fra-
ternity had to offer, and in an attempt to reclaim the passion I
once had I took four fraternity mates (and one non-fraternal as-
sociate) aside in an attempt to create a faction of sorts. It was re-
ally an attempt to create what I, in the beginning, expected to
find in the fraternity, and it was something that captured all of
our hearts in the start, as each of us were expressly under-stimu-
lated by the absence of praxis, whereas my natural mode of be-
ing is sort of to say “Fuck theory, let’s have a food fight and see
what we’re left with in the end.” This grew in scope and synthe-
sized with another, disparate group of individuals with whom we
shared a basic idealistic structure. It was a strange phase of my
life, and I reflect on it from time to time, as it was the first occa-
sion in which I ever took on a leadership role in anything. Sadly,
I was in no position to be acting in such a role. I was unable to
be honest about my actual intentions (with myself as well as with
others) and it ultimately came to resemble a gang more than any-
thing meaningful.
An estimated thirtieth percentile of my final years has been con-

cerned with how to display and preserve my work, along with
making the presentation and accessibility more convenient to
those who can’t be bothered to inspect anything whatever isn’t
laid out like a cake buffet. And to be honest, I’m a bit resentful,
since all of this time could have been put toward actually creating
new work, coming up with new ideas, yet I’m having to do all
of this work which, for most, is taken up by the friends, family,
followers and society on the whole. It’s deeply upsetting to me,
but it’s not like I really have a choice. I simply strive to focus on
the work that ‘only I can do’ and become quickly and ferocious-
ly irate if I feel that I am spending my time on tasks and chores
which can be achieved by any number of people.
Then the masses stare at me as if I am some alien lacking all re-

latable qualities, as if desperately searching for one commonality
over which to bond; and once they find that commonality they
grab eagerly thereonto and make it the central focus of our inter-
actions. Take, for example, this one individual I once met who
was aware I took Kratom, and on every occasion that he saw me
he would start chanting“Kratom, kratom!” as if it was the only
way for us to make a connection. I didn’t mind it in the sense
that I found it funny, but at the same time it was like there was
nothing else to latch onto and I feel similarly about all others
with whom I have interacted. Are the thousands of thoughts and
emotions within your mind not such that I can relate to? Oh,
but it took me so long to realize that the masses don’t even relate
to those parts of themselves: the emotions, the memories, the
thoughts. Such, to them, is not their person, but the drawbacks
of persondom, in their experience, and instead they are only in-
terested in what they consume and enjoy and despise. Oh, and
it is so odd to me, because I should have been the most relatable

character in all the land—if, that is, we lived in a healthy, self-
aware society. And I stew in this disappointment daily. I lived
and I died in a shame that did not belong to me. Even knowing
that I was in the right did nothing to change how I feel. There
are few things more painful than being rejected—or worse, pe-
nalized and punished—for doing what is right, or at least what
you believe to be right, but I remain committed to my path in
the hopes that by doing so I can make this path just a bit less haz-
ardous for the next person to come this way. And if they should
do the same, then we will eventually be looking at honesty and
awareness as a viable way of life.
An ascetic is merely one who is willing to admit that pleasure is

not commensurate with meaning and chooses to act on that un-
derstanding. Those who think that I do not enjoy drugs or video
games or any of the other many things from which I abstain are
idiots. I simply adhere to higher principles than fun and pleasure.
My reward system is otherwise intact and works as well as that of
any other.
I may be someone who is known for taking extreme positions

on things, or for having an intense (as in passionate and enthu-
siastic) personality, but in terms of outward behavior, I am very
fixed, and if you’ve seen me once you won’t be surprised by any-
thing I do. I have never lost my temper or anything like that—as
difficult as that may be for some to imagine, given not only my
inner disgust but also the prevalence of such outbursts among
the population. It simply doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m not
prone to mood swings or unintended temperaments. That isn’t
to say that I can’t be pushed over the edge by a build-up of abuse

and trauma, causing me to react in an appropriate manner to vile
circumstances, but I would limit such outbursts to... oh, I don’t
know, as they’ve only occurred in maybe three occasions in my
adult life. Part of that has to do with the fact that I am not re-
pressed. Sure, I have to deal with an enormous amount of stress
on a daily basis, but a lack of suppressed emotions allows me a
better handle on my own nature and where I stand and it’s so
much easier to keep cool when you’ve got a better grasp of your
own inventory, as it were, so you can move about accordingly.
Those who lack understanding of their own contents and capa-
bilities lack the ability to predict their own reactions since there
is so much of themselves that they are not actively accounting
for, and this leads to blow-outs. I always felt satisfied with my
ability to work through disagreements, since I do so well at re-
maining calm, objective and especially sympathetic/caring (and
that last bit is important, since so many people lose all connec-
tion with their care for the other party in such situations due to
seeing it all as some match to be won); however, all that this has
really done for me, it seems, is cause me to get trampled by the
louder ones, and I haven’t observed any noticeable benefit from
my maturity.
It has always seemed strange to me how others will get stuck
in certain emotions and it will be difficult to pull them away
from them. For example, a person who is sad or angry will often
not be able to laugh at something funny or crack a smile for
some time, as if they must wait for the anger to run its course.
Those who are high on life and enjoying themselves similarly find
themselves unable or unwilling to become upset over the injus-
tice going on around them. That seems weird to me, since all
of my emotional states are always an equal distance away, and I
don’t really ever get stuck in one. Severe depression or a bad ar-
gument won’t prevent me from laughing or being able to go off

and enjoy a plate of food a minute later. Maybe it’s just about the
speed of adaptation. It has worked out very well for me since I
can pull myself out of dark spells quite quickly. And perhaps that
is where this ability stems from.
Moreover, since that entire affair was founded upon the use of a
false identity, the other persons who joined me for the venture
never actually knew my real identity and that became more and
more of a burden to conceal as our plans became more ambi-
tious. It is largely for that reason that I haven’t spoken a whole
lot about that venture publicly, though it had my fullest focus for
several years, explaining the presence of the white hexagon on a
lot of my clothing and furniture between 2013-2016.
I can’t bear this fever any longer. It isn’t breaking. It’s just a con-
tinuous fever that waxes and wanes but never really goes away. I
wouldn’t classify it as a high fever, putting it more in the interme-
diate range, but it is affecting my ability to work. I haven’t yield-
ed to it... but goddamn is it making everything so much more dif-
ficult and dreary than it needs to be (on top of all other physical
symptoms with which I must regularly contend).
...human corpses washing up in the stream repeatedly over a

long stretch of time, and I do recall something to do with
corpses—or, more specifically, I recall having a strong reaction to
something in the stream. It seems that it occurred periodically
over many months, if not years: a dead body would appear float-
ing downstream, showing up at the foot of the Court, and they

would carry it away... they... they...
Who is ‘they’?
Strange men. Two of them. I could see them within my
mind, though not in great detail.
My lack of recollection of these interactions has been
chocked up to some incident which took place along the way,
during which I forced myself through the barrier into Agnosis,
causing significant holes in my memory. Accordingly, I recall
little to nothing that occurred before or during this event. It
claimed that, after having discovered the power of the firelight, I
gathered and utilized hundreds of mirror fragments in an elab-
orate attempt to escape the confines of the area by setting them
up in such a way as to reflect light through the intergnostic bar-
rier and into the dark of the ravine. It would seem that I had
not failed by some mistake, but by being thwarted by the likes
of these two so-called sentries who broke my set-up and brought
me back, and by sentries I am referring to two men of “stone”
(constructed from the same substance as the cliff wall itself ) that
were apparently present early on, standing at the opening of the
Court like guards; and I say “early on” as I’ve seen no such men
within the Court, spending all my time alone.
“They have been reporting on your actions.”
“To who?”
“To what,” it corrected me.
“To what?”
“To Agnosis.”
I didn’t understand, or I didn’t wish to, and immediately
moved on: “Then what of the corpses? Where did they come
from, and what ever became of them?”
“They were brought into the Court to be burned.”
Arrogance veils the faces and intentions of the young and the old
alike. Some opt to mislabel it as egoism or narcissism, though
it occurs to me that the reality is more complex. It is a perverse
form of confidence which is not based in or supplied by reality
but necessitated by the demands of broken self-concepts—egos
deprived of their needs and forced to fill in the void with what-
ever they can manage. Semantically speaking, I would argue that
the people of today are not more self-loving than in ages past.
They are more dissociated, and their dissociation is being glori-
fied and given a stage like in never a time before, wherefore that
which appears on the outside like excess confidence and self-ab-
sorption is more like a dance of death and desperation which oc-
curs after the body has ceased registering and/or receiving sig-
nals sent by the brain. Much like a dying body fights back with
fever and by shifting bodily processes to focus on preserving that
which is of greatest importance to our vitality, a dying sense of
self fights back through latching overmuch to the selfness, even
should its form be nothing that resembles a healthy selfness. This
does not change the disgustingness of the sight that we are see-
ing, though it ought to change our attitude toward it. This is not
a moral failure but something more akin to heart failure: a shut-
ting down of this most principal aspect of our paradigmatic con-
sciousness.
Conditionality is the law of the lower spheres. Here there are no

lovers. There are no heroes or gods. There is no loyalty, no roy-
alty, no celebrity. It is all but a hall of mirrors—this existence.
Some are clean, where others are filthy. Some obscure, some dis-
tort, some flatter.
We all have our terms. We all have our price. Yet we insist
on poeticizing our erections which we will conflate with the af-
fections of our heart. The love and loyalty of which we sing is

all merely an elaborate justification given in defense of our most
basal needs and instincts! We are animals with needs to be met,
and he who attracts the most flukes to his blood is king.
ALL! HONOR! DISSOLVES! IN! ACID!
It merits to be said that my only reason for choosing to regard

this force as ‘Spirit’—a term typically associated with religion
and lacking all scientific credibility—owes itself to a previous
(yet somewhat outdated) theory of mine which juxtaposed
Essence with Soul and Steulugalnemraiant with Actus Essendi,
or Spirit. So whether or not it is the most appropriate term to
be used in describing this concept is simply a matter of seman-
tic preference, and I am not bothered either way, insofar as you
grasp the crux of what I mean to say.
I don’t really think in terms of difficulty—whether something is

considered easy or hard. I think in terms of whether or not I am
capable of cracking it. So in all these years of working without
pause to overcome my issues, internal and external, and to get
my life to a more healthy state, I am approaching it as I would
a dangerous game, and I am wholly focused thereon. Therefore
you won’t hear me speaking about how difficult it was, since I re-
ally don’t think of it in those terms (and I think it’s also because
suffering and sacrifice are so damned commonplace within my
life that it seems unremarkable to me, which is not to say easy).
I think it would cause me harm to do so, since the fact is that it
has always been an extreme challenge requiring all of me and I’ve
survived countless situations which, in my opinion, did not even
seem survivable and still leave me perplexed. You see stories...
how I lived for a year as a metalhead, or created a business plan,

or worked for years as a psychologist and counselor. All of these
things make fun little additions to my story, but don’t doubt for
a minute the tremendous amount of thought, effort and inten-
tion that was put into each of these things, and that the difficul-
ty of certain tasks often carried me well beyond my self-defined
limitations.
The problem is and has always been in the questions we are ask-
ing.
Given all that has been said regarding the symmetries existing be-
tween Existence and the Extant, it should come as no surprise
that many of the means and methods which I have utilized in my
practice along the way, from Hypnognosticism to Egomorpho-
sism, were inspired, directly or indirectly, by the words and in-
structions of Steulugalnemraiant—all of them appearing to ap-
proximate the Greater Operation underway which occurs in the
realm of Meaning. These methods, while optional, are consid-
ered by me as invaluable to the seeker.
I haven’t known exactly how to approach it, but, in time, it

would surely appear that my pain and anguish have superseded
the level of the personal in a way I find difficult, if not impossible
to describe, as it seems to be a concept or phenomenon with
which our society is not sufficiently familiarized. And that’s a
shame that so much of what I am working with these days is so
abstract, so metaphysical, as to evade our clasp and therefore I
just seem like a boy having an emotional tantrum. But it goes
deeper, and truly, it gets weirder. The personal and the imperson-
al have come together in such a way that I cannot hope to sur-
vive.
I believe that my uncommon metaphysical position has a lot to

say for my becoming increasingly fixated on the opinion of oth-
ers toward the end of my life. My inability to understand exactly
what was going on has left me filled with shame and confusion,
but it is thought to relate to the coalescence of the objective and
subjective spheres. I will continue to speak in personal terms, but
the philosophy and semiotics beneath the outermost layers of my
language are shifting in ways that must be noted and it is impact-
ing my emotional state in a host of extreme ways.
How sagacious is the finest plot! For I know now the intricacies
of this orchestration and I acknowledge the threads which pull
these puppets that have challenged and opposed us, bearing ven-
om on their tongues and suicidalia on their backs. I return thus
for a moment to the nights of poison to find my brethren weep-
ing behind a veneer of calloused flesh. So weeps all of history be-
fore us! So weeps all of us who do as we must.
I wanted so badly for my father to acknowledge his fault before

I was to write all of this up. It’s very difficult on me because our
relationship is not one of war like in the case of my mother, and
so it’s not like we don’t have vet get along and it’s not like he
doesn’t display kind gestures from time to time, but I can’t not
look at the grand scheme, or the fact that he still doesn’t seem to
acknowledge or is unwilling to acknowledge his fault. It’s diffi-
cult. It wasn’t all bad, and I can easily be disarmed by the slightest
kind gesture which leaves me in conflict over what I am sharing,
because I don’t WANT to share this. I don’t WANT this to be
the reality of our relationship. Yet these are not mere emotion-
al disturbances. The semiotic foundations of my world have been
shifted, razed and perverted by his neglect. My whole ontolog-
ical structure has been disturbed by the careless actions of oth-
ers. This is not a layer to which most people lay the appropriate
considerations. The average psychologist will only ask you about
how you are feeling and what led to what. Trauma entails more
than basic psychoemotional disturbation. It is semantic. It is on-
tological.
My mother would often claim to be the only one who would

ever truly love me, along with the claim that she was “the best
friend I would ever have.” Even if she meant well when saying
such things, there is a lot wrong here...
You were never a leader but a man making threats to those he

claimed to love, and your pride prevented you from heeding the
counsel of those who saw into your blind spots.
To someone like him, conflict begins and ends with decibels. Yet
for me, and for anyone with any sense in them, it ends with ac-
knowledgement. And because there has been no acknowledge-
ment, I have been living in a constant mode of conflict for thirty
years all because he is unwilling to recognize his wrongdoing. It
doesn’t matter how he is behaving, since every time I see him I
switch into the mindset of a war, at least on the inside (on the
outside I will still behave with total normalcy until something

happens to trip my wire). This doesn’t make sense to him, espe-
cially since 95% of the time we are calm and composed around
each other, unlike with my mother, but that doesn’t negate it,
and I would even say it’s made it hurt worse. He sacrificed my
feelings for a fantasy.
It may not change him to find my corpse, but at least it will force
him to do something he does not wish to do. I bet the bastard
will still hold a funeral despite my explicitly demanding no fu-
neral (and for many years at this point). The thought of being
given a Christian funeral by all of the conmen who hurt me is ab-
solutely sickening to consider. Everything is always for and about
him. He’ll find a way to convince himself otherwise. I abhor him,
and I abhor everyone who saw how he walked all over me and
endangered my life again and again and did nothing to stop it.
And when he gets in this mood, this mindframe, he will inval-

idate your existence, invade your space, merely to show that he
can: to show that it is his allowance. Why is it his allowance? Oh,
because he engaged in sexual intercourse thirty years ago—a stu-
pid, slate-pated child with no experience, nothing to teach and
no intention of ever, ever putting others before himself. He is still
the same child that he was thirty years ago, locked in an eternal
groove of rationalization.
In his weakness and insecurity he managed to convince himself

that it was beneath him to respect the personal space of others
when, after all, he was the “head of the house” and didn’t have
to. So he made a practice out of going against everyone’s wishes

merely for the sake of doing so.
It is amazing how you believed that you could force me to live

within a vacuum wherein I was utterly dependent on your provi-
sion, and then neglect to consider how this would end up caus-
ing some scarring in my makeup. It doesn’t help to compare my
upbringing to yours, even with you having an absent father your-
self, since you were free to do as you pleased.
My parents were irresponsible, short-term thinkers with no sense

of consequences. They filed for bankruptcy twice within the
span of a decade. We (as a family) lucked out with adequate, spa-
cious houses, but apart from having decent properties, we lived
check to check all along, always barely staying afloat. In other
words, we never lacked electricity, water, cable, and the like, but
we’d have to go without paper towels and snacks and other con-
veniences a lot of the time. If we really wanted something we
would have to wait until Christmas or birthdays. Christmases
were typically good in my household, though we stopped cel-
ebrating Christmas around 2012 when my sister moved out. It
didn’t seem like there was a point anymore. My parents have
actually had to borrow money from me. It caused huge issues
around the time that I moved out to Connecticut since my
mother owed me thousands of dollars and couldn’t pay it back
despite having promised otherwise.
Each and every day I want to go up to him, not out of spite but
out of genuine care and concern, and say “Your burden is soon
about to grow beyond anything you have borne so far. Do not

miss out on this opportunity in your arrogance,” but I think so
little of his logical ability at this point that it is a safer game to
protect myself, staying silent.
I cannot say that my parents provided any legitimate real-world

guidance. They attempted to make me fearful of the world so
that I would come to rely on God; so that I would be fully de-
pendent on them. And when they got their way, they saw fit to
mock me.
You do not get to decide which of my words, my emotions, my

experiences are true. You do not get to manipulate the shape of
my world so that it conforms to your weakness.
No one was ever there when I fell. No one. They all left, leaving
me to feel that my tears were too inconvenient and that I was
selfish to not keep my problems to myself. I have no gratitude to
offer anyone apart from Jeiezza, who has acted as my sole sup-
port in life (and for more than half of the time I have been alive).
There was no one else. No one. Ever. Not family. Not friends.
And it’s bizarre. I wasn’t demanding. I wasn’t dramatic. My needs
weren’t strange. My tears weren’t turbulent. Sometimes I just re-
quired a leaning support, or maybe some help reading the map.
You can only suffer for so long before people either cease car-
ing or they stop believing, and it is quite tragic, really, that those
who have endured the worst must often, as a result, receive the
least amount of sympathy. As noted, I am not even a dramat-
ic, obnoxious sort who parades their suffering about, seeking to
cause a spectacle. I am not some whinging vortex looking to pull

people in. Apart from the writings that I release, I don’t actually
speak of my struggles. They all turned the other way when I suf-
fered. I didn’t ever ask anyone to give more than they wished to
give. I didn’t ever ask for anyone to be here for me. I only want-
ed people to mean what they said. Only three people ever saw
me cry. My tears were burdens. My pain was a burden. My tor-
ment was just an inconvenience to their busy schedules. I’ve suf-
fered alone and in silence. Every time I asked for help the an-
swer was always “not my problem.” They refused to acknowledge
my strength. I never heard it said that I was strong. courageous,
talented or beautiful. No one will cry for me when I am gone.
They’ve all convinced themselves that I am someone I’m not so
as to get over the fact of their own negligence. No funeral. No
friends. No family. Do they not believe me! Or do they not care?
What did I do to deserve such horrible people in life? Where
were the people that said what they meant and meant what they
said? Where were the people who...? No one ever just thought
to take me into their arms and console me. No one ever thought
to just acknowledge how well I’ve done for myself with the re-
sources I was allotted. I had no one standing by me telling me I
could do it, to keep on fighting. I had no one who made me feel
like my life was meaningful or wanted. Perhaps one day people
will remark of my effort, my all. And the cherry on top of all of
this is that anyone reading these words, these outpourings, can
now just sit back and go “Oh boy does he have problems.”
The first couple of years after returning to society were very diffi-
cult because I wasn’t really responding to reality as much as I was
forcing the ideals that I had developed in isolation.
My life and death were handled like some sort of inconvenience

by society at large. It really goes to show the horridness of the
people in my life. Though it doesn’t matter whether they are
truly ‘horrid’ or otherwise. I cannot assuage myself by knowing
they’re shitty people, when the fact remains that such shit makes
up our plains.
I never sought out sympathy or pity. I did not need others to

commiserate with me. I would rather them not feel that burden,
which belongs only to me. I only wanted others to see through
my restrictions and dismal biography and see who I truly was.
I wasn’t looking for them to validate my suffering. I just would
have liked to meet someone who didn’t use it against me or aban-
don me because of it. And it’s ridiculous, because this makes me
out to sound like some quadriplegic schizophrenic who is so dif-
ficult to put up with and whose illness is so obvious at all mo-
ments, but I was just a friendly, and perhaps slightly ‘offbeat’ in-
dividual whose biggest inconvenience to the people was that I
couldn’t walk long distances or drink, dance and party. It blows
my mind.
We are said to be ‘overthinking’ when others are not clear

enough in their behavior. We are said to be ‘oversharing’ when
our reality has infringed upon the fantasy of those with whom
we are interacting. We are said to be ‘overzealous’ when our en-
thusiasm is not matched by others in our surroundings. There
may be exceptions in which these words are being used appropri-
ately in reference to what may be seen as inappropriate behavior,
although it does not change the fact that the individual is so of-
ten defined not by their relationship to existence but to the mass-
es. As an outsider, it strikes me as horrific that society has built

its whole lexicon and culture around preserving and protecting
the comforts of the disconsolate, and in erecting our society up-
on such pillows they protect themselves from progress as well as
danger.
I think that total sincerity is so foreign to the general public

that it appears to them like insanity, like a malfunction which
was never intended, where veritable sincerity necessarily requires
us to ignore and/or outright negate our survivalistic instincts. It
shouldn’t be taken personally in this case. I am more of a mission,
at this point, than I am a man.
My honesty and forthrightness are not an accident. My kindness,

my guilelessness, are not the result of a malfunction. I do not
walk my path out of fear, out of lunacy, out of ignorance.
They cannot see me. It is for their own good, and in their own
defense, that the reality of my person should remain forever ob-
scured in their minds.
After years and years of attempting to circulate my work among

the appropriate channels, I receive fewer than one hundred lis-
teners to my music per month, with a majority of those simply
being listeners who found my profile using search terms (due
to my having thousands of songs on streaming services... so the
odds are certainly in my favor) and typically leaving after a single
play, which is usually a poorly performed cover song.
I’ve had two thousand songs and all of my art up online for years
at this point and I’ve had less than five people actually pay me
any sort of compliment or feedback (which, on most occasions
are very vague and only relate to a single work). Though I sure-
ly remember those that did have the kindness in them to speak
up. I recall everything verbatim. But at the end of it all, I do not
want this world and this world does not want me. Until the end
of it all, I was looked at as if I hadn’t accomplished anything at
all but making people uncomfortable.
It would have taken only one person: to look into my eyes; to tell
me that they hear me; to tell me that they see me: to tell me I
didn’t deserve this; to tell me that my music is beautiful; to tell
me that I am not alone; to touch my hand; to hold me close; to
stay by my side through the night, or even just the afternoon... or
even just lunch. No one. There was no one. Not one.
I sort of lost the ability to speak up for myself. Essentially I will

bear the abuse until I can bear it no longer, and then depart.
In each moment my mind is having to weigh out whether it is

worth it to continue, and every head on the wall screams out the
word “No!” in defiance of life. Yet something within me, like the
pulse of a memory, manages to overpower all my instincts, all my
despair and all my desperation. And just like so, ten years have
elapsed in a daze of agony.
Have we not a word to describe the good deeds which are carried
out in the absence of notice? In other words, the antithesis of
eyeservice. There should really be a word for this, if there isn’t al-
ready, as language promotes awareness of concepts in our daily
lives and I think the world could certainly use a bit more of this.
My vulnerabilities and needs were denied and exacerbated. My

victories were denied and ignored.
Childhood offers us a footing through ease of acquaintanceship.

Schooling offers us a footing, and we build our forever-networks
thereupon. Yet if you should lose your footing at any point and
for any reason, you’re unlikely to ever claim it back unless you’re
willing to trade your own soul, and all my efforts to be kind and
outgoing were no match for the drawbacks of arriving late.
There was a time when the wound only hurt when it was dis-
turbed; when it was interacted with; when it was directly
touched, tapped, peeled back. That is what we think of as ‘trau-
ma’. The year 2018 marked a turning point within my life. The
wound now hurts ceaselessly. It sounds like hyperbole, but I
don’t think ten minutes ever go by without my experiencing
some emotional turmoil caused by my experiences. So if it seems
I bring this topic up ‘too frequently’ then there is a valid reason,
as it is constantly fighting for my attention, and my hope is that
by expressing it as openly as possible that I am weakening its hold
on me. Like termites swarming a rotten log, so has trauma over-
taken this rotten life.
I often take a self-deprecating tone when it comes to speaking of

my idealistic stance, knowing how it is likely to come across in
the eyes of the public. I don’t expect the average man with the
average life to grasp my stance. Nevertheless, I consider it utter-
ly essential. It is essential we acknowledge that all understand-
ing comes through our senses and that our sensory input can-
not be fully relied upon. Our whole reality is predicated on glo-
rified subjective assumptions. The answer is neither to surrender
nor to stop paddling, but to recognize at once the importance of
resonance and relevance to our ability to know the unknowable.
Oh what a difficult concept to explain to a world that cannot
seem to distinguish intuition from instinct and desire. Yet if you
can hold to such a stance while circumventing the insanity, such
idealism will benefit all. The world unravels without becoming
unreal; becomes insensible without becoming unmeaningful. It’s
sort of like the Nihilism/Existentialism divide. It’s like a dropped
sandwich: the peanut butter side tends to hit the floor more of-
ten, doesn’t it...
I was never acknowledged for my intelligence which I developed

in an absence of schooling. I was never acknowledged for my tal-
ents which I developed in an absence of training and influence.
I was never acknowledged for my maturity which I developed in
the absence of a guide. I was never acknowledged for my strength
which I developed in the face of the most unbearable hardships.
I was never acknowledged for my humaneness and adaptabili-
ty which I developed despite a life of feral isolation, yet if even
one idiosyncrasy bleeds through I am shown no leniency. I was
never acknowledged for my kind demeanor which I have devel-
oped and maintained in a life of abuse and betrayal, where kind-
ness seems like only a dream to me. I was never acknowledged for
my work ethic which I maintained in spite of depression, anxiety
and the loss of physical dexterity, where most tasks require a sac-
rifice, unless it is to be told that I ‘work too much’ by those who
are projecting upon me.
*And I look out into a sphere where others are renown and
beloved by millions for reasons relating to the way that they look
or because their parents were famous or because they eat food
in front of a camera or share their opinions and criticisms with
an audience and there is so, so much I don’t understand about
what others value. I didn’t care to be famous. I would have been
happy if only a few people saw value in my life and my efforts
and wished to be my friend—where by friend I refer to someone
who wished to challenge and be challenged by me; someone who
wished to grow alongside me in mind of the sun of suns.
I rarely receive actual readers on my website. Most ‘visitors’ sim-

ply wander in and leave after a single page. Within a given month
I am lucky if I have even two or three individuals who actually
go on to read more than a couple pages at a time. I released my
legacy vault this year via cloud and I never received even a sin-
gle bit of feedback about it. I’m not even sure anyone has seen
it in the past year since it’s been up, though I continue to add
to it daily. I’m working not for the present but for the time af-
ter my death. I do not say all of this to complain but to provide
a snapshot of where I was at in this time just in case anything
ever changes after I am gone and I manage to get some posthu-
mous plaudits. Whatever will happen from here on out, it can-
not be changed that I received virtually zero acknowledgment in
my lifetime, and even if I succeeded in handling this quietly and

with maturity, it undoubtedly has an effect on my mindset, my
emotional state and even my worldview. No reviews. No articles.
No interviews. It’s such a cliché at this point that I think people
are desensitized to such words and may be tempted to write it off
as the standard, pointing to a handful of tragic cases throughout
history as if those offer any objective explanation as to why such
passionate effort must go without any acknowledgment, but in
the modern age of the internet it is rarer than ever that someone
should achieve so little recognition in proportion to their efforts.
I have acquaintances with only singles to their name who have al-
ready had their works in movies. A lot of that may very well have
more to do with my exposure than the actual quality or likabil-
ity of my output, but it is still a broken system in that one who
doesn’t play live shows essentially has zero means of establishing
themselves.
Notwithstanding the pain of feeling as though my work and

lifetime are not able to inspire others or bring any value to the
world, I do think it is probably all for the best that it happened
as it did. When I come up for air and steal a peek at the current
climate it’s quite clear that I would get eaten up by such a society.
I am not a fan of where our culture is currently at, and for that
reason I think it’s all for the best that I never achieved any recog-
nition. It would have changed the way I speak. I don’t doubt
it. After all, I am someone whose idea of fun constitutes sitting
around analyzing and uncovering the most horrible parts of him-
self and doing so publicly (with intent to reform those parts of
myself, of course, but far be it from modern society to consid-
er context). I would never be able to say anything in this cur-
rent sphere. I imagine I would have been shut down and vilified
rather quickly—assuming I did not compromise outright—and

because of my sensitive nature I seriously doubt that I would
have ever bounced back.
I wasn’t simply someone who lacked shame, devoid of a filter

and so innocent he doesn’t understand. No. I had more shame
and more filter than most. I don’t think the population will re-
alize how deliberate and willful my “enterprise” actually was and
is—not to the extent of being contrived, but in the sense that it
was all acted out mindfully. Everything down to my sloppiness is
backed by a rationale.
I’m very much a “be the change you want to see” type of person
and unfortunately I never found my niche or my respect in life.
But with any luck, I hope that this will pave the way for new con-
siderations going forward. Should society one day learn of my
life, hopefully it will begin a new conversation. Oh what a weird
conversation.
When I am sitting here writing out all of this trivial information

about my heart and mind and soul I am not thinking “Oh, peo-
ple are going to eat this up.” That’s not what’s going through my
mind. Firstly, I do it because I see it as a meaningful exercise
within the realm of personal development. And in terms of the
reaction that I hope to achieve: it surely ain’t about impressing
people with my thoughts and feelings. When I rank and score
the ins and outs of my lifetime I am more so hoping that it in-
spires others to look at their own lives similarly and to ask them-
selves similar questions. That’s all I’m doing, really. I’m just lead-
ing by example. And the actual contents of my texts are often sec-
ondary to that act.
I am in a haze, an absolute traumatized haze, in which I am con-

stantly sacrificing what I have for less and less and less. I am al-
most entirely philosophy at this point. I am only a code; a mis-
sion. There is emotion, but it is mangled, so mangled, and not
to be relied upon. I’ve broken free from the track, although I
don’t feel free. I feel myself to be drifting in endless space with-
out an anchor. My life has nothing to do with what I want any-
more. Gone are the days. It’s all about legacy at this point. For
some that’s all they ever have. When life seems to be less real...
when outcomes disconnect from actions... it is a genuine hor-
ror to experience... and multiply that a thousandfold when you
are dying of an agonizing disease-cluster and no doctor or family
member or anyone can hear you or see you. It doesn’t matter who
I became or what I become or what I do. It won’t change any-
thing. It won’t gain a response. The people won’t hear me. The
people won’t see me. I could become anything and it will change
nothing. I am the scapegoat of a dissociated society, but a goat
nonetheless.
From living with a histrionic, attention-seeking mother to hav-

ing to deal with cold, dismissive doctors, to the menagerie of fair-
weather friends, there are no words to express the anger and hurt
and disappointment that comes with having my voice silenced,
my suffering denied and my life snuffed out so soon. Somewhen
it was decided that my smiles and my sobs were pointless alike. I
wish I died ten years ago. Every moment I am alive I just feel I am
feeding into their misconceptions, ‘proving’ to all that my con-
dition is insevere and therefore worthy of their neglect. All who

attempt to play the part of friend or family retroactively shall be
met with all the scorn and dismissal from this society as you gave
to me.
It is a tragic irony like none other that in our desperate attempts

to preserve ourselves we are only hastening our destruction.
Yet when I think of misery I do not think of this body. I think

of my parents, my sister, my falsely so-called friends. Therein
lies true misery. My body is just what kept me from seeking out
and landing anything better for myself than the dark hand I was
dealt. It is agonizing. I’ve had to build my entire enterprise to-
ward this idea that some day, after I’m gone, someone will hold
dear what I have done, but as I sit here creating it, I can’t actually
imagine that, having never before known such honor. This would
not make sense to most people, who depend upon the praise and
encouragement of others to sustain their endeavors, as they lack
intrinsic motivation. And let me tell you, it is no simple feat to
continue working in an absence of these things—intrinsic mo-
tivation or not. I don’t know if I would have been able to keep
it up without Jeiezza. She was all I had in the form of encour-
agement, but I’ve made it this far—haven’t I? God, she’s been so
good to me. It makes me sad when I really reflect on my lifetime.
The patience that she contains. The loyalty. I don’t understand it,
and that’s coming from someone with a high self-opinion. But
then when I look at her in the night as she rests I can’t help but
feel apologetic for what she has to put up with—not what I’ve
done, but what I’ve failed to do, as it were. Her contribution is so
grossly underrepresented due only to my embarrassment of en-
tertaining something that I can’t figure out or explain to others,

yet then I go and form my whole identity around these phan-
toms... Parashurna, Thummim, and even Anita, in a sense. She
is someone who truly understands how I think—something that
can be said about no other—and that is something that should
be rewarded, celebrated, though sometimes I feel like I rely on
her understanding of my nature to surrogate for the actual apolo-
gies that she deserves.
I fear that my brain has finally had all it can take, and I am find-
ing myself stuck in a locked groove. I keep assuring myself that
the music is still playing, and I must only wait it out, but the
song, as it were, is over and will continue this nauseating loop ad
infinitum unless I should intervene, and intervene I will.
As a child I recall that my parents wrote the word “LIES!” all

over the media in our house (books, films) with permanent
marker because, in their words, ‘once the rapture happened they
needed the poor unbelievers who broke into our house to know
truth from untruth’. What an off environment.
I spent my childhood creating text-based games and other

shockwave games and animations with Macromedia Flash. I was
quite proficient in HTML and Frontpage editor as early as age
eight and was making decent websites (for which I even got paid
at times). I contributed to the websites for churches, as well as
the original website for Creation Festival (a popular Christian
music festival to which I was granted VIP/backstage access be-
tween 1998 and 2001 due to my family’s involvement), which
my parents often delegated to me. I didn’t realize until later on

that my parents were only paying me like 5% of what they were
getting paid to do the work, even though I was the one do-
ing the bulk of it. I transferred, transcribed and uploaded a lot
of sermons, which is why I have such a large collection of cas-
sette tapes, on which I would later end up recording my child-
hood musical projects. I did my own graphic design and anima-
tions. I even had business cards. I made custom buttons and pins
and carried around a suitcase filled with pins when I went to
church on Sunday, selling pins and drawings. I tend to instinc-
tively write off childhood (prior to fifteen) as some useless un-
conscious phase in which all growth was incidental and nothing
was questioned, but when I really look back on the child that I
was I realize that I was always a rather creative and productive in-
dividual, and it makes me happy to see. I had written well over a
dozen stories by the age of twelve... some of them rather lengthy
(although we all know their fate).
Creation Festival was always a unique experience for me, be-
ing the only instance in my early years in which my parents actu-
ally allowed me to wander off and do my own thing. I guess they
felt that they could trust the environment due to the religious
nature of it all—strange considering that it was run and operated
by at least one pedophile. It was a big place, too, and I would just
roam about for hours like a little sunburnt hotshot, or I would
spend my afternoons backstage scarfing free hot dogs with all of
the big CCM artists of the day. It was the only concert experi-
ence that I had until the age of eighteen, although I won’t usually
count it simply because it wasn’t a normal concert experience.
**I am embittered to imagine that my story won’t convey proper-

ly to others or elicit strong feelings if simply because they’ve in-
dulged in so much fiction over time, having been desensitized by

endless fantasy flicks and video games. It’s a useless fight, I know,
but I can’t let it go. I suppose I’ve got a sort of moral-philosoph-
ical opposition to fiction, as it were, which is why, even if I will
indulge in media from time to time, it will be nonfiction. It is de-
sensitization to a degree that is often overlooked, what with all
the miracles and romance and adventures that we fabricate, ex-
ploiting emotion as a cash-grab. I wouldn’t necessarily claim that
it is in its nature to have that effect, having more to do with our
tendency as ignorant beings to draw the line in strangest places. I
expect opposition to my stance, but that doesn’t prevent it from
bothering me.
I am tempted to do something outrageous. To gouge my eyes

out. To sever my limbs with a hacksaw. I’ve been having these
thoughts and impulses for years now. Why not? The world asks
me to prove that I am hurting. It doesn’t believe me otherwise,
apparently. It never believed me, even though I never did any-
thing to ruin that trust; even though I am neither moody, nor
melodramatic, nor attention seeking and do not regularly ask for
aid. It has taken me too long to realize that it was about preserv-
ing their sense of security and need not be taken as a judgment of
my character. IS IT THAT THEY DO NOT UNDERSTAND
OR DO THEY NOT CARE!?!?!
When I go on these emotional ‘rants’ I am not necessarily shar-

ing my beliefs as much as I am sharing insights into my thought
processes, for better or for ill. Some may only see a bit of bitter
whining, but there are insights to be gleaned from what I have
shared.
When my throat is at its worst it cuts off my oxygen. My hands

go numb. My hearing fades. It chokes even my ears. My sinus
collapses. When I inhale it [my sinus] falls inward. It feels like
my head is caving in. The very structure is collapsing somewhere
within the area of the nasopharynx. The feeling is inexplicable.
My eye squeaks, clicks, when I swallow. It’s an impossible expe-
rience to describe. It’s not like an allergic reaction. It’s not like
asthma. It’s not like a hand around the throat. Yet at the same
time, it’s like all of them together. It affects my vision. When my
throat pulls on my sinuses, my eyes become red and dry and I suf-
fer dizzy spells and intense nausea/photosensitivity when look-
ing at any screen, phone or computer, for even a moment’s time.
My weariness and physical exhaustion are beyond what I can

withstand indefinitely. Most of the time I am so weary I cannot
bear to move or work. There was a period of about two months
where I could barely keep awake. I have so much work left to do
on my book, and yet I don’t imagine I’ll be able to pull it off. To
make use of this body is like pushing a boulder through the mud.
At this point I am quite discouraged in the writing of my book.

I dedicated so much time and heart to this project, postponing
mine own death to see it through, though it will never measure
up to my intentions. Apart from simply not having the time to
make it into some wonderful, complex and memorable creation,
I am restricted by that which I wish to accomplish. My creativi-
ty is circumscribed by the fact that, despite the strangeness of the
experience, it is after all a real experience and I must keep this an
honest story without excess artistic flourishes. My artistry, lyri-

cality and even my amusement are limited by the fact that I wish
for these writings to make sense to others and to accomplish a
specific goal.
I surmise that I have already reached the limit of mortal agony,

as it were, in the sense that I have reached that moment in which
physical and mental suffering becomes so great that it no longer
registers; pain so severe that the senses die; suffocation so great
that the fear gives out, becoming euphoric out-of-body resigna-
tion as is experienced in the event of drowning. In that case I feel
that I am already reasonably acquainted with the event of death,
and to take it any farther than I already have would not actually
see me becoming worse but better off.
I feel as though there are dull knives set deep within my sinuses
and they are pushing against the nasal frame. It’s not especially
painful, but it feels like I’ve something sharp lodged in both nos-
trils. It relates to the inflammation of my larynx, which has re-
sulted in an inflamed palate, and it is horrible and frightening.
At its worst it pushes up against my gag reflex and that becomes
a serious problem as it can rest there for hours and I just have this
urge to vomit that won’t go away. The fevers are becoming worse
and more commonplace. My eyes are frequently bloodshot and
warm. I am breaking out in acne around the sites where the pres-
sure and inflammation have occurred.
The bottom-right crypt of my mouth is entirely numb. That

lump which I tried to have examined in 2014 has only continued
to grow and can be felt from the exterior of my jawline. If I move

my tongue to the bottom-right of my mouth it goes numb and
causes my throat to close up for a period of time. Note that when
I say ‘bottom right’ I essentially mean ‘in the direction of the
lower premolars’. If I should put my tongue to the roof of my
mouth and create any suction, via sucking, the whole palate es-
sentially collapses. I am not sure that’s the proper term to use in
this instance, but this action surely triggers a horrible, horrible
sensation (or is the most direct trigger thereof ) that makes it feel
like my nose caves in... it feels as though half of my face/head has
just closed up. It’s horrific. This also happens if I move my tongue
too much or clear my throat too much. Occasionally I will feel
a pinch at the very edge of the palate, where the two top-front
teeth meet.
The swelling in my abdomen never went away. It’s possibly an

external oblique, located below the ribs (directly above the bend
line when sitting). It is exasperated by laughter, throat clearing,
and coughing. Often it will become so bad that it interferes with
my ability to breathe, possibly in that it is pushing upon the
lungs, directly or indirectly. I’ll come close to blacking out in
these instances. I have to lay on my right side, typically in a sort
of fetal position. The issue is exclusive to the right hemisphere,
so gravity seems to pull the inflamed part away from my lungs
or whatever it seems to be interacting with. It’s the only position
that provides relief. My entire chest is crooked due to inflamma-
tion. I have to go weeks or months without laughter and throat-
clearing in order to get it to return to baseline and that’s near-
ly impossible. It is more difficult to accomplish when my throat
problems are acting up and causing decreased circulation and it
becomes a vicious circle. I must be very careful of my posture and
how I am angled when transitioning to other positions—like,

say, when I am rising from bed. There have been many times in
which, when rising from a resting position, a simple change of
position will be considered unacceptable, and I will catch the
hernia in such a way, like at the junction of two opposing what-
ever-the-fucks, and it will lead to weeks, if not months of an-
guish. This particular phenomenon often calls to mind sausages
and how they come out in links, which may be twisted, although
I’m honestly not sure how to explain it any better than that, as
it’s a pretty abstract comparison.
If I should become even slightly emotional I will begin to yawn

uncontrollably. I imagine it has to do with low oxygen, given the
tightness of my throat and larynx, yet it’s a hassle because I am
constantly yawning amid these otherwise intense emotional in-
teractions.
How quickly I have forgotten the various tastes and scents that
make up this life. How quickly I have lost the ability to imagine
city lights within my mind’s eye. How quickly I have lost all con-
cept of variation, for there is no variation within my world. I
wake to the same thoughts, the same dishes, the same torments,
the same duties day after day after goddamn day.
Onlookers will imagine it as “Either I was able to do something

or I wasn’t.” They’ll hear some of my songs and think “That’s
when he was still able to sing,” but they don’t hear that raspy
performance and think “That cost him weeks of breathing and
eating... those fifteen seconds of vocalization... and he struggled
to perform those shoddy seconds with full knowledge that that

may be the case... and he decided it worthwhile, if foolishly.” So
no, it wasn’t just some on/off switch where I could perform until
I couldn’t. There was constant tradeoffs being made, and those
tradeoffs continue, if in an altered form, into this day.
It was never as simple as saying ‘either I could or couldn’t’. “How

much can I get away with before it kills me?” and “Is it worth the
suffering that ensues?” are the questions that I ask myself each
day. These are the questions I ask myself on every occasion that
I must use my hand, or take a step, or all of the commonplace
things we so readily take for granted.
I rarely stop and consider all the heinousness to which I’ve
adapted in time. With each act I must lay down a sacrifice. “Do I
want to transfer music to the computer or clean my room? Do I
want to write a chapter or masturbate? Or perhaps today I would
like to not spend my health allowance and lie here, relishing in
my ability to breathe...” (although it’s quite unheard of that I
don’t try to accomplish something or many things each day).
Clearly I do not depend upon affirmations to survive or to de-

velop, but an absence thereof has certainly left me plagued by a
fundamental semiotic disorientation.
If I become even slightly emotional my head and nasal cavity

will begin to throb from the constriction and, should I actually
cry, my sinuses will become so stuffed up within mere seconds,
putting me in danger of suffocation. That’s unfortunate, depriv-
ing me of a good, cathartic cry.
It is as if I exist within a washer dryer, ever tumbling around.

There is no variation, no cessation, no alleviation in my days.
More and more I have become stuck, dizzy. Even five years ago I
would not have believed that a mindset can become so overrun
by cancer. It’s difficult for me to say so because of how it may re-
flect upon my efforts, but I have led a disturbing life, and the re-
sult is that I have been left thoroughly disturbed. However, ‘dis-
turbed’ is not to say “lacking sensibility or discernment” but that
I am suffering a most intense inner anguish. I cannot think of a
single redeeming quality of this earth. A red shadow hangs over
all things. It retroactively tarnishes. It coats the child I once was.
I can’t see. I can’t see a thing.
As someone both preoccupied with personal development and

committed to being transparent about damn well everything
that I experience within myself, I would surely not last in today’s
social climate. As someone who wants to start conversations, I
do not expect to be welcomed by a people who are often so will-
ing to disregard context in the name of riding out their emo-
tional orgasm; a population pitted to prove that they have some-
thing to fight for in life. I am not some irreverent iconoclast. I
am not some vile exhibitionist. I am rather a tender boy who, as
I have already said, genuinely wishes to begin a conversation. I
fantasize of having an outlet and being able to share my self-evis-
cerations and inspire others to look at themselves under a sim-
ilar scope—not sportfully so, but in mind of growth and heal-
ing—but this is not a time in history where that seems possible,
and as painful as it is to fall between the cracks of society in a
time when it seems everyone and their dog has a bit of fame and
influence, I think this age when everything is decontextualized
and transformed into memes or politics is simply not my time. I

have to imagine that society would have wrenched my work and
my world from my hands, and I do not think I would have been
strong enough to take it back, especially when, beneath a world
of insular personalization, I am ultimately fueled by my will to
serve and uplift the people (contrary to what my frustration so
often depicts). So although it may be said that I have carved
my own way, ignoring the standards of my contemporaries, I am
not exactly proud of being set apart and do not respond well to
these reminders of distance, whether through ignorance or op-
position.
It raises some questions, doesn’t it though? And I’ve not re-

frained from confronting those philosophical questions. But in
the end, I lived and died in accordance with my priorities. I
would like for my experience to be conveyed in its fullest intensi-
ty and vividity—but intensity notwithstanding, do not buy into
this idea that I am so outrageous. ‘Forthright’ is more apt. Those
with the broadest reach and brightest smile control the narrative.
The very idea of growth has become not more than a marketable
buzzword among the pissflooded planes.
It was in many ways a sad existence, but it could have been sad-
der. And at this point, I’m so welcoming of death that I don’t
really wish for anything pleasant to happen so suddenly after all
these years and screw up my resolve. I know how these things
typically pan out, and I am just glad I don’t have to stick around
and deal with any monster I may have inadvertently created from
the release of these works. The misunderstandings. The misap-
propriations. The broken telephone. I do not say so hatefully. I’m

flustered. Don’t let them bastardize my efforts.
It does me no good socially that I have no interest in current

events, current trends or pretty much anything relating to the en-
tertainment industry and prefer to spend the entirety of my time
creating, learning and investigating. My work ethic, which may
be my legacy in retrospect, only seemed to hurt my reputation
during my lifetime. And it’s not because I’m some stereotypical
ambitious workaholic willing to neglect and put others down to
get what I want, but merely because people feel threatened by
what I give of myself, interpreting it through a very personal lens
(apparently).
It is so surreal to me that we naturally equate work with accom-

plishment, in that the harder one works the more one has to
gain. It’s not that I don’t understand that logic, but for me it has
never been so straightforward, playing out somewhat paradoxi-
cally. Sure, I have reaped great personal gain from my laboring/
projects within the realm of psychospiritual growth, and I won’t
dispute that, but I have lost health, friends, community, and fi-
nally my life. The more diligently I have worked, the more I ap-
pear to lose.
Thirty years of constant efforts to create something remark-
able and I have only alienated myself. The more that I create, the
more I am looked down upon. The longer I fight for survival,
the more I am pitied and viewed as weak. Kindness, intelligence,
determination, ingenuity, creativity—these are esteemed as pos-
itive traits in everyone else! Even their sickness elicits sympathy.
Though nothing about me merits the common response. A
faulty cause, all of it! What matters—all that matters—is that

the others see themselves in you or otherwise desire to.
It seems that no one is willing or able to take me as a whole.

Those capable of appreciating my grim aesthetics cannot relate to
my delicate music. Those who find wisdom in my psychology are
put off by my occult leanings. I would have thought more peo-
ple can relate to my person, but my multidimensionality has only
succeeded in making me an unrelatable mess.
That is not to say that I was not rejected by the world until the
very end, but I did not compromise my vision so as to elicit their
favor, hoping my vision would translate to others. Sadly, it did
not, and I remained a reject until the end of my life, achieving
less attention and certainly less respect than a teenage girl in a
tube top.
It was harrowing, having spent my life searching for ‘my people’,

thoroughly convinced I simply hadn’t found them yet. Though
it’s not that I haven’t found ‘my people’. I believe that those who
ignore and mistreat me now—some of them, anyway—are the
very ones who will be eating up my work when I am gone. And
it’s very unsettling... what that says. All this celebrity and fame
and respect and influence nonsense has nothing to do with the
artist whatsoever. It never did. The artist is only the feelings he or
she generates in others. And if it’s truly all about the listener and
what they identify with, then the best offering we can give in life
is something which, through identification, will benefit the soul
of mankind.
It’s difficult on my mind, because no one is ‘evil’ through and

through—not in the way that stereotypes dictate. No one who I
despise is without their good qualities and can be kind and gen-
erous within the right conditions. It makes it so difficult for me.
I want to believe it counts for something more...
Whether are we talking about writing, music, art or character, I

have received not more than a dozen compliments or acknowl-
edgments in total from the outside. As little recognition as I have
achieved with my music, I have yet to receive even a single ac-
knowledgment of my non-music material, including my vaults.
My whole heart and soul have been on display for years and I
have passed them around like a loving cup in every place that
might have me and not a single word has been spoken about my
offering, my accomplishments, my life. I did all of this think-
ing I would finally be heard and understood, and it amazes me
that it changed nothing at all. I’ve never received even a single
comment about my self-awareness, my guitar playing or about so
many of the other elements that make up my world. I garner only
silence, ignorance and avoidance. The total lack of acknowledg-
ment has caused me so much dissociation. Yet if you think that
it’s just something to ‘get over’ and ‘accept’ then I fear you do not
understand the nature of such processes. My very construction
does not resemble the standard at this point. I am like a tree that
grew through a fence; I am bent and split and curved in ways
that are not natural. It is not but a scratch on my skin that can
be done away with in time. Every part of me is askew due to the
conditions in which I came up. I think that late 2018 was the
tipping point for me, and even if I ever found myself welcomed
into the gates, so to speak, I am now too traumatized by the cir-
cumstances of my lifetime to ever be a part of that world. I will

always exist on the outside, and not even acceptance can change
that now. The rejection has permeated me, becoming me.
Social media is a nightmare for me. I put so much thought
into matters such as layout, visual identity and what I want to
say and see absolutely no engagement whatsoever. I am consis-
tently losing 2-5 followers with each and every post that I make
or album that I release to the public, and it regularly takes me
months to gain that back. You should see how many Bandcamp
subscribers I lose when I post a new album or several simultane-
ously. And it’s not just like some casual click of the unfollow but-
ton when something you don’t care about pops up in your feed.
I’ll see the numbers drop across all my platforms simultaneous-
ly like I actually offended someone with my existence and they
took the time to go around and rid their life of all traces of me.
Even those who follow me do nothing. They sit silently among
the shadows with their Raisinets—not engaging with my posts
in any way whatsoever, although I can see that my posts are being
viewed. These are the people that have simply come to see a man
die. And I’m with them on that. I want to see me die, too.
I am not expecting every one of them to chirp at me and praise

my name, but when I am working with close to zero information
as to how I am being viewed by others, I am left to form my own
conclusions, and everything I have experienced so far in life has
understandably enforced a cynical and paranoid attitude (made
worse by the fact that I have been so upfront in my writings
about all that affects me—both positively and negatively). Even
if not every one of them has read what I have to say on the mat-
ter, it can sure feel like I am shouting into a megaphone, saying
“Please don’t do x because that really hurts me,” and then they all
proceed in doing just that.
I am not finicky. I am not asocial. I am not a pretentious snob. To

hell with all of those who maintain such self-exculpatory percep-
tions of my character despite all I’ve had to say. I merely go where
I’m wanted, and I only ever felt myself wanted within the priva-
cy of my cellar bedroom. And no efforts to build a new life for
myself ever panned out. I’ll never understand it, though I guess
it comes back to the idea that if people truly wanted what I had,
there would be more like me. That’s very difficult for me to grasp,
since I spent my whole life striving—intentfully so—to become
the man that I have, and I’ve become exactly the sort of individ-
ual that I was always idolizing and seeking in my life. Even now,
I become so excited whenever I come across any sort of individ-
uals existing on the fringe and I try to learn all I can about who
they are and what they think. It is our innate tendency to assume
that the fascination we feel is as if some quality innate to the per-
son or object which fascinates us, but I suppose it had as much
or more to do with our own selves all along.
Me, I’m like some antique accessory that doesn’t fit with any out-
fit. Some may think it unique, but at the end of the day, no one
wishes to wear it, as it doesn’t go with any outfit.
And when I am gone and these works become public domain all
the arrogant and sociopathic rat scabs can come on out of their
holes and scoff at me for expressing my hurt and disappoint-
ment, as I know that they are ever looking for opportunities to
tell someone to “Get over it,” since that is apparently the only
way that they can prove to themselves that they are strong and
sturdy, themselves—those whose reality is determined by what is
common and standard rather than what is rightful. I cannot help
but envision these people whenever I write. These are the peo-
ple that have been a part of my life: horrible individuals who put
others down and make them feel like their problems are inferior
to their own. That is why I so frequently take a defensive tone in
my writings: because I don’t have any other mental image in my
mind of my potential audience apart from those who hurt me. I
don’t know anything else. I don’t know what a real supporter or
admirer looks like. Nevertheless, I do feel very foolish and imma-
ture to be so bothered about something like social media, and I
imagine that is how my remarks will be received: ill-adjusted. Yet
how is that fair? When, overall, these things about which I com-
plain form the focus of the modern man, having become our cur-
rency, the means by which we achieve status which verily deter-
mines how far we get in this world. Though it’s not like I’m be-
ing forced to share all of this with the public. I am not some hose
that splatters uncontrollably and can’t help himself. I choose to
put all of this on the record. And it goes beyond simply wish-
ing to paint an accurate picture of who I am. To me it seems that
there aren’t a lot of people speaking openly about these sorts of
things—which surely ain’t to say that there aren’t a lot of peo-
ple who feel as I do. I believe that there are. And if I keep these
thoughts to myself—out of shame, out of avoidance—I may end
up missing out on an opportunity for a connection. I’m not in
the business of only sharing what makes me look good or con-
forms to this image of some mysterious subterranean magick-
ian. You should know this by now. I subscribe to the ideal of the
wholliman. And though it may be the weird stories and experi-
ences that catch their attention and draw them in, I believe it’s
the humanness that will stay with them. That’s what I believe, for
I have seen.
On the other hand, I remember and I cherish every kind
bit of feedback that I ever received along the way and I thank
every one of you who took the time to share kind words with me.
Whether you were considering my feelings, or simply wished to
wee on the wall, I am grateful, and I am sorry that your kind-
ness is not necessarily reflected in my attitude and worldview. It’s
been a long life. Thirty years is a long time to be screaming for
help.
I have to wonder if my reception would have been at all different

had I been around three or so decades earlier. The rise of the in-
ternet certainly brought about a shift in our culture—one which
I interpret as overwhelmingly negative, despite all of the posi-
tives that it has brought with it. There is no denying that social
media, and perhaps the internet in general (at least in how it is
used), have done away with our ability to engage meaningfully
with our environment. Our potential as a species has not
changed, nor has our output. And surely this is not some grand
epiphany, being what I would imagine as a common criticism.
Many would argue that our potential has improved with such
obvious leaps in technology—a sensible deduction. Surely it is
not our means but our indiscipline which steers our actions, just
as it is our attitude which steers our perceptions. That being said,
I can’t help but wish that I had been around a couple decades
sooner. It would have been nice to release my work to a world
in which guitar gods, underground legends and mail-based fan
clubs still had a place. It wasn’t so long ago! It really wasn’t. I grew
up in that world and I never counted on it going away so soon. It
is truly a shame, as far as I am concerned. My music was practical-
ly made for those who had some time to dedicate to solving mys-
teries and decoding secret messages and other things that anyone
apart from the fanatic no longer has the time or attention for.
Our modern, nihilistic society is so antagonistic toward meaning

and value. This is everything I represent, everything I care about.
And because I find such things to be important, beautiful, won-
derful, it took me until the end of my life to really see that my
agenda, as it were, was off-putting to a world so out of touch with
itself. I thought that others wanted to experience that sort of en-
gagement: to have their souls seen. Though the soulless can on-
ly take offense, and those whose souls are coated in filth, ignoble
intention and self-loathing can only despise those who penetrate
their façades and attempt to engage with the person that they are
at their core. This may have ultimately been my downfall, but I
can’t say that it was a mistake on my part and I do not regret nav-
igating this world with open eyes, open ears and an open heart.
And that’s so important to understanding my story: I was not

just some stupid suicidal kid who hated his life. I was not like the
others who suffered from an absence of value and meaning. My
life contained what could perhaps be termed an overabundance
of meaning and ecstasy; however, within a world that couldn’t
acknowledge it, affirm it, respect it, I was never able to proper-
ly relish in what I had found. I didn’t need the people to stand
around and clap for me or give me their gold stars, but it would
have been nice if my passionate outlook had not alienated me.
I do not fish for sympathy or attention. An individual who has

gone his life in the absence of these things simply does not expect
them, so it wouldn’t make any sense for me to seek out sympathy
when my mind isn’t even conditioned to view it as a plausible
outcome. The masses make so many snap judgments and accu-
sations regarding someone’s intentions based off of some super-
ficial behavioral pattern or act, but it’s little things like this that
we need to ask ourselves. It’s sort of like what I had to say about
manipulation and how it doesn’t even occur to me to manipulate
others when my experience of emotion is that it is not something
which is influenced from the outside, and that’s all I know.
My being known for such forthright, confessional and ostensibly

disturbed ramblings leaves me feeling that I must substantiate
myself to those who do not know me on a personal (meaning
face-to-face) level, like to say that I am not simply some maniac
wandering the streets talking to himself or forcing disturbed
spiels on everyone I pass and then wondering why they can’t han-
dle it. I’m not a fucking patzer. I do not rush others like some
bull and treat them as a canvas on which to paint my story or per-
spective. That is not my interaction style, I find out where they
are weak and I bolster. I find where they are passionate and I en-
courage. I find where they are bored and I excite. I try to pick up
on things others could not.
*These are not posts about darkness and trauma and death
but about new developments and projects that anyone who val-
ued my work (or my person) would or should hopefully find in-
teresting. Yes, it’s easy to assume that someone who is willing to
dig into these parts of themselves and existence has no filter or
no sensibility and is constantly ranting about trauma and misan-
thropy and leaving everyone to feel uneasy. In fact, I don’t feel
like I’m allowed to talk about these things openly. I’m not al-
lowed to talk about death. My physical decline has gone ignored,
disregarded or written off by absolutely everyone in my life. It’s
an inconvenience to them. They have chosen not to believe it,
or they have chosen not to care. So I’ve had to resort to writ-
ing out these private texts while those who claim to care about
me have done all they can to stitch my mouth shut. I wonder
if my willingness to explore such topics leads to the misconcep-
tion that I am unpredictable simply because I am already work-
ing off a model beyond that with which they are familiar or com-
fortable. It is surely a common occurrence that people misat-
tribute the traits of volatility and unpredictability to anything
which exceeds their grasp, even by a little bit, but I am not with-
out a method, a pattern. However, it is ultimately untrue and it
is why I’ve released some videos which capture my interaction
style. That brings me to another assumption: sometimes I won-
der if people will think to blame my social struggle on the fact
that I have divulged so much information—often times nega-
tive—regarding past and ongoing relationships, and it would be
reasonable to think that people are scared off by someone who
seems likely to broadcast their meeting to the public, though it
wasn’t until late 2018 or even after I had already retired from the
social sphere in 2019 that I finally started sharing these write-ups
to my personal blog, which at that point mostly had to do with
my failed 2016 relationship, so it’s not like I have this longstand-
ing reputation as someone who blasts people. I only became so
open with the public after receding into hermitry. Also, no one
has ever asked me not to share something and I’ve always been
given consent in some form. So if people didn’t want to be writ-
ten about in one of my biographical texts then all they really had
to do is say so. I’m not some nasty person who ignores what oth-
ers are asking of me. So once again, I don’t believe this is even re-
motely part of the problem, but I won’t discount that some peo-
ple may try to bring that up in retrospect as if to suggest that it
contributed to my situation, for I am well aware that there are
plenty of artistic types running amok who use others for inspi-
ration in that way, exploiting the lives of their so-called friends
in the name of material. That’s simply not the game I’m playing
over here. Additionally, I’m not after art and worldly success but
truth and healing. All in all, I don’t think their reasons are that
complicated, if they exist in the form of “reasons” after all, as op-
posed to some animal impulse. I’ve dramatically overestimated
the role of reason and intent within the lives of the population.
At the end of the day, most of these motherfuckers are probably
just put off by my mustache or by the fact that I don’t play video
games or watch television which a) makes me unrelatable and b)
unable or unwilling to affirm their own tastes. Something stupid
like that. And here I am over-analyzing myself into the ground
like an ever-spinning auger.
*Once again, you have to take context into account: I’ve
been given zero information to work with and this has left me to
ruminate and asphyxiate in this swamp. No one has ever called
me unstable. No one has ever called me a bad guy. I’ve been told
the opposite. Yet when the actions of those I meet are so con-
tradictory and negligent and I can’t help but notice, my world
becomes utterly scrambled because the sum of the equations is
not appropriate in respect to its summands. It’s always that way
when society is involved. 7+6=20. 63+14=45. It’s all so wrong,
and a lack of honesty and introspection on the part of the out-
side world is not allowing for a change.
Many of these struggles, as I’ve noted, could have to do with the

changing nature of society over the past decade, and it’s possible
that my expectations haven’t been properly recalibrated, due in

part to the trauma with which I have been met upon my return.
Nonetheless, that doesn’t change my experience in life. I put in
constant, daily efforts, until my last breath, but these efforts nev-
er seemed to pay off. It is deeply disturbing to think that I was
allotted more—more favor, more opportunities—back when I
gave nothing of myself; back when I drifted with the currents
and did not ask questions. And as I’ve made clear in times before,
it’s not the people who do not see me that bother me. It’s the peo-
ple that claim to be my friends, my family, my so-called ‘follow-
ers’ who have shown me the emptiness of these classifications. I
am sensible enough to know that most will not be interested in
what I am doing, whether rightful or wrongful or none of the
above. It’s the pain of seeing that it changes nothing for one to
read my bio or listen to my songs or experience my kindness.
That’s a problem. Because there’s nothing else! There’s nothing
more to hope for! If these are the people who see me and who
claim to care about me, then what do I even have to look forward
to?
It will make them all so glad to hear of how poorly I was received
and how much misery it caused me. If not outwardly filled with
glee, their guilt will be allowed to subside, since it just enforces
their horrid acts against me by telling them that I wasn’t deserv-
ing of anything more. They should celebrate.
I wouldn’t ever insinuate that the world owed me anything; but

when I look around and see all of the things that garner the
attention, respect and praise of our society, I cannot help but
feel myself surprised, if cheated, and that’s not just my emotions
speaking. A single photo of a dog or cat—any goddamn dog or

cat—garners more response than I did in my thirty years of life,
and while one would be stupid to take that personally, I am sad
about what that says about our world and our willingness to nur-
ture one another. Most of the population defines itself by what
they do: the acts in which they take part. It should then be seen
as no surprise that statements pertaining to our activities (“what
you do”) are likely to receive the highest amount of interaction,
while statements pertaining to what we’ve created (“what you
create”) receive substantially less interaction, and statements per-
taining to who we are (“who you are”) seeing almost none in my
experience.
Again, it all comes back to what people can relate to. I don’t
say this to complain, and those who uncover these texts in the
wake of my death must understand the context in which they ex-
ist, or existed: this is not something that I am sharing via social
media or even via a public log, but within a private file that is un-
likely to be seen until I am gone. I am simply documenting my
emotional experience, especially in the aim of achieving cathar-
sis. That’s the one good thing about not really having anyone’s
interest: no one has found my books, which are accessible to all
that go looking (I don’t have much of a choice but to keep them
public if I wish to ensure that they will be made public in the case
of my death, which can occur at any moment).
I’ve said it before: I am neither someone who creates solely for

himself nor someone who creates solely for others. And I do not
cope with all this disappointment by saying “Oh well, at least
I like it!” I cope with the disappointment through being con-
vinced that my work simply hasn’t found its audience yet. It’s not
because I want fame. It’s because I have something to say that I
feel can benefit the lives of others. It’s only a shame to think that
others will see it as ironic, in the end, and that makes me want
to give up all the more, because the more I fight this misery, the
more I struggle to do what I must, the more I destroy the chances
of ever having my word and my work taken seriously when peo-
ple won’t accept their pills from a man so withered.
One can only go so far into the personal before arriving at
the universal. This is one of the more prominent maxims of my
lifetime. It colors my attitude, my motivation and all things that
I create. As personal is my approach, I take the approach that I do
because I believe that this is the way of effecting change within
society. Not by catering to the desires of the people... that doesn’t
create a lasting impact. I would say it even delays progress, since
satisfaction has been known to create complacency. I scan the
crowds and I observe what appears to be lacking in their lives.
I look for what is causing them the most grief at the end of the
night (and at the end of their lives) and I try to find a remedy.
There’s a danger in this, as I’ve now learned. There is, after all, a
reason why people aren’t coming upon a solution to their needs.
It’s like the whole world is after gold, treasure, and so I try to re-
trieve it for them from the caves, the catacombs. Now that I’ve
come all this way, my own idiocy finally dawns on me: but the
people knew the treasure was here all along, and yet I stand alone
in this cave...? I always thought I was the wise one to end up in
this place, but perhaps it is my foolishness that brought me here.
I never really achieved the proper closure from these false friends
who wore down my hopes, nor did I ever get the chance to say
how I felt to their faces. That is for three reasons. Firstly, I don’t
like confrontation, since instead of taking real criticism they’ll
just find a means to fire back at me and I don’t need that. For ex-
ample, someone promises to give me a ride but is then an hour

late to show up and doesn’t acknowledge it. I can’t say anything
about it because then they’ll just go into a defensive “Well, if you
were a real adult who drove themselves then...” That kind of bull-
shit. I’ve been in a lot of situations like that in my life due to my
health, and I can’t say anything because then I’ll be cut down for
reasons beyond me. I don’t know the statistics, but the people
who I’ve known tend to fire back more than they tend to listen
and consider the points that I’m making and it becomes a war
rather than an exchange of feedback or admission of hurt, and
that’s a shame, because progress doesn’t come about in that way.
So I am stuck in this constant ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ scenario
despite daily efforts to escape it. I have been powerless in my life,
and it’s not an easy thing to acknowledge. And people have done
nothing but take advantage of that or otherwise guilt me for it.
My only option has been to eat shit or starve, and I can’t be fault-
ed that I have finally resolved to starve.
Secondly, the fact that I will soon be departing this place
leaves me fearing what people will do with my legacy and I don’t
need some stoner or sociopathic jackasses drawing up some be-
grudging or inaccurate picture of me for the world. So I have
to dissociate from the crazier people—delicately so. And some-
times I simply don’t want to discourage or hurt someone. Yet
that is only in cases where their actions aren’t flagrantly ma-
licious. I have had a lot of acquaintances who are just
wastoids—stoners who have no awareness of half the things go-
ing on in their periphery. They’re not evil. They’re just... not all
there, and even when they cause sick amounts of damage with
their floaty, fickle presence, I can’t bring myself to come down on
them since I just don’t think they would get it. Ignorance is so
much more common than malice, I’ve learned, and as destruc-
tive a force as it can be, I try to respond appropriately.
As you read from what I have to say, you must remember that
this is coming about as the product of a lifetime devoid of any
explanation as to why I have met with such negligence, and I
am forced to work it out on my own, which breeds in me obses-
sion... fixation... enough to constitute an irremediable trauma. I
am constantly mulling these things over, arguing with phantom
panels; defending myself against the infinite demands, right and
wrong, of infinite unborn.
There is only one place within my bedroom that can support

my weight: a small vertical pipe concealed behind a panel which
connects to the water line (in modern photos it is the panel upon
my wall on which is printed the squared circle). If you open up
that panel you’ll find that there is already a silky black tie all
knotted up and ready to go for a nice partial... you know, just in
case. The only problem with that is that hanging doesn’t really fit
with my myth, and that’s a total drag since it would come so eas-
ily in my condition, given the state of my throat.
Had I the assurance that my work will survive me then I would

not continue coming back. I would cut myself off entirely from
this society which brings me despair and labor over my works
until the very last sands have made their way through.
I feel a sense of shame for being so caring and observant within

a sphere in which that is not the norm. I feel ashamed when re-
membering the names of people I only met once. I feel ashamed
when showing enthusiasm. I feel ashamed when showing consid-

eration. I do not belong in this sphere where one must affect a
certain degree of apathy, or wherein all meaningful conversation
is considered oversharing, or all things that bring us displeasure
are labeled ‘toxic’, and so on and so forth (clearly society has just
learned a new word... so easy to tell). Acknowledging my own
achievements is ‘arrogant’ and acknowledging the achievements
of others is ‘kissing ass’ or some sort of flirtation. Intimacy is not
possible here. The laws of the sphere have been written by an un-
stable hand and upheld, unquestioningly, by unstable minds.
I imagine it will be interpreted as self-absorbed and self-impor-

tant, yet the point I have been making all along is not ‘look
how great I am!’ but ‘look at the potential which comes about
when we honor, or at least observe our own symbols, predilec-
tions, patterns’. If it weren’t for the fact that I have had to suffer
through unbearable illness, as well as feeling shunned and mis-
treated by the greater society, I feel that my life would have
been extremely enjoyable due to my approach. My approach and
methodology are so helpful, so meaningful, and so... dare I say...
fun and exciting as to keep me afloat in this black aquarium for
so long... goddamn... it would have been an amazing life if only
it could be experienced without the added infirmity and restric-
tion. Even my social struggles would be of no issue if my health
returned to me, not only in that I could finally fight for what I
want and do whatever must be done, but people would stop see-
ing me as some inconvenience due to my condition.
The name Leviyey came about in 2015 (and was made my legal
surname in 2016) and is the result of adding the long ‘A’ sound to
the end of Levey, with the ‘A’ being representative of Anita and
her influence on my person. I don’t typically acknowledge that
much publicly, mostly because I wish for people to view Leviyey
as the only surname that I ever had, yet that’s my explanation. I
always sort of double, or even triple layer my identity and name,
because I don’t wish to be associated with my birth name—not
only because I, personally, want no association with the family
that abused me, but because it could also cause problems for a
lot of people if this information became public knowledge, hav-
ing spoken so openly about the people in my life. I don’t expect
that it can be hidden. It’s pretty easy to search for records and
whatnot. I say this more in mind of things like Wikipedia entries
and places that sometimes include “birth name” as distinct from
“legal name” and I oppose any attempts to link me to my birth
name.
I do not expect to ever complete this work. I do not expect to

ever hold the final product in my hands. I do not expect to see
the reactions of my readers—the good, the bad and the mixed.
Imagine the most frightening and lonely experience of your life:
a near death experience. Imagine a bout of allergic anaphylaxis
that lasts upwards of a decade. Attempting to sleep while suffo-
cating. Waking up while suffocating. Tight neck. Need to finish
the book before I die. Dying soon. Aggravating neck could speed
up death. I have to write.
I am my father’s father.
I am the non-returning teacher.
He made sure that I never felt myself at home, like this house
was not actually mine. He wanted me to see it not as a safe haven
but as an unearned privilege that could be taken away from me at
the drop of a pin. It’s difficult to convey the damage done by his
methods. A hermit though I am, I never had a home.
I returned with smiling eyes and ears so open to all taking place.
Memories so vivid in my mind, could have been yesterday, were
now worlds away to others. “Get over it,” they say, but I am the
one who has taken the path of passion and respect in this life. We
weren’t supposed to forget where we came from.
I have considered, on and off, creating an organized collection

of my social correspondences complete with notes pointing out
such things as the intention and motivation behind lines or acts,
and other things of that sort, and it was going to form a part of
the Benthos project, although as much as I have been willing to
share from my life, I can’t help but feel that that would be cross-
ing the line in some regard to divulge of private correspondences
and therefore I have had to draw a line. I come back and punch
at that line from time to time, I do, but ultimately I can’t bring
myself to cross it. Still, I have to wonder if that would be what is
needed to finally alleviate the hurt that I feel inside and the con-
stant need to prove that I didn’t deserve the abuse, neglect and
other negligence I have suffered at the hands of the people in my
life.
I still try to be fair and ethical even if the other party isn’t
willing to play by those same rules, I am still having to consider
the developmental paths of those who have harmed me, as I
would not wish to stunt anyone’s growth or leave them with
more excuses to act out. And I am wondering if by doing so I am

completely failing to get my point across and justify the hurt I
have known.
I think that people can simply sense that I have more to lose
when it comes to relationships and all that, whether that is actu-
ally true or not, as they are basing that assessment on a combi-
nation of my circumstances and my relative lack of connections
and intimates, and this assumption on their part seems to create
for some smug sense of immunity (and possibly even superiority)
in them that results in them thinking that they have room to play
around, and that they can do and say whatever they wish with
me and I won’t bite back, because then I’ll be back in the gutters
or forced to endure more abuse from my family. That’s how I per-
ceive it, anyhow.
It is very strange to have provided these endless and thorough

insights into my mind and character and circumstances and for
those with whom I interact to still opt to base their understand-
ing of my person off of assumptions. The modern individual has
less patience for the written word than, say, a glitzy cinematic fea-
ture, and I can hardly fault them for that predilection as I count
myself among their camp, for though I labor all the hours of my
day on writing, I cannot think to dedicate so much as seven min-
utes to reading before my interest has dissipated, replaced by the
urge to be telling my own story. As so, it pains me that even those
who see fit to follow me on social media and listen to my mu-
sic seldom seem to know even the first thing about me, and it is
quite sad considering that I have essentially spelled out my fate
for all to see, and not until I’m gone will the people realize that
I had been waving goodbye all along and no one ever thought
to wave back. Again, I cannot fault them, or I try not to, but
when I have labored the last decade of my life on writing—and
such weighty things at that—I do wish that it was not seen as so
inaccessible to the average individual as to be picked up by not
a single person in my time of life. It’s hard to be okay with the
fact that I could have accomplished more with a single video up-
loaded online than multiple books and dissertations—especially
when I had every intention of and ability to create such videos
until the loss of my voice killed that path. And because they don’t
know much about my experiments or my accomplishments, I of-
ten feel self-conscious when sharing videos and writings via so-
cial media, as if I am being looked at as some dramatic guy who
is acting out some tortured façade or something of that sort, and
I can just feel people judging the tone of my videos from afar,
as if it’s all just an ‘aesthetic’. That’s the impression that I get; I
feel like I am being lumped in with your average angsty teenager
despite the philosophical complexity and emotional richness of
what I choose to share with the public (albeit on rare occasion
and growing rarer all the time).
I dearly despise meme culture. And it will probably reflect poorly

upon me for saying so, as if it’s because I am lacking a sense of
humor (or a sense of fun). Obviously that is not the case, as I
tend to laugh more (and ostensibly for ‘less of a reason’) than
most, and I am likely to laugh at a good portion of the things
that society finds funny. I am not a damned alien, and my as-
cetic practices do not mean that I don’t react to the world in the
same manner as everyone else—at least on the level of instinct.
It’s not the memetic humor that I despise, but the culture that
has formed around it, and what that has done to the younger
generations. It bears many of the same dangers as social media

in general: what I would describe as a lack of defined bound-
aries. And by that I mean that there is no moment of our lives
to which these memes and their humor are not relevant if we
so choose to view our lives through that lens. Everything could
be a photo opp like everything can be a joke like everything can
be a viral moment. This all-relevance keeps people locked per-
petually within this unfruitful state of mind wherein they’re not
able to take in reality on a more holistic level that reaches their
hearts, their emotions, their sense of meaning. It has transformed
our motivation. It has transformed our responses. Everyone’s try-
ing to get a quip. Everyone’s trying to get a fix. It’s opportunism.
Everyone’s trying to show that they are a part of the centipede.
It’s so horrifically creepy to me—unbearably so. And it is carried
out in a state of mindlessness. These are not simply acts and pas-
times, but paradigms in and of themselves which comprise a way
of life. Irony was not meant to be adopted as a worldview. I can
hardly think of anything more dangerous to the development of
our cores. When people speak of ‘drones’ and ‘sheep’ the mind
tends to shift toward men in suits: dead-eyed corporate cogs am-
bling from job to job. Unconsciousness takes many forms, and
for me this is no less upsetting; no less... wooly.
It just seems like so many people are lacking a middle ground
in communication between irreverence and argumentativeness.
This is the nature of the paradigm, which is incompletely coded.
There’s no ability to confront and stick with serious, meaningful
topics. It’s like it’s being viewed as a chore, and they don’t want
to have to do it any longer than they must. Sheer egoic defense.
When I visit a YouTube video or take a peek at a message board

(which I very rarely do) and take in the way in which people
are speaking to each other (although I dare not refer to it as

an interaction), it’s like I’m not even seeing something resem-
bling humanity. It’s like a completely new language entirely de-
void of emotional color. Emotionality, kindness, affection, and
respect are all being discouraged through derogatory slang terms
by these walking abortions who treat everything as a joke.
Stoned, cynical patzers wasting their days away. And even those
who are accustomed to such behavior seem disgusted by it. It’s
no wonder everyone is so filled with self-loathing. Therefore I al-
ways make a point to disable the comments to whatever I may
upload. I am not afraid of feedback, but the feedback generated
by these means and avenues is very rarely meaningful, let alone
pertinent, because it comes to be seen as a platform through
which others aim to prove themselves and I won’t turn my world
into a stage for the ill-conceiving. I don’t visit review sites for the
same reason. I posted some of my works on a handful of music
sites back in 2017 simply as a means to spread my name around
and instantly regretted it after someone just swept through right
away giving everything a 1 star rating, disparaged my album art-
work, compared my work to a comedy band with which I have
nothing in common and I’ve never been willing to check back
since. I dread the thought of it.
I am hesitant to attempt to patch up anything with anybody at

this point. There is a part of me that worries something will go
right in my life, and that the slightest taste of sugar will make it
more difficult for me to leave. As of now, death is as easy as wak-
ing up in the morning, and I hope for it to remain so easy a tran-
sition, since it is coming for me whether I want it or not.
Sharing my experience is, after all, one of the primary means by

which I extract meaning from my experience. If I can not share it,
it was not worth it, or that is my instinctual emotional response
to such cases. Conversely, if I can work it into my story, my lega-
cy, it is regarded as necessary and valued as such.
I never really belonged to any particular community, fandom or

anything of the sort. The closest that I ever came to experienc-
ing this would be the time in which I took part in the black
metal/extreme underground metal community as Dean “Lim-
bo“ Caligiuri (2014-2016). That was a hell of a lot of fun for me
to be a part of and I wish I could get that back, but I simply don’t
have the time, finances or mindset to do so. If I wasn’t so ill and
had years to kill I would probably just decide to live as Dean, per-
petually. A full-time metalhead. It’s fun, I tell ya.
In these years I’ve never had a home. I’ve never had a place to
state what bothers or upsets me, or to ask for accommodation,
since I’ll invariably be met with the same neglectful, callous re-
sponse of “You shouldn’t even be here since you’re over eigh-
teen.” I was forced to lived out the first eighteen years of my life
as some fetus deprived of all agency, being told that I had no say
due to my infancy, and then once I finally reached that mark I
was immediately expected to understand absolutely everything
in life and have since spent the last twelve years treated as an un-
welcome guest who ought to be lucky he ain’t licking gum on the
curbside.
I am relieved knowing that it is all over and that I will never have
to offer up my trust unto another person ever again only to have
it destroy me. Trust and hope never got me anywhere. And un-
like those who are hurt and stop giving others the opportunity to
change their views and prove themselves trustworthy (not that I
would ever think to blame such individuals for their inability to
trust others), I never allowed myself to give in to the hurt and
preferred instead to follow hope (with a bit of Gambler’s Fal-
lacy in the mix). “Can’t all be tails!” And I kept at it until the
end. I wasn’t a fool. I wasn’t a doormat. I was an idealist, and I
was courageous in my acts. I continued to choose trust even af-
ter faith left me. I can’t say that it worked out for me at all. At
least I never failed to take every opportunity that presented it-
self. At least I always made myself available. At least then it can
be said that the little that I received in life was the little that I
merited. Honestly, though, I think I would die a much happier
man if I was able to stand convinced that it was by my own fault
that I knew such a fate, or that I could have worked harder or
that something on my end was blatantly wrong. Then I could die
thinking “Maybe... maybe if...” even that sounds sad, but to me
that sounds like a fantasy carnival, oh so much better than where
I am in this crypt of puzzlement.
I wish to weep and care and kiss the air. I loved life. I did. I loved
the concept of life, that is—so, so much.
I am and have always strived to be that which was absent from

my life. I am and have always strived to be that which I needed
most as a child. Understand this concept and you will under-
stand the mystic relationship between Presence and Absence. To

become everything that is missing, one becomes [...]
The following 6,000 word tangent is a disorganized bunch of

notes relating to an event from May 2019 which I have hereto-
fore declined to recount due to conflicting feelings, especially in
regards to whether or not I will appear foolish to be so affected
by something which is likely considered commonplace (and even
minor) within our modern world. Again, it’s quite disorganized
and out of order, as I’m not into dedicating any more time to it
than I absolutely must, so please excuse the mess.
The recent concert event (referring to the concert in late
April at which I had hurt my throat from excess speaking) had
really given me a rattle, and after two weeks of being unable to
breathe or speak due to the rawness of my throat I forced my-
self back out into the public and was stepping out of my comfort
zone to invite people out for dinner and other scheduled meets
ups in an effort to find local artists who might wish to get in-
volved with the project or just form a friendship. I knew this one
guy through some other people and he did a lot of collage art
and seemed more of an artistic type than most of the others I had
seen in the area, so we got to talking online and decided to meet
up one night over some sushi. Since he would be with a female
friend on the night on which we had planned to meet he asked
if he could bring her along and I welcomed it, thinking the more
the better.
While waiting on them to arrive I looked up the social media
profile of his friend and I recall being unsure as to how to in-
terpret their social media handle which... well, I don’t wish to
give anything away about their actual identity, since the purpose
of my writing is not to “get back at anybody” but to document
my experience. Their handle was essentially the equivalent of

“theimportantpoet” (although that is not what it was) which
may sound like an exaggeration all to prove a point but it’s hon-
estly not and I had to believe that it was somehow intended as
ironic or tongue-in-cheek.
When they arrived at the restaurant and we were introduced
I quickly figured out that that social media handle was not but
some tongue-in-cheek joke. The expression that they wore when
introducing themselves to me... it was a look which I can only de-
scribe as ‘aggressive insecurity’ and I have seen it before.
Our little sushi dinner, which couldn’t have lasted more than
two hours maximum, would be home to some of the most pas-
sive-aggressive communications that I have ever been a part of,
and in retrospect I am regretful that I did not stand up and walk
out. Her behavior was arrogant, aggressive, dismissive and child-
ish withal, and I would have surely left early were it not for the
guy who, despite being involved with this girl, seemed like a re-
laxed and friendly individual, like the classic artistic introvert
who clearly has a colorful inner world but keeps it mostly to him-
self.
I recall that the male had brought a book of his art to show
me. And I... I am always very enthusiastic and complementary
when being shown other’s work. It’s something I require of my-
self, knowing all too well how it feels to put myself out there
and wanting to know that someone has noticed all of the unas-
suming details without my having to point them out. I had an-
other associate release an album around this time, and as every-
one else was simply clapping their hands to the beat I tried to be
the one who acknowledged the subtler components, like the fact
that there were certain symbolic parallels and repeated phrases
appearing among his new album and his previous album. Appar-
ently it wasn’t significant, and my attempts ended up being of
little use; nonetheless, I am forever committed to making peo-

ple feel that their efforts to express themselves are seen and heard
(even if most people aren’t expressing anything more with their
so-called art than a desire to attract attention and get famous). I
would consider myself a failure and a hypocrite otherwise, failing
to speak with others in a manner that I, myself, wish to be spo-
ken to. Call it an artist’s empathy, if you will.
So I did just that, coming up with a set of thoughtful and ob-
servant questions so as to establish a rapport and to encourage
his expression. Yet in nearly every instance that I asked him a
question pertaining to his art the female at his side would cut
him off, and rudely so, asking me why I had asked him such
a question. I remember that she took issue with the fact that
I asked if a particularly subtle but interesting detail was inten-
tional or serendipitous. “Why would it not be intentional?” she
asked coldly, not allowing him to answer for himself. I explained
my thought process and how I’m an improvisational artist, but
there was no sense of resolution as she did not seem to believe
my statements to hold any weight or sincerity.
I went into that meeting with a certain gladness for the rea-
son that I was meeting artists and therefore feeling quite hopeful
that I would find people to whom I could relate. I had been
searching high and low for so long to find others with whom I
could relate, and I was happy to be in the company of those who
might share in my interests. Yet I couldn’t speak a single word
without it being challenged. All attempts to speak to the male
saw her interrupting and chiming in about my choice of words
or my pronunciation thereof and so I feel that he (the male with
whom I wished to meet in the first place) eventually went ig-
nored due to her insistence on speaking for everyone at the table.
I would have apologized to him, but that would only draw at-
tention to her behaviors and I was not sure that such a conversa-
tion would have ended well for me. All hope of an enjoyable and
friendly dinner was out the window within the first twenty min-
utes. The remaining hour or so was simply a survival game during
which I had practically lost all awareness of my environment as I
put all of my energy into processing what was going on and fight-
ing to maintain the equanimity that I had developed over many
long years in isolation.
When asked what I do, I answered that I do work as an in-
dependent psychologist, to which she responded most rudely:
“And I suppose you think you’re qualified for that.”
I wish that I would have stood up and walked out right there,
but my instinct was to stick it out in the belief that if I continued
to speak with kindness, openness and honesty then it will even-
tually register and they will adjust their behavior accordingly.
As I have stressed in times before: I am not one for compe-
tition. That may come as a surprise to anyone who automatical-
ly tends to equate industriousness with competitiveness—a silly
but common assumption. An outsider as such that I am is more
often desperate for companionship or for a sign that they are not
alone. As so, competition would be entirely counterproductive
in my situation and it is simply not the lens through which I view
the world. The thought of being able to find others of equiva-
lent or greater potency is a very warming thought to me, honest-
ly, and one look at my past would confirm that much. Then you
also have the fact that I harbor a growth mindset, and so I am
not threatened by these matters when it is my fundamental belief
that I have it within my means to become greater in all aspects if
I should so choose.
There is also the fact that I would rather leave people feeling
regretful than angry, where necessary, and for the simple reason
that anger occludes self-awareness, precluding self-reformation.
Thus I have concluded that by not retaliating, the percipient will
be met in the night with shame which will likely bring them to
analyze—and hopefully change—their behaviors; but if they be-
come angered by my response to their offense then they are high-
ly unlikely to analyze the offending behaviors, as they will pin all
fault on me, becoming further convinced that they were right to
do as they did and they are less likely to consider the situation
further or from a different angle if anger or indignation has en-
tered the mix.
As sound was my reasoning, time has revealed my naïveté
and I no longer trust the ability of others to feel guilt or shame
for their wrongdoings, for I have seen how others would sooner
rearrange the world and rewrite the encyclopedia if it means
eliminating such painful feelings from their heart.
I tripped over my words on one occasion within the first
half hour and she was quick to pounce. The word was oxytocin,
which I pronounced with a hard ‘c’ despite knowing it has a soft
c, since my first time hearing the word was at a summer camp
when our youth pastor, during a speech, confused the word with
OxyContin and that always come to mind whenever I think of
oxytocin.
She immediately acknowledged how rude she was being
(and without me having to say anything) but then continued
with the same behavior for which she was apologizing. And I
never had an ill word to say of it. In the first such instance that
she corrected me I simply smiled and said “That’s okay, I’m al-
ways up for learning something new.” That’s honestly what I said,
dorky though it sounds. All of this is confirmed by the audio
recording which I picked up on my discreet voice recorder. I felt
quite satisfied with myself and the maturity with which I han-
dled the matter, though perhaps I shouldn’t have been so well-
mannered. Again, if you have read through certain logs and doc-
uments of mine you will know that the manner in which I ap-
proach these situations is somewhat nonstandard due to the cir-

cumstances of my lifetime, and I am so preoccupied with view-
ing all such instances as a challenge of my ability that I don’t re-
ally stop and ask myself if it is right for me, since it doesn’t even
cross my mind that I have a choice, and therefore it doesn’t ready
occur to me that I might decline or walk away when I very well
should. Hell, sometimes it doesn’t even occur to me to stand my
ground. I suppose that is the outcome in cases where one has on-
ly ever known situations in which their words were of no worth
and they must find other means to save themselves For me, a con-
versation isn’t just a conversation. Nothing is as simple. Every-
thing is some stage on which to demonstrate my maturity and
discipline before some grand and unseen universal judge. In oth-
er words, I am always on my best behavior and never let me guard
down, believing it can cost me my life.
About twenty minutes later, when speaking of The Man
Who Laughs, they brought up the recently-announced Joker
movie and I made a stupid pun on the name Joaquin and the
word Joker which was completely missed and led her to correct
my pronunciation yet again, after which she rudely concluded:
“Oh, you must be one of those people who reads words without
hearing them.”
That’s when she really went overboard, going off on some
long and uncalled for spelling lesson and with the most arrogant
of attitudes.
“If you see a word that looks like this, it is actually pro-
nounced like this. And if you see a word that looks like this, it is
actually pronounced like this.” I don’t remember the exact words
she used, since she went through about five or six before shutting
up, but it was like “If you see a word that looks like col-o-nel it is
actually pronounced kernel.”
I should have walked out there, but instead I simply smiled,

nodded and said “Oh, I’m aware.” I tried to get that same sen-
timent across at multiple points, but nothing could stop the ab-
surdity from running its course. She clearly wasn’t hearing what
I was saying.
It’s not about being a pushover. It’s part of being a self-aware
and self-confident (not arrogant) individual. It was one of the
most condescending bits that I had ever heard in my life. She
seemed absolutely bent on making me feel inferior to her, or like
she was intent on outing me as a phony of some sort. I don’t get
it. It was absolutely bizarre. I had done nothing to merit such re-
sponses. I spoke kindly the entire time. It’s all I know.
As I was attempting in earnest to connect with others (as
someone who finds it hard to establish a common ground with
most people) I couldn’t say a word without it being taken as ei-
ther an argument or as some sort of braggadocio.
“Hey, are you interested in x?” I would ask, to which they
would respond indignantly like in a manner that suggests “Why
would you even ask that? What’s your angle?” It was as if she tru-
ly could not understand how bonds are formed, and that human
individuals bring up their interests in the hopes of establishing
common ground. I once even complimented her knowledge and
intelligence outright in the hopes of pacifying her glaring insecu-
rity and easing the tension and I did so without any condescen-
sion in my tone, bringing it up within the context of how good
it was to be speaking with others who seem to be of high intel-
ligence and well-learned on philosophical and artistic topics un-
known to many (such as solipsism). I hoped it would soften her
demeanor, but she immediately began asking for my IQ score.
I responded by simply saying “It doesn’t matter,” yet she asked
again. Then, after her asking again and again I told her my pre-
sumed score, and when she realized that my score was supposed-
ly higher than hers she then tried to make it like my compliment-

ing her was all some attempt to brag about my own intelligence.
It was apparently a sore topic for her, since she listed off about
three or four makes of IQ test when asking about which one I
took, and when I said “I don’t remember, I didn’t realize there
were so many,” she goes “oh” and then tries to say that I must have
taken an inferior, less-credible one to arrive at such a score.
This continued for ninety minutes: she was essentially argu-
ing with herself, yet it was directed at me while I just kept on
smiling and attempting to answer. Meanwhile, the male sat in si-
lence, popping in and out once in a while with a worthy conver-
sation point that was quickly hijacked by her and turned into a
sport.
As a self-satisfied individual it is not in my nature to snap at
such statements and insinuations, for I am confident that I must
only elaborate or continue on and that will be enough to con-
vince others of my genuineness and the fact that I am a non-
threat. Yet rarely has that worked out as anticipated, since those
who behave in such a manner are not acting on what lies before
them but on the neurosis within themselves. So what ends up
happening is I keep willingly feeding them without attempting
to lash out, to no avail, and in the end I am left feeling raped and
wounded.
“If it’s there, they will see it.” I would often remind myself of
that fact so as to diminish my worries. It speaks to my confidence
in the wholesomeness of my own intention, though I am sad to
say that all that ever ends up happening is that I wind up giving
more and more of myself to people who were never as interested
in communicating as they were in belittling and denigrating me.
And just so we are clear: no, this is not a common accusation.
In fact, no one has ever made these accusations of me before. It is
more common for others to express surprise at my humility and
my tendency to understate my work—and by that I don’t mean

to imply that they are actually saying “Wow, you’re so humble!”
but that people are generally surprised to discover my body of
work in consideration of the fact that I rarely speak of it or pur-
posely underplay its worth (which, if I’m being honest, is part-
ly due to my insecurities resulting from past reactions and not
wanting to draw too much attention to the actual nature of my
work). There is also the fact that I tend to handle my creations
more like an excited fanboy than as a pompous artist.
Contrary to what you find in competitive individuals, I am
very complimentary and affirming and make an effort to show
more interest in speaking about others than about myself (all of
which may sound odd given what is known of me and my con-
siderably self-centered existence), believing that my nature is suf-
ficiently portrayed in the curiosity that I express, the questions
that I ask and the agreeability with which I handle their answers.
I tend to offer out lots of compliments regardless of how I ac-
tually feel simply because I know the worth of expressing interest
and compliments as someone who has lacked such validation. It
is also seen as a way to potentially win their support of mine own
work, if I’m being transparent, but so far that has never actually
worked out for me and in the end up I am left with with a crate
full of garbage pedaled by those who can’t so much as look at my
website (haha, that sounds so petty, but you know...).
I am hesitant to admit all of this since I don’t want people
to suddenly believe that all of the compliments I handed out to
them were empty. That’s not the case. It’s not that I am lying,
but that I am searching for something to compliment. I would
always go up to the stage after a performance and compliment
the performer on their performance and usually try to tell them
specific songs and even melodies/movements which stood out to
me. My whole stint in the VAMA was built upon such affirming
behaviors and... you can see how it could create an ethico-philo-

sophical conflict within me over time, especially with respect to
my own insecurities.
At one point during the night she began talking about her
poetry. When I asked where I could preview it, she stared off
into space and began to recite a dramatic monologue. It felt like
something out of Seinfeld, but without the laugh track. There
was nothing wrong with the poem, though her attitude was a
bit strange. Of course I complimented her, calling it wonderful,
even though I would have done so regardless because, as I have
said in times before, I find it most important to encourage and
uplift in these situations, and I do not use the works of others as
a springboard from which to prove myself or establish my ego.
It’s why I won’t touch review sites with a ten-foot pole. The very
concept sickens me, knowing the sort of attitudes and neuroses
it calls forth. If I’m being honest, I actually find the whole genre
of poetry to be inherently pretentious, at least in the modern
age, although I won’t try to assert my opinion as being based
on anything objective. I simply feel that one must be somewhat
pompous to think that they can accomplish with a dozen lines
what others spend entire books trying to achieve. I don’t contest
the notion that there is good poetry out there, but I can’t imag-
ine being able to sit back and say “This pair of rhyming verses
is enough to make me feel like an author (and a genius... and a
god... and whatever else you get from so many self-styled poets).
Anyway, that's just an unpopular opinion of mine. I am simply
leery of anyone who classifies themselves as a poet or a philoso-
pher due to the inherent confidence required for such assertions.
Let it be know that I have never stated as much publicly and
would never allow it to affect my behavior toward those who
style themselves in that way, as I do not see it as my right, and
I am much more interested in keeping my ears open for some-
thing that might change my way of thinking than trying to assert

my way of thinking on others (especially where it is pointless and
even liable to appear as hostile).
Whenever I would show off my projects she was always pre-
occupied with whether I had the right to use the images or text
that I was using (the Rictus stuff was largely inspired by The Man
Who Laughs and I was utilizing some public domain images on
my erstwhile website). Again, it’s like she was bent on exposing
me or otherwise uncovering something vile, or that’s how she was
behaving, and it made absolutely no sense to me. To clarify: she
only knew me as the owner of this up-and-coming art hub and
knew not of my history as an artist and musician, so it’s diffi-
cult to say who she actually thought I was, but there is nothing
that can be said to justify such actions. Whether was I a verita-
ble artist or a hack businessman, this is fucking Risperdal territo-
ry I was being forced to put up with, and I am so, so glad that I
made no mention of my Tendon Levey project or anything that
was actually dear to my heart, since I wouldn’t have been so kind
if forced to sit and watch someone breaking down my life’s pas-
sion only to feel superior.
I recall they had ordered sake with their meal, and when
I declined to get any for myself (after noting how delicious it
was) it came out that I was previously dependent on alcohol for
some years. Her immediate reaction appeared to show sensitiv-
ity to my situation, or what she presumed of it, wondering if it
was wrong of them to drink around me, especially when sake
was among my noted favorites. I giggled to myself and said that
it was no issue and they may drink as they please since there
is no pain or temptation. And it was true, I was fine with it. I
have never been tempted to drink again for this simple reason:
I never allowed myself to believe that there was an option. On-
ly when something seems as an option does there exist the po-
tential for temptation, since all temptation develops in the bor-

derlands of decision via repeated oscillation. But she didn’t seem
to take that as an answer and continued to question the verity
of my claims to overcoming my dependency, as if my self-estima-
tion was askew. I didn’t mind explaining myself, so every ques-
tion was answered honestly.
“You must have transferred the addiction to something else,
at least.”
“Showers,” I laughed, admitting how I had been in the habit
of taking numerous long hot showers since getting sober as a
means to provide that chemical release.
No matter my compliance and willingness to explain myself,
she never seemed to trust that I meant what I said.
I would also say that I was softened by the quality of the
questions being asked. They were good or decent questions of
the sort that I don’t receive often (although I guess I’m just not
used to people asking questions in general, so anything seems
like a lot). I recall a lengthy conversation on how a person’s
lifestyle affects one’s appreciation of their work, and I enjoyed
that premise. Perhaps it isn’t terribly profound, but I never knew
anyone else willing to speak on such topics. Everyone else was
more interested in what they were eating for lunch, and me...
I was starved for something more. But, you see, when I would
answer her questions with a sincere and vulnerating response it
would be disrespected or otherwise ignored outright, again and
again, and it took me a while to recognize the pattern and stop
handing away my personal heart only to have it shredded for
sport. It was like she was just reading off a list of interview ques-
tions. And that’s exactly what all of this felt like: a job interview.
The closest thing to a kind remark that I received throughout
the night was her saying that I had the physical presence of Ezra
Pound, and though I don’t really know who that is, a quick on-
line image search at least reveals him to be a handsome individ-

ual and I don’t see why I should mind that, haha.
Until this point I had maintained a “regret nothing; every
event is a growth experience” mentality, but this changed all of
that. I laid in my bed that night, still shaking, and I just thought
to myself “I really, really wish I hadn’t gone through with that.”
And that sort of opened the floodgates, and I started thinking
back on my year as a whole, and I regretted it all. I regretted it
all.
I had finally begun to regain my confidence after the troubles
caused in the previous year which absolutely shattered my
morale and had me operating in this numb, zombified, ‘gun to
the head’ style of communication (Rictus Major in a nutshell)
from there on out since I couldn’t believe anything anyone was
saying after the bullshit that the bartender pulled on me and I
was keeping an emotional distance. The warmth was finally be-
ginning to reenter my bloodstream and I was beginning to be-
have more openly.
It’s so difficult when the pragmatic psychologist in me would
typically be saying that if you’re routinely bringing out the worst
in the people around you then perhaps that is a sign to look in
the mirror, so to speak, and stop passing the buck off on to every-
one and everything apart from you, but in the end it cannot be
denied that some people are simply unlucky. I mean, everyone
has their share of shitty encounters, so why should it seem so un-
fathomable that some of us don’t meet anything apart from shit-
ty people? It’s essentially gambler’s fallacy.
I eagerly try to avoid typism, although I am honestly yet to
meet a Ti-dominant personality that I didn’t absolutely abhor. I
can pick them out of a crowd from afar. It’s so easy, after all. It’s
like they’re disliked by everyone around them, as well as not ac-
tually being known for offering anything of a practical merit to
the world, and yet they still get off acting like the captain of the
football team. This is not meant to speak for all Ti-dominants,
surely, though it is a pattern I have observed in my own life and
I adamantly prefer the company of others operating on the Fi-Te
axis (despite having developed my own Ti and Fe over the years).
And the reason for that confidence is often ridiculous. I truly
can’t stand to be around those who think they’ve won life be-
cause they can rhyme a couple words. It is absolutely preposter-
ous. You see, I acknowledge my own intelligence and creativ-
ity and I see no point in denying my ability so as to appease
some inane standard of propriety, but I am so far past the point
of thinking that my talent makes me exempt from the tides of
life (as my health and circumstances have plainly demonstrated).
Humility doesn’t mean denying my worth, but it means ac-
knowledging that all food looks the same when swallowed. And
these types of situations really just make me so grateful that I had
my ass kicked so hard in life and didn’t end up so full of myself.
I was definitely at risk for such a mindset in my youth, so it’s
not like I don’t have it in me. My autodidactic approach has al-
ways kept me somewhat grounded in that I am so aware of my
ignorance, but sometimes that wasn’t enough to keep me hum-
ble, and health made the first boot mark in 2009 which real-
ly knocked me back. 2017 came like another huge boot to the
face, and while I remain confident in myself and my work, I have
adapted my behavior to the realization that others do not share
in my self-perceptions. Many people go the other way, and in-
stead of adapting to the realization of their insignificance, at-
tempt to compensate, and that’s one way that you end up with
all of these crazy fucking Spotify and last.fm bios that make it
out to sound like they’re saving the world with their four-chord
song. That isn’t to shoot down the balloon of those who aim big
with their creative works. It’s good to aspire toward great things.
I myself have aspired to touch the hearts of modern disconsolate

individuals with my music and my efforts. Yet there is a bit of a
difference between aiming to change the world and perpetuating
the narrative that you already have (and then expecting people
to be impressed with this fantasy that is clearly not reflected in
reality). You know the ones I am talking about: their band bios
often start by waxing philosophic, where they start by providing
the definition of time, or change, or the universe, or some other
abstract concept, and somehow this ends up tying into their ac-
complishments.
“What is time? Time is inescapable, and all will eventually
fade away. Such and such performer understands this. This is
why they create music that is uniquely timeless and embraces xys-
baowmeoanejwpakspejtrneiwjwo.” Hahahaha. That’s just a paro-
dy and not an actual bio, but it sure does sound like the sort that
I am speaking about. These people either do not know or do not
care about the fact that this never makes anyone look good. And
their lack of awareness shines a light on the root cause of such
behaviors. This is how you can tell how, despite my disappoint-
ment, I still have sturdy self-confidence, since though I may weep
in the night for my shattered expectations, I feel no need to com-
pensate or lash out or any such measure since ultimately I have
nothing to prove.
It wasn’t as simple as saying “That person is an asshole and
now I know to avoid them.” You know what assholes do, don’t
you? They shit all over the place. And these are the people who,
once I’m gone, are going to be saying that they knew me, and
nothing that they have to say will reflect the man that I was, since
they were never seeing through their own biases and projec-
tions to begin with. I ain’t typing all of this out in some childish
vengeance. I am merely defending thirty years of honest work,
which I will not allow to be tarnished by narcissists and inatten-

tive goons.
As I have already noted, I took no issue with the male. It is
solely because of him that I did not get up and leave during the
meal, since he seemed like a kind, if quiet individual. Be that as
it may, that dynamic made the situation all the more uncomfort-
able, since it resembled the dynamic of my quiet sister and the
narcissist who she allows to speak for her. Still, I had never had
a bad word to say to him and when he contacted me later saying
that it was nice to meet and speak with me, I responded with a
way to suggest that I would be interested in doing it again some-
time even though I didn’t mean it and only wanted to throw off
any suspicion that I was upset.
Suffice it to say that I never sought to continue communica-
tions beyond that point. Why would I, even if I wanted to, since
his impression of me was surely colored by the skewed opinions
of his associate. And to realize that... to realize how that works...
to realize how insecurity and insanity spread like a virus from
one person to the next when proliferated with enough zeal... it
completely did away with all willingness to continue this game
of hope and told me that I would never get the resolution that
I was after. It was amazing to think that this person would al-
ways dislike me and whatever I did and whatever I created and
that it would all be based on nothing that I am. They couldn’t see
through their own biases to the one who sat before them. It was
such a weird thought to contemplate and it really disturbed my
world.
I was overall very satisfied with how I carried myself, espe-
cially after all that I had been through in the previous year. I
had finally built up my confidence to the point where I was able
to speak freely and not let anxiety taint my behavior. I was on
a high, knowing that I was now in a position to be looked up-
on as something more than some desperate recluse, appearing to

these people only as some ambitious artrepreneur actually having
something to offer, or something which was desirable on a larger
scale.
It wasn’t until she left the room to use the restroom that I no-
ticed I was shaking. I must have been shaking with anxiety for at
least half of the interaction. The tension was so great by the end
of the night that I couldn’t control my physical response, though
I don’t expect that it was visible to them. It was terrible. When I
returned home I wasted no time before going to bed, yet the ten-
sion was not alleviated by sleep and when I awoke in the morn-
ing I found that I was still shaking. This lasted for another day
or two. There was nothing I could do to becalm my nerves and
I simply had to ride it out until my mind adjusted to what I had
experienced. It still upsets me from time to time when thinking
about it, since it was just so uncalled for. I was hurt by what had
happened. It was more than an isolated incident. It was part of a
sequence of events that would end up sealing my fate.
I find it difficult to speak openly about this experience
knowing that it is unlikely to be seen as a big deal. However, this
simple meeting, which others might brush off as being insignifi-
cant and not worth analyzing, managed to pierce my armor, and
it would be the last time that I would speak to anyone, for I went
silent thereafter and have remained mute ever since.
After months of telling myself that I’ve nothing to lose while
attempting to stifle judgments, the dam finally burst and I filled
with regret, shame and anger. It was time I acknowledged that I
had nothing more to hope for.
It was in the wake of this experience that I opted to change
my approach, being that I was no longer expecting to find friend-
ship yet didn’t want that to affect my ability to lead a healthy life
among the worldsphere (although that only lasted for a month

and a half before I scrapped my efforts to interact altogether).
I went for a long time not knowing if I should say anything
about the event while feeling it would be wrong to exclude it
from my thorough accounts when it did have a hand in shaping
my route. Notwithstanding my tendency to divulge a lot of in-
formation about the people in my life, I do not enjoy speaking
ill of others; in fact, it not only brings up traumatic or otherwise
upsetting situations that I would rather not be forced to remem-
ber, sometime leading to days, if not weeks of anxiety, but al-
so leaves me to worry that these individuals, especially the more
narcissistic and sociopathic individuals, will take it as a personal
attack and employ underhanded tactics in an attempt to reduce
the blow of what I have to say via some type of defamatory
means; and I am especially hesitant in instances of this sort in
which the individual or individuals in question were not actually
a friend but an acquaintance and therefore I feel unfair to be
bringing them into my mythos, as it were, when they really didn’t
know who I was or what they were signing up for by opening
up to me; but if an individual was okay with being so hostile to-
ward me then I do feel differently, and it helps to stress the im-
portance of always being kind in each situation and to all who
you meet in life because you simply don’t know where the other
party is coming from. This has always been extremely important
to me—especially since the concert experience in 2008. And un-
til the very end of my life, I have never been deliberately rude or
mean to anyone. That isn’t to say that there aren’t people who
wouldn’t be annoyed by me or my actions, but that would usu-
ally be caused by a disagreement rather than anything related to
my attitude. I don’t think I’ve ever really displayed my temper in
any situation that I can recall. I’ve never said anything with the
intent to hurt someone, or insult someone. These might end up
as byproducts of something I’ve said, but I’ve never really har-

bored hostile intent. And I’m not saying that it’s because I’m this
saintly guy, although in addition to actively trying to be an up-
standing individual, which has been the case in the last decade,
I think it also has a lot to do with how I was raised in the sense
that I have always been in the position of the beggar and I nev-
er had the means to talk back to those oppressed me. Disagree-
ability isn’t really possible of the vulnerable and needing, and as
much as I loathe to include myself among that camp of individu-
als, I won’t deny having found myself in a horrible position in life
due to my physical incapacity. Oh, and let’s not overlook the fact
that, due to my social isolation, I also haven’t really even been put
in the position to be a jerk quite as often as the standard indi-
vidual (although that shouldn’t undermine my record, of which
I am proud).
I hate to say that something so arguably insignificant could
have a hand in altering my course, but after years of eagerly at-
tempting to connect with others, this would mark my final at-
tempt before kicking off my boots. All along I kept telling my-
self “Ah, these people simply cannot relate. And that’s okay—not
everyone can be expected to relate to what I have to say. I just
haven’t found my people yet,” and I pacified myself with these
reminders that I had yet to come upon the right audience; al-
though here I was interacting with those who, by all means,
seemed capable of understanding and relating to my ideas, but
there was so much neurosis, insecurity and competitiveness in
the picture that it totally quashed all hope of ever finding any-
thing more.
I carried on thinking I had nothing left to lose—but god-
damn! This notion has gotten me into more trouble than I can
bear to recount. Every effort to step out of my comfort zone, ‘put
myself out there’ and meet new people was only increasing the
likelihood of gossip and all I was doing was filling the world with
more false interpretations of my person that had nothing what-
soever to do with me. So I quit, and I do not regret it. I wish I
would have done so sooner—say, before the nightmare that was
2018. Of course I did end up learning a lot of valuable lessons in
that year and I don’t doubt their necessity to my mystical jour-
ney, but goddamn...!
Anyway, that’s that. This is my first time speaking about it
publicly. Ever since that day I have found it difficult to look at
people with blue eyes, although it may be more specific than
that, since I don’t think that all blue eyes trigger such a reaction. I
don’t even know if the girl in question had blue eyes. I just end up
getting this knee jerk response to them that makes me uncom-
fortable.
I don’t think it would occur to people that most people aren’t

leaving themselves open to acts of kindness. It’s not something
like a tremor that just hits you regardless. You have to be open
to it. There is paranoia, distrust, cynicism, pride and all sorts of
other barriers preventing kindness between strangers and it is so
goddamn sad to see.
There is this tendency to assume that all visionariness will be vin-

dicated in time and that even in the case where one is not allot-
ted any attention in their lifetime that they will surface eventu-
ally. It’s a pretty thought, though it’s just not true. There is no
given. And even a couple of years ago I never anticipated that
I could be forgotten by time, yet it’s begun to seem increasing-
ly likely that my work is only destined for the landfill. It’s like
when people dedicate their bodies to science, hoping that their
work will contribute to the advancement of human understand-
ing, and then the labs sell your body for target practice...
My works I dedicate to all who spend their lives screaming for

aid and for love and receive no such aid and love. And then sure-
ly the people will pacify themselves when anything happens to
you... calling you difficult, tragic or whatever other trope they
want to apply to lessen their ever lessening sense of responsibility
to those around them. All of those who get written off as self-de-
structive and ‘toxic’ not for anything that they’ve done but be-
cause of what was done to them and no amount of desperate at-
tempts to pull yourself out of that manhole can change the fact
that you’ve been marked in the eyes of a world that rejects reality
itself as an inconvenience. May my work seem to you as a cathar-
tic treasure trove... that is my hope.
After all that I have said, I don’t think that the masses of society
will get an accurate sense of of my daily living circumstances. I
don’t think they’ll realize just how much my life differed from
the established standard of humanity and human comfort. I
don’t think it possible for one to fathom how, for me, going out
to a restaurant and eating with a friend or acquaintance bears
much the same ecstasy and surreality that one will usually experi-
ence only on special occasions, like winning a lottery or vacation-
ing on a fantasy island or something of that magnitude. I can’t
even remember the taste of chocolate or the glare of sunlight on
my face. These words are my surroundings. This song is my land-
scape. Nowhere else will allow me.
In my final years of life I’ve really been examining different be-

haviors in society, like the distinction(s) between how people
treat their friends and how they treat strangers, or what it takes
for individuals to think of you as a friend (like a lot of people
think it’s simply time, which is weird for me... this impersonal se-
niority which determines the extent of their willingness to come
to your side or listen to what you have to say). I’ve just been pay-
ing attention to a lot of this as an outsider trying so eagerly to
find footing. It’s so odd. I want so badly to contribute and up-
lift... but the others have oh so many criteria for the type of peo-
ple they’ll even accept a compliment from. There are so many lay-
ers separating one heart from another. This is simply not right.
And yet they look at me as if I am the paranoid and cynical one.
I can easily speak to others as if I’ve always known them. In fact,
I am totally fine if people behave in such a manner when inter-
acting with me. However, a lot of people would have a problem
with that. In some cases it seems to be an ego thing. In other cas-
es they’re so beholden to social formality and propriety and any

instance of breaking that pattern signifies a threat to them, and
for most a pattern is security—a way to distinguish insiders from
outsiders. If someone came up to me and just started talking to
me like they were already my friend I would find that perfectly
alright insofar as that didn’t entail any sort of disrespect or abuse.
After having spent years putting all of my inner feelings and ex-
periences online, it’s clear that the details of my person are public
knowledge. Still I think a lot of people feel like they have to be
formal with me and can’t ask deep or dark questions... but I don’t
see why that’s an issue. If it was such an issue that I didn’t wish to
speak about I wouldn’t have shared it publicly. But I guess most
people just don’t think so-called “weighty” and “dark” experi-
ences or topics are things that should be talked about outside of a
therapist's office if at all. And that’s why therapists exist to begin
with... due to the failure of family and friends to really commu-
nicate. It’s weird knowing I will be looked at as some social out-
sider and misfit and alien to some degree and people will think
me sad because I lacked relationships in comparison to the cor-
rupted and cynical and broken people of society. And a lot of
my “inability” to make connections is not a failure on my part
but because I acknowledged this corruption and wouldn’t stand
for it, preferring to keep my ideals and live alone than to sur-
render them just to experience these opportunistic relationships.
And when I say ideals I do not mean fantasies and pipe dreams
like some will like to think. I refer only to a very natural way of
seeing relationships. Like the way a child sees them before being
corrupted by the schooling system. A child who doesn’t feel it
should be necessary to hide themselves and wear masks. A child
who trusts and loves openly. A child who sees every day as a rea-
son to give gifts. This may be deemed unlike the cold reality be-
fore us all, but to say that it is unrealistic is a disservice to us all.
Actions don’t stack with people. It seems like they used to

but something has ceased. This might be the result of a perceived
increase in options due to the internet, just like how it changed
the dating game and the music industry to have access to all
things. And that perceived increase in options has a negative ef-
fect on the level of investment seen in the majority, so we’re cast-
ing our nets wider rather than deeper, as that is what the corpo-
rations have encouraged us to do.
Need is in many ways the mode of communication between Ex-

istence and Essence, tying into the Volens. Existence and Essence
share needs, which encompasses the likes of our dearths and suf-
fering. I draw from this idea amid governailia meditations, in
which I allow myself to explore and experience my mental suffer-
ing—not in a way that puts me in harm; I’m very well-adapted
at this point when it comes to working with suffering and psy-
chache. It’s like any old artistic medium to me, like clay or paint,
and I just make these vibrant images and explore what causes
me to weep, and there’s something about that, about suffering
combined with Intension, that just feels like a conversation, as it
were.
I’m quite fine with the fact that I never traveled the world, and
I am fine with having taken in so little of this sphere’s offerings,
though I do not know how to process the fact that I never dis-
played my anger and destructive capabilities unto this society. It
sounds like such a sick thing to be voicing, but the mind is more
complex than ‘well and unwell’, ‘right and wrong’. It likely has to
do with my constantly feeling the need to substantiate myself,
my emotions and my experiences, and it cannot be denied that
destruction is surely a powerful substantiating force. “Will the

world understand my anger otherwise?” “Am I misrepresenting
myself ?” It’s not a primitive itch, in my case—at least not in the
sense of it being but a brutish lust for violence. I see it more as
a question of integrity, and it has taken so much resolve on my
part to silence the thought. I feel the overwhelming need to ex-
press my disapproval and in the most blatant of ways.
I am at a point where I would deeply hate to die by natural causes

or by any means apart from suicide. Only suicide seems appro-
priate on the symbolic level, and this conclusion makes it all the
more difficult to carry on.
The greatest joys, nuances and conversations are allowed only of

those willing to look beyond the false dichotomies put forward
by society. I won’t sit here and state that there is no ‘right’ or
‘wrong’, but when we stop assuming that we know how to define
such watery concepts it opens us up to something truly grand
and vast. It fills me with great sadness to know that there are too
many conversations that won’t be had, and it’s only due to our
fearful and arrogant complacency as individuals.
My parents never once apologized to my sibling and I for all of

the quarrels and outbursts that took place in our presence. The
masses are so goddamn naïve as to think that it’s enough for us to
be told that “these things happen”—as if that is all that it takes to
prevent negative responses, but such events alter our perceptions
of who they are, not only through what they say but what is said
about them.
Note that when I refer to ecstasy within the context of my prac-

tice I am not referring to some vulgar excitement or mindless
joy as demonstrated by your standard club-going binky biter, but
to a state of being wholly and utterly overwhelmed. It is like an
overload of my spiritual inputs, which brings me at once unto a
point of desperateness and fulfillment. It is herein that I live my
life: in this state of being, wherein Intension forms naturally like
honey from my labors, from my indulgences.
As a child, I would often shop at a pharmacy store in New Jersey

which appeared not so unlike your standard CVS, if a bit bigger.
I do not recall its name, although I do recall there being an R
at the end, and that the R had an X dangling from it, which is
how we knew it was an RX store. The most notable aspect of
this store—at least to my child brain—was the huge damn goril-
la doll in the corner of the building, close to the ceiling, which
could be seen from most places within the store. It was intense
to a child: a giant ceiling gorilla. It was huge. Man, I think of it
sometimes, still. It just had such a presence. It felt like an addi-
tion to a dream.
There was this store in the New Jersey mall, probably Echelon
(although it could have been Deptford, but I don’t think so).
It was like a children's store, and its name reflected that. It was
like ‘the kid’s place’ or something similar, I think. In the display
window was this circular hole in which you could sit. It was the
funnest thing: a simple, round opening in the window. And I
always wanted to sit in it and stare at the passersby. That same
store also had a sort of play place with stairs. Oh, the days of sim-
ple pleasures. I loved it. I still do. “Whoa! That floor is a strange
color!” or “Wow, you can crawl underneath that!” amounted to
endless fun and satisfaction—the impressions of which have nev-
er left me.
Malls were a big part of growing up in New Jersey, so I am, by
nature, very keen on malls. My memory from that time is still so
vivid and welcoming. I went with my mother, sister and grand-
mother to the mall on a weekly basis throughout my childhood
while the men were off at work and we would pick up some mall
pretzels as we strolled about. There was KB Toys, which had that
circular table out front on which they would set up all their hot
electronic toys that would be jumping and barking and endless-
ly entertaining. There was Electronics Boutique, where we would
browse the video games. Boscov’s had a great toy selection as
well. And then when Pokémon came on the scene it was like the
shofar had sounded and Heaven came early. I would trade twen-
ty years of my life to revisit that reality for only five minutes.
As a young child I had a yellow water pail with a red lid in which
I was always catching caterpillars out in my yard. I recall my first
caterpillar very well. Its name was George. I was five years old.
I enjoyed my sandbox and the play-set built over it, with a slide
and such. I don’t recall it being depicted in any of my old home
movies, though, so I’m not sure that my readers can picture it.
My father was a carpenter for much of his life until switching
over to installing telephones, communications and security sys-
tems, so he was always doing projects and building cool sets and
additions throughout the house and yard. It’s why my bedroom
had such a cool layout, with that curved closet space, the shelves
and the weird elevated bed with a ladder. There was also a door
inside the closet that led to my sister's room. I don’t know why
that was even allowed. It locked and whatnot, but it was always
leading to fighting and teasing during our punishments (speak-
ing of instances in which we were confined to our rooms).
There came a point during the spring and summer of 2018 in

which my situation had become so dire that I was seriously con-
sidering taking a signboard and sitting outside of the Sheetz on
Wards (a gas station) with an S.O.S. of some sort. After all, I
couldn’t speak, and I could not extricate myself from the abusive
home environment which was literally destroying my body and
mind. On top of that, I had no friends or family who I could call
for help. My only options seemed to be to end my life or to re-
duce myself to begging for my life with a cardboard sign. Home-
lessness would not have been a viable option due to my physical
condition or else I would have considered it, ending up as some
filthy, romantic train-hopper. This was shortly before going back
to my childhood church. I have no idea what would have come
of it, and I sure didn’t like the thought of putting myself in such
a vulnerable position, yet I feel like it would have forced me on-
to a new path at least. To think that one’s life can reach such a
point, especially when one has done all they can to pull them-
selves out of their hell, their ailments... I don’t think that peo-
ple readily recognize the role of family and friends in preventing
them from reaching such a lowly state of existence. Thank God
for the church and all of the people therein who are willing and
eager to take advantage of those in need.
It is frequently assumed that fear equates in all cases to a quaking

and nervous demeanor: teeth chattering and panic attacks and
whatnot. My father strongly denies that he is fearful. Most will,

as they do not consider that they have reoriented their whole
existence so that they do not have to come in contact with the
source of their fear. That is the fear of which I speak: a self-lim-
iting existence which seeks to avoid encounters with that which
we fear most.
When others speak of anxiety and depression we consider what

that means on the psychological level: the unwillingness to do
something, or the trepidation associated with certain events and
activities. For me... it’s termites... filling my body at all times...
and I wouldn’t instinctively associate it with anxiety. It is self-
cannibalization. I feel my termites killing me at all times, eating
me alive, over the agony of being abandoned and betrayed by
everyone who I have ever known.
Things haven’t really changed for me since childhood: I labor

intensely over my work, and if I should ever opt to show it off,
it is taken from me. I have to keep it safe. It’s difficult for me
to imagine how some people actually receive claps, compliments
and fame. I have worked nonstop for thirty years and my effort
has only ever worked against me. Yet still I work.
I have been sleeping to generated white noise since 2010 and

find it difficult to sleep without it. At first I was not even aware
that this was a common practice, creating my own files via my au-
dio software, and I employed it not for the noise in itself but be-
cause it blocked out other environmental sounds (barking dogs
and footsteps) and created a pattern, a groove, which would ul-
timately lull me into a state of sleep. Sometimes I would add

a clip of music to the white noise, in which case it is usually
drenched in reverb so as to form a quiet and entrancing under-
current (often done in the hopes of influencing the nature of my
dreams toward taking a pleasant and romantic tone). In 2010
and 2011 I sometimes used a loop of “Lethean Liqueur” and
from 2013-2015 I used a section from a Filmi song called “Dhik
Ta Na Na” which has been slowed down and mixed with lots
of reverb under the white noise. I actually went without it in
2016 while living in Connecticut and Texas, although I was of-
ten sleeping with my headphones on at that time (and I am talk-
ing actual studio headphones, not earbuds) with music playing
so as to drown out the sound of workers outside my window and
other environalia.
In my final years of life I was much too overwhelmed by trauma,

invalidation and physical incapacitation that I couldn’t seem to
accomplish anything unless that I could center my legacy around
these teeth that have consumed me. Unable to crawl out of Hell,
I essentially had to set up my kingdom in this spot where I lay,
saying “If my fate is to bleed then I will spill upon pages.”
A series of recurrent visions plagued me in my youth and... I’m

not sure when it all stopped. I would say I was experiencing this
dream prior to the age of two, although I have no way of verify-
ing the exact timeframe. As the scene begins I look around, see-
ing a small room with minimalistic decor. I appear to be resting,
lying on my back, but I can not see myself. I can not lift my head,
and so it is difficult to look around. I can make out the edge of
a bed, and I can see that there is a lightly-colored blanket over
my feet, but such is the extent of my perceptions. There exists

a door not ten feet beyond the foot of the bed. It is closed, for
now. There are no others in the room. I can hear activity beyond
the door: speaking, clanking, a cough or two here and there. I
sometimes look up at the wall to the right of where I lay, and it
is mostly bare. The wall is painted a solid pastel color, but it is
not colorful. It is a tan color. There hangs only a single picture
upon the wall (within my sight, that is) and it is indiscernible if
not for obvious natural/floral elements. There is something be-
side my bed but it is not well within my periphery and I can only
make out the fact that something is there. I believe it to be a table
or cart of some sort, possibly with a computer. I spend most of
this ‘vision’ staring fixedly at a door, feeling as if I am awaiting the
arrival of a lover or a friend (or hoping so), yet no one enters. The
odor associated with this scene is sterile and somewhat resembles
cosmetic powders. It is obvious to me that I am in a medical en-
vironment; and I can hear myself thinking in response “That...
that’s where I died.” This is the thought that entered my mind in
every instance that I experienced this vision. It was not a rational
deduction. It was an instinctive reaction. I had this dream dozens
of times between infanthood and... around age fifteen or sixteen,
when it all suddenly ceased. This has contributed to my fear of
hospitals. I fear finding myself in that place.
Others need to understand that the concepts of Inspiration and

even the greater paradigms associated with Existence itself do
not represent knowledge, as in information, but rather an in-
sightful and objective state of awareness. Therefore, one who en-
ters into the greater paradigms is not suddenly knowledgeable on
every little dip and dot of our encyclopedias like some big mega
brain, but is more so capable of assessing each situation accurate-
ly and with wisdom and insights not hampered by subjectivity

or other discrepancies. Again, Existence itself is not associated
with our human concept of omniscience, so why would one who
enters into the greater paradigms be somehow omniscient? One
should thus view it more as it relates to our concepts of clarity
and wisdom and full possession of insight (as well as empathy
and objectivity).
They are so out of touch with their own will that they can only
seem to substantiate their selfness by defying the cries and re-
quests of others.
There was once a time when unwanted, traumatic flashbacks on-

ly occurred sporadically. I can’t even remember what it’s like to
go a whole eight minutes without them. Every time I forced my-
self to interact with others and walk among society, I did so un-
der the misguided belief that I had nothing more to lose. That
was wrong. In any case that this can be said, it will always be
wrong. There is always more to lose, until our minds are so far
gone that it can no longer formulate such a false fucking affirma-
tion.
Often, when boiling vegetables, the pot ends up boiling over. I

have no issue with taking responsibility for my actions, yet be-
cause I did not intend for it to happen, or because I have failed to
understand its cause, I often feel a lack of responsibility and will
sometimes even leave without wiping up my mess. It ultimately
has to do with some combination of my intentions and expecta-
tions and only applies to physical, tangible reality and not to the
realm of values, emotions and ideas. Surely I understand that it

is my duty to clean up any mess that I have made. I am simply
intrigued by this cognitive disconnect—this idea that I do not
experience an innate sense of responsibility for physical occur-
rences for which I did not intend. If I make someone cry I’ll be
at their side in a moment, doing what I can to remedy the sit-
uation regardless of fault or intentions, but if I trip over a dis-
play stand I’ll just be like “Dammit... that came out of nowhere.
Wasn’t expecting that...” and when I was younger I would have
either walked off or found a way to exculpate myself, hah. I’m far
better at handling all of that nowadays, though my cognitive in-
stinct has hardly changed over time.
Jeiezza isn’t entirely fond of the messes I make. In times of
high psychical and intellectual focus I will lose sight of physical
reality altogether: I’m talking banana peels and eggshells all over
my floor, sometimes for weeks, to where my room reeks of com-
post. And I respond to her frustration with:
“It’s not like I want it this way.”
“But you’re the one allowing it to happen.”
And then I will just stare blankly at her as if I don’t under-
stand what she is getting at.
Each morning and night I check my work against a document to

determine the degree of satisfaction I feel with my work within
a given day. I would say that I end up meeting my quota nearly
100% of the time. What’s funny is my point system, which re-
ally has a lot to say about my nature. It will be like “Make two
dozen brilliant discoveries and achievements, each one worth 1
point... or... if I contact customer service, which I’ve been putting
off for forty days despite the fact that the refund window is al-
most closed... that will count as twenty points and satisfy to-
day’s quota on its own...” both worth the same satisfaction, some-
how. Hilariously, the latter is still more difficult for me; to inter-
rupt my brain flow and to clean a room or write an email... that
I’ve delayed for weeks... and each morning and night it GNAWS
at me...! Hangs like a cumulonimbus above my life... but that’s
not enough to stop my mental-detective-inventor-mystic-trance.
And it takes all of eight minutes. Every four hours I have to make
a smoothie—you know, to sustain myself and stave off starva-
tion—and Mora has drawn my attention to the fact that I let out
a loud disgruntled sigh every time I go to mix the ingredients,
which takes about three or four minutes out of my schedule. I al-
so usually have to take short intercessions along the way. I wash
the container, then I have to sit down and be irritable, then I get
up and juice the fruits, then I have to sit down and stare, then I
concede to drinking.
Benthos analyzes my history of social interactions through the

lens of solipsistic and idealistic thinking. More specifically, it at-
tempts to understand my misfortune and betrayal through these
means: “If reality is all a projection of my individual conscious-
ness, then what do these negative experiences have to say about
me?” If nothing else, it is a very unique exercise. Even though I
no longer subscribe to strict solipsistic thinking, I do think that
it works in line with the concept of the Volens as well.
I would rather stand alone than with those who do not seek un-
derstanding.
Trauma and suffering notwithstanding, this is not something

that I attribute to mine own mind—as hereinbefore stated. My
mind is reacting in awareness of circumstance and I see no cause
to condemn it for reacting as it should to conditions as so. There
are limits to what can be excused in this way, but I feel that I am
within my rights to draw the line where I do. Ultimately, I would
rather be with awareness and suffering than ignorant comfort,
so you won’t hear me complaining about discomfort outside of
these objective, diarial records. It sounds like some empty affec-
tation, but there are some of us who truly mean it, and I am
among them who have made of myself a legitimate sacrifice unto
the search for worth.
I escaped the influence of my abusers, refusing to become cold,

malignant and closed off to opportunity, though I did not escape
the pain. The landscape itself is traumatized, filled with the cries
of abusees-turned-abusers. The tragedy can never truly be es-
caped. We can only refuse to perpetuate it. And perhaps that act
carries some merit in the aseitic process.
I think a lot about the moment of death. For example: if I should

suffer a heart attack, will I have enough time and dexterity to go
and select a song to play as I lay down and die? Or will I be too
unsteady to do so? I would really hate to die to a bad song.
It may seem that I publicize my every interaction or speak out

against everyone who I may meet, but that is not the case. There
are many individuals who played a lesser role in my life who,
while possibly having done something to affect me in some way,
failed to leave any notable mark on my myth, so to speak. Those

of whom I have spoken publicly weigh heavy on my mind even
after all these years. Often, again, it’s because I don’t want to
speak ill of people who had no ill intent. One example that
comes to mind is this guy that I was speaking to in early 2019.
We spoke on and off for a bit over the internet. He was actually
the cousin of a close childhood friend. We met up at a concert
one day and my ride had to leave early and this guy told me that
he could give me a ride home. We talked about music for a lit-
tle while and then suddenly he just up and disappeared. I looked
everywhere and asked around. No one knew what happened.
Then I check my phone to message him and it’s blocked. It ended
up being a horrible night for me since it was late and my father
was asleep and then it put me in the most dreadful spot of hav-
ing no money and no friends and having to lower myself to peas-
ant mode and go around looking for a ride while everyone shows
their true colors and looks at me like some idiot with a whole lot
of nerve. I hated the crowd that congregated at that vape shop
anyway. I went several times just because it was one of the only
places to go but every time I left that place I felt deeply suicidal.
I ran into the guy about a month later at a show and went up to
him to say hello and try to figure out what had happened. I don’t
go about such things confrontationally and typically carry a “Ha-
haha what the fuck?” kind of attitude which emphasizes a lack of
understanding and a willingness to hear another side to the story
rather than going into angry mode (I don’t really have an angry
mode... not on the outside, it remains on the inside and is dealt
with in private, and no one has ever really seen me angry). He
explained to me that he had been off his meds at the time (and
I believe such claims because his demeanor between the two en-
counters was night and day, like dealing with a different person)
and somewhat isolated and he ended up thinking that I wanted
to murder him—a belief that was apparently influenced by the

dark overtones of the bio on my website (which had nothing to
do with murder or violence and was simply the story of my life
and involvement with the fraternity and illness). I didn’t even re-
alize he had read it. I laughed it off with him and told him to
take better care of himself but the fact that these things are hap-
pening surely gets to me and it stays with me. I don’t hold any ill
will towards this guy in particular. Not only did he apologize for
what had occurred, but he had a legitimate reason to behave as
he did (even if it is a bit strange and was still ultimately hurtful to
me), and we saw each other several times after that point and al-
ways talked and got along. It does bother me, not because I have
any ill will towards him, but because... this is just my sort of luck,
you know... and this was in a time when I was really realizing how
reputation and legacy were just totally out of the control of the
individual, and it scared me so badly, because I had labored for
so long trying to become a good person, trying to become such
and such... trying to live my life in accordance with what I want-
ed my legacy to be, and it controlled everything I did... but then
you can just be at the wrong place at the wrong time and your
legacy crumbles under the likes of delusions and rumors. It’s so
discouraging to think of how little our actions and attitude actu-
ally seem to count for anything...
Then there are a lot of little incidents that stick with me. My
last time out in public was at a concert at Rivermont Pizza. I re-
ally wanted to interact with others but whenever they found out
that I couldn’t speak it was just assumed that I couldn’t interact
and they would ignore me in somewhat of an awkward manner,
obviously not knowing how to act. Once when walking through
the building... first of all it’s late and there are lots of people
drinking and being loud... and this loud girl got all confronta-
tional with me for simply ‘standing in her way’ when it wasn’t
that I was in her way so much as she was just being a drunk jack-
ass who didn’t see the point in walking around me if she didn’t
have to. And I couldn’t speak. I just stood there feeling helpless
as she got up in my face and raised her voice at me. That was my
last outing. I couldn’t take it. Another girl tried to start a friendly
conversation with me that night about a symbol I was wearing,
and while I was happy in that instance that someone was speak-
ing to me in an attempt to strike up a conversation, I felt bad that
I couldn’t convey that or say anything and I probably seemed
very rude and that kind of just left me feeling shitty in a different
way, and I hope I didn’t hurt or embarrass her with my strange
and insufficient gesture of a response since I know how difficult
it can be to approach strangers. This was only a short while be-
fore I began my third astragon. I thought I would refuse to let
my voicelessness hold me back, but holy hell... what a horrible
world this is when you can’t communicate. It’s horrible enough
for me as it is and all the social barriers that I face unnecessari-
ly simply because I live in a Christian college town and have in-
terests that other people think of as ‘intellectual’ and stuffy. I al-
ready feel alone when out in public, but on those occasions when
I went out and couldn’t speak... goddamn... it was a loneliness
and isolation like nothing I ever knew in my years of hermitry.
**There are a handful of individuals of whom I have not spo-
ken in any written account—referring to individuals who have
hurt or harmed me in a way that is deemed significant in some
regard. If I’ve chosen not to speak up on certain individuals it is
often because I am conflicted on the ethics of including infor-
mation on certain persons. After all, not everyone who harmed
me was really invested in me or knew what they were getting in-
to, and I don’t feel it is right to speak about them for precisely
that reason, regardless of the weight of their offenses. Like trying
to pet a rabbit and it bites you. It seemed like such an unneces-
sary response, seeing as you meant it no harm, although at the

same time it wouldn’t have bitten you if you hadn’t been trying
to pet it. I tend to feel that way about several individuals who
have come and gone. They treated me unfairly, but I should have
probably never tried to be their friend to begin with. And then
there is also somewhat of a newer category of ‘off-limits’ which I
don’t really know how to address and that refers to people who
I’ve met through my projects, as in people who have contacted
me after finding my music or writings online. I wish I could say
that I’ve had positive experiences in this department, and I have
indeed had a couple positive interactions with thoughtful indi-
viduals, especially early on, even if they seemed more like specta-
tors than people who could actually relate to who I am and what
I had to say, although I’ve also had some negative interactions,
and the damage caused by such interactions tends to be very hard
to cope with for several reasons.
Firstly, given the availability of information regarding not
only my circumstances in life but also intimate breakdowns of
my social experiences and all that has left me hurting, anyone
who has read my work is (or should be) initiating interaction
with a basic understanding of who I am and what I’ve been
through, so there is this expectation that they’re not going to do
the very same things that have hurt me so badly. When these
people come around and actually continue that chain of abuse
and negligence it can be exceptionally disorienting. I feel com-
pletely defenseless in these cases. The fact that they come to me
via this channel also means, in my mind, that they represent, to
me, “my people.” I’ve known so few people who have cared about
me and my projects, and I’ve always longed to find those who
will understand, so I tend to think that everyone who finds me
via these channels are representative of the type that I seek after,
even if they respect me as little as all else I’ve known. Lastly, my
hands feel tied in such scenarios because it’s like... I’m at work
and can’t do anything to fuck up or be a jerk because I just don’t
want their experience with “Tendon Levey” to be a negative ex-
perience, both because I don’t want they, themselves, to have any
negative feelings about me, and because I don’t want any nega-
tive comments to spread. I care so much about not only kindness,
but I also really want to surprise people with my generosity and
groundedness when anyone who has read my shorter bios proba-
bly expects a more maladaptive and antisocial individual, which
I am not. So when someone claiming to be a fan of my work also
ends up being a jackass I just feel like my hands are tied behind
my back and I’m not able to do or say anything that will cause
them to feel negatively about me (and standing up for myself in
the face of negligent and dishonest behaviors is sadly enough to
get people to feel negatively about you when it means that they
are having their own ego put down). It is sufficient to say that
this avenue, which I thought would change my life, has quickly
shown itself to invite some of the darkest spirits into my life, so
to speak.
I have cared so much about symbolism throughout my life, and

the will to author my life also extends to my will to author my
death. I have thought about it a lot. There are only certain means
of dying that strike me as appropriate in my case, resonating with
who I am. It has nothing to say of the agony or peace inherent
in any of these methods. I don’t care as much about that as I care
about departing in a way that reflects my person. I don’t like the
thought of choking to death, but that would be a suitable way
to go, in my case. I see a lot of appeal in self-immolation since it
ties into my mystical practice and a lifetime of visions involving
fire. My list also includes ‘being bit in the eye by a venomous spi-
der’, ‘fatal reaction to bee sting’, ‘decapitation’ and ‘jumping from

cliff ’. I just think that those would suit me best, all things consid-
ered.
The masses have such low standards of friendship that when you
say that you don’t have any friends many will assume that that
means that you’re just some poor individual who can’t get any-
one to spend some time with you. Yet it has nothing to do with
the desirability of an individual or about one’s ability to socialize
(or the frequency at which said socialization is carried out).
When I returned to the world in 2014, despite all earnest at-

tempts to become social, I wasn’t really in proper ‘socializing
mode’, per se, having not abandoned ‘author’ mode, and to some
extent I never or rarely left it, but it has lessened over time due to
the demands of society and my growing insecurities.
Following the most difficult year of my life in terms of health, I

have developed a severe problem in the area of my third molar
which broke off some months back and I haven’t been able to
keep up with basic oral hygiene due to concomitant throat prob-
lems which lead to hours of breathing troubles if I should brush
in certain areas. I was using my finger for a while, sometimes
wrapping it with a napkin and layering on the toothpaste, but it
was a matter of too little, too late. Whether a nerve infection or
a periapical abscess, I cannot say, as I have no access to imagery.
It doesn’t look particularly bad at a glance, as there is no visible
abscess. The pain was quite bad the first week, though manage-
able. Eventually I began suffering fatigue and fevers so intense
that I couldn’t move, and I could only sleep. I cannot even de-
scribe how heavy I felt. After considering the connection, I went
and did a thorough brushing of the area, but as fate would have
it, that worsened my symptoms exponentially, perhaps since the
food within the socket was acting as a sort of shield, and that
night would go on to be one of the worst that I ever experi-
enced in my lifetime, with pain so extreme and unmanageable ra-
diating throughout my mouth, jaw and neck. I had resolved to
sleep sitting up all to stay elevated, but something to do with the
physiological transition into sleep was, itself, upsetting the tooth,
as if the blood was changing its flow or circulation in that mo-
ment. So what would happen is I would be sitting there with my
back flat against the wall, and I would be on the very edge of
sleep, when the pain would start up, and I would then have to
spend the next twenty or more minutes doing all sorts of head
and neck exercises and gargling and whatever I could do to al-
leviate the pain. Once that was done, I would try to sleep once
more. Then, as I was finally drifting off to sleep, the excruciating
pain would set in once again and the process would repeat. This
process repeated upwards of thirty times within a single night,
with my eventually having given up on falling asleep altogether,
simply hoping to get enough rest via these microsleeps to make
it through the night. It was one of the most maddening experi-
ences I have ever known. Meanwhile, my insensate father is up-
stairs operating chainsaws and pounding away above my head
with hammers at intervals, and even after begging him to chill
out for just one day as I attempt to navigate this most nightmar-
ish experience he only responds with his typical answers of “Life
goes on,” or “This is the way of the world,” with which he often
disregards my cries for cooperation in times of crises. And what
he’s doing isn’t even necessary, let alone urgent in any way. It is
the same bullshit he’s been up to all his life: thinking that he can
cure all of the abstract problems in his life which he ignores and
disrespects by organizing and remodeling his physical environ-
ment like an obsessive, insatiable lunatic. I did not end up getting
any sleep for over fifty hours, and I don’t even remember falling
asleep. I only remember waking up and being totally confused as
to what had happened and whether I had fully slept. I went and
jumped on my partner, saying “Six! Six hours have passed!” The
following week would be one of extreme ups and downs, with
my needing to take every opportunity I could to catch up on my
sleep since I couldn’t predict if and when this would recur. The
pain is so extreme, flaring up all throughout the day, though es-
pecially after my vegetable smoothies, that I don’t know what to
do. I’ll sit here beating my head with a jug, hoping to do some-
thing, anything, to alleviate the pain, the pressure. A single sip of
room temperature water or a kale smoothie will result in an hour
of severe, unmanageable pain which usually sets in within 1-3
minutes following contact with a liquid. I have become unwill-
ing to eat and drink, and I will consolidate my smoothies with
my kratom dosing to the extent that I am able to cut down on in-
stances of ingestion. I began to suspect that all of this was related
in some way to my throat problem—not only since I had been
clearing my throat a bit overmuch in the week prior, causing oth-
er issues for me, but because it was exasperated by much the same
acts as my existing issues. I want to believe that, since that makes
me feel it is more treatable, requiring only rest without necessi-
tating some grand treatment, but as the days go on I am less able
to believe in these ideas.
After approximately two weeks of profoundest agony, the
molar in question suddenly appears to be raised, causing it to sit
strangely within my mouth, and if the pain were not enough on
its own to keep me awake, I am grinding the tooth at every turn.
Ever since becoming raised and inflamed, I have had an even
greater difficulty drinking water or smoothies, since the shock

of contact is far beyond what I can bear. The agony is instan-
taneous, and it’s as if I can feel the liquid pouring through the
cracks, the canals, to the nerve, and it seems to take so long as
it travels through, although we’re talking only seconds here. Yet
the pain in those moments is so excruciating that I seem to tem-
porarily lose all control and find myself convulsing or banging
my head into a wall. Strangely, the pain, in this case, is not ac-
tive quite as long and may subside within a minute or two, not
coming back until my next meal (or not so intensely), where-
as previously it was far easier to eat but the pain would come
on slow and remain with me for an hour after eating. However,
the shorter, more intense burst of pain is immediately followed
by nausea which lingers on for a time. It has made drinking ab-
solutely dreadful—something to be feared. I don’t even masti-
cate (I haven’t in years). And must I remind you that I am on a
pain-killing, anti-inflammatory diet consisting of garlic, turmer-
ic, quercetin (with bromelain), kale and other herbs and supple-
ments which are taken at four intervals each day. I have tried to
favor one side of my mouth, swallowing quickly to bypass the
problematic molar, though it seems to be of no use. All of this
reminds me of a certain dream from a few years back in which
it was said that I would hang on the cross for ten hours and was
told to get adequate sleep and take care of my teeth and similar
beforehand. I never understood exactly what that portentous vi-
sion meant to tell me, though as soon as this issue arose there was
indeed something ominous to it, as if I understood straightaway
that this would be what finally ended up killing me.
Why am I still sitting here

In this dungeon
In this crypt
In this oubliette
In this carcass
Why am I still devoting all of my time to creating and writ-
ing despite the physical ramifications... which are only backfiring
on me socially...
Why am I still doing this...
Each time I take a shower I try to increase the heat by a little
bit.
I pretend that it is fire.
Yesterday I felt fire within my body.
I don’t know how or why.
It felt like fire, anyhow.
It was a strange sensation.
I felt like I was burning from the inside out.
I had never experienced such a sensation before.
I can’t tell if I am really enjoying it or not, though I seek
to convince myself of as much, knowing I must take pleasure in
what awaits me.
A notable problem within this past year was a swelling and sen-
sitivity with my lower gums, although it is not what we normally
consider when speaking of the gums, since it is on the interior
of the teeth as opposed to the visible exterior of the mouth, and
so looking into the anatomy of this area has been very difficult,
for some reason, and I cannot understand why. The gum inte-
rior, especially on the right side, is often swollen, although not
in a way that is visibly noticeable. I would describe the sensa-
tion as if the gums are tightening, and pain comes about in some
instances, though not if I am careful. The tightness and inflam-
mation seem to increase increases whenever I move my tongue
around on the bottom of my mouth, especially through the little

crypts between teeth and tongue. This will also result in breath-
ing problems, likely due to the relationship between the tongue
and the larynx. Extending the tongue is one of the worst things
I can do in my condition and the tongue must remain immobi-
lized or nearly so at all times. This has been a significant issue
since the summer of 2019. It is possible, in this case, that it is
not just the tongue that is causing these problems, but that there
is, in fact, an underlying nerve or some such beneath this area
which is not receiving proper circulation, and direct contact, if
even with a finger, seems to be harmful. The gums react to oth-
er actions on my part, and I can no longer lay on my left side as
this will fill them with pressure, although the right side is less af-
fected (though not entirely so, and this, too, is becoming more
of a problem as time goes on, forcing me to sleep supinely once
more). I assume that this relates to blood circulation though I am
not entirely certain.
Our family held an annual Christmas party for some years which
brought in a lot of our fellow churchgoers and was actually quite
a talked-about event. We would create these elaborate invitations
and send them out to a hundred or so people, the best of which
was a cringeworthy cover version of The Cars’ “Just What I
Needed” which featured contributions from my father, mother
and myself. My sister was always too embarrassed to get involved
in any of the eccentric things we did and was often absent... just
like when we were kids and my family briefly decided to change
our last name to Frankenstein and become storm chasers and
everyone was super into the idea except my sister who was sob-
bing. Anyhow, the main attraction of these parties was arguably
my having converted the basement into a disco area (known as
The Boogie Room) where all the kids would go to dance while
the adults carried on their discussions on the main floor of the
house. I would get all dressed up as The Boogie Man and put
together some specialty compilations (which I recall seeing in
a stack of CD-R’s not so long ago with the words GROOVY
BOOTY written in all caps). Then my mom would inevitably
end up getting plastered and flirting with my friends.
Modern man has built up many an asinine and arbitrary criteria

to determine who and how we are to celebrate, and very few who
ever hear my words will be able to take in what I am actually say-
ing, as my heart is divorced from theirs by many walls: the par-
titions of religion and politics and sports teams and soda flavors
and whatever else they have managed to convince themselves is
of more worth than our own humanity. Thus, if I do not com-
ply with these same preferences and allegiances then I am viewed
as an outlier to your system of relevancy and my victories are ar-
gued as sport, with our differences appearing more relevant than
our similarities. In my world, despite my many hang-ups with the
state of society and the human species, I see things far more sim-
ply, observing only a singular criterion that is humanity. And so
I commit to standing behind and championing that which pro-
gresses humanity and I commit to scorning that which detracts
from or destabilizes it in any way.
I mentioned Existence grappling with ‘need’. Some would say

that our concept of ‘power’ is a bastardized outgrowth of the
concept of need, along with power’s opposite, weakness and/or
vulnerability. The original qualification of ‘power’ relates to hav-
ing no needs for one self or otherwise being capable of satisfying
all needs. This is how a powerful ‘God’ could develop from the
neediness of Existence: the belief that there must be something
capable of satisfying these needs, but without knowing what that
could be... the mind has its way, and it’s quite as simple as that (or
has the potential to be).
I am in a place, mentally, where... I wouldn’t say that conse-

quences are no longer real to me, but salvation itself no longer
seems as a plausible outcome. Therefore, a certain freedom, be-
grudging though it is, is mine to know.
I believe that my agony and my complaints will make more sense

when it is realized that my concepts of ‘the personal’ and ‘the
universal’ have merged to some degree. It was a gradual coa-
lescence taking place over fifteen long years and did not occur
overnight, though I believe I am now at the point where any dis-
tinction is truly minuscule and it may have a lot to say about the
extremity of my mental agony.
Consider me, then, like a scientific researcher or inventor, in
that the fame and finances are secondary, if not utterly valueless
to me who, overall, is mostly concerned with and committed to
proving that a particular outcome is possible and then substan-
tiating the validity of my claims to all mankind. This is far from
being some “Boo hoo! My queer and eclectic music didn’t catch
on!” It is rather asking myself “Is it not possible for the honest/
vulnerable man to thrive among this earth in any fashion?”
It is a philosophical matter. It is always a philosophical mat-
ter. I am issuing philosophies in the guise of art, and some may be
fooled thereby, but to me they are simply vehicles. I don’t care if
you can jam out to my music or enjoy my amateur artwork. I am
more concerned by the thought that the conceptual and socio-

philosophical underpinning of my work is not resonating with
others, and I am afraid to consider why that is, because I think
it goes beyond the personal. Nothing is limited to the personal,
after all. And in my mind I represent something more than a per-
former, an artist. I am rather an embodiment of mine own phi-
losophy. I am Ism.
We have a very limited say over which attributes belonging to a

given period will later become emblematic of the period in ques-
tion. Not all becomes a vector of nostalgia. Some songs stick,
becoming intimately connected with certain events, while most
do not. I grew up within a house full of all sorts of interest-
ing furniture and decorations, yet it is these dolls [referring to
the porcelain harlequin dolls previously owned by my mother
which I then took for myself in the wake of her death] that re-
mind me most of early childhood. A lot of my favorite toys from
childhood were clowns, and I was never able to understand why
clowns garner such widespread dislike.
All I can say at this point is that my dedication is clearly not con-
tingent on my enjoyment.
I have become too aware at all times and of all happenings, with-
in and without. I dare say a brain was not meant to function in
this manner, but I am not one to hold that against my brain. It
might have been a different experience if I didn’t lead such a dark
existence, but as it stands it feels like I am in a never ending bad
trip.
My yardstick for whether or not a musician has ‘failed’, as it were,

to create something of transcendent value, is whether or not the
music dredges up mental images of a performer performing in a
studio, surrounded by recording equipment. Only if I find my-
self instinctively envisioning forests and freaky, disconnected en-
vironments or events within my mind do I consider the music
adequate, hah. My own music may break the mold somewhat,
however, since so much of my discography revolves around the
image of a boy writhing and dying on the floor before his 8-track
recorder, but it works as a general rule of thumb that the best
music will put you in a fantasy with vivid cinematography, as op-
posed to reflecting the mundane reality in which it was actually
created.
Without sight I must make my way to the Absolute in Absolute

Darkness, and without sound, I must make my way to the Ab-
solute in Absolute Silence. For only then can I begin to surrender
myself to Existence. All of this will give birth to a new interpre-
tation, and yet the old and the new will remain together in one
entirety.
My policy, with certain exceptions, is that if I must ask for it,

then it isn’t genuine—not to the degree that I am after. I have
no use for groveling or bartering or manipulation, since it only
yields to some false and begrudging reality.
I have never beheld a greater irony than in those who, in their

supposed attempts to heal, will block themselves off from their
own histories. I have never beheld a greater waste of time and
effort. Please, I beg of you: do not fall for this deception which
calls us to minimize the relevance of our pasts unto the present.
Please, I beg of you: do not fall for this deception which has
us believing that it is noble to live within a state of dissociation
from all we are.
A lifetime of being made to feel like I am disturbed for reacting

precisely as any sane individual should to abuse and betrayal.
Yet even if I was in the right, it doesn’t matter. Right or wrong,
winning or losing—these things do not matter. What matters is
how this knowledge can be implemented going forward so as to
create for a more favorable future, and I just don’t feel that the
sword is in my hands.
I aim to avoid objective philosophical claims and positions. This

is partly the case because I have no expectation of being taken
seriously. I’ve lived long enough in this world to know it is not
what you say but what you put in your footnote that defines the
respect that you are allotted. Instead I focus on elaborating on
my emotional state, my mental state and my intentions as much
as I humanly can without making the suffering too intense. So
those looking to prove me wrong can run right off, because I’ve
never tried to lay down any blanket statements regarding objec-
tive truth and only mean to share my undiluted experience of
life. I am not concerned with the debatable dichotomies of ob-
jectivity and subjectivity, maturity and immaturity, so much as I
care about painting an accurate picture of the mind that I must
experience daily, hourly, secondly. Surely I aspire to be mature

and objective in my approach, but if, in my years of striving to
become such things, I have failed to do so, then I can not allow
that to affect my ability to share myself in earnest, whatever that
may look like.
At this point in my life, every song, every video, every spoken

word feels to me like a blade coming down upon my neck. I can-
not rationally claim it all a personal attack, but all does reach
me on a very personal level. Some psychospiritual partition has
melted away, and in a better world that might be okay, standing
for love and connection and potential so great; but all I feel is the
pain and disregard of a moribund people. There is no escaping it.
I’ve become the sin. I’ve become the disease. I’ve become the dis-
crepancy.
As honest as I aim to be, there still exists a multitude of state-

ments I am not willing to make: not in being dishonest with my-
self or others, but in my refusal to accept and/or identify with
certain ideas, especially those relating to my inner disgust. It’s a
strain, and I am constantly battling the urge to give in to the ac-
rimony. I wake up each and every day, year after year, wondering
if today will be the day where I can just tell the population to
fuck itself. A biting Bukowski quote will come through my on-
line feed which manages to sum up all that I feel inside, especial-
ly regarding the people of society, though I resist such identifica-
tion and I refuse to relish therein, willing that I should become a
more positive and encouraging individual.
It may seem that I am full of complaints, or that I am at least
a pretty dismal character. It is unfortunate that we associate the
voicing of less-than-positive opinions and the conveying of neg-

ative circumstances with immaturity, negativity and a complain-
tive attitude. It isn’t whining. It’s about documenting my experi-
ence and giving a voice to all the parts of my mind that I have
been asked (or am otherwise tempted) to silence. Most of what
is being said within my texts would never be acknowledged in
conversation—unless, of course, the other party understood and
consented to exploring such a topic. Even then, I would find a
means to address the topic in an agreeable and analytical tone
which did not reek of venom and disdain. All in all, it’s not how
I speak. It’s considered confessional for a reason. It is mandatory
my readers know this about me. I don’t typically share my bur-
dens or disapproval with others, preferring to build up and ex-
hort, but that also explains why I am so in need of an outlet.
When speaking with others 90% of my words all are like “Hey,
let’s create something!” and “How can we better ourselves and
those around us?”
I’ve said it before, I’m sure, but in terms of song composition:

instrumentation represents, to me, the setting and events taking
place within a story, whereas vocals represent characters. Instru-
mental music, to me, is therefore like a story lacking a protago-
nist or one devoid of characters altogether, and this has a lot to
say for why I often find it difficult to enjoy instrumental music
to the same degree that I enjoy music which contains vocals. It
is like a landscape painting: it can be beautiful to behold, and
yet to me it seems to lack a story and rarely even invites inter-
pretations. Then again, a lot of people would rather just fix their
eyes on a snow-capped mountain and not have to listen to the
thoughts that whir through another’s head. Therefore let it be
known that the vast majority of instrumental tracks appearing
within my output are simply those for which I never managed to

come up with a suitable vocal melody.
For me, the difficult part is not that I appear to have failed. It is
the extent to which I tried that tends to bother me most of all. It
is that I was consistently and heroically proactive from beginning
to end, not allowing my physical and mental suffering to slow my
pace; not allowing my sense of hopelessness to have its say over
my actions. It is that I maintained a positive attitude, despite the
image that recent writings may be giving off, and I intend to do
so until my last hour alive. It is that I tried a hundred million
means of keeping my head above the water. This late-life agony
that I am experiencing can often be chocked up to the fact that
mine own virtues have assisted my demise. The train that got me
here consists of all those things I worked so hard for: my open-
ness and honesty, my unwillingness to compromise my beliefs
and live a life that douts my passion, my unwillingness to manip-
ulate others in seeking after an authentic intimacy, dezinezinet.
This queer cloud of irony hangs over my tomb at all times. It is
a philosophical nightmare. I look out and see a population who
will live out long lives of cursing, drinking and betraying their
promises while the universe turns a blind eye for eighty years,
and then there is I: a child whose gravest mistakes were singing
and dancing and putting my faith and trust in the wrong people.
A certain degree of emphasis is required: I did not leave the

world behind because it shunned who I am, but because it re-
mained unaccepting of that which I aspired to be. My words may
seem to conflict when dealing with this topic, but I was never
confined to this narrative that torments me so.
*I am not an autist who lacks insight into and control over

the awkwardness and atypicality of my interaction style but a
man of tremendous intention and conviction who must some-
times refuse the call to adapt when presented with especial cir-
cumstances wherein adaptation is deemed an empty compro-
mise with no real benefits to myself or others. Like so, I am nei-
ther oblivious to the so-called standards of the sociosphere, nor
am I so incompetent that I can not carry its weight as any man
can. Rather it is that I am unwilling to dirty my hands with such
impersonality and frivolity all for the sake of fitting in with a
community which, quite frankly, contains no innate cause to be
desired by me. Every failure and every tragedy of my lifetime has
behind it a wealth of intention, making it all the more difficult
for me to accept my condition and explaining, if in part, why I
always tend to sound so conflicted, for I am committed to con-
tinuing with that which alienates and destroys me on the condi-
tion that I believe it to be the righteous course of action. Many
an outsider are hardly capable of being anything more. The same
cannot be said of myself, who contained all the charm, talent and
outgoingness to be welcomed by the world.
There is this idea (and expectation) that with knowledge and

self-awareness one gains in opportunities, as if the two are invari-
ably connected, yet I have found my opportunities to decrease
following the development of self-awareness and, more impor-
tantly, my empathetic capabilities (though I will add that it is
not simply my self-awareness, but my commitment to acting up-
on my understanding that ultimately limits me). Worldly success
regularly entails a certain degree of emotional numbness or cru-
elty—not as a natural law but certainly within our current sys-
tem which does not keep the healthy human spirit as its center
and ideal. The link between so-called successful individuals and

sociopathy is not exactly a secret. The road to the top—at least
within our modern, capitalistic society—is paved by acts that the
empathetic cannot readily justify. I am not willing to step on oth-
ers to win, or rather, I do not consider that a ‘win’ in the first
place. And even were empathy not an issue, I only want to main-
tain my meaning, and I am unwilling to give up on what I wish to
bring to the people for the sake of bringing them what they will
eat. Verily, I could have achieved some form of fame or acknowl-
edgement were I less choosy on what I wished to be known for.
I know all the tricks and angles of the standard strategic entre-
preneur. I could spout off a hundred clever strategies within the
span of ten minutes, but they do me no good and I am unwilling
to employ any one of them. I think about this stuff a lot, because
I tend to feel stuck, helplessly so, but I am not technically stuck
as others might call it, yet I am, by my terms: by the terms set by
my integrity. It raises some questions about ...
At this point I am just a big hunk of meat stewing in a pot of my

own salty bouillon. I’ve maintained my lucidity through it all,
but that won’t stop others from thinking what they will.
As often as I use the term ‘trauma’ to describe circumstances

and my reactions thereto, I do not use it loosely or lightly. For
me it does not simply describe a painful event, nor does it need
to be something particularly horrific; but it will always refer to
something fundamentally disruptive within my life. I’ve endured
heinous disasters and accidents which I do not consider to be
traumatic, being that they did not retard my ability to function
and progress mentally or emotionally. As I’ve stated elsewhere, I
also do not see fit to apply the term to the sort of physical illness
I’ve endured, extreme though it is. ‘Disturbed,’ by my definition,
and how I use it in reference to myself, entails that I am func-
tioning in a way unlike I normally would as a direct outcome of
excessive unresolved trauma and grief. It does not imply any sort
of insanity or detachment from reality.
While growing up, I was often scapegoated by ‘friends’ who

found themselves in trouble, typically with their own parents.
This was especially prevalent in the two or so years that I was ac-
tively using drugs (along with my friends) and I was being paint-
ed up as some sort of ringleader and bad influence despite be-
ing only the moochy, naïve newcomer. These so-called friends
found it funny, remarking that it was so easy to pass the buck to
me since I looked like such a prime culprit; but it was disturbing
to me and has stayed with me unto this day. I was a well-inten-
tioned kid, in spite of my ignorant foibles, and time and again I
had to watch my idiosyncrasies being used to incriminate me. If I
was truly the ‘ringleader’ then I would have no trouble in admit-
ting so, but for so much of my youth I was only the fool: curious,
naïve and all too trusting.
I don’t recall any situation in which I knowingly acted on ill in-

tentions, and I will stand by that statement until my end. And
that isn’t to say that I haven’t brought damage to myself and
others out of sheer ignorance, or that I haven’t experienced the
temptation of retaliation, but that I have always managed to
maintain a certain purity of action. Yet I find myself wondering
how much of the population would actually say otherwise about
themselves? I obviously don’t have those statistics. I guess I don’t
understand a situation in which one deliberately acts out of mal-

ice or glaringly selfish behaviors. I don’t doubt that it happens,
surely, but to what extent are people aware of their own inten-
tions in such cases? I just find it difficult to imagine being in a
situation... and knowing that something is wrong... and doing it
anyway? To think that that actually happens is very surreal to me.
Really, does that actually happen? I feel like I am tripping out
while attempting to answer this. It’s like jamais vu... and I’m just
a boy sitting on his bed saying the word “biscuit” over and over
again in a tone of disbelief...
It’s all a game of Tetris: we have to deal with all of this shit rain-
ing down from above. That is to be expected if you wish to play
the game. It’s the little victories and affirmations that happen
along the way that keep us from being overwhelmed and willing
to deal with more of whatever is coming at us, taking us down
layer by layer, and in my case, I didn’t have those victories, and
the shit just piled up to the sky and I lost the game before I even
got to feel that I had started.
My reason for writing at such volume is partially related to the

fact that I feel my side of the story was never allowed out. I al-
ways had the lower hand in every relationship in which I have
been a part, either within a familial structure or simply because
I was the one who had invested the most into the relationship
and therefore was more adamant that it work out, thereby forc-
ing me to shut my mouth ‘or else’. So I never spoke my side of the
story. It was a lifetime of having my claims doubted, my sinceri-
ty opposed and my innocence questioned simply because of the
patterns set by a lost society, and not because I actually did any-
thing to make others think I was insincere or dishonest. On the

contrary, I have fought long and hard to build up the value of my
judgments and my utterances, but to no avail. I despise the pat-
tern and I despise all who uphold it with their lazy judgments.
They keep us forever bound and forced to pay for that which oc-
curred before we were even born. I don’t believe that the pub-
lic readily grasped the reality of my innocence. It’s simply not a
concept that they recognize. This sort of ‘innocence’, as it were,
is more commonly used as a lure—feigned by the dumb and the
damned. Most persons, in having been raised within the school-
ing system become jaded to the goodness in man, and when they
did see me, they were so focused on my abilities, my potential for
destruction, that it never occurred to them that I am what I say,
and that I speak only the honest truth.
Considering the importance of early childhood interactions to

the rest of our lives, I find it very difficult to palate the sight of all
these mongrels copulating out of boredom and insecurity. Even
if it can be argued that childbirth, on its own, is not a vile act giv-
en the state of things... Goddamnit, I want to scream.
I do not know how to feel about the fact that actors and enter-
tainers are widely considered the heroes of our time, being idol-
ized by all ages and demographics as if to contain any inherent
virtue. It’s a losing game to be infuriating myself over such things,
but I cannot overlook the effect of such enterprises upon the un-
raveling of reality.
**I take issue with fiction, as well, in that these writers are de-
sensitizing us to reality in a multitude of ways, and for no pur-
pose but boredom, escapism. I honestly do not expect others to
share in my beliefs, but when has that ever lessened my bother-

ation. That doesn’t mean I am utterly incapable of enjoying it,
but it makes me uneasy... the potential ramifications of filling our
minds with the unreal... because it changes our relationship with
the real. That’s what it comes down to. My story is quite incred-
ible in the sense that it is rare, but one isn’t required to live it to
write about it it, and so my story can be taken from me by any
kid looking for a best seller; and that’s just so bizarre to me. I had
to earn my story, and it still won’t come out as sounding all that
extreme to a world that has been dulled by the best horror and
fantasy that money can buy.
I rise each day to the reminder that I have never known the priv-
ilege of a single apology. I rise each day to the knowledge that,
after all I have achieved, it was never enough to leave anyone feel-
ing proud to know me. They wrote me off if I said or did even a
single thing that they did not like or understand. They never let
my words mean what I wished for them to mean, telling me I am
wrong, lacking in self-awareness, or that I am lying, or manipu-
lating, or unqualified, or that I simply don’t know what I am feel-
ing. They’ve done all they can to strip my words and actions of
meaning, not permitting me to despise that which I despise and
to love that which I love.
He never saw me as someone to protect, only seeing me in rela-

tion to how I made him feel. And perhaps the same can be said
of most persons; but I cannot say it of all, since I don’t feel like
that quite applies to me, personally, and therefore there must al-
so be others to whom it does not apply. And I don’t know why. I
don’t know why I appear to see people more objectively, beyond
what they can offer me. I don’t know why. I do not think it nat-
ural but the product of hard work and conscious efforts. Howev-
er, I can’t help but feel that I would have been better off without
such perceptions (although I guess it really depends on how we
are defining our terms).
I could never hide behind a shield—not believing as I do. I could

never approach the world with a sword—not believing as I do. I
willed to win the war with words alone, and I was murdered off
by my own lack of guile.
I have always experienced life through what others consider to be

a cinematic lens, which is not to suggest that I am dramatic in my
behavior (I’m really not). I relate more to the nature and atmos-
phere of so-called science fiction and fantasy films than I relate
to the lives of my contemporaries. The explosions may be meta-
physical, but they are no less present within my every moment.
It is as though there is a passionate demon attempting to escape
from my chest at all times. Passion, frenzy and urgency are expe-
rienced in every moment. It is an intensity that never lets up, and
I love it... I love that twisting the handle of a door can feel like a
romance, while gazing into the mirror can feel like a thriller. Yet
then I must interact with others, and my flame begins to flick-
er; it begins to lose oxygen and the flame becomes but an orange
dot on the tip of the wick, for the population does not seem to
see what I have observed in the world: in the people; in the self. I
can’t imagine a life so gray. Though is it worse to see gray, or to be
the only one who can see color? I don’t actually believe that I am
the only one... but I am endlessly saddened to have never found
others with whom to share in this vibrant and meaningful reali-

ty.
To what do we even attribute this vibrancy? To one’s beliefs?
Disposition? Chemistry? Such curiosity, intrigue and magic is
perhaps more common in youth and adolescence. Yet it
fades—no, it is raped out of us. And I escaped the rape, but I
was never able to evade the scorn of its victims who, like zom-
bies, vampires, feel it is their role to bite and covert every remain-
ing warm-blooded individual, for it is not possible that we, the
survivors, can be celebrated when so many live with a regret so
strong, so suppressed, that it has turned hostile.
And I guess that when I say these things there is just no part of
me that expects to be believed, or at least I don’t expect these
words will carry weight. I feel transparent, mute and worthless
before the public, and it’s so strange to be saying that as I am such
a proud and confident individual.
I just can't fathom that people are capable of distinguishing be-

tween truth and falsity in the realm of interaction, and that re-
ally, truly, disturbs me, because I’ve labored all these years to es-
tablish my enterprise on the belief that people would be able to
tell. There has been no greater wrench in my scheme than this
reminder that people lie. It must sound so silly. I mean, it’s ob-
vious, isn’t it? At least it should have been. I just... in my ideal-
ism, in my faith, I truly failed to factor it in. And I feel like the
world can not distinguish between someone such as myself, who
is a kind person who happens to suffer from illness, and someone
who is dramatic, complicated and, as they like to say, ‘toxic’. My
existence will always constitute ‘drama’ in the eyes of such folk

and it will not matter what I do or say.
**In my lifetime I have been surrounded by those who will abuse

and push me over the edge and then vilify me if and when I
should finally react to their cruelty. Say, the sort who will strike
me thirty times, and after taking all their abuse I finally yell at
them, after which they get to run off and tell the world I yelled
at them, conveniently sidestepping all context. It haunts me like
you wouldn’t believe. And then they are able to live their lives
feeling utterly convinced that I was the one in the wrong. They
try and they try for a reaction, and once you give it to them they
hold it to your throat. Arrant psychos. My sister and her parasite
perpetuated this style. So did my ex-girlfriend of 2016. I don’t
know what drives it, apart from immaturity. A lot of this shit
that infuriates me comes from the Ti-Fe axis.
I haven’t found closure from that relationship in the way I desire,

or require, since whenever I speak of this situation and others
like it I am always so focused on avoiding immature or otherwise
unfair statements, viewing it as a means to demonstrate my abil-
ity to think objectively and react maturely to unfair situations,
and the result is that I end up misrepresenting the situation in a
way that is... well, not in my favor. If I went back and rewrote the
2016 chapter at this point, having written it in 2017, I think it
would be a lot more raw and I would prize accuracy above try-
ing to seem mature and objective, since the things that I was put
through were not... not something anyone should ever have to be
put through.
Life, on the metaphysical level, depends more upon relevance

than upon the vague human ideal of truth and righteousness,
and when Existence is framed as a question of relevance as so, it
becomes far easier to comprehend how there can be no ‘nonexis-
tence,’ and that when absence is presence and presence becomes
absence...
Confusional arousals occurring in the middle of the night are

known to bypass paradigm locks. It is difficult to say what brings
them on. All I know is that those wishing to break down para-
digm locks may find a lot of success in parasomnias and other
hypnognostic practices. I can’t tell you how many times I wake
up in the middle of the night with that overwhelming feeling
that I’ve cracked the code, as it were. And it’s not just some mid-
night delusion, where it is not as profound in retrospect. There’s
definitely something to this, and it’s quite magnificent. Meditat-
ing upon a flame shortly before bed has been known to trigger
these arousals in me on a consistent basis. Whether is this sym-
bolic or biological, I find it most efficient and recommend the
practice to others.
Others are schooled and socialized and put through all of these
situations in which the value of others is questioned, minimized
and degraded. And I think that’s what makes it all so difficult for
me. I still impart high, holy value to the people around me. And
to exist within society we must necessarily give up this exaltation
for the good and safety of our own beings, our own professional
progress, while we are taught that we can’t answer every call; we
can’t return every smile; we can’t put out every fire. School teach-
es us to see people as irrelevant to us. I never saw it that way. I
often think of this as a product of nurture, but it is also very pos-
sible that it relates to nature.
I can’t stomach the strange organic undertone: visceral springs

and pig leather pulp.
We are living within an age in which the concept of ‘empathy’

has been perverted by the disconsolate hippies to act as an excuse
for why they aren’t required to help those in need when it is oth-
erwise within their ability to do so. It frightens me to watch it
develop and take hold. It truly does. I, personally, posit that the
word ‘empathy’ should be redefined so that it comes to be seen
as the equivalent of wisdom to intelligence, representing ‘applied
emotional intelligence’ and not simply some self-pacifying New
Age bogwash so that people with names like Orca Lightbeam
can sit around convincing themselves that their failure to be a
good friend is justified under the assumption that ‘they feel more
than others and need to protect their pretty pink energy fields
and star vibes’.
I do not fancy power. I do not crave or idealize it. I have long

denied myself, wanting to live powerlessly as a child. Not as a
kink. Not as a complex. More as an existential protest. I can’t
imagine that others will understand that urge—not on a large
scale. The masses are so overwhelmed by the animalistic urge to
gain and maintain power, authority, dominance and what have
you. As I’ve already made clear, I, personally, aspired ultimate-
ly toward vulnerability and other ascetic states of being. I’m not

sure that I would go so far as to say that I ‘romanticize’ depri-
vation, as that tends to reduce my outlook to some shallow bi-
ological response, but I certainly do exalt it. Even in my forma-
tive years, while boys are often beginning to hit the gym and bulk
up, I showed no attraction to the musclebound man and gravi-
tated more toward the starved, doped out ‘rock star’ image, so to
speak. I didn’t develop an eating disorder because I thought my-
self overweight or unattractive. In a sense it can be claimed that
I wanted to be withered and unattractive, which I viewed as a
means to externalize how I felt within myself: starved and des-
perate. Yet it was about more than wishing to reflect mine own
emotional state. I wanted to reflect reality itself, whatever that
should mean.
The Abracadammit compilation features two tracks, “Parade”

and “Stampede”, which were inspired, in part, by an annual pa-
rade that was held on my home street on the Fourth of July dur-
ing my childhood years. I would delight in going outside in the
early morning and sitting curbside while the town lined up and
candy would be thrown at us from the floats. It was predomi-
nantly tootsie rolls, but there were other candies too and it was
just one of the funnest things to happen in my youth. There were
floats and kids on bicycles and my sister and I would just be
standing there all eager along the roadside with the rest of the lo-
cals. So that’s what the line about the candy in “Stampede” refers
to.
And I say this not to inspire an insufferable breed of ingrates who

demand praise and perfection from all who they meet; yea, I fo-
cus my eyes as much on the self and what we are called to give
to those whose presence and participation we value within our
lives. Friendship and interaction should require as much or more
attention and responsibility than any occupation we may ever
fill. Yea, though it may bring to us our hearty relief, it should not
be considered some playground, some break from the world of
responsibility and accountability which effectively functions as a
happy pill and no more. This is where you get the concept of ‘fair
weather friends’—individuals who are only after that relief and
pleasant effects of interaction without actually having any com-
mitment to you as a person.
I see a lot of people upset that their friends don’t care about
or support their efforts, artistic achievements, passions and
whatnot. And sadly it’s become a standard for others to answer
this by saying “Ahh, that’s always how it is. Friends and family
can’t be depended on for that stuff,” yet I don’t believe that that is
right at all. These people who totally fail to support you are not
your friends. They are people whose time happens to be spent in
your company. These people who eat your center and then toss
your crust aren’t real friends. These people who eat your creme
and toss your cracker... hahaha, I could go on and on, but hope-
fully you understand what I am saying. I am obviously more sen-
sible than to sit here and postulate that in order for one to qual-
ify as a friend they must enjoy absolutely every little belch that
you put out, but there should still be some blanket sense of sup-
port coming from those with whom we know true intimacy and
trust.
An example of my approach is giving someone a one-hundred

dollar bill right off the bat as it will immediately establish in their
minds that I am not only someone who has what they’re search-
ing for, so to speak, be it in the realm of kindness or empathy or

ideas and potential, and I do so with the expectation that they
will return later on to join me. It’s kind of a backward system
where instead of distributing paychecks after someone has done
the work, I do so beforehand and then expect them to do their
work and satisfy my faith in their character. My logic isn’t totally
unsound, but people generally take the money and run or only
return when in need of money instead of actually attempting to
partner up with me. And no attempt has ever really succeeded
and I am left poorer and poorer for my willingness and courage
to trust others. Of course this is all an analogy and I am obvious-
ly not dealing in actual money, although it always involves giving
parts of myself away—a more valuable, but lesser valued currency
overall. It’s sort of like one of those free sample tables. The idea is
that those who end up liking the sample will buy the product. Yet
it’s not all so clear cut. Some people take advantage of the system
and seek to get as many free samples as they can and then make
off without paying.
Oh, I just got all excited thinking that someone had downloaded
several of my albums but then I realized that it was counting all
of the albums that I had downloaded this week while attempt-
ing to finalize different compilations of unreleased material. Oh
well.
It is extraordinarily damaging to me—these instances of projec-

tion—not because I believe in a single word they say, but be-
cause, as far as I’m concerned, they speak for the world in which
we live. Therefore it is not enough for me to know that some-
thing is untrue. That’s not going to keep it from bothering me. It

shouldn’t.
What infuriates me is not the idea that these things are beyond
being transcended, but the fact that they are capable of being
transcended, and that we choose not to: through our priorities,
our beliefs and our instincts.
(An earlier introduction to Clyssus of Man): Will you please par-

don the shape of this book, as it was written by a man who would
rather be dancing.
Then when I would finally encounter others who appeared to

have the capacity to understand my world they would choose to
view me as a threat more than as an ally and try to undermine my
abilities.
It will be easier for them to frame me as some sort of hack or

cheat, rather than coming to grips with the fact that so much
of their lives have been wasted on nothing... defensive nothing-
ness. It will be easier for them to consider me an exaggerator, if
that’s what it means to think that all the years they spent behind
a school desk and partying in dormitories were necessary to be-
coming someone who understands the human mind.
Trauma isn’t merely an emotional problem. It informs what we

believe as possible and impossible. It shapes our perceptions of
the world and humanity. The boy who shivers in the corner does
not shiver with sadness so simple, but because his belief in good-
ness has been wrested from him and no matter what he tells him-
self, he can’t get it back.
Then if I should die by suicide they will say such things as “Oh,
he was troubled,” or “I wish I had known.” I was a forthright,
open and articulate individual who did not hold back the fact
that I was suffering and in dire need of a network, a helping
hand, and I never once used my condition in a way that should
lead others to think my cries deceptive or manipulative. I have
done all that I could to make this life work and to find healing,
to find light, to find oxygen, but my sincerest efforts landed me
no support. I was neglected and betrayed—stranded in this box
of black. And still I fought for more than a decade. I fought in
silence without ever complaining, while forced to achieve my
catharsis by endless writing and creating so as to make up for the
fact that everyone has shut their eyes and ears to me for no con-
ceivable reason, as I had never done anything that could have be-
trayed my character or been off-putting—unless suffering in it-
self is off-putting to them who seek peace and they will not toler-
ate these intimations of struggle and disconsolation as such that
I represent with my blood. Then they’ll still find a way to say it
was a ‘tragedy’ or that I must have been mentally deranged or
inebriated to commit such an act. Fuck you. Fuck every one of
you who is with the gall to call themselves my family, my friend.
I would have spoken my condemnation to your face if I knew
that you would listen and not just defensively reciprocate with-
out cause. I would have condemned you all if I wasn’t so bent
on being an inspiring and positive individual who gave without

taking and built without destroying. These are the people who
get off spouting “It gets better.” It’s a factless consolation by feck-
less concordians. It certainly didn’t get better for me. It got expo-
nentially worse with every passing year despite my best efforts. I
learned to create and laugh despite my situation, but let not my
attitude alter your perception of my circumstances which would
not be soothed.
Along with having never acted out in violence, I cannot readily

think of any instance in which I behaved meanly to others. It
seems like a hefty claim, though I don’t typically become mean
and irritable in response to stressors (although persons like my
mother often left me utterly exasperated and short on patience,
even if that wouldn’t qualify as meanness outright). It’s simply
not in my nature, and it may have something to do with the
fact that I have spent most of my life in the company of those
who have some form of power over me (meaning my parents) in
which case blatant meanness and cruelty would have gotten me
in trouble, so I’ve had to take on a disparate interaction style. If
I begin to grow impatient, however, I’ll usually know to just ex-
cuse myself. A more natural response, for me, is to become more
silly and flippant when stressed, acting on a sort of feigned ig-
norance. It is similar to my behavior when intoxicated, in that I
don’t become aggressive or upset, but silly and sleepy. I am also
more likely to grow desperate than I am to grow impatient, when
under strenuous circumstances. My level of conviction, coupled
with my passion, may have me seeming intense, though I often
find it more difficult to be a jerk than to compromise my inner
intensity, and this has a lot to say for why isolation often seemed
mandatory. And my edges have only softened all the more over
time... especially with the loss of my voice. I sure lost a lot of my

rights and leeway with that one. It’s incredible how readily peo-
ple are willing to treat you as a subhuman when you have no abil-
ity to argue back. The loss of my speech ability was therefore, in
many ways, the beginning of the end for me. To think I’ve gone
so many years of my life without a voice is unimaginable. I re-
member, back during my years as a vocalist, hearing these sto-
ries of singers who, after being treated for nodules, would have
to go silent for six months or so, and that sounded like the cra-
ziest, most undoable thing in all the world. I couldn’t fathom it.
Yet here I am, having gone more than a fifth of my life in mute-
ness—and not with any hope of healing.
There is a clear distinction between what I believe and what I

believe should be enforced/propounded. For example, I can be
quite critical of trends and how others express themselves, yet
when it comes to actually interacting with others I endeavor on-
ly to encourage them in the way that they see fit to walk, as I
don’t want to force my ways upon anyone’s way of thinking. To
me that is something not to be disrespected; something sacred.
My criticisms I reserve for my private musings. In all other occa-
sions I’m the fucking cheerleading captain. *high v*
It is truly surreal knowing that my life will be ending soon and

yet it changes nothing. I have no grounds to speak. I can’t just
call out to the people saying “I’m about to leave forever! Isn’t
there anything left to talk about?” If I said as much I would
just be ignored or called melodramatic, despite having never giv-
en others any reason to believe as much about me. It doesn’t
matter that I’ve held my tongue in the thousands and millions
of instances in which I thought of death and suicide, since if I

should speak even once then I am written off as attention-seek-
ing or dramatic (if not purposely seeking to complicate every-
one’s lives), even though my diaries are public and anybody who
wanted to actually glimpse the happenings of my mind and life
could do so and verify my response. We all know that death puts
life into perspective, but in ways that are unexpected, also. It has
everyone seeming so cruel.
I’ve seen enough television to know that suicide is not taken
seriously by the masses and is often being used as a tool to ma-
nipulate. On one hand, I aspire to show the reality of one who is
suffering from illness and lingering death, and how it is handled
by society. My experience was not only ignored, but callously de-
monized by those who were unwilling to believe its reality, and I
want to speak to those undergoing the same circumstances, even
if, deep down, I tend to feel like I am all alone in my experience
of suffering, and I feel so much shame to be voicing my thoughts
on the matter, as if the burden of proof rests on my shoulders as
all the world looks on scowling. Prove that you are hurting! Prove
that you are who you say you are! I shall prove it to them this day
in a bloodstorm of vestigial knives!
I wouldn’t say that it constitutes actual fear as much as I simply

cannot imagine being in that place where I am able to navigate
this world by myself. I do think I would have been able to adapt,
given my will power and creative problem solving, if my health
wasn’t such an issue (and all the problems it causes, like issues
with working and driving). In fact, the few times where I’ve been
on my own I’ve felt liberated because I felt more free to be my-
self... not stifled by the people standing next to me... be it a girl-
friend or a family member—those who have smothered all myth

in my life.
In some strange way, Tendon Levey was like a gateway through

which I came to appreciate a greater diversity of musical styles.
Prior to Tendon Levey I was mostly into prog and disco/dance.
Usually it is the case that one creates strange music because they
already enjoy strange music, but for me it was the other way
around, at least to some extent. Still, I’m not the biggest fan of
avant-garde and experimental as genres, even though I love a bit
of originality. I’m just not very attracted to what the public’s de-
finition of ‘originality’ often entails, and I would much rather
have an emotive pop hook than listen to someone cumming in a
crow call over a barely rhythmic bongo beat. I think that avant-
pop fits me best as a genre in that regard, since although I may
be working with an assortment of elements and approaches that
will be considered strange and unorthodox, the pop hooks and
ear worms are indispensably important to my writing (even if I
must sometimes send them on a journey through the blender be-
fore bringing them before the public).
I was always made to feel like my existence was just asking too
much. My suffering was too much. My joy was too much. My de-
sire was too much. I felt these judgments constantly in the pres-
ence of others—a lethargic and nihilistic breed indeed. And I
can’t wait for all of this to be over. I really, sincerely can’t. I feel
like my biggest ‘flaw’ was perhaps that I couldn’t stop caring, or
couldn’t pretend that I didn’t care. I cared about everyone and
everything within and without me and that simply doesn’t fly
in this reality. That’s not to act as if I loved everyone and every-
thing. I didn’t. My care relates more to the desire to love and

understand, as well as to serve. We’re supposed to set a focus.
We’re supposed to delineate the personal from the impersonal;
the relevant from the irrelevant. I never could. How could I? I
am a holist who understands that everything affects everything.
All things are connected. One sick cell is experienced through-
out the whole body and determines whether that body is to be
called healthy or ill.
The torture of being surrounded by a bunch of smiling faces

which will surely break and scowl and rampage as soon as they
hear something they don’t like, or those who will abandon me if
they come to glimpse my past. This knowledge torments me, and
I am so quick to give away my hope to anyone who smiles my
way. Because I want... I desire...
It is so easy to express fascination for what I saw on that night,

yet so difficult to describe what I actually saw.
The idea of God, or a creator, when taken literally, is perhaps

worthy of being regarded as the most damaging illusion of all
and must be eradicated in full if ever we are to acknowledge the
veritable worth of our lives and the truer nature of this existence
in which all are taking part. I say this not as some begrudging
atheist or whatever be the denigration with which my detractors
will dismiss my opinion, but as one devoted to an honest spir-
ituality which frames nature and humanity not as a hindrance
to spirituality but as its purest, most precious gateway. Through
such lies have we misunderstood our role and are actively refus-
ing the call to participate. Such ignorance does not occur in the
absence of consequences, and nothing follows after such arrant
negligence but the tragic destruction of a species, a world, which
had it in them to be so much more.
When asked ‘how I am doing’ I standardly shrug, give off a half-

smile and move the topic along. My father can attest to that fact.
I don’t like to speak negatively, especially when communicating
with others, and the answer to the question of how I am doing
is invariably the same: “Physically terrible, but mentally trying to
stay positive.”
There is no point in my remaining on this earth even if that was

a viable option in my condition. I am this isolated and excitable
individual walking out into a cloud of impatience, nihilism and
stunted growth which exists within a state so cynical and sur-
vivalistic that it has learned to form its conclusions not from any
inherent curiosity (which it apparently lacks) but off of visceral,
instantaneous judgments regarding the size of my mustache and
the make of my coat while being so convinced that drinking on
the weekends is the best it gets and that anyone who says oth-
erwise is an idealistic and naive chump who—ironically—“can’t
face reality.” There’s no reason for being here at this rate. And
then my being the analytical and growth-oriented individual I
am, I internalize all of this and sit in the shadows asking what
I did wrong and I toil for months while trying to make of my-
self someone that is viewed as necessary to the lives of others
and thereby invulnerable to abandonment, but then it all occurs
again in a loop and after thirty years it’s time to realize that this
isn’t a math equation. It’s just a broken system filled with broken
people who abuse themselves and others due to a lack of securi-

ty and understanding—an understanding that failed to develop
since everyone is bombarded with fake narratives from the time
of their birth and no one ever learns how to properly care for
themselves, let alone one another. And in the end, I am apparent-
ly the one who doesn’t understand. I could labor for thirty plus
years over my various works and personal self-development and
the potency of my efforts changes nothing, as I’ll never gain the
favor and respect allotted to even the ugliest underwear model.
And it’s funny that I will be looked at as not knowing what
I am talking about because I’m existing on the outside of this
little manmade delineation commonly regarded as ‘society’, and
they will find all sorts of ways to discredit me, whether by calling
into question my sanity, or by calling into question my experi-
ences and claiming that one with such limited ‘real world’ expe-
rience could not possibly know so much about the workings of
the world and humanity (and the lack thereof ); but it’s as I said
elsewhere: the best view often belongs to those who watch the
parade from the cliffs.
**It amazes me the ease with which others can claim that I am
fixating overmuch on my traumas and disturbances. They can sit
there and tell me to accept it and get over it, yet they’re the ones
that can’t get through an hour sober, and will divorce three times
and fuck up their children so horribly. What I’m saying is... the
population isn’t healing from its trauma, so who’s to say I am
unreasonable for actually focusing on that which hurt me! The
difference between us is not that I fell prey to some obsession
whereas they did not. It is that I have been willing to acknowl-
edge the true weight and ramifications of these pains that society
asks and even expects us to brush on past and cover up with god-
damn pills. They don’t get to critique my approach and manage-

ment of the situation until they themselves are triumphing over
that situation; yet society is being entirely overrun and eaten up.
It’s not just that I care for myself... I care for all those with whom
I come in contact and I am wholly responsible for not making
any of their lives and burdens more unbearable than they already
are. I take this very, very seriously.
There were occasions when the nurse(s) would say “I hope you
feel better,” while walking out of the room to fetch the doctor.
That always caught me off-guard and made me realize that no
one had ever spoken those words to me before. It was far more
common for me to see my suffering denied outright so as to pre-
serve the security of the other party, or I was told “Of course it
will get better, don’t be silly,” take-it-for-granted attitude which,
though they may have thought as supportive, only seemed negli-
gent.
I can’t allow anyone to ever regret believing in me.
I was never offered an apology in life. Actually, that’s not true—I

can recall a single apology that I received in the year 2007 from
someone who hurt me (even though it was contingent on them
wanting something from me and could have had fuck-all to do
with actual empathy), although that is not the standard. Those
who hurt me would rather excuse their behavior by saying “It
happens,” or “Nobody’s perfect,” and will inevitably find a means
of sidling away from the humility; the humanity. Honestly, I was
never one to think much of apologies and forgiveness and have
had my share of criticism to spew, especially within the Vzdut-

pondo years. However, despite all I’ve had to say, I must imagine
that it would have made some sort of difference in my life to hear
those words at some point, especially in the case that they were
to be seen as code for “Let’s work together and get this right.”
I don’t say or do anything with the intention of ‘getting a rise

out of people’. It’s not in my nature. I neither dislike nor thrive
on attention of this sort, wanting only to be known as I am or
otherwise not at all. On the contrary, I will often sand down the
edges of my declarations, company depending. Unfortunately, I
have spent my life among those who write off all strong emotions
and ‘unique’ personalities as being the product of some grab for
attention and that is highly unfortunate, and it is partly for that
reason that I feel the need to even be making this statement at
all.
It will never cease to disturb me that the corpses of society can

so easily and conveniently convince themselves of this idea that
it is I who is the corpse. They can act out in the most reprehen-
sible of ways, and yet the one whose ailment is visible will always
be looked upon as the lesser, and I may end up being written off
with the so-called ‘toxic’ folks due only to my material condi-
tions, rather than because of my attitude and personality. It hurts
beyond what I can describe. I don’t have to see it to know that it
happens. I know that many others suffer similarly—they must.
Much of the so-called avant-garde is emotionally sterile, follow-

ing some stale retrofuturistic template veering on the ironic. I
don’t like it one bit, and I sure do not like that my work has be-
come associated with the sort. When I see the sort of bands that
crop up in the “Related Artists” section of my online music pro-
file I have to wonder: do my listeners view this all as some joke?
Is my project but some amusing bit of whimsy spaffed out in the
name of ‘art’ and nothing more? Can they not tell the difference
between irony, comedy and the work of one who is rather emo-
tionally delirious (or just a senseless addict)...? For instance, I was
just listening to The Rifles in Mind Recoil, considered to be one
of my darkest albums—an album confronting what seemed like
an inevitable suicide scheduled to take place within days of my
recording. Some may take the quality at face value, in which case
they may think “It doesn’t seem like he is putting much effort in-
to his vocals,” or “He sounds like he’s trying to be weird,” but in
my mind I hear a tortured child who just took his dose of opiates
and hopes to god it will change something... anything. And he
wants to sing... his sanity depends upon it... but he doesn’t know
what to sing about if not the ever-present terror that closes in on
him from all angles concomitantly... and he hardly contains the
energy to make for any more than the most lethargic noises... but
it’s still worth it to him even if that is all that comes out, because
at least, then, he will have something to show for this experience,
and with that song, how unlistenable it may be, he will be able
to convince himself that this nightmare was not entirely without
benefit. I would say that the majority of foundations were laid
down while I was on the come-up of Kratom/opiates and then
fleshed out between doses, mostly since that is when I felt the
strongest sense of positivity—not related to the actual effects of
the drug, but due to the hope that it might change something,
anything, and allow me to get by a little bit longer without suf-
fering a total collapse.
I dearly wish to imagine that there will come those who ded-
icate themselves to the task of taking in my work within its prop-
er context and respecting my vision as I’ve laid it out. I’ll have
my passive, inattentive listeners who give the albums a rating as
if it all comes down to ‘good’, ‘bad’ and ‘basic’ creativity, with
no greater consideration to be paid my way. Yet the progression
heard in these albums was not merely that of a musician chang-
ing or evolving his style in a natural fashion over the course of
four years, but a very dark transformation taking place within the
turbulent life of a helpless and neglected individual. When it is
taken in like a story, as in from start to finish, it tends to sound
very different. Things that might otherwise sound odd or amus-
ing now seem sad. Things that, in some circumstances, might
sound triumphant now sound unusually dark or ironic. Context
is crucial in all cases. I know this society hates it. It gives them
cramps, affecting their ability to make reality into whatever they
want it to be, but it is so important to all of life and not less to
art.
I would never be so grandiose as to think of myself as some savior

of mankind or anything so fateful, although I have surely com-
mitted myself to doing all that I can to overcoming and breaking
down the walls in place which separate man from man, and man
from Existence. There are separatrices among us which I believe
to be soluble, and even if they cannot be dissolved by one man
alone, I am committed to acknowledging them and doing all
that I can to leave a dent. Not everyone who wishes to improve
the state and condition of the world is a self-righteous sop seek-
ing the camera. Yea, as cynical as I tend to be, I do not believe
that everyone who seeks such an outcome is a selfish, self-impor-
tant hog, although I would also hesitate to regard it as virtue out-

right, only because it has a lot to say of an innate disposition.
Many of the stories and social characterizations with which we

are familiar have either to do with some people-pleaser devoid
of all soul, living only to serve others, or hyper-individualists so
far up their own asses who are seeing the world as the enemy and
blinded to the lives of others. I don’t fit into either of these char-
acterizations. An individualist though I may be—at least in some
senses of the word—I care deeply about the opinions and per-
ceptions of those with whom I am forced to share this earth. The
alternative is insensible to me. And although I am stern in my
principles and unlikely to compromise, it does hurt me to defend
them, in a sense. It hurts to have to defend myself in that way. Just
because something is wrong doesn’t make it somehow irrelevant.
Even if I don’t agree with the way things are, or happen to find
someone’s actions inexcusable, it can’t be pushed aside so easily.
I can’t say “They’re wrong so I won’t let it bother me.” It’s not as
simple as these stupid motivational memes paint it out to be.
I have never harbored a “Screw you, I do my own thing and
go my own way,” kind of approach. I would describe my ap-
proach as being more along the lines of ‘retiring to the moun-
tain for a decade and then returning with treasure for the masses’.
Some people are fine creating for their own amusement and nev-
er seek to push their works upon the world or acquire any sort of
celebrity for themselves. And then there are many persons whose
only motive is to entertain and impress others and view the cre-
ative process purely as a means to an end. I am a sort of hybrid
of the two, as I create for myself, creating what I wish to create
and what brings me joy and meaning, because I know that that
is how to truly reach the people. It is what is most beneficial to
myself AND to others. The public benefits most from the per-
sonal, in a sense, although I’m not sure that that is the best way
of wording/framing it.
I do not consider myself iconoclastic or rebellious. Perhaps
I would be called such things by the standards of society due to
my unwillingness to compromise, but surely I do not deliberate-
ly seek out anything but creation, and I am willing to do what is
necessary to create. If that requires destruction I will consent un-
questioningly.
Oddly enough, the onset of physical illness contributed to a

gradual drop-off in anxiety and neurosis over time. It sort of
sobered up my mind from all the depression, as if it suddenly had
occurred to me that this life will try to break me on its own with-
out my having to bring unnecessary damage upon myself.
I dislike that there seems to be this unspoken assumption that

those who deviate from the norm do so accidentally because
there is something innately wrong with them. Or otherwise they
do it for no valid reason other than in seeking after attention
(leading to the popular ‘snowflake’ insult). God forbid anyone
come to the conclusion that our standard way of doing things is
utterly unhealthy and keeps the population in a sick stasis. Any-
way, that’s how I feel when others look at me or listen to my mu-
sic or read what I have to say. As if any of my work is ‘weird’ by
accident or like I am unaware of the fact that my stance differs
from others, and they cannot fathom why anyone would bring
such disdain upon themselves when it is far easier to fall in line
and conform.
**It was known that I ignored communications during my years

of isolation and at times I flaunted that fact, but ultimately it was
not but some basic negligence on my part as much as it was a re-
fusal to respond to those whose intentions I questioned—espe-
cially people from my old church whose only interest in my per-
son was tainted by some stupid, misguided sense of duty. I wasn’t
ignoring people to be a jerk. I was ignoring them because I didn’t
wish to be abused and objectified any more. My early experiences
traumatized me more than I realized at the time. I lost most of
my childhood friends as soon as I began questioning my beliefs,
and then the rest of my friends disappeared in 2007 for college,
making no attempts to keep in touch. Then my girlfriend aban-
doned me suddenly, Patrick was sent away to a boys home, my
fraternity became psychotic and the whole thing with Jasmine,
and you’ve got a really traumatized situation for me. There are a
lot of cases like this where I feel like others can turn around and
call me out and say that I was a bad friend due to my decision to
pull out of society and isolate—a move which my ex-girlfriend
seemed to hold against me as if I had turned my back on the
friends in my life—but such a stance was perpetuated in igno-
rance of how I actually felt, and what had actually happened in
my life (and in denial of what she herself had done to hurt me).
I was the one who had been abandoned. So anyone who wants
to perpetuate this notion that I’m a jerk for wanting to retreat
after being betrayed and abandoned again and again by the peo-
ple who claimed to be my friends can get lost. And no one was
there for me after my breakdown in the spring of 2008. No one,
including my ex-girlfriend, who was too inebriated in that year
to ever really respond to my messages and to my cries for help.
So the fact that she could hold onto that faulty notion of my na-
ture is just sheer defensive ignorance. I was hurt so terribly by the
lack of support that I received in this time, be it from family and

friends. I think that this really paved the way for my ridiculous
actions in 2009, which involved my self-diagnosing with psy-
chosis and other sympathy-seeking or competitive actions, be-
cause fundamentally I was so upset by the fact that my suffering
was being denied and disacknowledged and so I felt like I had to
give it a name and act in certain ways to give more weight to my
agony, and this was such a huge disaster which discolored 2009
and probably is what ultimately ruined my life/health.
I have not been able to have a real conversation or share my

thoughts with the public in many years since each attempt to
speak inevitably becomes but another unconscious attempt to
prove to them that I am one of them, whether by attempting to
show my awareness of popular culture or what have you, and the
result is both inauthentic and neurotic, even if it has me appear-
ing normal by their standards.
Such was a benefit of my insularity, my isolation: my standards

were not set and established by the people in my life, the people
on television—pundits and preachers and popular kids lying
through their fangs. My standards were set through investigative
efforts and utopian dreams.
In this lifetime of diligence, in which I received not a single

acknowledgment of my strength, my talents, or my kindness, I
cared only that they were being seen by the child that I once was.
This chapter has been so difficult for me to write. I don’t actually

want it to be this way. I want him to pull through at the very end.
I want him to realize the weight of this moment in time. I wish
he would realize that I am soon to be gone forever and that he
holds the ability to lessen the coming turmoil that will soon be
upon him. How dark it is that such a conversation can’t even be
had with a person who claims to love me. How dark it is. He still
seems to think that I am going to leave this place and start afresh
in some other location and marry and live a long life among so-
ciety, as if nothing occurring in these years was consequential or
meaningful at all; as if these thirty years of disease will brush off
like a scab. He doesn’t understand anything about who I am or
how I spend my time. He won’t open his eyes to the fact that my
life is at its end, and surely he won’t understand how eagerly I
welcome it.
But when he cites respect as the problem he does not refer to

decency, for I treat every man and woman with the respect that
they merit by nature of their humanness. The respect to which
he is constantly referring is rather some kingly esteem which en-
titles him to having every one of wishes fulfilled—some Daddy
Dearest type acknowledgment which I will not give even at the
cost of death. The self-cannibalizing vortex spurred on by my fa-
ther’s mistreatment knowing I can’t talk it out like I would with
a normal person. He is at the root of nearly every negative thing
in my life.
This world so strongly associates the concepts of violence and

abuse with the physical sphere that it doesn’t consider the dam-
age being done via perversion of definitions and meanings. Say-
ing ‘yes’ and meaning ‘no’; being punished without being offered
a proper reason; being locked away in your closet of a bedroom
for fifteen years and indoctrinated with the most horrible lies
and propaganda which paints the world as it is not.
My pain is more existential and philosophical than some simple

“Why you no hug me and tell me I’m good?” The idea that some-
one can watch me dying and deny it outright, while consistent-
ly telling me that I have no idea how good, or easy, I truly have
it. The fact that someone who claims to love me and even be-
lieves that they do but uses each day to endanger me and show
me how little they truly care about me. The psychological ele-
ments at play are maddening, and I can feel it killing me physi-
cally. I can actually feel it. If you knew what this did to me physi-
cally... pain and despair so destructive... so agonizing which leave
me feeling I might vomit. The stress in me... it feels like I am
filled with snipping snakes. Every muscle is weeping for relief.
The muscles within my throat are constricting. My head becomes
dizzy and lightheaded and photosensitive from all of the nervous
anxiety. I overcame panic attacks circa 2014, before which I was
experiencing them daily and often simply out of a fear of having
a panic attack. The only thing that has brought me anxiety since
then is family matters, especially relating to my father and sister.
I can’t imagine that the masses are aware of just how it... festers.
It’s self-cannibalization, and I can feel my body destroying itself.
I can’t explain the relief that comes over time when I get a bad
chest pain... thinking this is it, and that a heart attack has come
to save me at least.
It was a very difficult transition, having lived through so many

years of feeling myself like some heroic character. Yet if I was tru-
ly what the people wanted, one has to imagine that there would
have been more like me.
Not being seen by the world for who and what we are is the price
that some of us must pay to see the world for what it is.
Don’t let that leave you with the impression that I have found no
favor with others. Yet even those with whom I have found favor
never seem to actually see me. They just look right through me,
even while claiming to value my contribution, yet without actu-
ally appearing as if they are actually capable of listing off a single
goddamn attribute which sets me apart from the others in their
life. It’s not like I’m asking to be praised and esteemed for my
‘uniqueness’. I am neither so unrealistic nor egotistical; but I’ve
put in too great an effort to be looked at as mere timepass. I have
too much to offer to be appreciated simply for my presence. And
unfortunately I was right to feel so unfulfilled, because not a sin-
gle individual ever made an attempt to keep in touch with me af-
ter I stopped showing up in the spring.
I could no longer count on the people to mean what they said. I

could no longer count on something so basic. I could no longer
expect anything of reality. It was not intellectual preoccupation
but an engraving on my soul.
My favorite part about this empire that I built, or one of them, is

that nearly all that I have ever released to the public was created
without the intention of being released. So much of what now
constitutes my creative oeuvre is simply my going about my daily
life, testing things out, having a spill. If I only released the mu-
sic that was perfectly to my liking I would have maybe six albums
of material to my name. If I had only released the artwork and
writings in which I was wholly confident I would be leaving you
with only a small fraction of what I have produced. It is one of
the most pleasant things in my life that I reached a point where
I could show everything off with pride. I’m very lucky that I was
even able to develop my identity and image, as it were, around
such a stance, to where it does not subtract from but add to the
world that I have built. It is liberating. A lot of people think of
art as being the finished product. That, to me, is like saying that a
man is his corpse. More of our time and thought is occupied by
the constructing process. Therefore I see it as more important, all
in all. Time to take it back!
These days I am arguing in my head on a near-constant basis, and

with the same set of people. They are arguments that never actu-
ally occurred, typically. It is sheer agony. Most of my thoughts re-
volve around the same dozen or so individuals—some of whom
I haven’t even seen or spoken to in more than half a decade at
this point. The interactions linger, often because I was disallowed
from ever representing my side and received no closure in the re-
lationship.
Many within the spiritual circuit subscribe to this idea that ‘we
are all one’, and though I do not believe in that idea myself, I be-
lieve that no thought is disconnected from other thoughts, and

in that way each person can be viewed as being connected or
‘based on’ another, like a strange nonlinear continuation; like a
singular story playing out across billions of marks.
He was never able to strike a balance in his life. It’s either that
he is all in for himself at the expense of others or living out some
self-depriving existence. It is madness to me. I, on the other hand,
am approaching each situation in terms of how I could build for
myself and for others simultaneously, as in how I can create one
work that benefits all. That’s how I generally operate. I wouldn’t
say that it has anything to do with virtue. It’s just my default.
It’s very surreal to have lived so long, and through all that I have.
As far as I am concerned, I am a decade past my breaking point.
Sometimes we live through dreadful experiences and discover
that it wasn’t as bad as we once thought, or that we are stronger
than we give ourselves credit for. I don’t always know how to feel
about the events of this past decade. I could speak some pret-
ty motivational verses, and I’m tempted to, feeling that my po-
sition gives me a platform to inspire, but it is not so simple to
organize my thoughts on the matter. My reality has been ripped
from me: physically, conceptually. I am not living in the same
world in which I started out and I can’t smile and pretend that
it was worth it—not yet. This isn’t life... what I’ve experienced. I
am tucked away in some private black hole. It’s sort of like how I
remember my diphenhydramine overdose all those years ago (at
the age of seventeen): it’s weird, it’s trippy, and I thought I want-
ed all of that; but it’s not enjoyable at all... it’s just this disgust-
ing... itchy... retching... slithering infinity, and the results come at

the expense of my comfort.
In many ways it can be said that I have spent my life more fo-
cused on the bridge between Heaven and earth, as it were, than
on Heaven itself. For me there is no relief in escaping the fire: not
until everyone is out of the building; not until we understand the
cause of the fire with enough confidence to say that it is within
our control and shall never reoccur.
“One who has sacrificed everything for you, lies in the dust on
his way to you.” (from Laila and Majnun, written on the inner lip
of my “Honey Trunk” in which is contained my 70-CD collec-
tion created in 2015 and intended for Anita).
Long ago, when I was still of the mind to desire children of my

own, I often claimed that I would be naming my children ‘Ex-
hibit A’ and ‘Exhibit B’, dezinezinet. It was partly intended as
an asexual joke which equated copulation with a crime. Prior to
becoming an anti-natalist I did have names selected for possi-
ble offspring. Around 2008 I remember selecting Ladolez Cesare
for a son, whereas I liked the names Sundenna and Tendril for
a girl (I liked that Tendril seemed as if it was saying Tendon Jr.
without stooping to naming a child Tendon Jr.). Of course this
was decades ago. Ladolez, which (or who) was recurrently men-
tioned in my music, derived from a vision of blue flowers from
February or March 2008, and when looking for blue flowers on-
line or at the local nursery I came across blue morning glory
flowers, which were called ladolez in another language, although
the term means bindweed. Cesare was taken from The Cabinet
of Dr. Caligari: Cesare the somnambulist.
I would not expect to be believed were I to share with the world

how severe my trauma has become in time. I lie in bed shaking
most days. It starts up as soon as I wake, and I have to quickly
submerge myself in my work before it overtakes me, which gives
me about thirty minutes from the time that I wake (at best),
though I usually start working within minutes after waking. And
throughout the day, hundreds and hundreds of intrusive
thoughts vie for my focus until I feel I am drowning in a black
and endless well. I have no pleasant memories which do not exist
within proximity of traumatic ones, and so I can’t think back
on anything in times of struggle to maintain positivity. I have to
think of my ‘future’ and what I wish for. I have to imagine Anita,
or I have to imagine that I am being observed by my child self.
Nothing else works. My reaction is always the same. It’s not like
I convulse and cry and rock. I don’t react in a deranged or dis-
turbed manner which would appear obvious to onlookers. I sim-
ply carry on with my tasks while my insides are destroying them-
selves in some sick autophagy. I will just say that... the day that
I leave this earth will be the greatest day of my life. I am now in
the best position to do so, being without both regrets and attach-
ments. I am only waiting to complete my mystical operation at
this point and then I will be on my way.
For years as I fell asleep I would imagine I was on an operating

table and my senses were picking up on the sounds of an operat-
ing room and I would imagine Anita sitting nearby, as if to im-
ply that my whole life had been only a psychedelic nightmare. I
would squint my eyes, and the tears in my eyelashes would pick

up the light from the ceiling fixture and take on various mesmer-
izing shapes. Similarly, whenever I went out driving with some-
one I would always stare out the window and away from the dri-
ver so that I could pretend in my head that a lover or wife was
beside me at the wheel and I would smile to myself as I thought
up all these scenarios about where we might be going—all usu-
ally mundane, but so warmly welcomed. In those brief moments
I was able to imagine that I was finally leaving this life behind in
the company of one who cares.
Perhaps it is all for the best that I could leave this world without
having to see my cherished work and revelations picked apart
and scrutinized by heartless scholars and anonymous degener-
ates on the internet.
By becoming truly human, one becomes an alien in this world.
The point is, I never once sat down and thought “I am going to
put my all into making a great album.” No, I didn’t think in terms
of albums, specifically, when working on the Tendon Levey pro-
ject (which is actually very unlike my nature). So my ‘albums’ are
rather clusters which lump together a specific feeling or epoch.
When the epoch ends, or the feeling leaves, I start anew. If I
was trying to make a solid album I would have done things very,
very differently—especially considering I’ve my roots in the prog
genre and prefer to make complex conceptual albums. I’ve said it
before: the Tendon Levey discography is not a good example of
my writing, and not necessarily even my tastes. It’s all an exercise
in capturing the moment. A lot of songs within this discography,

in my opinion, do not even sound like me, or what I see as being
‘my style’. I cared more about variety and progression at the time
and didn’t allow myself to stay in my little comfort bubble.
Some albums follow my natural path progression, some devi-
ate, and it has naught to do with how I rate them overall. Quick-
sand Part Person deviated. Conclude Us Power deviated. Rice Wa-
ter kept on the path and feels like my handiwork. I often cite
“The Call That Calls For Response” as an example of the direc-
tion in which I was heading with my music, as well as being the
sort of stuff I enjoy listening to again and again. It has that wist-
ful, sentimental quality that I enjoy; the dark, the tragic, the ro-
mantic, the poignant, the poetic.
I often sought new approaches with the Tendon Levey pro-
ject not necessarily because I was in favor of that approach but
because it was something I hadn’t yet tried before. Sometimes
I ended up enjoying it and sometimes not so much. So I really
don’t like to have my music up online where it can be rated piece-
meal, because I don’t see them as ‘pieces’. I feel as if the masses are
eating my weeks, my months, my moods. I should have never re-
leased my work—that’s what I feel when I am speaking from my
emotions. Really, I would likely feel worse knowing I had never
shown them off, these works of which I am so proud, but I just
wish that the outcome would have been different... would have
been something, anything...
I see it similarly to the tarot in the sense that you can isolate
an album and ruminate over what it means—as most surely
will—but the ‘real’ meaning is found by viewing it all as a jour-
ney; a story of interconnected parts, the worth whereof is found
and determined not within its individual elements but by its pro-
gression. The art, the words—all else is supplementary to the sto-
ry of an individual’s growth. Our symbols, our passions, our ob-
sessions: they were never meant to stand alone, existing like stars
within a grand constellation. Only once we recognize their rela-
tionship to one another can we begin to discover the shape that
our constellation takes and the myth that it produces.
I am somewhat excited to revert back to a more traditional com-

positional process, if temporarily. I have been very outspoken,
over time, about my love for improvisation and still find it to be
the most satisfying (and productive) approach overall in that it
captures the essence of the moment. Clearly I love the Tendon
Levey project, but it was about as ‘uncool’ and inelegant as I
could muster, and I kind of want to do something that feels like
cinematic art again and not just like an outpouring of vomit. I’m
sure we’ll try out and explore a variety of means, but I know that
I want to at least revisit my original works (Divinity of Idem and
Hospital Ship).
As a kid I had these WWE ‘squirt heads’ and they would always
be lying around in the yard and in the sandbox (I was never ac-
tually into wrestling but for some reason I owned a lot of the
toys way back when). It looks like they only created these ‘squirt
heads’ for a limited time, which is surprising to me, since I always
thought of them as a cool idea. I would love to see a ‘squirt head’
made of my own face and people can be encouraged to fill it with
red wine. Then it spits wine... which also looks like blood. I don’t
know. That just seemed appropriate. Merchandisers take note.
As much as I would like to convince others of my harmlessness,

I wouldn’t actually say that I am harmless. I am dangerous, and
incredibly so. Though I am benevolent—truly—as true benevo-

lence can only come once there has been acknowledged an alter-
native, or, in other words, once one’s capacity for violence and
‘evil’ is confronted and tamed. It’s quite nice to experience such
a state of mind, of being. To choose humility. To know my dark-
ness and to set it aside, choosing kindness: it is a large part of
who I am, or how I see myself. Our relationship to darkness and
‘evil’, as it were, is not determined by propensity but by decision,
and most persons avoid the decision altogether when they refuse
to acknowledge their propensity. They are not benevolent, and
they are not sane. They are reagents awaiting a catalyst, wolves
awaiting a moon. And it’s scary to look out into our world and
see so many people convinced utterly of their own stability and
uprightness, when all I see is those who haven’t yet been put to
the test.
Notwithstanding the toll that it has taken on my
health—something that would have been avoidable with proper
knowledge and awareness—I am pleased to have ‘forced myself ’
into a state of insanity so young, and that I was able to act it out
in full within my solitude. It did me a lot of good. When others
speak of growth they are so often speaking about changes as such
that occur naturally over time without any added effort. Authen-
tic growth is so uncommon due to it being paradoxical, requir-
ing us to step back and to demolish all that we understand and
all that we desire for ourselves before we can truly progress in un-
derstanding. The masses want to renovate their houses, choos-
ing fun wallpaper, furniture and flooring, while improvement
and growth may require us to go beyond the superficial, tear-
ing up the structure itself and redoing the support before build-
ing anew thereupon. I ripped up all my termite-eaten floors, re-
placing them with something that could handle all the wear and
weight of what was to come. I don’t know if I’ve written out that
analogy as best as I could, but it works.
We simply held to differing ideas of what a relationship entailed.

For her, it was a hiking partner; a dining partner; a Facebook sta-
tus. For me it was two people committed to growing and over-
coming with one another. And it sounds insulting when I put it
in such a way, since no one is going to deny that the latter is what
they want, yet many people simply aren’t prepared for what that
entails. You find it in relationships as you find it in religion, be-
cause these institutions draw people in with the misguided no-
tion that it will act as a cure-all for all pains and problems, and
the last thing that such individuals want to do is put in more ef-
fort and deal with more issues.
There is also the problem that no one is sharing of themselves

and their soul, so when I share with them my own they regard it
as an imbalance within the relationship, not realizing how much
I would have listened to and supported their own needs. And
this creates an improper dynamic, as if I’m asking or expecting
too much from them simply to be speaking of topics consid-
ered “deep” by the majority (yet since when did domestic and
emotional experience and matters with which all are acquainted
come to constitute some sort of depths beyond the grasp of the
tired?). I don’t know... I’m just analyzing.
I often wonder as to the prevalence of actual, selfless kindness

and compassion within our world. Everyone has their own es-
timates, which they base upon their individual experience, but
as a psychological and typological student I know all too well

that what most of us are quick to regard as the kindest, most
loving people among us are no more prone to care and com-
passion than anyone else, if not being even less likely to experi-
ence such emotions on a deeper level, surely as the parts of our-
selves that we extravert are typically, though not always, the as-
pects to which we, or our identities, are less attached, and this
realization would change how most people experience their so-
cial interactions. And I’ve already had much to say on my dis-
taste with modern conceptions of empathy which is almost al-
ways being confused with a lack of self-others distinction within
the population (while also being used and abused as a means of
self-consolation). Thus we cannot be so quick to harbor such as-
sumptions based only upon superficial indicators. There are dif-
ferent journeys, different propensities. For one individual, the
challenge will be learning how to say “no”, whereas for another,
the challenge will be learning how to say “yes.” All in all, I believe
that actual, selfless kindness and compassion, as I’ve described
them, are far, far rarer than we understand. But as I said in anoth-
er case, it is not some damned diamond which only exists with-
in limited quantities within the earth. No, not that type of rar-
ity. It is generated and maintained via conscious, disciplined ef-
forts and can be so by all who give themselves over, honestly and
wholly, to the task. This is not about human nature. The rarity of
such care and kindness is reflective of the priorities of the masses
who are known for not putting in any more effort than they ab-
solutely must, according to their perceptions, and if you can get
by in life as you are, why try for anything more? “Why change
when I’ve managed for fifty years as I have?” That’s something
my father often said during our conversations back in the period
of 2012-2014.
At the end of my life on earth, I sit considering all that which

got me to this point. Of course it may be said that every action
on my part has amounted to the sum of all that I am in this
moment, though there are certain acts, decisions and even losses
which have played a larger role in my spiritual success. I repeat-
edly find myself reflecting on my lack of power and relationships
and acceptance—all for which I have become increasingly grate-
ful. It’s interesting, since these are the very things that men spend
their whole lives seeking after, but their absence is what saved me.
Acceptance in any form enslaves the potential of our person. I
look around at those who have become renown for some gim-
mick and then spend the rest of their lives confined to repeating
and expounding upon that same gimmick. How utterly depress-
ing. That is just one example, however.
Saying this might upset or otherwise repel those of my read-
ers who are actively involved in happy, heathy relationships, be it
family or other loved ones, and I am not saying that one cannot
walk the length of the desert in fetters, but I do believe that it
will be ever more difficult to get to where you must be if you have
such attachments in life, not only due to how such attachments
alter one’s self-perceptions (our perception of our own worth,
strength and ability, dezinezinet) but in how they tend to create
additional means of resistance and attachment, amounting to a
problematic situation for any who wish to transcend their par-
adigm. This may also differ from individual to individual. I try
to avoid discouraging my readers, but there is a reason that it is
called the Dissolving Path, after all, and while I would never seek
to influence others to pull away from a situation in which they
find happiness and belonging, regardless of what I tend to think
about the verity thereof, I might encourage those who have yet
to find their family in life to practice acceptance of where they
are at, adjusting to the notion that their solitariness may be a

blessing indeed.
As with all that I say, take not these words as the laws of a
teacher, but as the advice of a fellow seeker.
I simply do not trust those who regularly indulge in drugs and

alcohol. It isn’t merely some generic anti-drug stance. It all comes
down to my ability to trust in the sensibility and consistency of
those in whom I invest my time and faith. I need to trust that
events are going to register in others to a predictable degree. If
I get in a conflict with someone and come back a day later I ex-
pect there to have been some analysis and reflection. If I see them
drunk and laughing or pissing themselves I see they’ve complete-
ly bypassed the natural and mandatory process of adaptation and
I cannot rind it in me to trust such people. Seeing what became
of my sister broke my heart in ways from which it can never re-
cover. Her responses to circumstances are all askew due to her
lifestyle choices and the people in whom she has placed her faith.
It’s horrible. So there’s my take on drugs and substance use in
general, including alcohol. We owe it to ourselves and to every-
one around us to keep our senses sharp and to register and re-
spond to circumstances in a way that is appropriate, consistent
and respectful, and I greatly respect those who can learn to sit
with their difficult thoughts and feelings and to allow everything
to actually be worked out like a math problem in the soberness
of thought.
In recent years I’ve mixed with my share of stoners—not in-
tentionally but in my attempts to find others who share my ap-
preciation for art and music—and while I wouldn’t say that they
are bad people, they were not fit as friends, being incapable of
seeing two feet in front of them and being perpetually neglect-
ful and forgetful due to a general lack of awareness and memory

and it resulted in a lot of negative feelings on my end, although I
wouldn’t feel right slamming them since, like I said, these are not
bad people; although they let me down in my time of need and
I feel very, very negatively about such individuals, who I would
never think to consider as friends. I would sooner entrust my
hopes and my heart to a concrete wall.
If one can not be trusted to perceive and retain relevant in-
formation with certain accuracy then how can they be trusted in
any capacity? I look at most, if not all of the people in my life
and I am unable to expect that they will recall any of the impor-
tant interactions occurring between us, least of all what I entitled
to them in confidence and sincerity. They may maintain impres-
sions, but sure enough those impressions will be worked and ma-
nipulated, if unconsciously, to suit their needs.
I have always been made to feel like I am expecting too much.

Like when the doctor would see me for four minutes then leave
and I would ask the nurse if they were coming back and they
would respond “Oh of course not!” like if I was a fool of a boy to
expect that I would be offered anything more than the smallest
allotment of your distracted focus after paying half a grand out
of pocket in my wish to have my issue resolved.
**Countertorch may be an enjoyable listen and an apt send-off,

but I think that my greatest musical achievements came in the
latter months of 2009, oddly enough (given how I have been
known to shun many works from this year). Northern Thorns and
Rifles in Mind are especially powerful—both of which are neute-
rocanonical compilations assembled from rejected and forgotten
tracks. Through these albums I achieved something scary which

may not have been possible through deliberation, incidentally
capturing and embodying the experience of insanity and suici-
dality, respectively.
Now, my music may not be the sort that immediately comes
to mind when one thinks of sadness. We’ve got our tropes all
worked out at this point, and sad music, to us, should be this
sort of mopey, if boring music, slow and sodden (as if there is no
more to depression and anxiety and suicidality than a bit of neg-
ativity!). No! Depression is an attack on reality—a reality that
many of us wish to keep. Thus suicidality does not always mani-
fest in such a manner, especially when not all who experience sui-
cidal thoughts and urges have resigned themselves to death and
would still prefer to overcome what holds them back. For those
who wish to keep on living, there is an added element of desper-
ation. There is flailing, floundering and the need to psyche one-
self up. To the unknowing, it may appear rather eccentric: a per-
verse sort of excitement or happiness. This strange display comes
about due to the fact that, as much as we wish to live, we don’t
really know how to accomplish that. We don’t know how to con-
tinue on through such conditions, and our efforts to change the
way we feel display themselves in a way that is confused.
Another quality about my music that I’ve come to prize is
how these songs which at first listen seem so hyper and eccentric
are simultaneously weary and lethargic, and once you hear that
weariness you cannot unhear it. It becomes quite strange to lis-
ten to, but it is a state with which many can sympathize: fighting
without strength; walking without aim; the refusal to give up de-
spite a lack of hope, a lack of direction, a lack of certainty. I think
my discography on the whole really pulls a lot from this, which
is why I become so defensive to think that people will misunder-
stand the music. I would say that the strangeness of certain pe-
riods is far less attributable to delirium or silliness than lethargy,

pure and simple. I don’t really trust that people can hear a voice
and discern the difference between ‘suicidal opiate addict with
throat injury singing songs even when he doesn’t actually see the
purpose or have the strength’ and ‘wacky musician standing in
a recording studio putting on a weird voice solely for the pur-
pose of being different’. It should be obvious to all who read my
works how much it bothers me... to think that people can’t read-
ily ascertain the nature and tone of my works. I see the kind of
people that I attract, and it has given me every reason to be con-
cerned. I don’t know that even a single person has yet taken the
time to read from any of the informative biographical resources
over which I have slaved for years. Perhaps I have once again giv-
en the masses too much credit to think that they would ever care
to know someone‘s intent. Of course, in this society where it is
far more common to hear people arguing for “the death of the
author” and other batshit.
**All that the media puts out is so digestible, so tropified, and I

just feel that there hasn’t been a suitable representation of these
complex states of mind, or existence, among the mainstream. For
the mainstream, everything is color coded. A frown means that
one is sad. A smile means that one is joyous. We do have the
whole “happy music with sad lyrics” trope which is becoming
more and more of a trend, it seems, but that, in itself, is still very
superficial in how it is employed, and I would love to see our por-
trayals of these states becoming more nuanced.
I wish that I could get back the confidence of my Tendon years

which began diminishing around 2015 and saw a total drop
off in 2018. I was so confident and for so many years, all of it

earned through tenuous labor. I do think that some of the lessons
learned since that time, while unbearably painful, were impor-
tant to the growth of my perspective, as I have become more ob-
jective and sensible in the expectations that I maintain and the
views I harbor, although in this case I speak of objectivity as a
sort of homogeneity with society, which ultimately says noth-
ing about what is true on the fundamental level and only what is
most widely accepted. I think there was something purer about
who I was and what I believed all those years ago. I was following
my own compass, which is not to say that I was doing whatever
the hell I pleased, but that I was adhering only to my convictions
of what constituted right and wrong. So what do I think of it all
if not having to factor in what I know of the workings of society?
How do I feel about myself and my achievements? Absolute sat-
isfaction, absent regret. And that is strange to reflect upon, since
my final years of life have been drowned in shame. It’s like being
eaten by piranhas all day, every day. Yet it does nothing to change
my answer.
The nearer I’ve come to achieving my goal, the more amplified

my feelings of helplessness have become. I’ve never felt so help-
less in all my life. I have gone through hell to develop the skills
and understanding and resilience and empathy that I have and
it is of seemingly no use within this world. I can’t reach anyone.
And I’m not just talking about ranting at people like some high
and mighty messiah. I am talking about connections on the most
basic level. I can’t reach anyone—eye to eye, heart to heart.
Words are useless. Intent is useless. We’re all living in different
realities, telling ourselves what we must in order to survive. I’m
scared of what I see. I am losing sleep at night, unable to accept
the discrepancies of reality. I am imploding. I would rather die

than put up with this for another moment. I can literally feel my
body disintegrating as it toils in a constant state of tension and
dis-ease—so much of it coming from the agony caused by my
awareness.
There is something to be said for the fact that we see others’ im-
mediate reactions to us through the lens of our self-perceived of-
fering. For example, I interpret my reception in life foremostly
through the lens of my art and mysticism and this determines my
stance. This is also why so many people are quick to respond with
cynicism and offense, because they give the world their bod-
ies, their sex, their attitude, and then they anticipate that every-
one wants them for the wrong reasons. Yet those are the rea-
sons we’ve given them to want us! Our own instincts are in re-
volt against our so-called choices. Still, they spend all their time
dancing in their underwear and flexing their muscles on the in-
ternet and social media, and then they doubt the intentions of
everyone they meet. It’s so self-defeating. And all I would like to
say to that is this: we disparage the intent of others by harbor-
ing ill motives within ourselves. I know this to be true of my own
life, having previously said “The reason they are so quick to dis-
trust me is the same reason I am so quick to trust them: because
we expect from others what we know to be true of ourselves.” It’s
why I do not resemble the standard misanthrope or cynic, de-
spite my tendency to brandish those terms. In reality, I am more
like someone who sees the state we’re in and weeps. I’ve never let
my awareness become a reason to pull me away from the world.
It only changes the approach that I take.
Think of it like when you encounter a wild animal and you
simply wish to help it out or feed it, yet it ends up fleeing, and
you only wish that it was capable of understanding your inten-

tions and that you mean it no harm. I actually think about this a
lot, silly though it sounds. It brings me great sadness, and I must
wonder how different the world would be if animals could read-
ily understand what we mean to convey to them, not viewing us
as a threat when we only mean to support and nurture them (al-
though it is clear that not everyone is so well-meaning). I feel
the same way about people, since no matter how developed is
our language, our paradigm prevents true communication from
occurring and all that I am saying must undergo a process of
transliteration where it conforms to the lens of their own experi-
ences and subsequently finds itself deprived of all original intent;
all soul.
I’ve been a bit unclear in terms of what I expect of others or even

recommend in this regard, so let me say: it is not necessary to
publicize your annals. In fact, I’m not even sure that it comes
with any benefit for the majority (and potentially the opposite).
I just know that I, in seeking vulnerability, have opted to take
such a route and stance. It is also the best way of explaining to all
what I am about, and so I use myself as a template to show others
how I work.
I cannot help but regret all interactions that I have had in life,
knowing that nothing of lasting value ever came from a single
one of them. Whether or not that is actually true—upon a more
thorough examination—it is how I feel day after day. It seems
that I gained nothing whatsoever from all the effort I put into
it. It all feels like such a waste of my time, seeing as everything
that I ever learned; every feeling of power, encouragement, love
and hope known to me in my lifetime developed from solitude.

Anyone claiming to be my friend should either be doubted or
despised outright. It sounds like such a bitter thing to say, but I
feel that way and it saddens me deeply. It was just a deeply unful-
filling life in terms of interactions. I wanted synergy. I wanted to
grow alongside others. The best that I ever found was tolerance,
and I will not confuse such tolerance for love and friendship.
If I should ‘allow’ it to take hold of me, which usually occurs

due to my father putting me in danger and me having to finally
accept that I am better off suffering in silence than confronting
him and just having it confirmed again and again that he has no
care for my life and well-being.
As much as I tend to ruminate and analyze, I don’t think of my

childhood all that often, having long considered it like a prequel
to my story (which is quite astonishing considering some of the
conclusions that I have reached in my final years). It was only
in 2018 that I really began to pay this period its appropriate re-
spect, which is the point at which I began to see childhood as
part of the puzzle, although it merits to be said that I’ve always
held a very reverent attitude toward my childly self. Apart from
the problems caused by my parents and their beliefs, I would say
that my youth was fairly typical in the sense that I had normal in-
terests, and as long as I ended up receiving all the toys and snacks
that I asked for I never really had any cause to question the good-
ness of my family and upbringing.
As a child I built a lot of models, and I was often creating these

wild displays with K’nex. My favorite stores as a child were places
back in New Jersey called Zany Brainy and Edmund Scientific.
I was born into a family of avid collectors and collected every-
thing from Beanie Babies to Hot Wheels to Pez to trading cards
to action figures to model kits to rocks to coins to Crazy Bones.
I would even say that collecting received the main focus of the
first twelve to thirteen years of my life. We still have most of it
packed away in boxes. At the age of five I owned three goldfish
and two of them were named Bob Saget. I’ve been gone so long I
only just learned that Toys R’ Us and KB Toys are gone and part
of me is heartbroken. And Dunkaroos...? There is a part of me...
even now, even today, with all my anger and grudges and pride
and misanthropy and philosophy... that would still kind of love
to work a job at Toys R’ Us and just surround myself with that
atmosphere. I’m just the type who could easily lose himself in a
candy store/toy store even if I don’t end up buying anything.
The masses of this earth, who are programmed to view all things
through the lens of their survival, have convinced themselves
that I am the damaged one, as they are not able to discern be-
tween the wounds of a clumsy child and those of a soldier that
fights willingly for the honor and advancement of all mankind.
I am sick of living among a population which observes what is
commonplace over what is rightful and then behaves towards me
as if I am broken for adhering to a higher standard as if it is mere-
ly some foible, some maladaptive trait that I possess; as if I am
so out of touch from reality and so out of line with the expecta-
tions that I hold, when I am working toward an outcome which
would actually benefit us and not simply sustain the unsustain-
able. Whether or not I have achieved any such outcome is debat-
able, surely, but it has ever been my goal to advance us all, how-
ever could it be done.
My anger is that of an individual who naïvely believed for thirty

years that all are equally capable and equally constructive. My
anger is that of an individual who believed for so long that most
differences in output are the product of motivation, and that
anyone could be anything with the right stimulus. I can no
longer say the same, and I am not sure how that makes me feel. I
can’t accept that the majority is born to die and hasn’t a chance to
redeem themselves. There is still so much I am yet to understand
regarding the process of becoming conscious and how much of
it is actually within our means. I still wake up most days won-
dering “Why me?” It’s like this one instance that I was visiting
my grandparents for the day, and on the drive back I learned that
a tornado had struck my area while I was out, and I viewed the
damage in horror while approaching my house. But the damage
stopped just short of my house... But why?! Which factors decide
which sperm makes it to the egg cell?
My only goddamn expectations are that others mean what they

say, and that when they say ‘yes’ they mean ‘yes’, and when they
say ‘no’ they mean ‘no’. That is all I ever expected, but even this
is apparently far too much to ask of the people who are so ac-
customed to behaving in this way, and standing people up, and
fucking people over, they would rather justify it by saying that “it
happen than by realizing that this is not part of a healthy body
but a goddamn virus. So anyone who wants to look at me and act
as if I don’t know how the world works, what you really mean to
acknowledge that I’m not willing to behave by unhealthy stan-
dards simply because they are standard, acknowledging and be-

ing beholden to the proper ways of conduct which take into ac-
count the spiritual and emotional longevity and wellbeing of the
human spirit, and not simply our bank accounts and erections
and power complexes. If I am to receive a letter at a bad or other-
wise inconvenient time and I am not up to responding—usually
as the result of physical distress and limitation—I am not going
to ignore them for months and hope they understand that this is
how it works. I’m going to explain the situation, usually by say-
ing that I’m not able to respond at the moment, and that it’s not
personal.
There is no lover of mankind who does not recoil in disgust at

what has become of us all.
Intellectual and emotional separation simultaneously constitute

the most lonely of all positions, as well as the most unsympathet-
ic of all positions. One is quickly branded as an ass for simply ac-
knowledging the differences existing between one individual and
the next and must go their whole life feigning ignorance and ap-
athy to these traumatic distinctions. God forbid that there exists
an actual difference in cognition between one man and the next.
I look at someone like my father, and as I observe his actions I
cannot help but think that he is nearer to the dog in constitu-
tion than to myself—speaking in terms of the processes which
he takes part and the degree to which he is mindful of and inter-
acting with a life beyond his instincts It’s like an entirely distinct
species. However it is not something that can be observed scien-
tifically, not following suit to our standard models of evolution
and biology, and therefore it’s tough to say whether or not we

will ever realize what this means (on the scientific level, I mean).
The public is always eating up these movies and books about

rebels and individualists. My country is built on such romanti-
cism, so you would think that it means something; but at its
heart, it seems to be but another political move to keep us all
separated; a corporate ploy to sell more body spray. It brings to
mind all those persons who create YouTube tutorials on how to
attract more followers. The irony in that situation is that they,
themselves, established a following by appealing to this need,
and any sensible individual should wonder, in that case, about
the purity of their claims on what does and doesn’t work.
There’s a weird bit of perversion at play and it was disheartening

to come upon. I believe I lost a part of myself between the years
2014 and 2019. I’ve been looking at old videos, and I was just
in ‘my own world’, as it were... perhaps too far in. And yes, it
benefits me to be more sensible and to acknowledge the validity
of the life going on outside of me, but I feel like my world was
ripped away from me via violent seizure. There was a time when
I was really, intensely proud of my idiosyncrasies and feeling like
my unique qualities would make up for what I lacked, such as
good health. It wasn’t so long ago, yet it feels like centuries past.
2016-2018 obliterated me. At the outset I was a boy clutching
his CDs and waiting for the sun’s rays to hit me. I don’t know
how it could go so wrong. It feels like when something or some-
one remarkable comes around and some individuals will gener-
ally spend more time foolishly attempting to prove that it isn’t
what it appears to be than actually appreciating and exploring

the reality of its being.
I am thoroughly ashamed of the company I have kept.
Having no one, apart from Jeiezza, in whom to confide, you

must understand that this [writing] is how I attempt to achieve
catharsis: I relieve myself through sharing these parts of myself
via public channels, even if they have no readership (they don’t).
It’s not about fame. It’s about trying desperately to alleviate the
burden and suffering I endure hourly... minutely...
I am self-conscious in regards to the magnitude of my enthusi-

asm, worrying that it will result in inaccurate portrayals at some
point along the way; yet I would not wish to silence my excite-
ment. Many already do just that and they are no better for it.
These professed occultists and philosophers—they all seem to
me like old academics, starchy and stern. And me, I was more of
a playful boy. It took me a while to accept my nature, seeing as in-
dividuals of my approach and disposition aren’t normally offered
respect and therefore do not appear to constitute an actual role
or archetype, but at the end of my life on earth, I can finally take
pride in my role as a mad dancer among jerks and gentlemen.
I will not be like them: the stuffy, academic ‘occultists’ who
produce their information in some detached and impersonal
manner. Me—I’m excited, I’m thrilled, I’m ecstatic, and it
should show. And anyone who finds my ecstasy to be somehow
disreputable can go on and suck my candlestick.
It is such a horrific sight, and my heartfelt consolation goes out

to anyone whose eyes have opened, if unwittingly, to a scene so
indescribably bleak. I have seen something I have not asked to
see. I have seen vile organs, muscles, sinew pulsating beneath pol-
ished skin. Again, it is not a philosophy, nor some empty utter-
ance, but a reality which has taken over and will not diminish.
When describing virtual reality, one will often say “It’s like you’re
really there!” and to the onlooker that sounds intriguing enough
for them to want to give it a try, but they’re still likely to let out a
“Whoaaa!” once they put on the headset, because the experience
itself exceeds any sort of expectations that can be generated via
mere words, as our understanding is bound by... what we under-
stand.
I have lost all ability to converse with others or to appreciate art

or to watch even a moment of television. I am unable to see what
I once saw. I cannot turn off my goddamned x-ray vision or what-
ever it is that has taken me over.
**I find it horrific to look out upon the world and see that every-
thing is just practice and memorization. All the knowledge on
which the masses act is something that they simply picked up
via memorization in school through repetition. Their seduction
is all practiced. Their kindness is practiced, conjured in knowl-
edge of what it will allow them. The insincerity is more than I
can bear. It is all practiced. It is all without heart, without verity,
and I can not bear to base my camp among such contrivance.
This is why stress is an interesting function. It doesn’t cause peo-
ple to act uncharacteristically as much as it causes people to de-

viate from what they have practiced, whereby they become more
as they truly are. You can get me drunk and nothing about my
person will really change, except I do tend to use more pronomi-
nal adverbs.
Their joy isn’t joy. Their grief isn’t grief. They are collectors of ac-
tions and responses which they believe will allot them their de-
sired outcome. Nothing that is built upon inauthentic and igno-
rant foundations can be called authentic. I lose my mind looking
at them, watching them, watching them pretend. There is an ar-
rogance to it all that nauseates me, and I can’t expect that oth-
ers will see it, but it’s there: an ugly complacency, ugly as sin. It’s
what allows them to settle for less than living. And I want out. I
want a silver bullet. I am in a nightmare of absent meaning and
that meaning cannot even be cultivated when the absence has
been substituted for by air pillows and dross—the only purpose
of which is to take up space, satisfying a necessary void. Yet who
is satisfied?
The outer layer is gone—forever gone. The parts of this life
that excite and turn us on are gone from my view. I can hardly
recall at this point what it was like to experience it at all. I am
tempted to cry out, saying “Give it back!” Yet the Thummim
stares back upon me with a familiar glare which, by now, I take
to mean that I must learn to live in its absence. Oh, absence...!
The reality of society is horrific beyond all measure. The masses

do not care about supporting or sustaining one another on the
level of the soul. All is carried out to the ends of selfish subsis-
tence, and it is for that reason that they will sooner give you what
you want than what you need: they do not care for your victory,
because they do not actually care for you, and only want to see
you pacified so that you are more likely to fall in line with their
expectations of you, whether they require a helpful presence or
wish for you to leave them alone.
I won’t make the statement that selflessness, unconditional-
ity and genuineness are an impossibility. I do believe that there
are conditions in which they are possible, and I believe that I
have demonstrated their viability through mine own acts and
lifestyle, although opinions may vary. The truth of the matter is
that one must be in touch with their own souls in order to really
understand how to nurture the souls of those around them, and
for most this is simply not a reality. Though it is hard to demo-
nize those who abandon us over our failure to meet their expec-
tations when they are known for abandoning their own selves in
such situations, resorting to any variety of escapism and self-ini-
tiated dissociation.
***It was so surreal to be attempting to integrate socially—what-

ever that even means. It was difficult to see that everyone around
me was just riding the currents, acting on whatsoever was
deemed enjoyable or convenient to them and their desires. I nev-
er sensed any authentic care and concern—not for anything or
anyone. I often felt that so was the only one actively seeking to
make a positive impact on those with whom I came in contact;
the only one who didn’t take human interaction for granted,
seeing it as a given; something owed to me. I wanted to enrich
and exhort the lives of all those with whom I came in contact,
whether through my attitude or my ideals or simply through my
willingness to listen to what they had to say and take an inter-
est in the desires and pains of their heart when the world would
rather they keep silent and fall in line. I put so much time and
energy into being a good friend to these people, showing pa-
tience, forgiveness and kindness in situations where they were
not the standard; offering valuable advice to all of their problems
and showing myself to be there for them even when no one else
showed, or when all else abandoned them; showing a love for
knowledge and creation and possibility that would be enough to
electrify the daily mundanity. How can I make this individual feel
heard, appreciated, charged? How can I ease the discomfort of their
embarrassment and faults and transform the situation into some-
thing positive? What can I say that will allow them to see the ben-
efit of each setback, the potential of each moment? The hurt and
disappointment that I feel to be walking away, scorned and be-
trayed, as every other moocher and sociopath dances in the sun,
knowing the favor of their species and being surrounded by lov-
ing family and friendships, is equivalent to the degree of care and
effort that I put into being a good friend; a good person—not
toward the attainment of some selfish end, such as sex, wealth or
fame, but simply to tilt the world, if even by a hair, nearer unto
the warmth of the sun. And upon further inspection I know that
that isn’t necessarily true, and that they haven’t actually gained
anything apart from more of their beloved delusions and empty
façades, and that the only reason they appear so lucky is because
they have accepted emptiness and pretense, but goddamn if it
isn’t difficult to look out through hungry eyes. It’s like prop food.
They’ve all accepted it as real, and they have convinced them-
selves that it nurtures them, but their bodies and spirits tell a dif-
ferent story. And then there’s me, famished and fucked, and even
though I know that the patties are plastic and the pills are place-
bos, I must wonder why I couldn’t have been satisfied with falsity
like all of the other smilers and smokers which flood the streets.
Why... why have I put truth above my own security and pleasure?
What is it that made me so different from billions of others in

this regard? I am truly desperate to know.
[Speaking of the instance in which my palate swelled up and

blocked my airway] I was required to sleep while wearing a sort
of partial helmet all through the night when it was discovered
that the pressure upon the bridge of the nose somehow improved
my ability to breathe. Otherwise, my palate was so inflamed as
a result of my laryngeal injuries as to feel like it was collapsing.
Since the helmet was so heavy it made recumbent sleeping un-
comfortable and I was required to fall asleep in a sitting position,
my back to the wall. I was awake for nearly two straight days be-
fore I finally fell asleep and ended up getting only three hours of
sleep in total. It was one of the worst experiences of my life, over-
all.
There has just been zero acknowledgement that I am suffering

from abominable circumstances, and I am treated like some
junkie who everyone is waiting on to get his act together.
It was like I had zero leeway. I did well, above my means, for
ninety-nine out of one hundred times. Then, that one time I
show even the slightest bit of frustration or desperation on the
surface after thirty years of unremitting abuse and mistreatment
they all point and say “See! See! I knew you were unstable! I
knew I was right to treat you like a wild animal!” And conse-
quently I must live out the rest of my days haunted by the fact
that I reacted in a way that was called for by the extremity of the
situation and the abuse that I had taken—as if I was the one who
was the monster in all of this.
They push me and they push me and they push me until get-
ting a rise out of me and then I must spend the rest of my life
feeling regretful for reacting, even smally, to the provocation, as
if I’ve committed some grand sin whereas they, themselves, are
justified.
I never got to relish in the joy and satisfaction of beating the

odds, having somehow managed to behave and act and function
like a normal, friendly, individual after all of the dehumanizing
conditions through which I have lived. Most who have gone
through even half of what I have experienced aren’t even passable
as human at this point, yet I have come out with more wisdom,
maturity and kindness than I had before, and I want to relish in
that success, yet society is intent on making me feel like I’m un-
worthy of the light of the sun just because I don’t subscribe to the
ways of the majority in every minuscule aspect.
I wasn’t asking for a crown, a statue. I only wanted to feel like
my actions, my effort, had an effect on the outcome of my life,
and that people would stop projecting their ugliness and weak-
ness onto me. I only wanted one person to look at me as if they
truly saw me. Every celebrity ass crack gets a holiday in its honor
and I couldn’t even manage a hug and a handclap.
Hey, maybe it’s that type of situation where everyone falsely as-
sumes that the attractive girl knows she is attractive and hears it
all the time, so no one actually goes out of their way and says it
to her, amounting to somewhat of an ironic outcome in that she
is entirely starved of kindness and attention. Maybe they look
at me and think “Surely he’s heard it said that his work is good
and his efforts are acknowledged,” and they just don’t think it’s
necessary to say anything to me? “The guy has 2,000 songs and
a million writings and paintings... surely people are contacting
him with feedback. Surely he’s heard his share of compliments.”
Oh, I feel so silly to be thinking all of this aloud. I admit to these
things largely in the hopes that there are others out there who
can relate to my position and this will somehow prove cathartic
(while the other 99% will perhaps go on to speak disparagingly
of me as if I need to get over it and I’m just being ‘sensitive’).
I’ve abandoned all attempts to socialize, seeing as I cannot even

speak to most of the population without my intentions being
filtered through the lowly lens of sexuality, where an honest at-
tempt at striking up a conversation has me being sized up based
on some arrogant assumption of what I am after. It makes it
too damn difficult to establish meaningful connections when ab-
solutely everything is a pick-up line to the masses. Truly, I walk
among beasts. I feel like this is all so obvious, but I must wonder
to what extent the sexuality of others is preventing these realiza-
tions from occurring to them—not the fact that it is happening,
per se, but how unnecessary and limiting it truly is.
My mother often used to spout off some line about how ‘friends
come and go but siblings are with you forever’. And of course
that’s not a rule. Though I really didn’t think I would be losing
my sibling in the first month she went off to college and got
drugged up and allowed her entire life to be hijacked by a so-
ciopathic parasite. I’ll never get over how quickly everything
changed. It wasn’t gradual. It happened within the span of a sin-
gle week: the very week that she met that punk ass piece of shit.
It was the week of her twenty-first birthday, and he convinced
her to abandon her friends, family and religion all in one go.
Everyone in my household knows that my father wanted a di-

vorce from my mother but felt that he wasn’t allowed to seek one
due to his beliefs, so he essentially neglected her and allowed her
to die. This is the way that he handles things. It’s criminal ne-
glect. He just hopes that by ignoring his problems they will ulti-
mately disappear. The same can be seen in his handling of me.
*Modern life lacks that element of willing sacrifice that bestows

our lives with meaning. Some will contest that idea, but our
quest for convenience is doing away with our most valuable
processes. And when all is free of cost, meaning becomes impos-
sible to achieve. Effort and sacrifice are the determiners of worth;
not in themselves, like some ironic cosmic joke, but because ef-
fort and sacrifice force us into alignment with our existence, our
will. Sacrifice and suffering on their own are not what allows us
this holy meaning. It’s the focus, the paradigm, that is created
through these means. It can be obtained without, though it typ-
ically isn’t. I may be living at the same time as my contempo-
raries who I scorn, but my lack of sociality and physical health
has effectively changed my position, where I am being required
to confront the unwanted in every moment and make great sac-
rifices for every action. It’s been a lifetime of perpetual sacrifice,
every minute of my every day. So it’s not like it’s not still achiev-
able in the modern day. We’re not so far gone that we can’t re-
turn to the track. Though much of the population is not going
to have that experience, and I wonder how much we can con-
tinue to go in the wrong direction, toward convenience, toward

distraction, before we are beyond the reach of salvation. And all
of this convenience and distraction, it isn’t even eliminating our
suffering. It’s just creating empty suffering: purposeless and un-
necessary. Again, society may scoff at the idea that things have
become easy, since pain and discomfort are still rampant in their
various forms, but it is the wrong kind of pain. There isn’t but
a single strain of suffering, and the sooner society realizes this,
the sooner may it make the appropriate changes. It is seen in sit-
uations where avoidance, neglect and repression are abundant,
and we find that the agony is far worse with evasion than it ever
would have been with confrontation. Perhaps that is how they
should be divided: the suffering of confrontation and the suf-
fering of evasion, or... more appropriately, active suffering and
passive suffering. Active suffering begets meaning, growth and
focus, whereas passive suffering begets avoidance, addiction, re-
pression, dezinezinet. My lifetime has been made up mostly of
active suffering, which may have a lot to say for not only how I’ve
lasted so long, but how I’ve been able to reap innumerable bene-
fits and lessons from my agony. I’m getting a bit off track, but it
still deserves to be said.
***It sounds ironic—by all means—but this distance which I

have maintained from society has allowed me to also maintain
my ability to impart true value to the species and the individual.
It’s not within my capability to pinpoint where and how it oc-
curs, but the schooling system and then the workforce desensi-
tize us to the beauty and agency and greater purpose of the hu-
man being when it forces us through like hot dogs in an assem-
bly line. I think the Internet has done even worse by presenting
us with so much information about people with whom we aren’t
close. Consider that thousands of years ago we only interacted

with and heard about those in whom we were directly invested,
be them called tribesmen, friends or what have you. They were
a part of our village and that carried a certain meaningfulness;
a certain bond. Strangers were not supposed to remain strangers
indefinitely. School, work, internet, news media: it has exposed
us to something strange. Maybe I am wrong in my assessment,
but I just have to imagine that our experiences would have felt
more relevant back then, in such a setting, where every individ-
ual with whom we interacted was of a higher relevancy rate. Now
that the concept of irrelevance has been introduced, it has grown
out of control like a fungus, consuming that which might have
once been relevant to us, because by now our senses and estima-
tions are so dulled by a life spent doing that which doesn’t inter-
est us/interacting with people for whom we do not care. When
you’re aware that everyone is struggling, we are disposed to ig-
nore the individual. It’s sad. Me, I do not utilize social media or
forums except for that short-lived period in 2017 and during the
process of establishing my businesses in 2018/2019.
The concept of physical resilience is utterly foreign to me at this

point. I don’t understand how people can so much as fall out
of their chairs and be okay. I don’t understand how others can
so much as lick their lips without suffering some weird injury.
I don’t understand how one can bounce back so readily after a
physical injury. I wasn’t always this way, of course. There was a
time when I could run into a pole on a bicycle or trip off a curb
in platform shoes and still live (although both times resulted in
ankle sprains, so those are probably not the best examples I can
be giving), but my resilience is utterly gone at this point. Every-
thing that comes, stays. Nothing ever heals. Wounds are forever.
The blood flows on.
In my youth, it was not the music and art alone that captivated
my heart but the story behind it. I’ve always been more invested
in the creator than in their creations, or rather, the relationship
between the two. It can make or break my attachment to a piece.
Accordingly, I will not indulge in works created by those whom
I find to be expressly disagreeable, or even boring. It isn’t even
some moral stance in my case. It simply does not appeal to me.
I am very critical of those whose art does not appear to reflect
their lives, their person. This has guided my art and music all
along. I was far less interested in creating works of a certain qual-
ity than in creating works which were deemed an accurate reflec-
tion of my person. It was always my will to be the sort of individ-
ual that troubled teens would want on a poster above their bed
(and by that I mean the sort of person I wanted on a poster above
mine own bed as a troubled teen...) and by ‘troubled’ I do not
mean pathological, but lonely and upset and more or less misun-
derstood. I know how much the listener benefits from that fasci-
nation.
**For years my interactions seemed a bit unnatural, since I was

approaching relationships and communication like a playwright.
This had me behaving in ways I now consider to be foolish, du-
bious and even inauthentic (as well as unrealistic). I carried out
these behaviors even among family, in the privacy of my home,
so it’s not like it was some social act as much as it was simply
my working with a very warped view of how to conduct myself.
Every interaction was set up to instate certain ideas and shape my
reputation, my legacy, so that one day these individuals would

vouch for my ‘nature’. Even the way I spoke and behaved, like the
fact that I often behave deliriously, slurring my speech: I feel like
a lot of that was acted out on strange premises, if only to be wit-
nessed, and I think this mindset is responsible for a lot of the stu-
pidity of my late teens and early twenties. I was never in the pre-
sent moment and always ten years in the future attempting to set
up the ‘documentary’ that would one day come to be. I still take
a hands-on approach in self-development and steering my narra-
tive, so to speak, but my idea of what that means and how to go
about that has changed so much over time, becoming far more
natural (and sensible withal).
I can no longer fight the demons when they are all around me.
It’s all there is. There is nothing left of the light. Everywhere I
look, every thought I think, it leads to darkness. It’s not hyper-
bole. I am trapped. I can’t get out. Every thought, word, color,
shape, form, connects to an agonizing memory. Every thought
and memory is cancerous. I have reached the absolute ceiling of
mortal suffering. If I didn’t have a mirror I wouldn’t even know
what I looked like. I don’t feel as I look. My body is deformed,
caving in on itself. No sanctuary. No rest. I’m fine with being
without pleasure and comfort. Can’t I just be in a state of neu-
trality wherein the agony isn’t so excruciating!
Diligence? Effort? It doesn’t pay off ?
Thirty years.
Of fighting. Of working. Of creating. Of strategizing. Of de-
votion. A million billion sperms and none brought life.
Every second of every minute of every day... I never slept... I
was always creating, building, planning, growing...
I would fare better emotionally if my intentions weren’t well-

meaning. Then I have to think that behaving like a jerk is not
simply a flaw in our kind, but a defense maneuver, like indo-
lence... because by giving it our all, we open ourselves up to
the terrifying realization that our all isn’t enough... and there’s
nowhere left to go... there’s nowhere left to go...
It is neither a curse nor is it a calling.
I may possess certain insights into the nature of things, but my

body of knowledge is not standardized. I have gotten far by
means of extrapolation, which is the primary means whereby I
understand my circumstances and my world, but I am scientif-
ically ignorant, and often I will avoid divulging certain insights
out of avoidance of putting my foot in my mouth. I possess in-
sights of a nature that might very well amount to breakthroughs
in our current scientific understanding, though I am so put off
by the attitude of the scientific community as it currently stands,
and the thought of them inspecting my words is enough to dis-
courage me from being as bold and as straightforward as I can
be. There was a time in history when we accepted that there ex-
isted revelators whose purpose and function was fundamentally
set apart from those of the researches, and all purpose was seen
as equally useful and entertained without disparagement.
I’ve made myself so much more vulnerable by truly baring my

soul and sharing myself with others. Then you must understand
how I can be in so much pain. The stakes are so very high in my
case; and no matter what I gave of myself in earnest, they just up
and leave as if all that I shared with them is dispensable, mean-

ingless—no more remarkable than any other drone in their ear.
And I hate them for that. I really, truly do. I hate how they can be
so insensitive, so unappreciative, so unperceptive, and I am not in
the wrong to feel that way. My hurt is proportional to how much
of myself I have given and how hard I have tried to offer some-
thing of value to a world which reaches and grasps in the dark-
ness.
It is so harrowing to look back at my music and writings of a

decade ago and to be reminded of how much I was suffering even
then, and how I fought so hard to see the night through in the
belief that some grand social victory awaited me on the other
side. It is utterly numbing to consider that all that awaited me
after years and years of agony and effort was only more agony.
How long... how long have I existed in this swirling vortex of in-
firmity and rejection.
It is foolishness, it is arrogance, it is lunacy: we await resolution,

yet we do not understand what we are asking. Those who never
grasp what they are asking will never find resolution. We await
the end without being able to delineate the origin. Those who
can identify and hold fast to the origin will find their resolution.
That is one of six promises that I have been authorized to make.
Even those who showed interest in my work appeared to be

viewing me more as a wounded animal than as a visionary and, as
a result, I began to doubt the intentions of my audience which,
despite the likelihood of purity, were still viewing me from an
unwanted angle which increased the sense of shame and separa-

tion with which I already contended. So I’ve been in this place
since 2017 where I simply stopped trusting in any positive re-
sponse received along the way, and that’s just not a healthy or
pleasant place to be.
It was a very different reality when I was younger—say, in my late

teens and early twenties. Every time I felt negatively, be it physi-
cally or mentally, I would view it as an opportunity and I would
milk it dry. Goddamn, it’s actually quite embarrassing... the ex-
tent to which I milked my silly sorrows. Suffering was viewed as
a means to create something unique and meaningful. It felt like a
news story. There was just this feeling that, by surviving my “or-
deal”, and by making the most of it, whatever that meant to me
at the time, it would lead to something great. There was a pride,
an excitement. I won’t say that I was wrong in seeing via that
lens, but those days wherein I felt that my tragedies counted to-
wards something are long gone. Think of it as when you’re play-
ing some game and the score reaches its physical limit, e.g., 9999,
upon which your actions and efforts cease registering. It seems to
me that I reached some such cut-off many years ago—at least as
far as society is concerned. Our gauges, as a society, are god-aw-
ful. I want to tell myself that I’ve continued to grow, and con-
quer, or whatever, but I can’t help but wonder if the game is no
longer worth playing beyond the point at which my efforts can
be measured. I lay in bed at night... and it feels like I’m zoomed
in... and that may not make sense to most, but those who under-
stand may find themselves creeped out by such a descriptor and
the accuracy thereof... the world just zooms in, and I can’t feel
my limbs... and I can’t tell if I am the body upon the bed or the
bed beneath the body... and I can’t tell if this is real, as it is so un-
real... the degree of suffering that I must endure, and how with
one wrong move... the slightest move... it will all be over, and I no
longer expect that it will get me anywhere or make me into some-
thing stronger or make my story a more interesting and dramatic
one than it already is... it is difficult to see the worth in a life that
cannot be conveyed. I can’t say that I haven’t, but it is truly and
overwhelmingly difficult. Measurement serves as an aid to man
in many ways of which we are not typically cognizant. It relates
to the idea that events and concepts lacking in a word or a way by
which to be referenced seem to go unnoticed within our every-
day life, as if they do not exist at all, belonging to the innominate
void.
It took me a long time to be able to develop confidence when de-

livering my opinions. The circumstances and insular conditions
under which I was raised left me feeling very self-conscious about
my worldly understanding of lack thereof. Now, I wouldn’t say
that it consumed me. It wasn’t some dramatic, all-devouring
shame that I felt inside myself. It was simply an awareness of the
facts, and it meant that I often attributed more authority to the
words of others than was rightfully merited, for it was my natural
tendency to assume that all others with whom I interacted were
better acquainted with the world than I and therefore dictated
its collective mind. It took me many years to realize the flaws
in such an impulse, and I have since recovered my sensibility (I
think it reached its end around the time of my failed relationship
of 2016 after getting a closer look into the lives and minds of the
sort of people of whom I had such expectations), yet to this day I
am wary of asserting my opinions too forcefully, particularly on
the topic of human nature and society, not because I lack confi-
dence in my understanding, as I am actually very confident, but
because I fully expect to be challenged on the extent of my expe-

rience within the society whereagainst I so brashly bang.
May my unsophistication, in turn, be as one of my defining qual-

ities.
I contain enough rage, bitter intention and derealization in me

to kill a thousand men, and yet I am reduced to tears by the smile
of a child, or by a single act of goodwill observed from afar. I wish
that I could analyze these elements more so in the public eye, but
I don’t feel that the public will be kind to such honesty.
To faceless recipients with interest as such that I never knew.
**I see practiced piety. I see practiced kindness. I see practiced

coolness. It is inescapable. And those who actively take part in
this play will not be capable of seeing it the same, and that it is
damned by a paradigmatic padlock. Oh so much of what we tend
to think of as ‘cool’, ‘smart’ and ‘sexy’ is practiced—disingenu-
ous. It isn’t natural, and goddamn if it ain’t unproductive. Even
the smiles that they wear, and that well-timed laughter which
makes it seem that they are responding to something said or
done by others. It’s all a grand, survivalistic gaff. They are slaves
to an algorithm which promises sustention at the cost of stagna-
tion. I was so inexplicably disgusted when it first occurred to me
that everyone was in a position similar to mine own, trying their
damnedest to survive. I was over here thinking of myself and my
desperation as some shameful anomaly, but the same is taking

place, if with superficial variation, all across the board.
Clyssus of Man, while it qualifies as a biography, works on a far

greater scope than most may realize—at least early on. Those
who attempt to discredit my insights through the fact that I am
evidently disconsolate and afflicted with trauma will have missed
out on one of the most significant keys, to which I say, “Yea, I am
a man, but I am one part to the riddle that aligns the pins.” One
of the most significant causes of my suffering relates to the disso-
lution between the objective and the subjective, and through the
analysis of my complaints you will learn what this means.
The inspired individual is fairly easy to spot among the plains,

for they appear altogether like scientists, like priests and like
artists alive within their own cosmogony; but they are mocked
by scientists, and they are scorned by the church, and their art is
rarely valued by the population that seeks only entertainment.
My parents would always use the strangest arguments in defense

of Christianity and its worth, or its prophecies. I was told that
the USA was not discussed within the book of Revelation due to
the fact that it had likely already been wiped out at that point.
Far be it from a fundamentalist to acknowledge that it relates in-
stead to the self-evident fact that the country had yet to be dis-
covered at the time of writing, and the authors of this book, de-
spite all that we attribute to them, were limited in their insights
and could not possibly allude to that which they could not pre-
dict. I also remember them pointing out how we don’t see peo-
ple getting riled up and picketing Santa Claus, and they saw such
protests as proof that God and Jesus are real and that “people just
hate the truth,” because otherwise it would not be deemed so of-
fensive. Uh, except that in the myth of Santa Claus he gives gifts
to children and he has not been the basis of almost every strife
and fear in human history. The most ridiculous part about all of
this is how long it took me to see through what they were say-
ing and to actually gain some sensibility. The modern Christian
essentially lives by the skewed notion that everyone believes in
the existence of Christ, and that what truly separates the believ-
er form the nonbeliever is whether or not one chooses to accept
or reject that indisputable grace and mercy. What a foolish, fal-
lacious premise which allows them to view all who disagree with
their views as begrudging antagonists and saboteurs rather than
as those who simply derive a different impression from the faces
before them
**It saddens me to acknowledge the degradation of my person-

ality under all the trauma and developing neurosis. It wasn’t the
lifetime of isolation that made me this way, but the months and
years that followed upon my reentry into society (or my attempts
to do so). I can feel my behavior becoming more nervous in
time and it saddens me that such social misfortune has changed
and rearranged the mien of this once confident boy. I was never
smooth, no. I was never cool. Nor do we say these things of a
child who is adjudged by his enthusiasm. I’ll never understand
the hearts of those who meant me harm as I diligently sought vic-
tory for us all.
Since childhood I have favored one side of my bed for sleeping,

not sleeping within the center, as if purposefully leaving a space
for another. From the ages of five through fourteen I would lay
out a long-sleeve shirt, a pair of pants, two socks, two gloves and
a balaclava and I would stuff them with additional clothing and
assemble it all so as to resemble a human. I slept beside this hu-
manoid shape for nearly a decade—my arm being slung over its
chest as I slept. It had become a habit for me over time, and it is
by these means that I first embraced Jeiezza in the night, not re-
alizing what I was doing.
The ones who tell you to ‘get over’ mistreatment and abuse are
almost always those who haven’t sufficiently vulnerated them-
selves. It is a very different experience when one is honest and
well-intentioned; you cannot hide behind these rocks. It's like a
game of poker: I went all in, I felt the loss and I’m not going
to then be told by someone who didn’t even have the courage
to place a bet that I shouldn’t react in a realistic manner to the
events that occurred. My pain is perfectly proportionate to the
size of my bet, and I bet all that I could; all that I had.
She was essentially able to justify all sorts of horrible behaviors

by simply saying “...but he is unorthodox by society’s standards!”
and suddenly everything is justified or discarded in regards to
her behavior toward me. It’s not something I would have ever ex-
pected, having gone into the relation thinking that she was some-
what of an unorthodox individualist herself, but that is mostly to
do with my complete ignorance regarding current trends and the
fact that the oddities of yesteryear are the fashions of the present,
and she was basically a cookie cutout of the modern liberal arts
college student, down to what she ate. I don’t hold it against her.
That’s her choice. It simply might have affected my actions had I
been more aware of context.
Her social standing could be called the main tool in her ar-
senal. It was the one thing she actually had to her claim, and the
one thing I didn’t. What is scary is that, because she was reliant
on the opinion of others, this made it necessary for her to manip-
ulate others in order to generate that opinion that she was after.
I don’t understand it, being someone who is obsessed with veri-
ty. I’m the type who won’t even start a gofundme because I feel
that if I must ask for something then it isn’t authentic (that and...
I don’t expect that anyone would help me out in a crisis anyway
and I would prefer to spare myself of the horrendous pain that
followed from such a situation). It’s odd to see that those who
accuse others of manipulation are regularly those who employ
this tactic themselves. As for me... it’s not even a concept in my
book... perhaps because I do not naturally view emotion and val-
ues as that which can be swayed or shaped from the outside, by
others. I have my ways in which I am susceptible, or gullible, so
I ain’t some tinman, but this is simply not one of them, and as
a result, I do not believe I have ever accused anyone of manipu-
lating me, or even so much as thought it. It’s just not a concept
within my world, and I was intrigued to realize this. I am highly
vulnerable when it comes to being made to feel misunderstood,
crazy or like I don’t know what I’m talking about, though. That’s
my personal heel... my personal hell... but the thought of hold-
ing others responsible for my emotions is utterly bizarre to me.
However, typology helps with my ability to make sense of this:
Extraverted Thinking acts upon an objective standard of success,
whereas Extraverted Feeling acts upon an objective standard of
agreeableness. Note that objectivity, in this case, refers only to
that which is deemed acceptable or commonplace within society.
The realm of possibility is constantly changing, adapting. Static

laws are of no use within such conditions. It is not uncommon
for us to repudiate the science of yesteryear as being somehow off
the mark, though it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that our fore-
gone postulates were actually an accurate reflection of the ‘time’
in which they were formed, and that the ‘laws’ themselves have
changed with the ebb and flow of Existence. This type of think-
ing brings about a conjectural jungle, such as “What if the di-
chotomy of right and wrong doesn’t exist in the way that we un-
derstand it, and each wrong is a reflection of an outmoded uni-
versal structure or similar?” Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I just need
to masturbate.
May it be known that in my final days I found absolutely every-

thing worth crying over—everything but mine own self.
Some may claim that my undoing was in seeing nothing as irrele-

vant, as impersonal. It is not an easy Existence, but then I believe
that nothing less deserves to be labeled as ‘Existence’ in the first
place.
I’ve never felt that I can hide, or that I can deceive others and get
away with it, and I live my life accordingly. I don’t know what it
is. Nature? Nurture? The outcome of having been raised believ-
ing in an omniscient God? There is just no part of me that be-
lieves I can get away with ignoble deeds. I fully expect that all
dishonest acts will find their way back to me. I don’t believe in
karma, so it’s not that. I believe in Existence and therefore I live

as though I have an eye, a camera, focused on me in every second,
scraping around within my thoughts and intentions. I’ve said it
before that I wouldn’t object to having my thoughts broadcast-
ed, since I already tend to live my life as though my thoughts are
on display before all, and I have achieved the appropriate level
of accountability as a result, so if something brings me shame, I
take responsibility for quashing it. It’s very, very difficult for me
to imagine living in another manner. And I don’t mind it at all. I
suppose that that is because there is virtually no overlap between
‘what I want to do’ and ‘what I shouldn’t do’. My interests, my de-
sires and all that I am has grown in accordance with this view of
the world so that I am not tempted by more.
Similarly, I have always found it very difficult to use social
media and online forums since, unlike many others, I am not
able to ‘separate myself from myself ’, if that makes sense. I don’t
ever feel as if I am hiding behind the computer. There is no il-
lusion of anonymity; no illusion of freedom or lack of account-
ability/repercussions for my actions. I feel like everyone who sees
me... hears me... reads my words... knows everything about me.
It’s not entirely rational, and I know as much, but it is a natur-
al response when I live so openly (and may also draw from other
causes).
First they neglected to teach me and then they had the gall to
mock and insult me for my ‘failure’ to develop like my peers
who were schooled and instructed and offered adequate guid-
ance (and still came out underprepared for existence). It is a very
damaging combination. They locked me in my room like some
animal, depriving me of an education, depriving me of medical
access, and then I must live out the latter half of my life as a veg-
etable while being told that I am a failure deficient in maturity

and responsibility as if either of those concepts have fucking any-
thing to do with the circumstances in which I have landed my-
self.
The population may wonder “How the hell would Existence not
know what is good for itself and what it wants? How could it
still be figuring things out?” It’s funny how we find it so difficult
or troublesome to imagine such a scenario when it occurs in ex-
actly the same manner and for exactly the same reasons that we,
as humans, often don’t understand what’s best for us or our own
motivations and require trial and error, knowledge, and a host
of other integrants. It’s the same damn operating system, guys.
Break out of your Omniscient God/Ignorant Slave dichotomy.
Existence hasn’t forced us to be ignorant while it gets to be all-
knowing. Same cup, separate straws.
Call it what you will, since this isn’t about me and my stupid ter-
minologies, but a collection of insights into something greater
than I—something greater than us all. Beware the guardsmen
and ticket scalpers. Anything which attempts to mediate be-
tween man and Existence, as has been the case with religion, psy-
choactive drugs, dezinezinet, is an arrant fucking lie.
If you suffer under the right lights and with the right music play-
ing over the speakers, all that painful twitching and writhing can
be experienced like an orgasm. A sort of romantic desperation
feeds me and I would not be myself without its color. I do not
seek out my agony like a fool, but I do adorn it when it comes for
me. There is certainly an art to it, though one must be cautious

in where they add the emphasis. The music may be of crucial im-
portance to achieving that cinematic sense. I haven’t sought to
compare it, being that I listen to music from the moment I wake
to the moment I sleep (and sometimes during sleep) and I’ve
maintained this habit for nearly all of my life. It may not sound
so meaningful, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t count for some-
thing.
One who understands the weight of a moment suffers no bore-

dom, as one never becomes bored who understands that in any
given moment we know the potential to create art, to kill a man,
to change our name, our face, our lane. I am so aware of my cre-
ative and destructive potential at all times and I cannot ignore it
for a life of inertia.
**I do not regret having not ‘seen the world’, as they say. Those
who travel, those who skydive, those who swim with the sharks,
whatever it be: it isn’t about what they do, but what they reap
from the experience. The setting is subsidiary to the psychoemo-
tional experience of happiness, excitement, satisfaction, connec-
tion, inspiration, dezinezinet. If one can achieve the same from
in their solitude, let no disconsolate bastard say otherwise. I see
myself as fortunate in relation to those who rely so much on their
hope in the new and the unknown to convince them of purpose.
I feel sad for those who never establish a home. Moreover, I feel
sad for those who seek a home outside of themselves. And what
I mean by that is that there are those, like myself, whose life is
given meaning by that which I have already known and expe-
rienced, while there are many out there whose smile only per-
sists as long as there are gifts remaining to be unwrapped: it is a

‘meaning’ which derives from the hope that a greater meaning or
purpose is still to come.
Mine may be one of the most well-documented lives to come

about in recorded memory, but nothing that I do is geared to-
ward drawing attention upon myself, as in a “Look at me, I am an
end in myself !” sort of way. It is a template. All of it is a template
which is meant to show others how they can examine and de-
velop themselves via somewhat nonstandard, though highly ef-
fective means. Those who do not grasp that fact will understand
nothing of my work. Let them eat their salsa. How to’s and doc-
trines feel much too arrogant and presumptive for me. I also fear
to draw the borders on my box, preventing others from continu-
ing what I have started. My method of ‘teaching’ (or simply shar-
ing) is through basic journaling. Even when I sit here preparing
this treasury of my life’s work, I am imagining just how wonder-
ful it would be if everyone did the same, and I wonder how much
of their awe will convert into action, and with how much of that
action we can succeed in changing the shape of our collective hu-
manity for the better.
Although I have led a very unpleasant life, I still feel that I had
more than my peers and would not trade what I had for their
ambling lives. I hesitate to say as much since I wouldn’t wish to
minimize the pain and agony of my experience, but that’s real-
ly part of the point I am making: that the most heinous suffer-
ing, when undertaken with purpose, is still preferable over some-
thing so meaningless as that which this species calls living. I wish
I could have known comfort and security in conjunction with
such a meaningful experience, and I cannot always abstain from

complaints, but it is still the better option. I think it also mer-
its emphasis that my experience of suffering was largely differ-
entiated from that of the masses by the degree to which it was
conscious and may not necessarily be greater in all cases (espe-
cially when it comes to psychological suffering). Indeed, it may
be said that I suffered to an extent not seen in the population at
large, but can we not say that that was not caused by the degree
to which I was conscious of my faults, my unmet needs and my
ideal? In that case, how can we ever think that it is any worse to
be cognizant of our humanity than the opposite in ignorance?
How does the zombie populace fare any better, being that they
lack control over their own person and can achieve growth only
via serendipity?
All art and labor that does not contribute to a greater whole is
worthless expenditure.
The concept of the agonography was not something that was

premeditated or developed through careful consideration, but a
natural occurring process which coincided with the three most
profound periods of my lifetime, termed astragones. Anything
said on the topic is simply my attempt to encapsulate that
process into something readily digestible, practicable.
There has been a lot of mystique surrounding certain periods
of my life, and which case my readers may be prone to imagining
me sitting cross-legged in trance; in some waking dream. I
wouldn’t say that that is wrong, but it isn’t just some acid trip
that invades my mind. It is guided. Are there other ways of going
about it? I imagine there must be, but these are my methods,
and such simple ideas have worked so, so well for me. There may
be abstract elements or rivcorvpeu for which I am failing to ac-
count. But even if it’s more complex than I explain, I’ve shown
what I am doing, and that should be enough.
It’s basically evoking the trances of fiction writing (or read-
ing) while acting on actual, real world elements with real world
application, and the result is utterly mesmerizing. It’s not very
technical in its composition so my viewer may be prone to un-
derestimating the immensity of the practice and pseudo-para-
digms in question based on what I’ve had to say. One must nec-
essarily be Inspired to undergo a successful process as such. Start
with a simple glossary or terms. As these things are acknowl-
edged, connections should naturally begin to form, creating for
interactions. These interactions effectively pull one down into
the coliseum.
I can’t imagine the extent to which people will understand my

life as a balancing act; how very near I was to death at all times
and that as little as a couple coughs or a vomit or a common cold
or clearing my throat or talking in my sleep... all of these things
could have led to terminal suffocation. I have found myself in so
many situations where I am blacking out from a lack of oxygen
and a single wrong move... a simple move of my tongue... could
end me. Yet I cannot imagine that others will understand the
gravity of my every moment. I can hardly fathom it myself. The
fact that I have made it through such situations—not once but
thousands of times over—is a mystery to me, although I would
hesitate to ever call it a miracle for me to keep this life so bleak.
Meaning and Representation are sometimes compared to the

idea of Type and Antitype as understood by certain biblical
scholars.
As of the present, my room has seen such an alarming infestation

of spiders that I hesitate to even keep the lights dim.
On the creation and observance of a personal glossary: as with

any storybook, one who lacks knowledge of the topic or the
terms of that which they read will not only find themselves un-
able to follow along with what is taking place but will experience
minimal investment therein. And the result with which we are
left is essentially the society before us: a world of self-ignorant in-
dividuals who are merely flipping through the pages to look at
the pretty pictures. That’s all they get out of their story. They are
not deprived of the meaning that is bestowed to all Essence via
the Volens, but their inability to acknowledge that meaning has
deprived their lives of significance. Yet no life is without its pat-
terns, and those patterns, when they are traced via our acknowl-
edgment, form a veritable asterism: the shape of our soul. What’s
needed to bridge the way to change... is humility. People need
to stop being so sure that they understand themselves and the
events of their lives. People need to write their glossary and de-
fine their terms, and they need to begin this project as early on in
life as they can.
I feel very confident that Existence will eventually be under-

stood, comparatively speaking. The barrier will break down.
Manmade religious institutions will crumble, revealing an Exis-
tence capable of justifying, upholding and avenging itself. The

theists, the atheists, the agnostics—they’re all about to go. Reali-
ty will stand bare before us all, and it will just be those who look
and those who look away.
I am experiencing a bit of right ear pain—not internally but ex-

ternally (potentially related to throat ailments). It is not a con-
stant, and it is not particularly severe. It is mostly catalyzed by
touch.
I am not one of these goddamn whipcreamers. We are NOT go-

ing to get ANYWHERE if we focus on CONVINCING our-
selves that we are ALREADY there.
It truly bothers me when I come upon some art that I can appre-
ciate on a holistic level and the artist’s bio is simply a list of past
and ongoing exhibitions. I feel similarly when a musician’s bio
consists only of them waxing poetic about past tour dates and
who they’ve played with. It also irks me when a so-called com-
mentary album is just a track-by-track commentary about what
the songs sound like—sonically—as if the listener couldn’t read-
ily discern as much for themselves. I want to be hearing about
the lives of the performers which led them to this place where art
became an essential outlet for them; the emotional experience. I
want to hear about the emotions and the experiences that went
into these compositions, but all I get is the musician telling me
“Ya, this is the heaviest number on the album, and we just want-
ed to do one with a powerful verse and urheieneowbruehabeoe-
jqp.” Really, does anyone have anything to say about themselves?
About anything? I try to keep these opinions to myself on the

matter, but it is the cause of great annoyance.
I do not relate at all to that world and their idea of art and mys-
ticism. It only seems to exist if and when you’re looking at it, and
for no other purpose. I don’t want to rant about how inauthentic
it is, if only because I don’t want to be ‘that guy’, but what else can
be said about it! These people who are so connected that they’re
not growing... a bloody vacuum... fucking art schools... what if
all social progress truly does come from those living beyond the
bounds of society!
Having worn my emotions so openly throughout my body of

work, I wonder if I’ll be understood and depicted with the ap-
propriate level of militance and ‘toughness’ in my demeanor, as it
were. By all means, it is a confounding sight, so I can understand
how people might be confused by what they are seeing. Is this
a man who is falling apart? Or is he doing it to himself ? Such
is Traumaturgy—the refusal to look away from my wounds un-
til my wounds are no more. At the forefront you have what ap-
pears like a weepy child, crumbling apart in an absence of love
and respect and belonging, but he is only half of the equation, if
even that, for behind the child stands a frightening sight: a com-
mander unyielding. But I am both, and without contradiction:
a tender child with full access to his emotions and a cold vet-
eran of war who suffers no nonsense. I suppose this is standard
of the monk archetype, which is both child—gentle and hum-
ble—and warrior—devout and determined. There is so much in-
tention behind everything I do and say, and to chock anything
up to weakness or insanity or instinct would be to overlook a

crucial piece of the puzzle that is I.
There are invisible lineages that occur—cognitive lineages, for

want of a better term—which merit our attention. I am hoping
my autodidactic approach may be of some aid in uncovering and
tracing the shape of this phenomenon, seeing as I had no ma-
jor influences apart from Existence itself. Still, I am quite care-
ful when it comes to discussing these matters, fearing that they
should end up on the Christmas lists of those in the empath-star-
seed-indigo-child crowd who can sooner convince themselves
that they are aliens than accept that they were simply just unpop-
ular in high school.
Looking back on my days, I tend to think that one of my greatest

fortunes in life is that I was able to live with a loving heart but
without the entanglements of earthly relationships. It is both dif-
ficult and strange to be acknowledging this so openly, as this was
often considered tragic, as well as a hallmark of my “lover de-
prived of love” identity, if you will; but I make such statements
neither as some unserious swinger, nor as one trying to convince
you that it was the happiest option of those available, but as
someone who benefited greatly from a lack of attachments and
cannot deny that fact.
We are forced to give up our ideals, as if they are too great
and unrealistic. But what is on offer within this sphere is not
love, and we should not be guilted, mocked or tempted to give
up a reality for pyrite. It is not a worthy trade and it will never
satisfy. Recent years have shown me the ugliness and impossibil-
ity. As much as it hurt me to live in such a way, it would have
done far more damage to my spirit to accept something false. It

would have undermined and altered my entire reality to allow
this one contaminant... forced to rewrite. I am unconvinced that
truth and growth can flourish in the presence of allegiances. I
expect naysayers who speak with bias. But philosophically it is
dense. Spiritual growth becomes... I won’t say impossible, but far,
far more difficult for those who are tied to another in such a way.
The fact that monks and nuns are associated with celibacy is not
just some tired tradition devoid of purpose.
**I can’t be on social media for more than a couple days without
being overtaken with intense inner agony. It’s so hard on me. I
feel myself being eaten alive. Whenever I wish to post an update
or new album, I’ll have to spend a decent amount of time prepar-
ing my mind beforehand so that I can handle a total lack of re-
sponse from those who claim to care. I have to prepare myself
for the fact that I am likely to lose followers in each and every
instance that I post, and for no conceivable reason. And I do.
It doesn’t matter what I say or do. I am simply reminding them
of my existence. I’m not asocial. I’m not too busy to interact. I
would treat it as a priority if someone requested to talk. The rea-
son I can’t keep social media ... and every six months to a year
I’ll consider another approach or a different medium altogether
and I’ll try again and I’ll get excited and spend a day or two get-
ting everything set up and looking aesthetically pleasing but the
agony starts up soon after.
I lose followers at a faster rate than I gain them. I have less
monthly listeners and “followers” now than I did in 2017—the
year I got myself set up. This would be upsetting even if I hadn’t
spent so much effort to make these highly personal and ‘deep’
posts. This would be upsetting even if each one of these posts
wasn’t bringing about severe breathing difficulties due to com-

bined typing and tension. Even the people who know me in per-
son who think of themselves as my friends... there is no sign of
being acknowledged by anyone... and I’m not just making these
crazy posts or offensive posts... I’m not ignorant to such things.
The only notifications I get are spam. There was this time when
someone complimented one of my albums, and I broke down
crying for an hour.
Even the people that follow me don’t feel authentic. They do
not comment or acknowledge what I say or upload in any way. I
feel like a circus freak. Most Facebook pages have more follow-
ers than likes. I have the opposite—a dozen or more in disparity.
And that seems rare and strange, leading to paranoia, as if those
who have hurt and betrayed me in recent years are keeping tabs
on me without their name being visible, or otherwise my audi-
ence is ashamed to have my name on their public profile. That’s
probably it. I’ve never had a post break ten likes, despite putting
so much thought and heart into my updates. It sounds so im-
mature to be saying all of this. I know it does. I am just deeply
wounded by the events and circumstances of my life. I don’t feel
that my words, my undertakings, my creations, my life is of val-
ue to anyone, and it doesn’t matter what I do or say. I feel like a
ghost walking among the people. And I’ve put in the greatest ef-
fort that I know how (within the limits of my integrity, that is).
Again, it is not about fame. The greatest problem at this point is
having zero assurance that my works will survive my death, not
just my legacy, though I wish I could give away all my instru-
ments and paintings and have them remain in circulation. I am
sure that my father will just trash them when I die, but there is
no one on earth who would see it as meaningful.
How queer it is that the things that bring me the most ‘shame’
as I writhe in bed at night are those things I did willingly and
proudly (and would likely do again if I were to find myself in
similar circumstances and conditions). The shame whereof I
speak does not stem from foibles and falls—no. Such faults do
not bother my ego. It is the effort that I put into every little thing
that I do. It is my guileless willingness to reveal my hand to any
and all. I was open—‘open to a fault’—and it was the cause of
my demise, but I wouldn’t change my ways. The mere fact that it
hurt me does not make it a mistake. It’s a cause worth dying for,
and I think that if the degree to which we trusted one another
was based not upon ignorance or cynicism but courage then we
would finally move forward as a species: it’s just hard to do when
no one else does it. So if just one person moves forward out of
the phalanx they get picked off by gunfire, having made of them-
selves a target. I want this to be known... unequivocally... despite
my feelings. I died for the cause of my choosing. In another soci-
ety, in which human life was considered precious and our hearts
and minds were granted the same level of acknowledgment as
our ability to turn a crank, I would have flourished.
*I am still so shaken up at seeing the way in which psychological

suffering (and emotion in general) is handled within society at
large. The amount of mixed messages being sent by people and
enforced by the media... the willingness to disbelieve... the
numbness. It’s no simple matter to pinpoint the aggressor, or
even the problem. We’re too far gone and moving in the wrong
direction. It’s all too mangled... and it’s hard to blame the masses
for their tendency to believe emotion and even suicide as a farce
when others are programmed to use it as a tool to get what they
want. But we must not close ourselves off to the cries of others,
for it is better to believe what is said and risk falling prey to lies
than to risk extinguishing the cries of the hurting. Even where it
is said to be a tool, it is still a sign of someone in distress and in
need (even if the degree or nature of their need is misrepresent-
ed). I guess I am asking: do not be desensitized to the cries of
others, and certainly do not assert your own understanding up-
on them. This is how lives are ruined. This is how we destroy our
abstract networks of value and understanding. Instead of losing
our ability to believe in the words of others we must seek to re-
prove and rehabilitate the liars, the wrong ones.
I despise being forced to carry the memories of those who will-

ingly forgot me. I won’t leave you with some senseless meme to
empower you, telling you to fuck ‘em and forget ‘em. I’ll just tell
you to be cautious when it comes to who you allow in—especial-
ly if you, like me, are committed to finding a use for all parts.
There is never a question of what I wish to do with my time,

since there is a very puzzle-like aura hanging overhead on a con-
stant basis. It’s like I’ve got this HUD. “What fits this hole, this
slot?” There is a lot of strategy. It’s like reviewing every action
and encounter over the past thirty years and attempting to find
that one thing that all interests and objectives have in common,
or seeking that end which incorporates every element of my life,
putting absolutely every experience and skill to use. It’s not about
creating one afresh, as I believe it already exists. I believe I am
in its presence. My life centers around grasping it. I’ve led an in-
spired life, guided by the laws and demands of my daemon. As
so, I hesitate to write anything off as useless or inconsequential.
A bit of trivia: “Immortal Man” by Susumu Hirasawa is generally

considered to be the song during which I injured myself while
doing wild choreography back in 2013, leading to the abdominal
and walking-related problems which would go on to plague me
until the end of my life. If it had to be any song, I’m glad it was
that song—the sort of tune that would come in at the very end
of some DDR-style game and haunt everyone’s dreams, hahaha.
At least I am left feeling justified. If it was something like Enya
then everyone would be laughing, wondering “How the hell did
you manage that?” But with this track... you can practically visu-
alize how it all went down.
I know I’ve said it before, yet I want to emphasize the fact that
100% of my time is occupied by my mystical undertaking, espe-
cially since I’ve realized that others don’t normally operate in this
way, including many of ‘the greats’ on whom history looks fond-
ly. When we learn of a mystic it is our tendency to imagine some-
one who spends all their days by light of candle, pouring over the
pages, but I’ve learned that that just isn’t the case. And it’s not
that it’s impossible—clearly not—but it is rare that you will find
that sort of dedication: not just a love for your craft, but a com-
mitment to organizing your life around it so that it becomes pos-
sible to remain in a never ending trance. I have been especially fo-
cused since the summer of 2019 when I pulled back from society
fully. I do not interact with anyone. I do not watch television. I
do not shop. I don’t do whatever you people do. The only excep-
tion is that I do take a few minutes to figure out which music to
put on or to blend my green smoothies. An eightieth percentile
of my time (or more) is taken up by writing since I am an exter-
nal processor. It is a very focused, monkish existence as such that

is growing increasingly uncommon through the ages.
And do not let them say otherwise, the burners of books, the
mockers of influence. They will efface my mural: those who con-
fidently claim that nothing beyond their understanding can ex-
ist. Do not give them your ear. Do not give them your thought.
Do not give them your cooking.
I cannot give you my name, for the identity is not but a word
which is uttered aloud and abused by unclean mouths, but some-
thing nearer to Intension—the tether which ties us to our Exis-
tence. My name is as vast as the obsessions which disturb me, and
therein it is found.
I’m over here attempting to outline the philosophy that will save
mankind but I can’t stop thinking about graham crackers.
*Never before has there been a generation so intent on convinc-

ing itself that the opinions of others do not matter. It’s horrific to
behold (which is very odd since, at a superficial glance, they also
seem so interested in justice, though it so often appears to be a
farce propelled by unmet egoic needs), and I shudder to see what
becomes of it. Fundamentally, the people are trying to strike a
balance, yet they are overcorrecting and the mark is being missed
again and again and again. I just fear that the mark will one day
erode altogether as they grow disgruntled with the failure.
*Very few things appear to intimidate the human species more

than the concept of meaning, and it would appear that we are
witnessing a backlash like never before against the con-
cept—which is by all means ironic, since the backlash comes
from the innate desire to experience a meaningful existence. The
laws of nature are being meddled with or denied outright in ac-
cordance with the insecurities of the age. All of this ironically
works to prevent such individuals from acquiring meaning; yea,
because meaning has standards and no amount of desire can
change the reality of our position. Institutions of love and life
and so much more are being desecrated because people, quite
simply, want in, and it is truly tragic to behold. Yet it is a pattern
so commonplace throughout history: when one cannot gain en-
try, one opts to lower the standard of admittance; and eventually
we are without our much needed standards and all value evapo-
rates thus. Now, it ought to be noted that when I say these things
I am not referring to any particular act or movement in itself, but
to the quality of the motivations of the masses which may be ap-
plied to any act or movement whatsoever.
As a child I would often put my face in the freezer—the door

only being so ajar as to allow me in, though not so much that
the light would come on. And oh that smell, that temperature! I
would rest my head there for a while and breathe it in like some-
thing precious. I loved it dearly, though I haven’t done that since
I was a teenager. My current house doesn’t have the right sort of
freezer, being it beside the refrigerator instead of above. I’ve also
avoided freezers altogether since around 2011 (for reasons that
might not have been made public, although those who know me
personally should be aware of my reasons).
Since as far back as 2014, whenever intrusive thoughts of trauma

and especially shame come to mind, I tend to have little com-
pulsive outbursts likened to coprolalia, though since losing my
voice I’ve managed to keep them confined to my head. They’re
not violent or aggressive, but they do occur quickly and com-
pulsively and I wish that they didn’t occur at all. For years it
was “Marry me,” and then it became “Kill me” since “marry me”
was problematic in social situations (but so was “kill me,” haha-
hah). Nowadays it’s mostly just “I hate you,” (It’s not like I get
to choose what is said). The frequency has increased over time. I
would say that I have up to twenty outbursts within a day. But as
I said, I’ve learned to keep it contained within my mind, though
you will still find me mouthing it out in silence (although I still
hear myself saying it even if no one else does). Just an unfor-
tunate combo of trauma and OCD which mostly occurs in re-
sponse to an embarrassing or shameful thought—something I
did or said in the past which didn’t net the desired response or
makes me feel foolish to reflect back upon because I gave too
much of myself to people who didn’t care. It truly is a shame to
work so hard and long to overcome my illnesses only to end up
with the sort of tics that make me look like a nutbomb.
The idea of secular music carried such a mystique in my forma-

tive years; and that’s just how it goes when you’re brought up
thinking that the penalty for indulging in this music is eternal
damnation.
Music has never lost its magic for me, and I don’t want to
say something that leads you to think otherwise, but that magic
was even more intense and consuming in my youth. And in those
first years it didn’t occur to me that a lot of the weird bands I lis-
tened to at the time were actually trailblazers. I simply thought

that this is what ‘secular music’ sounded like. In my mind I sim-
ply thought that all the ‘sinners’ of the world had long, untamed
hair and high, androgynous voices, and it wouldn’t be far fetched
to say that that innocent supposition and/or association ended
up having an influence on me, consciously or not. This was about
the perceptions that I held of the world, of the secular, of the
‘evil’ from which my parents so adamantly shielded me, and this
stuck with me even when I pulled away from music in 2007, be-
cause it wasn’t about the bands at all, but the archetypes... these
unconscious caricatures of the world and what it meant to exist
therein and thereamong.
I often think about the fuss that my parents made over sec-
ular media and how it affected my religious faith as an adoles-
cent. They were very unwise in how they went about it, ever cre-
ating these false and unnecessary dichotomies which pitted sec-
ular media against God; and even though it is a false and arbi-
trary dichotomy, it came with very real effects on my person to
where I felt that each time I was taking in such media that I was
going against God, and it is in this way that an overbearing reli-
gious parent sees their plans backfire, because they inadvertent-
ly forced me to make a decision when it wasn’t necessary. They
created a cosmic which required a resolution. I’d say it’s a gross
simplification to claim that I chose music over God in that case,
but it isn’t so much of a stretch when you see the effect that all
of this would have on my relationship with religion, at least in
the beginning, and it had nothing to do with the music itself
but because of what my parents turned it into. When speaking
of the moment in my history when I began to actually question
things, be it my parents’ judgment or my faith or even the na-
ture of life itself, I often bring up that silly story about how it
freaked me out to be learning about masturbation so late in life
(at fourteen). However, when analyzed, I would say that it was

my love of music, combined with the restrictions placed upon
said music by my parents, that really snapped me out of the un-
conscious haze in which I lived out the first decade of my life. It
is in that way, and in conjunction with many other details from
my lifetime, that music may be considered the single most mean-
ingful element within my story. It might not seem like the most
profound or ‘mystical answer’ that I could be giving, taking in-
to account not just my experiences in life but the apparent mun-
danity of music as a concept, but one must be a fool to deny that
it is among our most transcendent treasures.
My maternal grandparents lived down the street from me when

growing up. Half a mile, I would say. They had a great wood
adjoining their property. The coolest trails I’ve ever walked. It
was wonderful. I would often go for long walks along the trail
with my father and sister while dinner was being prepared. If you
walked it to its end you would wind up at some construction site
with these steep hills of dirt on which we would be begging to
play, although we only made it to the construction site a hand-
ful of times. Those woods were great though. They seemed end-
less to a child. Sometimes I still see those woods in my dreams.
Not since then have I seen any woods laid out in a similar man-
ner. It wasn’t just a mess of trees and leaves and whatnot; there
seemed to be an order to everything, although it’s difficult to de-
pict just what I mean. I only remember it feeling very organized...
and spacious, like a world unto itself—wholly habitable.
It is a tiredness like nothing I’ve ever known before. It goes be-

yond the physical and the mental spheres. My spirit is tired. It is
what I imagine of dying; it is what I imagine of cancer. It is a feel-

ing that I do not know how to describe. Imagine combining the
likes of a low grade fever, heartburn, restless leg syndrome, a sub-
tle anxiety, extreme fatigue and anhedonia and this is essential-
ly my baseline—not accounting for all of the various pains and
constrictions that I must deal with on any given hour.
Though I have suffered unimaginably for all these years, I have

not resigned myself to a life of illness and degradation. Not an
hour passes in which I am not carefully analyzing my circum-
stances, attempting to arrive at some conclusion on how to pro-
ceed; what to cut out from my life, what to add; and it doesn’t
end... it’s constant... a constant tracing of my actions and what I
put into my body... into my mind... trying remedies... trying new
attitudes. My condition is uniquely reactive and fluctuates in in-
tensity depending on my actions throughout the day. That isn’t
exactly uncommon, but it has forced me to remain active... it has
forced me to hold onto false hopes.
*I am glad that I never saw it as an excuse, but in my latter years

I’ve really had to acknowledge how much blame belongs to my
parents in regards to what became of me. And that is because,
like many others, it often takes a while in life to realize that you
had been abused or at least the extent thereof. This is especial-
ly common in cases of childhood abuse, since a child is reliant
on their parents to supply them with a paradigm and therefore
everything that the parents do to the child is considered the stan-
dard until proven otherwise—and for many people, it remains
the standard all throughout their lives, and they are fated to live
out their days defending the actions of their parents, if to de-
fend their own lot in life, along with their very understanding,
and they do so at the expense of recognizing their own trauma.
It took me a really long time to stop seeing myself as defective
in certain regards. It only recently occurred to me how much my
faults tie in to my upbringing, and I think I’ve done quite well
for myself considering my indoctrination and lack of education,
but at the same time the world, or the world that I have known,
is very, very unforgiving of inconvenience or difference whatso-
ever.
For example, and I hate admitting this out loud, but I can’t
imagine walking the world alone. I don’t understand it. I don’t
understand how others can get into a car and drive off and just
wander around the world by themselves. Now, that isn't to say
that I am incapable of adapting, and if I had my health I don’t
doubt that I would have the willpower to overcome whatever
fear or hesitancy I contain. Yet I’ve been self-conscious about
this my whole life, left here to wonder why I have to be this way
when the whole world around me seems to get on just fine. It
took me until the end to really put two and two together and
grasp the fact that this is not some innate disposition, or defect,
but a problem caused by my upbringing and poor, near-sight-
ed parenting. Now, that won’t work as an excuse or justification,
but it’s good to be able to differentiate finally between the innate
and the nurtured faults, although I can’t say that it makes me feel
much better.
I recently stumbled upon an article for Primal Therapy, which I

discovered via a Tears for Fears interview, and I don’t think that I
ever actually heard of this system before, although it is very sim-
ilar to what I attempted in the summer of 2009 which paved the
way for all the erratic behavior seen in the albums of the time
(Evil Guest List, Demon Daycare, Northern Thorns, dezinezinet).

I was notably attempting to relive the past experiences that were
preventing me from moving on with my life in the aim of achiev-
ing a sort of catharsis, and this led to a month of near-constant
screaming, howling, ululating, which came about in an attempt
to rid myself of the pain. Not all of these instances were record-
ed, although a select few instances were picked up on record and
appear on Demon Daycare as “Conflict”, “Control” and “Throne
of Hell” and demonstrate some of the most chilling moments in
all of my discography, sounding like an animal in pain. There are
also a couple of freak-outs that appear on other albums from that
period, like in the infamous interludes on Evil Guest List. It is be-
lieved that all of this screaming, when combined with my near-
constant singing, led to my throat condition. That being said,
despite some similarities, I wouldn’t want to tie my practices of
that time to an actual school of thought since I don’t think that
that would be fair to these schools. I was, after all, an impetuous
boy desperate to purge his demons quickly so that he could leave
this Hell and go to Egypt and I was not in a place where I cared
to follow any regimen, any structured idea. It is worth empha-
sis, as my behavior wasn’t simply the problem of some nervous
breakdown beyond my control but the result of essentially cre-
ating this nest of pain and agony around myself in a misguided
attempt to confront and purge all that was against me. I sought
to cripple myself and relearn to walk. And in many ways I did
just that, but it wasn’t the quick and easy process I wanted it to
be, taking several years to settle (and much of my physical health
in the meantime). I only ever really gave in to these methods in
the first place because I did not feel that the people who hurt me
in life could be confronted, and therefore wouldn’t give me the
apology or closure whereof I was so in need.
The school system is typically where individuals—as children

and adolescents—are allowed to exercise (and exorcize) all their
awkwardness, and it’s tolerated on behalf of the fact that every-
one is more or less awkward at that point. Yet if you fail to get
that out of you at the right time and you’re a thirty-year-old
walking around with that seventh-grade nervousness, you’re con-
sidered a freak to society and absolutely no one has the patience
or will to put up with that. It really is a shame, because there was
absolutely nothing wrong with me; neither in my behavior, nor
my sensibility, nor my eagerness to improve. Yet I’m at a high
school level in my social game and no one has any patience for
lumps in the batter. Fifteen years earlier and everyone is lumpy,
but at my age even a single lump is a dealbreaker, seeming to oth-
ers like a warning sign of the highest degree.
I am not disappointed to be rejected by those in whom I do not

see myself... the sun soakers. It is to be understood that one can-
not (and should not wish to) please everyone. The pain comes
about when, after many years of searching, I spot someone who
appears to be “of my kind” and I attempt to form a connection,
only for them to look right through me. That is what leads me to
feel rejected on a profound level and I’ve felt that more and more
in recent years. I feel like such a child to be voicing it, but what
else is new...
In my years of isolation I dreamed of the day in which I would be

interviewed or simply interact with others who one of my work,
and what excited me mostly was that others to see that I was kind
and grounded... humble, hospitable. I was really, truly excited. I
imagined that it would surprise people who knew of my life sto-
ry to see that I’ve become so gentle and empathetic, and I really

wanted to surprise people in that way. I fantasized about it. After
these past few years of social nightmares, it no longer matters...
and I’m upset that it no longer matters... I despise them for it.
[...] and it disturbs me very much because she doesn’t see how
she is perpetuating the sickness of the family. Oh, I guarantee
that she believes that because she is not guilty of identical offens-
es that she is a victor. That is how she carries herself; and yet she
has refused to face the reality before her and in so doing makes
herself a vector of the self-same illness, and a smug one at that.
There are very narrow definitions at play, and we see a similar at-
titude all throughout the population. The healing of intergener-
ational trauma is indeed a rarity; the form it takes is simply ma-
nipulated and form-fitted to each generation anew so that they
can feel they’ve come out on top. I don’t claim to have escaped
the painful effects of such trauma, but I do confidently declare
that I have rooted out all cause to perpetuate that trauma, pass-
ing it onto others.
“I just slipped coming down the stairs at Rivermont Pizza, gliding

several feet across the floor without ever losing my balance, and I re-
ally hope someone saw it because it must have looked absolutely bib-
lical.” — Note found on my phone dating back to 2019.
I’ve been trying to come up with some neologisms for certain

concepts prevalent in my life which don’t seem to be associated
with words as of yet. I mostly feel stupid when attempting to
come up with new words, but some of these aren’t all that bad.
For example:
scindova: my whole life I tried to figure out if this was a well-
known concept or at least deserving of a term. For a while I won-
dered if it might be what people referred to as racing thoughts,
although it is so much more disorienting than that sounds. It’s
like the moment before vomiting. It was one of my first memo-
ries in life. When shapes and colors and ideas blur into each oth-
er. The senses and nostalgia kind of revolt... it’s so difficult to de-
scribe... ledges, edges... man, I don’t know. Scindo + ova = split
eggs, on account of I always referred to the experience as “chop-
ping eggs” and even sung two or more songs about it.
possefalous: adjective. Posse + falsum + ous. Feasible falsi-
ties. This is something that has always disturbed me deeply and
I’ve discussed the concept at several points. Consider how anx-
ious I have been about getting in trouble for something that I
didn’t do simply because it sounds like something I would do.
This really has a lot to do with my defensive tone, because after
all I’ve shared, nothing seems beyond me, so I always felt that I
was having to defend myself against coming accusations. For ex-
ample, someone could go and tell everyone that I killed some-
one. That would be a possefalous statement or conclusion on ac-
count of it doesn’t sound beyond me, given some of the violent
art and lyrics I’ve put out in the past, so despite the fact that it is
untrue, it is highly likely to be believed. Not the most attractive
word but to hell with it. Most words are ugly. It’s all about famil-
iarity.
adanimam: ad + animam, for the soul. Basically the opposite
of eyeservice. That’s my intention, anyway. The things that are
done when no one is looking. Could also be broken up like ad
animam, I suppose. Surprised there isn’t already a term for this.
Maybe there is. I also considered ad sui. It’s something that ap-
plies to most of my life, from my works to my ethical behavior

to whatever. I’ve lived a life beyond the glare of society where
I could have gotten away with anything, yet my own soul, as it
were, was enough of a motivator for me to remain committed to
being the best that I can be.
Eh, maybe all of these are stupid, after all. Either way, the
need for words describing these concepts still stand.
I’ve remarked again and again about the nature of my changing

perception, and how it is indeed a perception and not a philo-
sophical position adopted in response to new knowledge or
changing circumstances. It is still so strange and jarring to me.
We commonly hear all these people talk about the flatness and
vacuity of reality and the people who partake therein. We hear
our share of immature and denigrating comments about “sheep”
and “zombies” and we grow desensitized to what it means, learn-
ing to see it as a reflection of those passing the judgment rather
than that which is being judged (in this case, the population). I
am quite alarmed at this point. This is not the world in which I
was brought up. The outer layer is gone and it is terrifying. There
is no room for me to feel proud for having come this far. I feel
sadness so unbearable. The desperation and insecurity and fear
in everyone’s souls—I see it plain as day. They cover it up with
whatever they can find. I want to leave. And people will read
what I’ve had to say and think “yeah bro I kno what u mean.” No,
you fucking don’t, and there is no reason that you should ever
want to, since it will come with no benefit to your life. This is
not just me clutching a dirty bong while calling everyone “sheep”
simply because they’re living in a manner with which I do not
agree. It’s tormenting me. It’s tormenting me in ways I cannot ex-
plain. A person can’t live like this. I am not unwilling but unable
to see the beauty or the light or the colorful disguises. I can’t dis-
tract myself from what we are. I can’t go back to thinking of hu-
mankind as some complex, highly evolved, intelligent and empa-
thetic species. I don’t see the population in that way at all. Maybe
if you want to compare it to a fucking zoo exhibit then sure, our
courtship rituals are better developed than those of the common
macaque. How about we compare ourselves, instead, to what we
could have been—what we can still become. Then you shall see
that we are a failed race, the output of which comes nowhere
near its collective capacity. How few are our paragons on which
we rely, on which we base our own estimation! How rare is kind-
ness without condition! How rare is fervor felt for itself !
This isn’t depression. This isn’t nihilism. It is a paradigm to
which the earthbound individual shouldn’t have access (or so it
seems to me). Not that it doesn’t make sense to me why I would
“feel” this way. Not that it seems unnatural. Once again, I just
tend to feel utterly alone in my experience. And do you know
what might have helped me to feel a lot better? If someone had
taken the time to share a similar sentiment before me. In all like-
lihood, such texts probably exist. After all, I do not expect that I
am the only one to have ever experienced such a state of being;
yet without that physical evidence as consolation I am truly in-
consolable. I am writing all of this in the hopes that even one in-
dividual out there can end up feeling less alone.
I spill out in the belief that there are significant aspects of our
humanity which are insufficiently represented. I spill out in the
hopes that something that I have said along the way will end up
being the sentence, the statement of which these individuals are
in need: the affirmation that keeps them here. We find ourselves
within a dark age on a dark earth, but I am convinced that there
is a purpose to it all. And it is not something that we must simply

wait out and tolerate, but something which demands our keen-
est participation.
To fellow creators I have this to say: your profoundest, most ef-

fectual work is likely to lay unappreciated within a rubbish pile,
where it is written off as ‘too embarrassing, too unpolished, too
personal and surely too unprofessional’ to be shown off to any
but the most intimate of associates. Our society sure loves to tell
us that everything has already been done before—a statement
not based on anything but preference and materialistic igno-
rance which fails to acknowledge the simple fact that we can not
possibly contain any awareness of that which outlies our aware-
ness. It angers me, and it says a lot about the minds of those who
spout such generalisms. It’s true that we’ve already explored our
comfort zone quite thoroughly, but there lies so much without
and within with which we are less comfortable and therefore less
willing to acknowledge, and I do not mean some puerile taboo-
busting iconoclasm, but the act of being more human. We are
not yet as authentically human as we can be. Most do not think
and feel to the extent that they are capable. But there exists a
whole world underlying what we choose to show and what we
choose to know.
So no, it hasn’t all been done—far from it. If anything, we’ve
exhausted our limited idea of what it means to be successful, to
be cool, to be sexy, to be professional. There lies an entire world
in the dark of the moon. There need only exist some brave souls
at the fore who are willing to drag the markers, shirking reputa-
tion, security and perhaps even their own sanity to do so.
It was a difficult experience. If she was vocal about something

that she liked, e.g., an outfit that I wore or a tone that I took, I
would increase the frequency thereof, seeing it as an honor and
a privilege to be as much to her; and yet she would often go the
opposite route when dealing with me, viewing it as a ‘compro-
mise’ to satisfy or impress me. To those that are insecure in their
identity, such gross measures are often reached for in fear and ig-
norance. In a way it can be said that she forced me to be respon-
sible for her identity, and in the end she betrayed me much like
she has betrayed her own self.
I was never convinced of her love for me—not surprising,
considering it didn’t exist. And when one is insecure of the de-
gree to which they are loved and cared for, they become obsessed
with so-called little, or lesser, things that they wouldn’t normally
care about within a more secure relationship. She often wrote me
off as nitpicky, which in the majority of cases was simply another
one of her endless attempts to invalidate my feelings, but if one
is truly nitpicky, it is standardly the sign of a dearth. One who
isn’t being sufficiently fed is going to go after every grain of rice
that hits the table—a sign that they are needing. That being said,
I still maintain the position that I am not a nitpicky individual,
and if I seemed concerned with “lesser issues” (not “small” issues,
however) it was as a result of a fundamental lack of trust in our
relationship.
I hear people speak of ‘taking responsibility’ and ‘doing it your-

self ’ as if ANYTHING in life occurs without the involvement
of other parties. Even our definition of autonomy is bound to
public institutions. I wasn’t lacking autonomy. I wasn’t lacking
the will or ability to get myself back up on my feet by the com-
mon standard. I kept moving even in the absence of family and
friends, willing that I should become a success story; but the doc-
tors, the government in its various forms, they did not do their
part in allowing this story to occur. I knocked and they didn’t
open to me. And begging was never seen as an option in my
mind. And it’s such a fucking insult to think that many won’t
recognize this. Autonomy is relative. Career opportunities and
service and surgeries and warmth are not owed to any one of us.
Freedom is not as easy as getting in your car and driving away.
This makes so many assumptions: the DMV must pass you, gas
station must service you, the tollman must allow you through,
dezinezinet. It sounds silly to be saying all of this, but I feel we’ve
grown blind to the access and authorization that we require at
every step along the way. I did the absolute best that I could do
given my physical condition, and while being cautious with what
compromises I make, not doing anything that would damage my
soul, I was willing to compromise on a fair amount of issues, as
seen from my accounts, for the growth of my person comes be-
fore whatever pride I may hold in my ways; but I would not com-
promise on these core ideals which supply meaning to my exis-
tence, and if that is what has sent me to the gallows then I shall
give my executioner a sweet kiss.
I would have cherished it, and gratefully so. Yet I didn’t have even
a single person to tell me that they valued my existence or my
ideas. I didn’t have anyone to whom to say goodbye. I didn’t have
a single person to assure me that they will at least try to sustain
my work. I had zero affirmation, zero assurance. I lived each day
in a dissociated haze, unable to understand my fate. The cold-
ness I’ve been shown is so confounding as to seem conspirator-
ial—hence why I’ve had to waste the final years of my existence
fixated on ‘proving’ to the world that I didn’t deserve my treat-
ment. I wish I didn’t feel the need. I know it isn’t healthy. I know
it isn’t becoming. I’m simply hurting and I know no way around
it.
I am neither an academic, nor an intellectual. I was a dancing

child told to sit in the corner, calm down and think about what
I’ve done; and I guess life forgot about me, because I’ve been sit-
ting here all along. In these three decades of time I’ve given a lot
of thought to... everything. I don’t come citing any sources, and
that is not only okay for what I am trying to accomplish, but in-
valuable, and I will not allow the worth of my position, my ef-
forts and the resulting insights to be spat upon by shitless guards-
men desperate to believe that all those years spent goofing off in
college did not actually entitle them to a greater understanding
and only ended up being a waste of their valuable time and in-
come.
When studying Greek some years back, I took note that the
Greeks have two separate words to refer to the concept of time:
chronos and kairos. I have considered all of the ways in which
this could relate to some of my ideas of intension although I hes-
itate to bring the terms into my system as it seems that they are
already bound to various extant philosophies with a conflicting
nature. Still, it is an interesting distinction.
*The concept of location, which really refers to one's perceived

environment in this case, is as malleable as any Representation.
We are not in many places simultaneously. We observe Meaning
within any given instant, and each Meaning can have endless
Representations. Indeed, Essence is closely associated with this

concept of Representation.
I can’t make any claims as to the entertainment value or literary

value of my works, but I can assure you that these documents
contain insights of a magnitude that is rarely seen in our world,
as they draw upon the greater paradigms, having to do with the
‘perceptual understanding’ of Existence itself.
I am not sure if I have mentioned this at another point within my

texts, but it was an ongoing gag of sorts that, during my years of
muteness, I would sporadically belch the word ‘bitch’ and noth-
ing else, often catching people off-guard and garnering at least a
laugh. For some, it is all that they ever heard of my voice. It may
also merit clarification that I did not belch openly or audibly un-
til living with my ex in 2016, who practically forced me into do-
ing it so that she could essentially be more comfortable in my
presence.
As high are my personal standards, I do not believe in handling

others with the same gloves. The only standards to which we may
rightfully hold others are those to which they themselves claim
adherence (up to a certain point, surely as there are legal limits
and I speak only of a more negotiable area of morality). There-
fore I do not judge my father by my personal standards, seeing
as we hold to distinct outlooks and aspirations, but by the stan-
dards of Christianity and whatever else he identifies as and as-
pires toward. Any more is not our right, as individuals.
I have to imagine that very few people grasp the dark potential of
veritable ecstasy, veritable satisfaction, which becomes a burden
when unable to be shared. Think of it like sexual intimacy, which
is considered a most essential part of life for many (although ob-
viously not all). This urge, when it cannot be shared, becomes a
burden which, in contrast to the life-affirming qualities of physi-
cal intimacy, is enough to drive one to madness and death. I don’t
feel like I am explaining it as accurately as I could, but it’s some-
thing to consider. The happiness of the masses is not ecstasy as
I’ve experienced it: an overwhelming power which rips me apart.
Life for me is like an unending orgasm, and people might hear
that and think that it sounds great, but it all depends on context,
and... well, you know my story.
We look to the madmen among us—many of whom are

sick—and we associate with them a certain lack of awareness and
volition. I am not so sick as to lack these qualities, having arrived
at where I stand by nothing less. Though some days I lay in bed,
staring up at my ceiling, marveling to think that I have become
one of history’s madmen. The ignorant may spend decades, cen-
turies debating if I meant what I said or if I even knew what I was
saying to begin with. Though am I such a child that they think
they can speak for me? Have my intentions not been made per-
fectly clear and in a thousand tones?
I gave away over a dozen promotional CDs between 2018 and

2019. I did not do so randomly or mindlessly. I am not so fool-
ish. If I had spent the day with someone or shared a meal or a
good long conversation and they actually seemed like they would
be open to or interested in my work then I would ask them if
they wanted a CD, patch and button which I carried on my
person at all times within my messenger bag. It was just a kind
gesture which I hoped would surprise or impress them (or at
least open up new avenues of conversation for us both). No one
ever had a thing to say afterwards. And it’s not like they avoid-
ed me after the fact. We always interacted afterwards, and we
would usually continue to meet in person; but there would be
zero acknowledgement of the music I had given them. Even if
they didn’t like it, there were so many ways they could have been
nice about it without that necessarily entailing some dishonest
response.
“Never heard anything like it!”
“Man you put in a lot of effort!”
Hell, I would have even accepted “Man, that’s crazy!”
One guy admitted a couple months after the fact that he had
never even opened the CD. He sounded apologetic, so I acted
like it wasn’t a big deal and laughed it off, admiring his honesty
at least. But when the moment ends and I return home at the
end of the night it all catches up to me and it hurts so bad (or
it would, if I hadn’t totally numbed myself ). That’s sort of how
I am when I socialize: I am just responding to everything kindly
and maturely and nothing negative really gets to me... but then
when I get back home and lie in bed, all the events of the day...
they swarm me like eschatological locusts.
There are people out there who think of themselves as my friend,

and I haven’t actually said anything to make them think oth-
erwise—not to their face, although anyone who actually reads
what I write will see that I consider myself alone and friendless
and how greatly I suffer for it. I tried to go easy on them in the
chapter of Clyssus of Man which details my social affairs, focus-
ing on the fact that I interacted with some kindly individuals
along the way, but that passage, I feel, was way too gentle and I
wrote it in such a way simply so as to not offend these people
even though, all things considered, they probably deserve to feel
offended. Not everyone was an outright scumbag, but I was bet-
ter before having met them. And I wish I could tell them that. I
wish I could scream at them. Yet that won’t get them to think.
It won’t get them to change. It just invites knee jerk retaliations
and I can’t take that. Like when I gave Doug the finger after he
betrayed me. I did it with a silly expression rather than seeming
aggressive, but then he did it back to me, and I wanted to destroy
him. I had earned the right to despise him after what he did. I
had done nothing to him but show him kindness. I hate them all.
For making my memories unsafe. My mind unsafe. My dreams
unsafe. My hopes destroyed. My world dark. Every day I wake up
thinking “Today may be the day I tell them all how much they
hurt me and how much I hate them,” but if I do that then they’ll
never hear anything that I have to say thereafter. Besides, I’ve giv-
en away art, merchandise and other items to them and I don’t
want these things to be tainted by their humiliation or anger re-
lating to me. I don’t want them to have negative feelings when
they see my name or these things I have given away, and that’s all
that will end up happening if I should say anything that leaves
them feeling uncomfortable or ashamed with themselves.
It has taken me thirty years of working to improve my-
self—thirty years spent learning to adapt and become a better
person, a better friend—before finally realizing that I was not at
fault but simply unlucky.
FUCKING LISTEN TO ME: THERE IS NOT ONE GOD-

DAMN HOUR THAT GOES BY IN WHICH THEIR
WORDS AND ACTIONS AND STARES AND EXPRES-
SIONS DO NOT HAUNT ME. Even when I am working on
my projects and writing my books—my mind is often elsewhere.
If anything has shown itself to be consistent in my time it is that

the more effort you put into this life, the more you alienate your-
self, and it is a very harrowing acknowledgment to think that you
will have the absolute best chances of ‘fitting in’ with this world if
you do absolutely nothing, drifting with the current, doing what
feels good, believing what you’re told. It’s harrowing. The stan-
dard is exactly that: a standard of drifting, of non-effort. And
that may not address the common standard of ‘effort’, surely as
I don’t refer to basic productivity. So to all of those individuals
like myself who think that they can study and train and crack
humanity like a code and improve their lives through honest, in-
dustrious means... I worry for your expectations, indeed. ... I’m
sorry to say it, but you’re only likely lessening your chances along
the way by thinking it through with such care and sincerity; by
working at it, by trying to become a better individual. I ain’t
talking about all those bodybuilding chumps whose idea of self-
improvement merely means hitting the gym. I’m talking about
something more spiritual and emotional—inner growth: the de-
sire to improve one’s outlook, becoming more honest, more
kind, more humble, and someone who has something to con-
tribute to the world rather than just taking and taking from
everyone you meet. I’m not saying it must result in failure, but it
lessens the likelihood of finding belonging among these decrepit
civilizations. There’s a reason why so many who take this route
either end up a nihilist or turn around and use the information
they obtained to manipulate and climb corporate ladders. The

only alternative, it seems, is constant emotional suffering result-
ing from a lack of an honest, worldly application for these honest
spiritual goals
I’ve been utterly broke since 2018. Zero money, a hundred per-
cent reliant on credit, which I’ve finally maxed out (it was only
a grand to start with, anyhow). I don’t know what people think
of my circumstances, especially since I tend to give away most of
my art and merchandise for free, but the reality is that I have no
money whatsoever. Every buck that I get goes toward my month-
ly services and whatnot, such as these stupid subscriptions to im-
age editing programs on my phone and other things that I have
to use for formatting my websites. I’m not saying this to com-
plain. I am simply saying all of this to clarify, since my situation
may be a mystery to most. It’s why all or most of my websites have
since gone offline. I’m a cheap buy when it comes to food. I eat
about ten pounds of oatmeal each week and that’s it (it sounds
like a lot but it’s only priced at around eleven dollars).
Whenever I’ve had to give a reason for something the reason has
often been disrespected, as if it’s not valid as any more than a ma-
nipulative or otherwise insufficient excuse, and this has really left
me with a disturbed relationship with my own struggles in life. I
can’t even speak openly about my chronic suicidality due to the
fact that there are apparently people among us who use suicidal-
ity as a threat or as a means to get what they want, and I can’t ex-
plain to you how much that disturbs me to know that my claims
are liable to be considered in the same manner and via the same
filters as these deceptions.
I tend to feel mildly ‘betrayed’ on some level when the weather

forecast is wrong—silly as that sounds. It may have to do with
my disconnection from the sensory which forces me to rely on
the estimates of those who appear to have a better handle on the
physical world, and when those estimates prove fallacious I tend
to get confused or upset. I don’t mean to make it sound like it is
some deeply affecting event in my life, haha. No. I am merely at-
tempting to point out the degree to which my mind is willing to
latch on to these estimates, which I see as a reflection of my cog-
nitive profile which maintains a poor connection with the phys-
ical.
Those of us existing within the margins of the margins owe it to

our species to provide documentation of our processes, our in-
sights and our means of living, for society, as we have learned, is
a vacuum fed only from the outside or not at all. It is like Con-
sciousness, which does not create but sustains and manipulates
the Known, within the limits that it understands. It can only
rearrange itself. The Unconsciousness—Agnosis—is where the
new makes its way into being, brought to us by those who brave
the cognitive aphotic and the insecurity of a life well-spent.
When I think of it, I never felt compelled to convey power or

achieve my respect through what I wear or how I act. ‘Gaining
respect’ was never really a focus of mine in the first place, being
seen as more of a byproduct that comes about naturally once all
else is in alignment. My focus was always on having myself in
order—spiritually, emotionally, psychologically—for I believed
that if I were truly deserving of the respect of the people that

I would be awarded as much without my having to demand it
through overt or manipulative means. This can be seen as a con-
tributing factor in why I experience so much hurt over the re-
ception I have garnered, as I tried so hard to achieve my respect
and recognition via honest and principled means. I’ve even spent
my life attempting to appear less threatening, less formidable, al-
though this was usually for reasons relating to my worry of mak-
ing others feel uneasy in my presence—especially women and
children.
It is unfortunately the case that when you are virtually unknown

as a musician, the only ones who end up stumbling upon your
work are those who are constantly searching for new music. After
all, that’s the only way that they were able to discover you in
the first place. But then you look in their libraries and they have
upwards of a million artists that they’re listening to, so all in
all it doesn’t mean very much, since you’re just another after-
noon for them, which is the absolute most they’ll be willing to
give up to you before moving on to the next thing. Additional-
ly, they’re probably also the chumps that develop their identity
around their musical taste and may end up ranking you poorly
just because it is tied to their self-importance to do so, or because
it is less about rating an album and artist on its own terms for
what they accomplished given what they were working with and
what they were attempting and more so becomes about pitting
them up against the millions of artists at our fingertips and these
people are absolutely not afraid of giving you a one star rating de-
spite it being the first rating that you receive and thereby setting
a doomed precedent for all to follow. Unfortunately I haven’t re-
ally left this stage of my growth in the years that I’ve had my mu-
sic available to the public and I’m not really getting any fans, just
pompous drifters trying to grow their stack.
It is such a surreal task to be speaking at this point. And I don’t

refer to speaking out loud, since that is evidently beyond my abil-
ity as of now. It is simply surreal to be sitting here, typing, while
knowing that no value will be given to the words into which
I have put all of myself; words which require every bit of my
awareness, courage and sacrifice. I once worked with such a dif-
ferent train of thought, thinking that one day I would merit the
love and respect of the population if only I kept to my vision of
an honest and exploratory individual. Reality went the opposite
way and I lost whatever ‘love’ and ‘respect’ I ever had by deciding
to keep with my vision and aspire toward something greater than
a life of coasting. It’s like I had the choice between expressing my-
self sincerely and living a happy life. I made the right choice, but
I wish it wasn’t a dichotomy.
Those who defend the population and make the claim that peo-
ple are more good than not... I have to expect that the people
making such claims are those that are still within the graces of so-
ciety on account of they fit the mold; because once you fall out-
side of that mold and people no longer see any utility in you...
any reason to envy or rely on you... their true colors are revealed...
and the illusion of humanity’s goodness falls apart like sand in
the hands. I try... oh I try... to avoid overgeneralizations as such
that I am putting forward in this case... it just makes me look
less credible... even childish... honestly, I’m not even thinking
right now... I’m just typing without thinking... to ruminate is too
painful at this point and if I can allow even ten minutes of mind-
less typing without having to think about who I am and what I’m
doing and how I’ve been hurt then snowowbeo.
It is so weird to do anything knowing it won’t make a dif-
ference. I’m mute and invisible and no kindness or ingenuity or
patience or generosity or faith or tenacity or courage will bring
about even a sip of fortune, favor, security, love, relief, relief, re-
lief, relief, relief, relief, relief, relief. This desert of ashes...!
I fear to come in contact with others at this point. The pain
is so constant and so out of control that I don’t know if I can re-
ally hold back much longer from actually saying how I feel... oh
the disgrace!
The pain is so constant and so out of control...
It’s like I’ve got a vicious dog biting me from every angle,
at every appendage... there is no relief... there is no safe haven...
there is no place to turn... I will continue my work until I succeed
in concluding my life-long goals and I will make sure that all of
my works are set up in a way that is publicly accessible, if for a
little while, and then I will be content to die. I will be content
to rip my flesh from my bones like giftwrap from that special toy
that I’ve been wishing for—begging for—all my life.
Why isn’t it understood
That the people to whom we show kindness are more than
likely to become kind
While the people who we treat as monsters are more than
like to develop into monsters
Why then do we still treat people like we do
Why
Why
Why are we still creating monsters from beautiful children
whose only crime was being born under the wrong roof and rule.
You took a precious boy
And you demonized him
And you let the church abuse him

Even when he did exactly as he was asked
And you took this boy and you made him a nonboy and a
nonthing
You sawed his horns and filed his nails and clipped his wings
and it became a community effort
Because one day when he revolts against us for what we did
to him
We can’t have him causing any harm
So we will mute him, taking away his ability to be heard.
So we will declaw him, taking away his ability to leave a
mark.
Take away his ability to write his name.
Take away his ability to be believed.
And force him to speak to ‘the world’ via a small black audio
recorder as though it were and substitute for real relationships...
No. Even that is more than he needs... deserves...
Force him to speak through an impersonal and emotionally-
flat notepad that we can all just ignore
Still he spends thirteen hours each day typing away
And no one is curious
And no is considerate of the fact that although I am silent
And although I hold my grimaces in reserve
That I am actually screaming
I don’t think that envy is a very conscious emotion for me. I am

far more likely to feel disillusioned, philosophically speaking. I
guess I just don’t see a grounds to make comparisons between
myself and others and this extends to envy and jealousy. I don’t
look at others desirously. Some of it may be chocked up to ma-
turity, but I expect it is also a natural symptom of extreme social
disconnection. I’m like an alien, or a fish in the water, so what use

would I have for their shoes and cars and fortunes and success.
I’ve said it before that I am not very competitive—less so as time
goes on and loneliness increases.
In this modern age we seem to have accepted this model of the

mind as something which misfires. I won’t deny that it can and
does, where by ‘misfiring’ I am largely referring to its proneness
to misinterpreting information, but it must ultimately be stated
that the mind is not just our enemy and is an interpreter of stim-
uli and circumstances, rather than being some magic box that ei-
ther makes you feel good or bad and randomly so. Mentally, it’s
hard for me to think of myself as being in a good place these days.
I crave death in every second. I’m constantly spasming and react-
ing in response to unwanted thoughts and dark memories. I have
every reason to move on from here. I can’t stop writing or work-
ing for more than one minute it seems before I am boiling in a
lake of psychache. And it can be difficult to speak of the dark-
ness to which I am witness, because people want to blame the
mind, perhaps in part because it allows them to feel that they are
in control of the situation and can keep everything in check with
chemicals and therapy, but for some of us, it is simply the case
that we are on a battlefield amid a heinous war, and we’re not
supposed to pretend otherwise, nor are we supposed to escape
the unpleasantness merely because it is unpleasant to us. So many
lives would change if, instead of seeking to run from our feel-
ings and thoughts, we were willing to open our eyes to the war in
our midst and to realize that our reactions not only make sense
in light of what is taking place, but it is exactly how we should
be feeling about it all, and this anxiety isn’t merely to be seen as
some misfortune or handicap, but as fuel. Our tribal ancestors,
when experiencing adrenaline and cortisol, likely had a decent

grasp of how it connected with circumstances. They knew it to
be a response to a coming storm, or an animal or outsider prowl-
ing in the nearby bushes. Nowadays we call it a panic attack, and
we try to come up with all of these reasons to say that it is essen-
tially a ‘misfire’ simply because we fail to grasp its cause, but more
often than not I think it’s just a failure on our part to grasp the
danger of our environment and our circumstances when we’ve
been so conditioned by a sick society to think that this world in
which we live is any less dangerous than the jungles of the old
world. We ain’t misfiring. We’re in denial, blind to the extent of
the danger that we face every day.
So while my mental landscape may be quite dark at present, I
find it to be perfectly reasonable in line with the outer landscape,
as it were: a mirror to my circumstances. It’s just a shame that I
feel I can’t really share all that much with the public (not to say
that I haven’t) because while I see my mind as perfectly healthy
in the sense that it is reacting as it should, I know that others will
base their assessment of mental health on such arbitrary criteria
as whether it feels pleasurable or unpleasant and if it interferes
with their ability to work the register. And I think about this a
bit... and I feel so sorry for all of the people who are in denial of
these battles and would sooner dull themselves with pernicious
potions. A lot of people will describe their hardships as battles...
a war going on inside of them... though all of that is really just
another way of poeticizing the simple fact that they are prone
to unpleasant feelings and thoughts and other things that they
would rather not be dealing with. So while they may speak of a
struggle, they are yet to realize the real struggle in which they are
a part, which is not about happiness and will not be vanquished
with a wine cooler, but about meaning... something which can
not be dealt with indirectly. You can’t just live your life and hope
that things will fall in line. Those who desire meaning must ac-
tively seek it out and also actively maintain and protect it.
I suffered from horrible stomach aches as a kid. It ruled my life

from ages ten to twelve and threatened my ability to socialize.
Yet it only really occurred in social situations, coming about af-
ter I began attending youth group and especially after I devel-
oped an insatiable crush on one of the girls—a crush which last-
ed years. I loved that youth group, though. It wasn’t overly struc-
tured. We would play crazy games and eat snacks for a couple
of hours and then come back later for a simple sort of sermon.
Though there were times when my stomach would hurt so bad-
ly that I would verge on passing out in the pew (and it surely
wasn’t helped by my unwillingness to stand up and draw atten-
tion to myself ). Often it seems I would have rather fainted and
died than stand up and have others watch me as I walk quietly
out of the room. God forbid I shut the door too loudly. There
wasn’t much worse at that age in time than the silly thought of
others turning to look at me for but a single, forgettable second
in time. Oh but what a period, that time of my life. At night I
would sit in my bed and I would spend hours envisioning all of
the possible outcomes of a given event or scenario. I would car-
ry out my little mental simulations weeks in advance. And I def-
initely did it every week before church and before youth group,
exploring all possible outcomes in my mind and getting to pre-
tend to say all of these super cool and suave lines to girls that I
never, ever had the guts to say when the time came... I did this
as early as age seven, and possibly earlier. The simulations were a
constant.
The fact is, despite my lifestyle and reputation as one confined

forever to his house, I never actually had a home. Even within my
cellar bedroom, the level of insecurity and uncertainty is tremen-
dous. The eye of the storm is no place in which to settle, though
it is arguably the best place from which to work.
I have not spoken up a whole lot about the fall of 2015, which
I consider to be perhaps the worst season of my life, followed
closely by the weeks in August and September 2016 during
which I was back in Lynchburg (between living in Connecticut
and Houston, while my then-fiancée was off skipping rope and
drinking champagne overseas). All extant documentation conve-
niently glosses right on over these periods—something that was
done in order to preserve my health and avoid bringing unwant-
ed traumata to the surface. I might end up throwing together a
quick summation before leaving, but I don’t know if I am will-
ing to risk the emotional consequences. Both such periods were
largely composed of the same ingredients: my falling out with
those I considered my only friends and family in life—one after
another after another after another in rapid, soul-raping succes-
sion.
It is horrific to look around and see everyone deciding what is

‘clever’, ‘healthy’ and ‘rightful’ based on naught more than mere
preferences—so many of which are chemical. It is a nightmare.
There is nothing objective about this reality that we have creat-
ed for ourselves. And when I use that term, especially within the
context of reality itself, I am referring to the greater paradigms,
in which case ‘objective’ refers to that which is understood by
Existence itself. True objectivity, within the given context, can
not possibly be achieved by those who are deemed uninspired,

containing no ties to Existence. That which we opt to regard as
objectivity often seems as naught more than the winner of some
collective poll wherein we tallied up all our subjective tastes and
impressions to decide on which ought to constitute a law.
‘Goodness’ and ‘righteousness’ have come to refer to what-
ever can exonerate our guilt and justify our own base behaviors.
Look at the current state of politics. I feel like this can also be
used to explain so much of not only our behaviors but our shal-
low interests as a society. In terms of what motivates us, that
which isn’t motivated by biology is standardly motivated by the
desire for absolution, which ties into what I consider to be our
most fundamental motivator: security.
It seems odd, now, to look back on all the years that I smoked
cigarettes, being that I quit so suddenly in 2015 and never once
relapsed or had the desire to return and it seems like a world
away. I think about how different individuals will require differ-
ent motivators, incentives and threats to surmount their addic-
tions. I remember that I tried to quit smoking as early as 2008.
It was some time in the spring of 2008, and amid that vortex of
a season, as I fell head over heels in awe of the one I called Ani-
ta, I remember looking at photos of tarry lungs and weeping, es-
pecially because I wanted to live a long and healthy life with the
one I love and I didn’t wish to hurt her. So I threw my cigarettes
in a sink filled with water and cried for an hour or two after-
wards. Unfortunately it didn’t take and I had to pick up a new
pack at sunrise. There were several other times that I tried and
the incentive was sharp, poignant, but it never took. The threat
of death, and even the more immediate threat of harm to my
throat, were just not enough for me and I would always convince
myself that the chemical benefits outweighed the physical male-

fits. It was only in 2015, when attempting to reintegrate with so-
ciety, when I saw some people smoking outside of a gas station
and assessed my biases, realizing that I was less likely to take their
words and opinions seriously on the basis that they were smok-
ers. My reasoning was essentially “How can I respect the opinion
of one who so clearly doesn’t value their own life?” And while
that would seem a harsh accusation to be making of those who
smoke, it is not far fetched to infer that their priorities are askew
if they are willing to carry on with such a detrimental habit. The
realization that my addiction(s) could affect my credibility and
the weight of my opinion is what finally acted as my holy moti-
vator when nothing else worked. I quit drinking contemporane-
ously with the nicotine, and although I did pick up a drinking
habit later between 2016-2017, it shouldn’t be overlooked that I
quit cold turkey in this event after five years of constant, hourly
drinking, and was sober for nearly a year before I began sippy-
sipping in Texas (and I haven’t had even a sip of alcohol since
2017). I don’t miss any of that. I believe I said it elsewhere, but I
tend to think that a lot of the problem comes when we can’t stop
seeing it as an option. And for me, I did just that: I stopped view-
ing drinking and smoking as viable options available to me, and
all temptation was eradicated thusly. It sounds like an unrealistic
simplification, but it worked for me.
I consider it a positive thing that I didn’t get my way in most as-

pects. When life is going our way we don’t tend to analyze that
which is going on within and around us and how it all fits to-
gether or what it may mean. For most, pleasure and positivity
is the standard and negative stimuli is something against which
to revolt—something to be avoided at all costs. Not only do the
more ‘fortunate’ ones among us commonly lack the impulse to

analyze their circumstances, being that all appears to be func-
tioning properly, but that analysis is deemed unwelcome—a po-
tential cause of negativity which ought to be avoided at all costs.
What is the cost of such fortune, after all? Am I not ultimately
the victor?
An individual is not to be measured by what they are asking for

but by what they are willing to give.
[Rictus Major] I tired of waiting for openings to appear and

had to start making them, and I became like an auger ripping
through the ground, making holes, making openings. Such a
forceful attitude was in enmity with my gentle and accommodat-
ing nature, but I did enjoy the thrill.
There is no point in existing on this earth any longer. The out-

come of my efforts appears to be entirely disconnected from the
actions that I take, and when I can not rely upon patterns or pre-
dictions I am utterly without any semblance of stability. All of
which we expect will elicit some form of response or feedback
does not work in my world. A thousand good deeds, a hundred-
some achievements—it won’t matter. That won’t get me to re-
cant my ways, and I shall remain kind and productive until the
final second of my stay, if to keep a promise, if to complete my vi-
sion, though it is no longer a source of hope in my life when time
has so clearly shown that nothing that I do has even the slight-
est effect on those around me, including those who claim to care.
And if they should mourn my life once I am gone then they are
not better than these nominally pro-life bastards who don’t actu-
ally give two shits about life and only actually care about control.
They’ll fight abortion laws tooth and nail but then abandon the
child once it is born. They’ll prevent the sick and helpless from
dying on their own terms and do nothing to improve conditions
for the living.
“So and so is cool.” “So and so is sexy.” “So and so is important,

prestigious, confident.” It’s all just make-up. It’s all just different
clothes worn upon our desperation, and we fall for it, and we
accept the complements we receive, like narcissists do, using the
world as our mirror glass, because it is better to accept the feed-
back—which is based on not more than a shallow and incom-
plete understanding of our person developed in response to what
we present of ourselves—than accept that what we truly are is
desperate and disconsolate. It spares most of us from ever learn-
ing as much about ourselves. Consider what I had to say about
how most persons live in fear, yet rarely are they capable of ac-
knowledging as much, since they have organized their whole ex-
istence in such a way that it avoids exasperating their fear and
other threats to their ignorant concept of safety and preserva-
tion. How horrible we are to deny our doubts when Existence
looks to us for answers. How horrible we are to ignore the bleed-
ing wound when it is not our blood that is at risk.
I mean, goddamn, I was the most messianic fifteen-year-old

you’ll ever meet. How does that even happen? I just had such
a “Come with me through the gate,” type of attitude from the
start. It never really went away, and I’m still the same wonkalurk-
er trying to sell people Heaven from the shadows, hahahaha. It’s
just so odd to look back at my childhood and see that I was very
much the same in my disposition. Of course I am just being sil-
ly by disparaging myself, since I know all too well how I come
across to the average individual. The point is, I don’t think that
anyone who knew me at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen will be sur-
prised to learn what became of me. This fate, this outcome that
I’ve landed... it was absolutely predictable. This really gets me
thinking about Volens all the more. Oh, such a loaded topic.
For many years I was successfully able to distract myself from my

ails via productivity, but for the last year it has been a different
story and my mind is hardly focusing on what I’m writing and
performing. It’s a very unsettling feeling. I feel like caged animals.
The focus is gone, but I’m still hammering away like a blind fool
who can merely hope to hit a nail.
I know, now, that the reward for conquering one’s inner demons
is a lifetime spent dealing with those of everyone else! And don’t
even think for a moment that you can actually help any one of
them.
I lay feebly on my floor holding the side of my bed and scratching

my arm in an attempt to introduce even the slightest positive
sensation into the mix in the hopes that it will be enough to alter
my chemical composition and counteract the inflammation that
threatens to kill me. And I’m taking in enough honey to elimi-
nate the tickle, the urge to cough, though not so much that the
sugar will cause further tension in my muscles. Then, as my tem-
ples go numb and the cold sweat sets in and consciousness fades
out I am wondering... how long will it be until people even re-
alize I’m gone? And how many of them will even care once the
initial shock has subsided and they’ve accepted that all must die?
Even ‘shock’ is giving me too much credit, when they are more
likely to brush it off by adopting some nonsensical “It was fated.
Just look at him and listen to the things he says,” attitude. Will
my work survive? Will my father throw out all my paintings on
the curb? Is there even a single person on earth who will even at-
tempt to make sure that my work lives on and does not get lost
or destroyed? I’m not anxious. My heart rate is in the forties, as it
often is when I find myself in these scenarios. I hate the tingling
in all of my extremities and head. I am not afraid to die, as I’m
not afraid to be rid of this forever. What instills me with fear is
the thought that I can’t die. I’ve stopped believing that there is
a ceiling to the suffering, to the pain. Often it is our assumption
that it can only get so bad before everything stops or conscious-
ness cuts out to spare us of going mad. It was ten years ago that
I arrived at the limits of what I could bear, and yet it just keeps
going higher and higher and higher and this body doesn’t care
about my silly self-styled limits. I know I’m typing right now. I
know it on some level. Though at the same time I don’t. It doesn’t
feel real. My hands just know to type, yet I barely acknowledge
that fact. I barely know what I am doing anymore.
Human relationships are similar in many ways to nutrition in the

sense that, as long as we can keep ourselves from starving then
we’re able to convince ourselves that we’re fine. And along the
way, while growing up, going to school, to church, and dealing
with our various obligations, we’ll put down our share of junk
food, frozen pizzas, snack crackers, and we think that as long as
we’re not puking we must be okay; but most people don’t really
go any further in seeking to understand nutrition, and the metic-
ulous and seemingly limited nature of healthy eating is even off-
putting to most who only want to live a life on autopilot. And
me... I’m just a big bell pepper at a pizza party. They’re content
and they can’t be convinced otherwise. I sit and wonder “Why
would anyone want that?” because the concept of health isn’t re-
ally observed until it begins to fade and impair our functioning.
Within the context of friendship, I idealize creativity, even if

not in the traditional sense of music and art. There are so many
things to be created, and I have always wanted collaborators.
Talking and healing. It sounds incredibly boring, but I don’t see
it as so. I find a lot of pleasure in simply exploring and reveling in
humanity. I imagine that that may not make a whole lot of sense
to most, but I could spend weeks just sitting here exploring what
makes me feel a certain way, and exploring certain emotions in
the way that a wine taster samples wines, and then I would sort
of just sit with it and consider its interactions and how it adds to
and subtracts from my experience, and how it can be improved
upon and how it can be used to benefit others around me, and it
how it fits into the greater picture of my Volens and purpose. I
could spend forever just marveling at humanity, humanness, as a
concept, as a feeling, as a privilege. I like the thought of just be-
ing with someone and not making it about booze or television or
even pretty scenery, but just them, and I, and it doesn’t have to be
romantic; there are so many other ways to be loving. And I want
people to leave my presence feeling seen, heard and invigorated.
I want them to experience vulnerability as they’ve never experi-
enced it before, yet so do I wish for them to feel a greater sense of
control than has been known to them, for that is the reward to
come of vulnerability which is not mishandled! Thus, this vul-
nerability whereof I speak does not equate to weakness, or not
to this despicable weakness of the masses, but to the weakness
that exists naturally within ourselves, a weaknesses we are wrong
to deny, for one who cannot accurately assess their own strength
and height will not only continue to place themselves in situ-
ations that endanger themselves, typically without realizing it,
but also prevent actual growth from taking place. Oh, I just have
such an abstract but serene scene playing out in my mind. Our
humanity is rarely made the focal point, as with our Existence,
and a lot of that may have to do with the fact that... well, most
individuals are out of touch with their humanity; but then it is
also not helped by the fact that the very concept is tangled with
other concepts such as weakness and carnality. Humanity is my
spirituality, in a sense. They may not be synonymous as concepts,
but at the same time it wouldn’t feel correct to call them sepa-
rate. Oh god, I just want to do things for people—thoughtful
things—and see how it changes the very foundation on which
they walk.
I can effortlessly sit and list off hundreds of problems facing our
world, our society, within the current age, though these are but
symptoms of a condition and nearly every single one of these
problems would be done away with if and when we actually came
to value this Existence, which shall allow us to value all life,and
this comes through truly valuing ourselves, which is the gate-

way to being able to really value and understand others. I’m con-
vinced that if people adopted the mindful and responsible atti-
tude encapsulated within Aseitism then our world would see a
most dramatic change.
All along, amid my years of isolation as I so fervidly worked to

build my ideals and the resolve to see them through, I believed
that the reason to explain our lack of openness, as a society, had
to do with courage. I was under the impression that all wished to
reveal themselves to others and to have a better, more intimate
relationship with the world, but lacked the means to take that
step. I fear I had it backwards all along, and I feel like such a fool.
Having seen how sharing my world doesn’t change anything at
all about people’s willingness to hear what I have to say or val-
ue or... I’m starting to think I had it backwards the whole time.
And years of really doing all I could to vulnerate myself and pre-
sent my inner world to the masses... it’s really taking a toll on me,
and I can’t really retract my hand even if I wanted to, simply be-
cause I could die in any hour and I want to know that this record
of my existence remains public. But goddamn... what an unfor-
tunate outcome to decades of courage, idealism and sincerity. As
I’ve said before, I don’t regret my actions. I regret my species.
I do love my more recent albums—speaking of the latter parts

of my discography—but in being more put together, there is also
something that happens when the ceiling rises and... well, it’s like
wrestling, and as your weight rises you enter into a new bracket
and find yourself being judged by new standards and compared
to new fighters. In my mind, it would be easier to pit Coun-
tertorch against other albums of the age, specifically for the rea-
son that I actually sound like a performer trying to make de-
cent music. That sounds like a funny way to phrase it, since I was
always attempting as much. Yet when you look at albums like
Demon Daycare, Rifles, Man Made Clavos... there’s something
wrong with that kid... and you don’t WANT those albums to
have better fidelity, as it would rob from them in some manner,
since they were made in an underground torture chamber, and
they absolutely sound like it. I wonder if others will share my per-
spective. I think that as soon as I started to sound slightly more
‘tight’ in my performance abilities it raised the expectation for
there to be a more professional overall quality and I couldn’t sat-
isfy that...? For instance, If I had access to a studio, I could surely
improve upon Reaper Physical Place and Countertorch and other
albums created in that period, but the same cannot be said about
the insanity created in mid to late 2009. I don’t know. Over time,
I think my favorites are just shifting, and I’m starting to think
that my biggest accomplishments come from within the most re-
viled period of my output—the latter half of 2009, I mean. That
was before 2010 came around and my increasing self-awareness
paved the way for embarrassment. All in all, it’s just this weird
divide where amateur/erratic works seem to work better on low-
end equipment, while the higher the skill on display, the higher
the sensibility, the less it works with the low-fidelity. It’s a mental
association, in a sense, and I’m not sure if I have explained it in
a way that can be easily understood by my readers since I am es-
sentially just thinking out loud over here.
I cannot tolerate the company of ‘church people’ at this point.

There’s a forced soberness to it all, as if they are not allowing
themselves to behave as humans in my company all due to some
misguided need to be an ‘example’ to me or whatever the fuck

they think they’re doing based on some preconceived notion of
their own righteousness and, by extension, my own ‘sinfulness’.
It’s so ludicrous. I have greater knowledge of the Bible than the
vast majority of professed Christians, and so for them to be sit-
ting there caring so much about whether or not I am paying per-
fection attention to the message as if it contains the words that
will change my outlook... that’s just ludicrous. If they wanted to
change my opinion on it all then certainly they aren’t going to
achieve as much by these means; by this pretense of holiness (es-
sentially inhumanity) which is what pushed me away from the
church in the first place. I am impressed by nothing less than hu-
manity, and it is unfortunate that humanity is anathema to the
religious populace.
I find it helpful to chart our emotions and how we respond to

them, or the circumstances that draw them out of us and what
a typical reaction, coming from us, might look like, e.g., what
makes me happy and how is that expressed and how does that
happiness interact with other parts of my life such as perceived
creativity levels, physical and psychological tension, dezinezinet.
It’s good to write out a pretty clear definition of how one defines
betrayal and even the opposite, such as proudness or satisfaction
or pleasant surprise, just so these words aren’t being brandished
around in accordance with our emotions. You see it everywhere
you look, people using the terms trauma and betrayal to describe
anything that brought them to feel shitty; and while I don’t feel
that it is right to really question or challenge what an individual
deems traumatic to their constitution, I do think that most peo-
ple use these terms very loosely to describe what are fundamen-
tally emotional reactions rather than complex processes transpir-
ing within our makeup and having a huge influence on our deci-
sion making going forward.
It is very surreal to always be telling myself that it will get better

and then to look back at my life and see that I have suffered with-
out pause and relief for decades, despite all my efforts, and de-
spite all I’ve told myself. It never really got better. I continued to
grow as a person though it all, but as far as circumstances go, life
became exponentially worse with every passing year. And there
isn’t really any part of me that is glad to have not killed myself on
that day in 2009. I fought, I fought... but for what did I fight? To
lose my voice; to lose my mobility; to lose my ability to create art
and compose music altogether; to watch my mother destroy her-
self (and everyone around her); to watch my sister become a cold
and calloused creature at the command of a sociopathic narcis-
sist; to find that all of my childhood friends were not my friends
at all and couldn’t care less about me; to find that my life’s work
and art merited zero acknowledgment and respect from society;
to find that all wisdom gleaned through suffering was of no use
in the modern world; to live out my final days on earth gasping
for breath and unable to walk as “family”, “friends” and “doctors”
alike turn two blind eyes to the suffering I must endure constant-
ly. And this isn’t to say anything about the constant, daily, hourly,
minutely suffering I must endure with my body, my throat, my
all. Tell me: what did I have to gain from keeping my life and
fighting onward? Even if I can manage to complete my mystical
operation in my remaining time alive, it is so difficult for me to
fathom how any outcome can justify all of this. At this point it’s
more about completing this promise to the boy that I was and...
somewhere deep down, still am.
My claims of hyperautodidactism may even be hard to believe,

given the level of access common of the modern world which is
so wholly inundated by information and opinion, and because
no one has to be an isolated hermit in the technological
age—not like in eras of old—it somehow has the masses accept-
ing, without evidence, that true isolation and hermitry, as seen
in the past, in which people are wholly cut off from all of the
world’s knowledge and information, is a thing of the past, not
considering that there will still be people who make that choice
for any variety of personal reasons. And while I have not lived
my life entirely cut off from the world, I have explicitly avoided
the preponderance of religious, philosophical and even scientific
literature in the name of preserving the purported purity of my
innate inclinations and I believe that this makes itself evident in
the progression of my ideas, which may be clearly seen via my ex-
tensive documentation which I have maintained since my youth,
as my ideas are growing, ever so slowly, but in a very specific
manner that shows that they are growing through consideration
and nurturing of those same ideas to their farthermost conclu-
sion rather than through the introduction of external ideas, and
therefore I do not doubt that my methods are evident in both
my progression and the conclusions reached (although I can on-
ly hope that that is not perceived as a negative thing by the likes
of society at large).
And unlike a lot of thinkers, I create and define concepts
when it strikes me that they are needed and not simply because
I feel like creating systems or coining words. I had no intention
of ever organizing my philosophical system to the extent that I
have, seeing as it exceeds my comfort zone and perhaps even my
fear of disparaging or imposing upon the lives and beliefs of oth-
ers with mine own. So this has been a very strange experience for
me, and though I am technically responsible for bringing it all
together as so, I fail to see it in the manner that I view the cre-
ative projects over which I have control and authority. Rather, I
feel I have been given a responsibility and am representing not
myself and my personal laws via this endeavor, but those of the
Existential fabric itself—a lofty claim if ever there was one!
In the case of Idem, there are certain voids, certain questions, cer-
tain planks that aren’t quite fitting right just yet, and it makes me
hesitant to really attempt to offer up some sort of complex ex-
planation, since I don’t really trust that I have the maturity, or
rather, I expect that I may be too invested in this particular con-
cept to really leave those voids as they are, rather than trying to
fill them in with speculation and self-serving soot. I’ll soon be
working with someone to combine resources and attempting to
improve our understanding of the matter and this should hope-
fully create for a more stable and accurate picture of exactly what
we are working with, but I don’t expect to be sharing this infor-
mation with the public.
In all my years as an occult mystic, I never managed to find a

niche with which to fit. Modern so-called occulture is naught
more than the bastard child of drug culture and New Age inanity
and I feel like I’m in pre-school having to listen to all the same
lines about crystals and clock-based synchronicities again and
again. If there exists a community for occultists in my vein, I have
yet to come upon it. It’s all memes and masturbation—Crow-
ley quotes, Etsy-sourced animal bones and the ‘awakened star
seed indigo’ piss and shit which screams ‘trauma’ more than any-
thing having to do with spirituality. Really though, maybe it re-
quires clarification for the people who don’t know the differ-
ence between my mysticism and society’s ‘mysticism’, but I do

not believe in ghosts, aliens, crystals, fortune telling, ‘energy’,
angels and demons, astrology, psychics, karma, reincarnation,
dezinezinet.
I didn’t just sit here and create spectacles and beg or make people
feel awkward or guilty for not affirming or paying me attention
or appreciating my work. I didn’t compromise. I didn’t resort to
gimmicks or shameful displays of conceit or desperation. I main-
tained my vision and my commitment thereto. I channeled all
my hurt, how great it was, into improving, remaining consistent,
pumping out more work. I wanted to believe that if I simply kept
at it and did my best in every moment, taking every opportuni-
ty as it presented itself, that I would eventually begin to see re-
sults, but years and years have passed and it didn’t change any-
thing at all, and each successive work left me feeling less accom-
plished and not more. It was only within my private diary logs
that I was able to be wholly transparent in regards to how I ac-
tually feel, but anyone who has read even a single post from me
should have been able to sense my heartache, and I think they are
so used to just silencing and ignoring anything that makes them
uncomfortable.
I can’t do it any other way, because as I’ve said before, my ex-
perience doesn’t equate asking or begging with success.
I noticed a few years back that whenever Jeiezza touched me

it would catalyze sudden and vivid dream recall in my mind.
I could wake up without memory of my dreams and then go
through my entire day and a single, quick interaction such as a
hand on my shoulder could bring the scenes rushing back into
my mind with lifelike vividity. At first I thought it a coincidence,

but it continued to occur again and again. If only I had known
of this years ago when I was more actively maintaining my dream
journals (which were only put on hold due to my throat and
hand injuries making it difficult to record and sort my dreams),
yet back then I was a lot stricter in terms of what I would allow
and I was against any sort of physical contact, including hugs,
due to my commitments.
Our modern landscape discourages any acknowledgment of a

unified timeline as it promotes the idea that the past is some op-
pressive beast never to be grieved, never to be explored, never to
be saddled, while the future whereof men speak is not the actual
future which awaits us all but a pacification for the present day
and its most arduous obligations.
I still struggle with feeling ‘strong’. In addition to what I once

had to say about how strength isn’t really a first-hand experience,
since all I really feel is the wear and weakness resulting from my
continued tenacity; but then there is the fact that I am ‘strong’
because I had no other option. That isn’t to say that it isn’t also
a decision, as there are many who will just give up when forced
to die or adapt. Fundamentally, the people in my life weren’t so
caring and so attentive that I could be anything else. Being sur-
rounded by those who will support and console and sympathize
with you... it doesn’t always work to the advantage of our devel-
opment, even though we are (paradoxically) likely to live longer,
happier lives despite a dearth of strength and resolve on our part.
I look around at the people that inhabit society and I see ab-
solutely no investment in their affiliations. All that they opt to
regard as family and friendship appears to me as an utter ruse;
an elaborate act that shall continue on until one or the other
becomes sufficiently frustrated. Their demeanor does not say “I
would like to get to know that person,” but “I’m here, they’re
here, let’s use each other to pass the time and then not communi-
cate otherwise,” and I am simply not about that. I am not about
such shallow, selfish interactions that add nothing to the lives of
those involved. Let us, instead, dedicate ourselves to something
worthy which benefits us and others not via pacification but via
inspiration.
I have largely avoided all forms of social media and interaction

since my trial. It feels so strange and horrible that I can not ex-
press it. And any social posts at this point aren’t really attempts
to communicate to my immediate audience as much as they are
messages left on an answering machine to be found by those who
come after me. I don’t know when that will be, if ever it will be,
but I’ve come too far and I’ve labored too long to ignore the pos-
sibility that such individuals will one day find their way to me
even if such community and family evaded me in my long, lag-
ging lifetime.
In 2009 I was very much averse to beautiful and melodious mu-

sic in a way, especially when it came to my own expression, since
it seemed to entail a certain level of health and happiness, and far
be it from my twenty-year-old self to acknowledge my fortunes,
howso quaint. I have addressed this matter before and I am out-
spokenly regretful of my attitude, even though I regard it as a
necessary cobblestone on my way to what I would become—ar-

tistically and emotionally. However, in those instances where I
stopped caring about such things, and tender, tuneful melodies
seeped out of me, combining with the more idiosyncratic ele-
ments of my work, the result was oh so powerful and continues
to resonate with me in a way that surpasses most of my work.
Though I have been known to speak ill of 2009 as a year,
months July through December might constitute my career
highlight. That isn’t to say that it was my best period, which I will
usually attribute to the latter months of 2010, but it is this period
of 2009 for which I am likely to be best known, and I’d say that
that’s deserved, should that be the case, since that period yielded
some pretty incredible results, not just artistically but emotion-
ally and psychologically. Man, I don’t know how much of what I
am saying should even be taken as a reflection of how I feel about
my discography, since my tone has been so noticeably tainted in
these past few years since releasing my work and there’s this need
to defend myself. It is truly a shame, because I’m also so, so proud
of my accomplishments and that has never gone away despite the
pain that now overlays my oeuvre. So I regret giving this strange
conflicting mess of information which seems to only dismantle
any sort of esteem I might be granted. My old age has seen me in
such a sorry state.
**Within the modern era of music, in which over-saturation has

combined with diseased attention spans to create a real problem
for modern performers, it is not merely difficult to get an audi-
ence, but especially to get actual fans, as opposed to casual lis-
teners. And this was something that it took me a while to grasp,
since I sort of just expected that everyone who listened to me
and interacted with my social media pages was a fan, and I was
really hurt when none of them bought my merchandise or took

the time to read anything that I had posted. The only thing that
gives me hope is the fact that there are some people who don’t
just use music to pass the time, but treat it like a relationship in
their lives. I know, because I am one of those people, and I still
gravitate toward the same cluster of bands time and again de-
spite a world of options, because to me they are my friends, my
comfort. I just hope that I can be that for others, since my own
needs really informed the way that I treat my music, and I’ve
gone to the ends of the earth to cater to those people who see me
as someone they can relate to and someone who makes them feel
understood, less lonely. This was my priority in a time long be-
fore the concept of “parasocial relationships” even became a hot
topic, what with online streamers and whatnot, although that
tends to carry more of a negative connotation than anything I in-
tend for. It’s also why I share so much via my writings. And each
time I share more of my obscure works my mind is just think-
ing how much I wish that my own favorites would do the same...
how much I would love to hear outtakes and whatnot from cer-
tain groups even if they sucked, hahaha. I eat that shit up like
a warm macaroon, and it’s important that everyone knows that,
rather than thinking me some narcissist who thinks himself flaw-
less. Not at all. I’ve just modeled my empire upon my own needs
and tastes and desires; and so my empire exists for those with
similar needs that go beyond basic preferences and ass shaking,
haha. That’s the only reason I’m not more hopeless about the
state of the music industry. I think that the people that jump
around from crap to crap were never really the fanatics to be-
gin with. The fanatics are still out there and the people who dive
deep aren’t going away... they’ll always be there, because their ex-
istence is not the result of a fad but a psychological need. It’s
just so easy to be disheartened, since these hoppers are the ones
who find ya first, and it can leave you feeling like your music ain’t
worth more, not worth enough for a deep dive or active discus-
sion.
You should be aware of the circumstances in which these writ-

ings came about, as I am no longer a man seeking to integrate
with society, but an isolate trapped within a terminal vortex of
mnemonic reverberations and imaginary arguments, and some-
times I get so caught up in my emotional reactions to unexpected
events and happenings, developing my hurt into hefty philoso-
phies (which is said not to undermine the resultant philosophies
as they can still be built on truth and wisdom even if and when
they develop in reaction to misunderstandings or overreactions)
that I lose sight of the simple fact that being ignored by a dozen
people who were never my target audience to begin with doesn’t
mean I was rejected by the world which, for the most part, has no
idea that I exist. It’s not as if I am unaware of how emotions can
blow the severity and ubiquity of a situation out of hand, but the
problems still aren’t simple. For instance, all attempts to actually
bring my work before an audience led to rejection by those who
claim to be working for and interested in everything that I stand
for, and when that happens it can feel like I have been betrayed
by my own friends and family.
There was a time when I felt myself to be far more in control,
holding all the cards within my clasp, and the way that I thought
everything out showed an inherent confidence—conceit, even.
It wasn’t as much a question of where I belong as much as it was
my attempting to determine who and what I would allow to be
associated with my name; my myth. The same principles could
be applied to romantic relationships within my world, where the
focus was on who I would allow to be associated with me. All the
way back in 2007 it was like “I’m not going to go without anyone
who doesn’t meet the following criteria for height, weight, intel-
ligence and taste.” These days I would be overjoyed if even a child
smiled at me, or I found food in the trash. My every expectation
that I carried within me for all those years was just completely
broken, shattered, and I was dropped so hard on the threshing
floor of a society which owes me nothing.
I find myself spiraling forever within a disorienting ordeal
which not only lacks input but also lacks an audience, despite
many failed attempts to actually broaden my ambit of opportu-
nity, and the result is an endless feedback loop which feeds into
a nightmare of inhuman proportions.
However, the unhealthiness of my situation isn’t to say that
my points aren’t valid or that they shouldn’t be taken into con-
sideration, providing a stark insight which I hope will be given
it’s appropriate due so that fewer people will have to struggle so
needlessly.
I am beyond the point where reparations are possible and do
not believe there is any chance that my life can be salvaged or
that my wounds can be healed. I write not in seeking after sal-
vation but in my continued attempts to affirm and console the
seekers who suffer similarly through this life.
I do not entertain these snobs who will use my music as a medal

of their tastes so refined and obscure. I don’t not want them in
mg audience. I want to reach those who are sobbing in their bed-
rooms at night because they don’t see their desires and/or their
torments reflected in the visible society. Although I would not
want to call them my fans or my followers, but my friends, even
as I never did get to meet them.
If others knew of the lengths to which I have gone to bring life to

this body of work all while believing that it has no audience and
will never be received except as toilet tissue then you are view-
ing my story in the absence of its most abominable heartache.
It’s difficult in and of itself to carry out such labor without op-
position and disinterest. Then you’ve not only got that total,
avoidant disinterest, but also the fact that I am physically strug-
gling every minute as my writing hinders my ability to breathe
and I am sitting here on the verge of a horrible death that can’t
come soon enough. I am not saying this to complain but in the
hopes of painting my situation accurately. I am constantly hav-
ing to fight off a thousand forms of discouragement only to write
these words which, for all I know, might never be read by anyone
at all.
It was the most painful experience imaginable to be in this con-

stant struggle to stay alive while the only message I ever received
from the world is essentially that it wished me dead (or simply
didn’t care). And because I receive no positive feedback, it is all
I knew, and it is all that I could gather of my reception by the
world.
I cannot fathom the idea of support or concern for my being.
I do not receive any letters, which includes not receiving any
responses to the occasional letter into which I pour my heart
and intention. My body experiences a jolt whensoever my phone
buzzes, as if, despite a life of aloneness and obscurity, I still expect
that all of that could still change in an instant, and that that
instant has finally come, although 99.9% of the time it is only
some spam e-mail or a notification about my credit score drop-
ping, since I’ve only actually been contacted by not more than
two persons in the past three years (and even then I sort of wish
that I had ignored all such solicitation for the reason that they al-
ways took without giving and damaged my ability to hope). I’ve
been kind, I’ve been open, and I always thought of myself as af-
fable, but it sadly doesn’t seem to have counted for anything in
this earthly existence. Even after seeing what became of my life, I
wouldn’t change my behavior, seeing as it was and is formulated
in response to what I believe to be rightful, and when one dis-
connects the outcome from the actions, I am perfectly content
with how I have conducted myself in public and in private, per-
haps with the exception of some awkwardness picked up in re-
cent years due to my isolative tendencies; but it has led to ex-
treme dissonance and derealization which is not diminishing but
growing more and more severe with age. I don’t mean to imply
anything along the lines of a psychotic detachment, but it has
certainly managed to modify my understanding of reality and
in ways that leave me feeling extremely claustrophobic and help-
less. There is certainly a dreamlike quality to my existence at this
point, though it can be very difficult to say what is the cause of
that—whether it is physical factors, such as ongoing fever and
malignancy, or if there are emotional or traumatic factors at play
(or some gruesome combination thereof—the likeliest possibili-
ty). In any case, my whole life has played out in such an unordi-
nary, dreamlike manner that it hardly seems worth acknowledg-
ing. It is like when an addict has acclimated to their substance
of choice and it becomes the new baseline, and all that would
strike others as unusual and disorienting seems so standard in my
case. I can’t really miss normalcy or comfort when I never actual-
ly knew them at all.
If I should stop working on my creative projects for even four

minutes at a time I will be drowned in a wave of negativity and
suicidality that comes at me with all the force of a spiteful spear.

I don’t think that this should reflect negatively upon my aware-
ness, my self-discipline, my maturity or any other such aspect of
my nature that is within my control. I have simply taken up res-
idence in Hell, and it should not reflect negatively upon my ef-
forts for me to acknowledge that the fire burns hot.
Listening back to recordings from 2007 has me feeling so elated

and lightsome that I almost topple over from the release of
chemicals. No other time in my life produces such surreality.
Looking back, I would say that 2007 was the only ‘pleasant’ year
of my lifetime. It was my only experience of ‘fun’. Everything be-
fore it was lonely and everything after it was a nightmare (a gen-
eralization, I know, but it can’t be denied that these are my in-
stinctual impressions).
It is so strange to fight my way through decades of traumatic and

horrific conditions with my smile intact, not losing touch with
my kindness or my childly personality, and then to be rejected by
the masses because I do not drink or party or drive or because my
music is weird or my clothes are weird or because I am deemed
too forthright or because I do not subscribe to a given religious
cult. It’s been thirteen years since I’ve felt anything even remote-
ly pleasant. I’ve long noted how depression and terror aren’t usu-
ally co-occurring, so when I’m suffering from something horrific
and uncertain my mind isn’t really in a place to be sullen, being
so focused on surviving, but once my survival is even slightly se-
cured I end up back in that place of shadows where I can only de-
sire death. The times when I’m suffering the least, like, say, an 8
on the scale, I’ll start to not feel like myself. Recently my trigem-
inal neuralgia started up again and I had to increase my showers

just to cope, but I noticed I felt most like myself at that moment.
And I don’t say that as a masochist, but that this state of being
just... I don’t know how to explain it. That doesn’t make me like
or even respect it. It doesn’t make it tolerable. It’s just something
I observed.
Yet in the end I still feel that my greatest accomplishment
in life, or one of them, is that I managed to arrive at a point
where there is no distinction between that which I think and
that which I share openly, and not just with others but also with
myself. It’s so funny, considering all of my Egomorphosism stuff
which seems to imply a fracturing of my identity and perhaps
even a fundamental dishonesty, yet it may be said that I have few-
er modes of being than the average individual in the sense that I
am not constantly having to change and adjust my nature when
entering into different situations and contextual settings. Obvi-
ously this is helped by the fact that I no longer go out into soci-
ety, but it doesn’t change what I am saying.
The ability to kill oneself (taking into account more than will-
ingness and having to do with the ability to bypass the survival
instinct) relates less to factors of satisfaction than factors of in-
vestment. In other words, I remain in place simply due to my
high levels of investment in the experience that is life. Moreover,
I have accepted that it is a responsibility, and that I am responsi-
ble for drinking every last drop within this bottle before throw-
ing that bottle away. For some, the bottle may empty at thirty,
whereas for others it may never empty. It has all to do with the
diligence with which we carry out the demands of our soul.
One thing that has prevented me from actually committing sui-

cide is not so much my objection to suicide as an act, since I
don’t actually object to the act on a moralistic or philosophical
level and am very much pro-choice and pro-euthanasia through
and through; yet unlike most people who approach suicide with
a feeling of despair and resignation once concluding that all im-
portance has been lost, I still approach it like I do with my life:
like a writer; and I cannot go through with anything that con-
flicts with or otherwise disrupts my established story. I have oth-
er rules for myself, too, which influence my decisions, such as I
won’t allow myself to be intoxicated or anything that will take
away from the event or cause it to be discounted. I have also
been careful when it comes to selecting a method, unwilling that
I should choose a method that lacks symbolic profundity with-
in my overall life. And most importantly, I don’t want to carry
it out rashly in a moment of despair or bitterness but in a time
when I can reflect respectfully upon my life and derive a sober
ritual out of it, neither happy nor heartaching, just a holistic re-
flection. And therein lies a big hurdle for me. Thus, it is not my
avoidance of suicide which keeps me from attempting as much
but the logistics and getting everything to my liking, including
the methodology and every little emotional aspect of the experi-
ence.
For me, there is also the fact that I cannot find a means to
convince myself that I have satisfied my life’s purpose, having not
yet completed my lifelong mystical goal. It hangs over my head
at all times, and I don’t know if I can ever let go before becoming
Idem even if that is what I seem to want.
Those who remain single into midlife and beyond appear to

maintain a certain spark that you do not see quite as often in oth-
ers—although that is not necessarily to imply that they are better

off for it in terms of happiness. However they do fare, they ap-
pear to give more of themselves to life. And not simply for a rea-
son so shallow as wishing to attract a mate, but because they have
yet to be convinced, consciously or subconsciously, that they
have satisfied their life’s purpose and may now relax—a form of
arrogance which so often appears to come upon those who have
secured a partner and now feel as though they can become com-
placent. Hell, I even saw this with my sister who married very
young, so it certainly doesn’t depend on age. Most people, in liv-
ing for and acting on biological principles rather than spiritual
principles (and by spiritual I am not meaning ‘religious’—which
can often be counted as a biological impulse) go on to make
‘partnering’ and ‘childbearing’ the focus of their life, and thus it
is natural that they will experience a significant drop in motiva-
tion at the point that these milestones are achieved. Surely my
take on the matter may be biased in terms of what I value in the
human mind: openness, curiosity, ambition and interactivity to
list a few. In my latter years I have become very ‘turned off ’ to
the romance and matrimony of society, which should not imply
that these things don’t still appeal to me on a conceptual level,
though they are truly a double-edged sword, and in the hands
of the uninspired masses they are naught but narcotics. I can no
longer pretend that the world’s definition of love has anything to
do with the concept of love as I understand it.
...watching degenerate individuals who do absolutely nothing in

life but cut others down and use up resources selfishly and then
hang a pewter cross around their neck as a means to convince
themselves of their own victory and/or sanctity. That is precisely
what the cross has come to represent among our modern kind:
the acquisition of something for nothing. How strange it is that

the world thinks of it as a symbol of sacrifice, when its usage is by
all means ironic, standing for just the opposite; “I’ve done noth-
ing at all and yet I merit all the comforts of Heaven and all the
love of God!”
I won’t deny the fact that my throat problems and other ongoing
factors, including my state of mind and consumption of alcohol
or opioids, had a noticeable effect on my performance
style—surely they did—but a lot of my sloppier vocals, for exam-
ple, had as much or more to do with the fact that I was pumping
out half a dozen songs on a daily basis for nearly four years with-
out pause and I wouldn’t normally give my most intense or fo-
cused performances unless I was sure of a) what I wanted to sing,
b) what vocal melody I wished to use and c) whether I would
even be adding this song to an album in the end. Therefore you
end up hearing my ‘tentative’ voice a whole lot—a sort of place-
holder style of vocals as heard commonly on the rejectamenta
and neuterocanonical collections which is basically just a loose,
lethargic mess that doesn’t really know where it’s going and is
simply hoping that a good melody comes out somewhere along
the way. Indeed, this was the worth of keeping my voice ‘loose’
and erratic, as it led me to come up with creative melodies almost
by accident—a sort of scattershot. I’m not saying that any of it
is inauthentic. Listening back to it now, I would say that it cap-
tures my state of being better than I ever intended; but I was un-
der no delusion about it being my peak performance. So it’s not
like I wasn’t capable of better. My creative strategy was essential-
ly, as I said, a scattershot: to run my mouth until something great
came of it (hence the frequent incoherent babbling). Combine
that with my lethargy and depression and it comes out sounding
utterly lunatical. I may not have been at my sharpest wit, but I

was certainly not some incoherent lunatic.
You must also remember that so many of the recordings
that have been released to the public in recent years—recordings
which now comprise nearly half of my public discography—were
never finalized and, as so, were never intended to see the light of
day. The neuterocanonical and rejectamenta collections are com-
paratively new to me in that they were not assembled until af-
ter I had already lost my performance abilities, and I innately
understand that they are overall quite a bit more sloppy than
the canonical works, yet someone who just comes upon my mu-
sic doesn’t know this distinction so well. So they’re not going
to think “Here’s the regular stuff and here’s the incomplete and
poor quality performances,” instead taking everything in as a rep-
resentation of my project, as if to say “This is just what Tendon
Levey sounds like,” since my unreleased material, which I kept
in my pocket for a decade, is as readily available as my so-called
official material. I love it all, so it’s not really a big deal, and I
even prefer a lot of these secondary collections to my canonical
records, but it’s still weird to consider that others might not read-
ily pick up on the distinctions and that my unpolished works will
become as much a part of my image as my more polished works.
I mean, maybe it’s not as huge a difference in my case as it would
be for a more professional band whose demos would be so differ-
ent in terms of quality, but still...
My public discography is now nearly twice the size that it
was in May 2011 when I completed my final recordings, seeing
as I have released so much unreleased material since that time.
And as I previously commented, the neuterocanonical and rejec-
tamenta collections contain what I consider to be some of my
finest work in retrospect, though that doesn’t change the fact
that the original ‘narrative’ or ‘vision’ is best seen in my canonical
discography of sixty albums. Keep this in mind as you walk late

into the theater.
My relationship with my music over these past several years
has been a bit rocky. It’s not like I have ever not loved my work,
but seeing the reaction that it garnered (or the lack thereof ) has
certainly colored my thoughts, as well as my willingness to con-
sume my work so regularly, since this cherished work has come
to be tangled up in thoughts of rejection and other associations
which have no purpose associating with the precious treasure of
my precious soul. This process of revisiting my archives and com-
piling upwards of a thousand songs (rejectamenta) has helped
me somewhat to reclaim that excitement and obsession. I would
have loved to continue as a musician within this sphere and I be-
lieve that my music would have only become better and more
mature in time, but the music I created, however raw and fit-
ful it was, was an accomplishment as such that I would call per-
fect, as I have achieved exactly that which I set out to achieve in
that endeavor and I feel like a proud parent to listen and nothing
can ever change that. I only wish that my child could have made
some friends or that others could see their beauty as I do; I wish
that I didn’t feel myself excluded from all of the parental clubs
and meetings, as if to say that my parenting style or the child it-
self is somehow invalid or illegitimate.
It upsets me deeply to think someone could listen to a sub-
stantial amount of my music and not stop to think “Hey, this
might actually be a traumatized child and not just an art student
doing whatever will net him the responses he is after.” It pisses
me off, because I feel like that should be obvious, but the modern
day entertainment culture is so phony that people cannot help
but approach all things with cynicism in regards to their verity,
and their obtuseness is turning me against myself and even bring-
ing me to reevaluate these things whereof I am inherently proud
if only because I wish to be rid of all potential for misconstruc-

tion within my life. And it’s making me defensive and unhappy
and I don’t really know what to do about that. I have to be so
careful not to fall into these acid feedback loops, because once I
get started it may be a while before I can get out.
I am under no illusions as to where my art stands, knowing
that it is nothing at all like that which is popular or favored by
the masses, though that never impacted my confidence, for I was
always under the impression that my work managed to capture
something universal, and something so rarely expressed. I con-
tinue to believe as much, but sadly I have learned that music is
not typically viewed in the same manner that we are prone to
viewing visual art, in which case the audience is more accepting
of the fact that art is meant to make a statement, and so we don’t
typically regard certain art as being beyond our range of inter-
est since it is so often taken in on an individual level and not by
genre and other consequences of mass marketing—comparative-
ly speaking. Music is not really seen as a similar entity, perhaps
because it has been more integrated into entertainment culture
and so people don’t really come to music looking for profundi-
ty or stories but entertainment (which likely comes down to the
fact that it is more readily consumed and enjoyed, which isn’t to
say that it is more enjoyable at its base, but that it perhaps re-
quires less effort and brain cells to shake your ass than to really
focus your eyes). And that really sucks for me, because I clearly
haven’t made music that can be danced to or blared from car
speakers as one tries to appear cool before all their fake friends.
But that isn’t to say that it has no merits, although it is often the
case that when the music is not to our tastes we fail in finding
the merit in the work, and people will be more adamant about
the idea that entire genres, such as rap or country (the commoner
targets where I come from), are horrible, whereas you don’t find
so many people taking art in the same way (even though I think
that most of us will agree that modern art, or what has come to
be known as “modern art” in terms of its style, is a sham of a
shame of a joke). I just think that visual art is a different beast al-
together, where the only failures are found in those who didn’t
try; and all other talent and passion is recognized—compara-
tively speaking. But then there is music, where any individual
who doesn’t immediately like my voice or the bitrate of my audio
will immediately say “This sucks,” and move on without trying to
actually gain an insight into what I mean to convey via my craft.
I think that my outcome would have been different on the psy-

chological level if I had understood how my approach would
limit me. I once believed in earnest that I was doing something
that would be lauded, and so I grossly overestimated the masses
and how they would respond to me. I always saw society as bored
and needing, and I hoped that my presence would excite. My es-
timations may not be off at base, but if they are bored and need-
ing it is surely not because they are lacking opportunity or even
a source of inspiration, but because they systematically reject all
that which comes their way to draw them out of their swamp,
and I feel like a fool for not realizing this very basic truth. How
could I ever be so lofty and stupid to think that I could create
a reaction in them that even their own existence on this planet
could not! Oh the arrogance of youth!
This is what people may not understand of my position: it isn’t

basic disappointment resulting from rejection. It has all occurred
in such a way as to create for a reality of entrapment and dereal-
ization. I feel like I’ve been added to the blocked call list of the
universe and I can’t do anything to make myself and my efforts

relevant to the lives of those who I encounter.
And because these texts of mine are so forthright and un-
censored, I have to expect that the masses won’t readily be able
to distinguish between what I have shared herein versus what
I share openly with the public. This is liable to be a breeding
ground for baseless and harmful assumptions regarding the
means by which I approached the public, like if to say that I was
just some manic faucet who couldn’t bother to figure out the
ins and outs of propriety and came at people with information
they didn’t ask to know and then got pissed off when they told
me to get out of their face, all while framing it as their fault for
not wanting ‘the truth’. This type of arrogant and self-ignorant
scenario is all too common within our sphere, and it absolutely
seems feasible within my case, although it in no way resembles
my own behavior or the circumstances surrounding my relation-
ship and interactions with society and I do dearly hope that that
requires no saying, willing that my sensibility (as displayed with-
in the tone and contents of my textual communication) speaks
aptly for itself.
I become frustrated to see how superficial are our estimations

and I worry about how this might affect others’ perceptions
of my accomplishments or even my underlying message. I used
to become very annoyed at the insinuation that my songs were
short or incomplete and therefore my albums were not ‘full
length’, when I packed as much (or more) content into my al-
bums as any mainstream artist and that the only thing I really
did differently is by not repeating myself unnecessarily. After all,
nearly any song of mine can be copy and pasted to where it re-
peats twice and then you have what is essentially a ‘normal song’
in terms of structure, or at least passable, and thus the ‘hard part’,

as in coming up with a basic melody, was already accomplished,
and whether it went on to become a two minute spurt or a ten
minute epic was all but a matter of preference and would have
required no extra mind power on my part. And these same peo-
ple who look at my twenty-track album and think of it as in-
complete for the reason that it lasts only twenty minutes are al-
so the same people who can listen to twenty minute ambient or
house tracks which loop the exact same nonsubstance through-
out its whole duration and call it art, or at least don’t question
it being ‘a real album’. I am not quite as sensitive to that matter
as I used to be, seeing as I’ve now released well over 2,000 tracks
to the public, and even if they are considered short in length, I
don’t think anyone is denying at this point that that is pretty in-
credible given the fact that I managed as much in a span of three
years and ten months. Nowadays I am more sensitive to how my
lifelong attempts to document my existence might be received
in this modern age in which there is often criticism and push-
back against all of the faux celebrities and vacuous narci-cysts
on social media documenting their daily mundanity and living
their lives in a pretense. I don’t know if people will actually be
so imperceptive as to make comparisons between what I am do-
ing and what they are doing, so a lot of this is just worry and
agitation based on observations (which forms the basis for a lot
of the rants and struggles within these texts). I strive to publish
meaningful insights having to do with the workings of my mind
and the cravings of my innermost soul. And while I do not speak
such words in the spirit of competition, as I am not interested
in comparing quality, I am indeed interested in drawing distinc-
tions if simply so that my works and my message are not writ-
ten off by a generation that has become sick of all the sharing
and documentation that is done by social media zombies, as it
were, and I don’t really have any confidence that people can read-
ily distinguish between my careful, dedicated and intentful map-
ping of my inner life over three decades of time and the flaunted
flounces of foulest fucking fools.
Nearly every instance in which I share my self with others it

leads to days of shaking, anxiety and in some instances suicidal-
ity (or rather a dramatic lessening of my resolve to where sui-
cide seems ever more feasible). This mostly has to do with hav-
ing never received a positive response, or not receiving any re-
sponse whatsoever in the vast majority (I would say 95%) of oc-
casions. They just stare and walk on like I’m another channel on
their television. It is for this reason that I’ve settled with my cur-
rent method, which is just stealthily posting my work to a web-
site and/or publicly accessible cloud drive which has no metrics
and, despite leaving contact methods available, I don’t really at-
tempt to display them in a way that will result in abuse.
None can fathom the difficulty of putting myself in such a
position repeatedly when not a single kind or favorable thing has
ever been said of me and my efforts. Every attempt to ‘put my-
self out there’ has only served to set me up for a darker outcome.
My pride and self-satisfaction carried me through for a time, but
now that that shell has cracked I am simple too wounded and
vulnerable to carry out any sort of solicitations. I’ve often de-
scribed it in terms of gambling, in that I’ve no means of increas-
ing my coins if I cannot bet those within my possession; but de-
spite the allure of doubling my coins, losing this gamble will be
to lose everything that remains with me. I’ve now only a single
coin in my hand, and I will opt to call it my own, now and for-
ever, lest I should wish to die desolate and despairing to a degree
that blinds me to my achievements.
It just doesn’t feel normal to have people ‘follow’ me who then

make no attempts to engage with me in any way. The masses will
say this is normal, but let us compare it to a real world situation
and imagine performing a show and giving a speech, and then
you just have an audience, howsoever small, and they stand and
stare without clapping, cheering, booing or stirring in the slight-
est. They don’t walk out, but they don’t actually support you ei-
ther. They just stare. There’s no way to gauge how they feel about
what you’re doing and you can’t possibly know what they are tak-
ing away from your work. So you ask questions in an attempt
to get a response but they just stare. Its terrible. It’s so terrible. I
would rather have no audience at all than this audience of low-
participation and dubious intent. It makes me paranoid and less
willing to even speak... whereas when no one is watching I can
just talk on forever, which is why my online blog worked when
Facebook didn’t... and why I choose to write all my thoughts
down within this diary where it is nigh undiscoverable.
It is surreal to know that my lifetime of efforts will never receive

the audience that is merited by a thirty second video of a hy-
draulic press coming down on a toy or that of some anonymous
individual pressure washing a dirty wall.
I am suffering. It is getting worse, not better. My tics are be-

coming more and more frequent, occurring whenever a shameful
or agonizing thought comes to mind, and it produces an in-
stantaneous reaction over which I appear to have zero control. I
will curse, or flinch... usually saying “I hate you!” over and over
again. And it used to occur only a handful of times within a day

(when it began back around 2017). As of now, it is occurring
maybe forty times per hour. I’m waking up in the middle of the
night flinching, cursing, convulsing. Mora must sometimes re-
strain me if I begin to seize. It will interrupt my thoughts. It will
interrupt my sleep.
Of course when I say that I am ‘cursing’ I am doing so silent-
ly, given that I cannot speak. Yet my inner dialogue is so loud
that I cannot really tell I’m not speaking most of the time. I’m
so used to living in silence that my thoughts have become am-
plified, in a sense, so I still feel like I am speaking all day long.
It must sound incredibly strange to one who hasn’t experienced
it, but it’s true. Also, note that there is a distinction to be made
between passing thoughts and intentful thoughts. Intentful
thoughts are those which end up being vocalized, whereas pas-
sive thoughts—those which we associate with ‘thinking’—are
not vocalized. So the only thoughts which appear, to me, as
being spoken are those which, if I were speaking, would have
been been audible anyhow, and not the full range of my thought
processes.
It would seem that someone such as I, with my insights into
the self, and with my tenacity and desire for growth, shouldn’t
be prone to such an experience, and I struggle to speak openly of
it, talk about it, knowing that people won’t understand that this
doesn’t detract from my existence and my relationship thereto...
it wouldn’t make sense to them.
Again and again I come back to this essential quandary: am
I to inform or encourage? It’s such a difficult matter, though I al-
ways end up going with the former, since one can be encouraged
by lies and delusion, and that is not the game that I am playing.
I am sure that I will attract criticism for so much as voicing my

hurt from them who wish to view my claims as entitled or pa-
thetic. I never did claim that the world owed me anything in the
way of acknowledgement, and I want no more than I naturally
garner, but I do lament the place of humanity and sincerity with-
in the modern, mechanized world which no longer seems willing
to identify with its own heart and soul. And I’m not the only one
suffering in such a way. I’m not the only one whose screams were
muted by a button—by the masses and their need for comfort
and convenience.
I cannot cope with the acknowledgment that nothing that I do

will ever change my fate. I am locked in, and nothing can be said
or done to elicit the respect, the care, the acknowledgment of the
masses. It is such a dark feeling, especially for one such as I who
was constantly changing, adapting in the belief that all things
could be overcome and optimized with effort. Yet it all appears
pointless: I can not keep that which I find valuable and also draw
the people to my side. There is no way of bringing this value to
the people. It feels like a cruel Gift of the Magi-type scenario.
I have this urge to do something gruesome; some horrible act
committed only to substantiate my agony and all the words that
could not be spoken, either because my thoughts defied all lan-
guage or because the people would not listen to what I wished to
say. The so-called Menarche comes immediately to mind. It was
how I wished to leave the world: a final, fatal flounce that would
simultaneously baffle and disgust. The fact that my life contin-
ued on afterward was mere serendipity. When I speak of carry-
ing out some horrible act I am not talking about some public, re-
al world act as much as I am referring to what is more likely to
be a bizarre and tortured display or unintelligible text or website
which scares the masses shitless and ties in with my death. There
was a time in my life when I was all about that type of thing. It
has often seemed like the only means by which I felt that my suf-
fering could be justified or exorcized. I would have liked nothing
more than to slit my veins and force my sour blood down the gul-
lets of every man, woman and child who ever averted their eyes
from me. It is in this manner that I wanted to leave the world, or
it is how my emotional and irrational self wishes to take my exit.
Even now, such desires and attitude are not entirely beyond me,
for I am filled with grief and unutterable screams of a magnitude
that can not be fathomed by the fucking livestock that walks the
streets in summer fashion; however, my stated aim and purpose
in life has shifted greatly throughout the years and I have had to
overcome such impulses and temptations in the knowledge that
such selfish and erratic behavior would conflict with my acquired
knowledge on spiritual things and I feel like I am somewhat re-
stricted in my behavior due to my desire to live my life as a rep-
resentative of the spiritual revelations to which I have gained in-
sight. I would like nothing more than to descend into a self-in-
stated whirl of insanity from which I never return, speaking with
no intent of being understood, writhing and vomiting without
concern for what it does for my reputation. If it was really just
about my reputation then I wouldn’t much mind it, but I am a
representative of ideals greater than myself and I must sometimes
conform to the fact that the people will not hear what I have to
say if I should not conform to their idea of someone worth heed-
ing (although when has it ever actually worked for me?).
Religion as we know it will one day die out. In each generation

another vein is slashed, and those who stick by it in spite of this,
and in spite of our developing understanding, are giving way
to newer breeds of unstable, postmodern and nihilistic strains

of belief which are more and more detached from the roots
they claim to follow, creating for a dissonance to which insiders
are blind and deaf. I am not here to spear their beloved whale.
They’ll do that all by themselves.
I remember sitting in the backseat while passing through the

bank drive-thru and awaiting the lollipops that were sent out
through the little tube. So the whole time that my mother was
making her transaction I would be sitting there trying desperate-
ly to establish eye contact with the teller in the window across
the way so as to make sure they knew that there was a kid in the
vehicle and guarantee my candy.
My kindergarten had pizza day every Friday. It was the only day
we ate in the cafeteria, from what I recall, since most days we just
ate from our lunch boxes in the classroom. I had a blue Power
Rangers lunch box to match my blue Power Rangers backpack.
And then I would have to sit there during pizza lunch surround-
ed by all the gross boys as they turned their eyelids inside out and
burped on cue while I would be staring at the girls at the next
table over wondering which one I would marry. I never went
through a ‘girls have cooties’ stage and was fixated on love and
marriage since the age of four, if not earlier.
The only times within my life in which I was not utterly mis-
erable are when I was cut off from all interaction and slaving
over work, having managed to convince myself that this work
would change my fate, my outreach, my renown. It is those times,
how fleeting they are, in which I am assured that I’ve found

the answer, I’ve found the solution—it is those times, before
putting my theory, my work, into practice, and seeing it fail, that
form the high points of my life. I would say that my lifetime
has been built on thousands of such valleys, with new ideas and
plans cropping up on a weekly basis which manage to get me
all pumped up and somehow convince me that my suffering, my
aloneness, my obscurity is finally behind me. I experience a sort
of high and go on to pour my all into whatever the strategy, phys-
icality be damned. And in the end it inevitably fails and I am
left disconsolate as a result—but only for a day or two until I
manage to come up with my next guaranteed idea. It’s been con-
stant: these hills of insight and genius which are inevitably fol-
lowed up by valleys of failure and ineffectuality. Knowing this is
essential to knowing my person and my story and it will help to
understand my work habits as well as my frequent shifting be-
tween extreme positivity and extreme despondency at a frequen-
cy that would make a manic-depressive motion sick. A given year
will see dozens of adamant schemes designed to propel me out of
my situation. I consider myself an apt and intelligent strategist,
so the reason for my frequent failures is more often the result of
working with a failed model than an actual failure of strategy. I
am working, after all, with what is apparently an advanced moral
and spiritual framework to which society does not subscribe and
then I opt to experience surprise when selfishness and inhuman-
ity are the outcome, since I do not see such factors as options
within my own mind and within my own journey.
I am not so unlike the standard individual in the sense that I de-

sire to be accepted and to belong and to feel good or comfortable
by my standards, and it is truly a shame that I even have to stress
this fact, since so many may look at me and think that my being
ascetic (and asexual) somehow makes me a damn droid devoid
of desire. Where I have succeeded is in not allowing it to alter my
course. Yes, it may trouble me, and indeed it does (as these di-
aries indicate), but it has not stifled my ability to express my soul
and my willingness to keep on my path despite the resistance, ig-
norance and opposition I have known always from start to end.
We are often called to sacrifice our own thoughts, feelings and

needs in order to gain the approval of others, but with these re-
lationships being made possible by such absent self-respect, the
resulting relationships are inherently devoid of all respect, surely
as this has not become a valued factor in the lives of those who
are willing to give it up. The result is tragic in its irony: a world
in which ‘love’ is only ‘achieved’ by those who contain no such
means to love, while ‘friendship’ is only ‘achieved’ by those who
do not contain the means to value their relationships, and the list
goes on and on and on. Goddamn, my heart cannot take it.
I believe that another phenomenon at play in the decline of em-

pathy, apart from the more obvious factors (if empathy is actual-
ly on a decline and it isn’t simply the case that we have only be-
come aware, via technological means, of just how cold our world
actually is and has always been), has to do with how, in our end-
less search for attention, often implying sympathy as well as ap-
probation, we are frequently willing to exaggerate in order to at-
tain our goal, and when we exaggerate the scope of our achieve-
ments and abilities, and when we dramatize our ails, we hurt the
very real value of these statements and all faith in the self-esti-
mations of those around us now counts for naught, for we know
all too well the shallowness of our own boasts and moans. This
goes to show just one of the many ways in which our dishon-
esty, how simple it seems to us in our little spheres of irrespon-
sibility, can come with extremely harmful and far-reaching rami-
fications for society as a whole, spreading from person to person
like a damn pandemic which eats away at our paradigm and at
the very meaning of humanity by way of our perceptions there-
of. It is simply the standard that we expect everyone else to share
in our motivations and thought processes, and the fact that we
are rarely so transparent about our own processes with the pub-
lic does nothing for this erroneous knowledge derived from im-
pulse. Our fears and suspicions, especially on the social level,
thus serve as windows into our own deficiencies or faults.
For example, I am clearly fixated on judgment, and while I
have evolved beyond being subject to its control, it cannot be de-
nied that I am a very judgmental individual myself, with the na-
ture of my analytical rants often putting myself through the same
processes through which I put other people simply (or largely)
so that I can eradicate all potentiality of being adjudged guilty by
others in the same manner that I adjudge them guilty.
The standards of society are guiltily upheld. The celebrities of so-

ciety are guiltily esteemed. And from the outside looking in it
seems absolutely bizarre that such talentless nobodies have taken
the center stage of our culture, yet I do not think that this is some
fluke. We ‘idolize’ those who ascended the ladder not by talent
or something else we ourselves don’t have but by luck. We idolize
luck, but we still call it talent, hiding from the fact that we elevate
them in the first place because they’re like those film protago-
nists who are not built to be great but made to be a loser because
it is meant to be a body into which the audience can identify and
project itself. It makes us feel better about ourselves and our po-
tentiality/complacency. I don’t know that this is a conscious dri-
ve, but I do believe that it plays a role in what the masses latch
onto.
If any part of the recording process could be considered difficult

for me, or at least requiring more effort than the other steps of
the process, it was coming up with unique vocal melodies that
kept every song from forming a monotonous mess and contin-
ued to challenge myself vocally. Therefore, in a lot of cases, when
looking into my rejectamenta, you will find that the instrumen-
tation sounds acceptable, whereas the vocals don’t appear to have
settled on what they are looking for. That’s typically the reason
why they never made it to the next stage of the process... be-
cause I didn’t come up with a memorable vocal melody speedily
enough before moving onto the next song, and we are left with
about twenty to thirty seconds of weird, atonal rambling that
flounders about in search for something that takes but then ul-
timately gives up. Over time, my music became simpler and less
complicated, in terms of its instrumentation, explicitly to allow
for more improvisational freedom with my vocals. It’s why my in-
strumentals appeared to grow less adventurous and more repeti-
tive over time: it all became less and less about the songs them-
selves and more about the performance.
It is not just irony that represents a problem within our modern

age of development. As parodies have taken over society, espe-
cially via popular video streaming platforms and in the form of
memes, wherein parodical and relational humor act to establish
a sympathetic link between creator and audience, I believe that
it has resulted in an overall devaluation of events, emotions and

other meaningful aspects of our lives. It makes me out to sound
uptight when I make such claims, as if to say that I find them un-
enjoyable or innately wrongful, but whenever there is a change in
what we are consuming as a society, close attention must be paid
to all of the subtle ways in which we are being affected, and to
think that there will be no residual or underlying effects is sheer
arrogance. We, as a species, especially the younger generations,
are constantly consuming ironic and parodical content and one
would have to be arrogant to think that that won’t come with
some effect for how we perceive and interpret the reality before
us and the weight of its importance. I doubt I’ll be taken serious-
ly when I say these things, as it would be much easier to write me
off as someone who is simply out of touch with modern humor
or some such staple of modern living. Yes, we’ve had these things
(parody, irony) for millennia, but their role within the lives of
our ancestors are presumed to have been much different, being
reserved for the rare treat in which one would go off and see a
play, a comedy, which was clearly set apart from reality and, in
fact, meant to act as a temporary escape from reality. Those same
delineations no longer appear to exist, and reality has begun to
parody itself. Irony and parody have taken over communications
to become a primary means by which sympathetic connections
are achieved between two persons. What may appear as harmless
fun has formed a new standard of insincerity which has invad-
ed the hearts, minds and interactions of the masses. Seeing the
way that memes proliferate and how they have managed to alter
our responses to events is... it doesn’t strike me as harmless at all,
although I think it may be a while still before people really be-
gin to investigate these matters since it tends to feel so harmless
on the surface, even though, as I’ve already said, one must always
pay close attention when any new elements are introduced to a
society and to note how it changes and conditions our respons-

es. Maybe we have already begun looking into it—I don’t know.
I don’t ever actually bother to look into any of these statements
that I am making. I am simply airing my opinions and intima-
tions in the belief that raw impressions have the ability to prove
more valuable than statements which have been filtered through
the various and numerous filters of science and propriety and all
of the other gates on the long, ludicrous toll road to having our
words and concerns regarded as valid (assuming my words are
not taken as an end in themselves but used to inspire further ac-
tions).
I am not beyond finding some of this content amusing, and
I have laughed at my share. I grew up on Adult Swim as any
other 90’s kid and it has conditioned me to laugh at just about
anything. Though I absolutely cannot understand the train of
thought of those who opt to sit there and actually comment on
such content and then carry out conversations in the comment
section of, say, a completely inane video in which someone is
seen passing gas in a public place, for example. What spurs on
that need to interact; that need to quip? Indeed, it seems to have
more to do with quipping than actual interaction, and every bit
and byte is but another opportunity to lay our claim and gather
a chemical reward. It’s so fucking strange to me. And then they
think they’re more developed than the basic monkey, when their
life is indeed no more complex or inspired than sitting by and
pressing the button again and again and again once you know it
will release honeyed water.
I previously referred to escapism and the fact that the lines be-
tween reality and fantasy used to be a lot clearer, being delin-
eated by stages and screens. It is not as simple as saying that es-
capism has become more prevalent over time: our means of es-
cape have melded with reality in ways that have created for some
alarming chimera lacking all distinction and in which people are
never truly present in objective reality unless putting forward a
conscious and highly concentrated effort. The masses are so ea-
ger and excited for leaps in technology, being desperate for any-
thing that will numb their pain and boredom, and I am honest-
ly so glad that I won’t be here as virtual reality becomes more
widespread and advanced in application. It’s not something I am
looking forward to at all—not that I am incapable of appreciat-
ing such advances in technology on their own, but knowing full
well what it will mean for a population devoid of all sensibility
and self-government.
And then when someone finally turns my way and reacts to my

outpourings all they can do is say “Whoa, what a weird story,”
“Trippy music. Far out dude,” before moving on to the next artist
coming down the conveyor belt.
There will never be the words to describe the hurt that I am

forced to experience on a constant, everduring basis. It is with me
even as I press on, even as I smile, even as I do all that I can to
complete my work in the name of integrity; in the name of Exis-
tence.
The only thing more difficult than putting oneself out there is to
put everything out there and receive zero acknowledgment. That
ain’t even a spoiled and entitled way of asking “Why ain’t I as
famous as I should be?!” while all the while still having at least
some following to my claim. No. I’m talking about a total ab-

sence of acknowledgements, which includes feedback and ‘likes’
and whatever other metrics are being used to measure value by
the modern masses. I am perpetually speaking to an empty au-
ditorium with all the enthusiasm and intention of a satisfied
celebrity and it leaves me feeling so foolish I can’t handle it.
There was a time there in my youth (as in the Tendon Levey

years) during which I fantasized about falling in love with some-
one who was against me, as in a hero and villain type of ‘forbid-
den love’: one person seeking to protect that which the other is
attempting to destroy. It is fresh on my mind since I just found
an old song which touched on this funny little fixation of mine
(Archfoe) and it had been a while since I thought of it, as this
silly fixation kind of died out long ago when I stopped viewing
myself as some horrid person destined to wreak havoc on society.
It is very strange to be looking back now, but for the first
few years of my physical decline my attitude was very spiteful,
and I was often claiming that my return to society would be
marked by vengeance and destruction. It’s difficult to say when
that changed, though it most certainly did. Around 2012 is
when I started peeling away my layers of aggression and self-vil-
ification to see what I was hiding and how I really felt about the
world, and how all my pain and anger spoke of care and compas-
sion. You hear it in my music: there was a spitefulness; and I was
totally okay with it. I was always seeking to justify it, philosoph-
ically.
I feel I am constantly on the verge of weeping, though nothing

comes out. I am not actively suppressing anything—of this I am
sure. It is simply the intensity that comes from the interaction be-
tween the greater and lesser paradigms. The greed, the violence,
the suffering, the animal cruelty and so much more—it’s not that
these things escape our attention as a population, but from my
position they become magnified beyond what is bearable. After
a lifetime of aspiring to become conscious, caring, capable, it re-
ally feels like a person wasn’t built to know such an experience,
experiencing the greater and lesser paradigms simultaneously. I
do not regret my path, nor do I regret my victory, and I would
not trade this awareness for anything at all, but I will not force
a smile when circumstances call for tears. I am tired, so tired,
though I have not yet received my allowance to rest.
When it comes to portraying myself, I will always favor accuracy

over immaculacy, seeing so much more worth in being real than
in being without flaw.
And now I’ve spent my final years on earth feeling I must make
excuses for my authenticity. How ridiculous it seems when word-
ed as so! Though one should not overlook the fact that this has
less to due with my attempts to defend my reputation as an in-
dividual and more to do with my attempts to defend the reputa-
tion of the ideals and the methods that I espouse, knowing that
they could change the world and life as we know it if only they
can make it past the biases and the false knowledge inhabiting
the brains of the populace. If it were really about me as an in-
dividual, I have no qualms about appearing insane. That would
suck, surely it would, since I am not insane, but then again I
know that the misguided masses of society are probably more in-
trigued by the insane than by whatever is the reality of my per-
son and so it’s not like it would bear any effect on my poten-
tial to be heard. I imagine it would be quite freeing to simply ac-
cept all of that and live my life being as erratic and unintelligi-
ble as I willed. Yet in allowing that to be my legacy I am disre-
specting all those who have suffered similar circumstances in life,
be it physical, emotional or spiritual, and I want to offer them a
hope, a message, and perhaps a stunning 24”x32” poster (haha)
even if it means having to be a little more careful about where I
piss and spit. I make it sound like it’s such a burden, a sacrifice,
yet it’s much the same in concept as my being unwilling to be a
jerk or act on my negative and unwholesome impulses; it’s about
being unselfish and considering how my actions in life are en-
couraging or preventing others from accessing information that
might aid them in their own growth. I think that that is part
of what made the Tendon Levey years so amusing for me: I got
to be as wild and as ridiculous as I willed to be without paying
any mind to how it affected my legacy (although a more accu-
rate way of framing it would be to say that I actually wished for
madness to become my legacy, having prioritized a good story
over my responsibility to the population). In those years I had
fully embraced the idea of myself as being both mad and rotten:
a dangerous and amoral creature whose only obligation was to
howl at the plenilune. I wasn’t nearly as analytical in that time,
opting to force myself into certain molds and modes of behavior
rather than actually attempting to discover my inclination. That’s
what made that period so strange, dark and... blind. I was treat-
ing emotion and behavior as some decisions to be made rather
than as extant and irrefutable characteristics—a strange byprod-
uct of all my egomorphotic and traumaturgic meddling, I sup-
pose. It was oh so much easier to look myself in the mirror and
tell myself that I am “evil” and “tragic” and “lacking in restraints”
and whatever else I saw fit to think of myself than to actually sit
myself down, wipe off the war paints and actually assess the hurt
in my eyes for what it was and what it was trying to say.
In the vast majority of cases, there were no attempts to practice

the song before recording, seeing as it is fundamentally improvi-
sational, and so what you are hearing is simultaneously the first
and final play-through of said song to ever occur. The only excep-
tions are seen in the case of rehashes, which tend to sound signif-
icantly ‘tighter’ than my average track, given that I actually know
what I am playing and where it is heading.
What do the masses seek after if not truth, if not the light of
real reality? Our society is replete with escapists and delusionists
seeking to see their ideals reflected back at them. They gravitate
toward music and entertainment that makes them feel ‘sexy’ and
‘powerful’ and all the things they envision of themselves (and
often without warrant). And then there is art and music which
does just the opposite in that it is more likely to remind us of our
vulnerabilities and animal natures and all of the things we are
trying to avoid in our lives. I would place my own work into this
camp. It isn’t simply that it is ‘dark’. The masses don’t mind ‘dark’,
after all, inasmuch as it can convey that sense of power that they
are so after—something readily found in the likes of metal, in-
dustrial and similar genres. It wasn’t that I was too dark for them.
It was that no one could possibly listen to what I’ve created and
see in it their ideal. Ah, but I say all of this as if I’ve had my work
rejected outright by the whole of the world, when that is quite
a distorted view of things perpetuated by mine own distraught
emotions. I’ve had a miserable experience, sure, but the problem,
as I imagine, is not about being disliked or rejected outright so
much as it is people not giving me a chance or my work being lost

among a sea of pollution. I don’t believe that anyone has ever lis-
tened to my discography in full at this point, basing their interest
or disinterest in my work off of snap judgments which never real-
ly progress into actual dedication and never seem to include any
attempts to actually look deeper into what I’ve written and creat-
ed in the decade since I’ve stopped being a musician (or the over-
arching story of my life which forms the spine of all my work). I
failed to factor in the idea that my story wouldn’t intrigue oth-
ers, and a lot of that comes from my failure to factor in how the
modern breed allots all of three seconds to determining whether
they are interested or not. It’s time I face the fact that dedication
as such that is required for one to actually sift through my oeu-
vre no longer exists—not as more than the exception within this
reality ruled by inattention and spiritual detachment.
Each night I turn to her and say “You’re all I have, but you’re all I
need.”
The only reason—and I mean the only reason—why I have not

deleted my social media accounts altogether is because I have
previously scheduled posts in which my death is to be an-
nounced to the public since I don’t know that the news will
reach the public otherwise (occurring if and when I fail to delay
the scheduled posts in place and not at any any premeditated
date).
I cannot tell you how much they have hurt me. I cannot describe
the hurt. I cannot describe the way my body shakes upon waking.
I stare blankly ahead, unable to move for long stretches of time.

Each person that has come and gone in my life has only added to
my regret. I wish so badly to say it aloud. I wish so badly to open-
ly acknowledge and rebuke them for having taken from me with-
out giving back. I am left desolate. The people in my life failed
me. And the suffering doesn’t die down. It doesn’t fade. It burns
like a fire over my whole body in every moment of every day.
There is no way out of this. There is nothing I can do to change
my fate. I am invisible. I am muted. I am already gone.
When I speak negatively of my former so-called friends and
acquaintances within my work, that isn’t simply another way of
saying “I don’t miss ‘em.” Hardly so casual. I actively, and on a
weekly (if not daily) basis sit here wishing I had never met them.
Our interactions have left me feeling cheap—not that I did any-
thing that should result in my feeling such a way. It was them and
their attitudes and their stares and their negligence. It hurt my
relationship with my own existence and it took absolutely all of
my energy and all my health to regain what they stole.
Let it be made clear: I am happy having nothing to do these
people that I see when I look out into society. What saddens me
is that persons worth having a relationship with are nowhere to
be seen. It’s not as if I have ever said “I want a relationship or
friendship with that person!” and then failed to achieve it. That
has never been the case. It’s a matter of “I want that person to be
compatible,” and then when they are revealed as incompatible it
simply doesn’t work out. I don’t have anyone to miss or mourn.
If there was anyone worth missing I would have never let them
go in the first place. I clarified this at another point, yet I feel like
it must be given added emphasis, since my problem is not a fail-
ure to get people to like or talk to me, but to find people who
are actually compatible with my goals and interests. In absence of
people worth chasing after, I must derive all pleasure from these
narratives i concoct.
I didn’t care to be famous, and I could think of many devious

plots to be employed if my only goal was to create a stir and gain
attention. If you think that someone like myself wouldn’t be a
master at viral marketing then I must question what you know
of me and my past involvements; but I am utterly unwilling to
employ devious or underhanded means in getting my name out,
since I believe that that which begins dishonestly is doomed to
attract dishonest eyes and fickle followers and it won’t help me
at all in my quest to attract the sort of people I willed to attract
through my endeavoring; a more honest and conscious breed.
I will not waste my time, my mind and my talents on purposely

rehashing something that already exists in some form simply be-
cause it will bring in more attention and plaudits from a people
whose instinct is to eschew the unfamiliar. I will keep on my path
until the end, even as the light shines no longer on my way and I
walk blindly into a night that despises me. I do not seek to con-
form to what is thought acceptable, and instead I seek to change
what is thought acceptable.
This species takes its cues from dopamine receptors, and no

amount of rational arguments can compete with the neurologi-
cal fireworks sounding off within a given individual at any mo-
ment, influencing how they see and interact with the world.
I spend all my time within my cavernous, underground world

working fervently toward an ideal, and every so often I will poke
my head out of my hole to satisfy my curiosity and I will look
around to take in where society is at, and I can hardly believe
my eyes in all such instances; I can hardly hold back the vomit.
We have allowed our greed and insecurity as a species to result
in endless self-degradation. It is no wonder I appear like a joke to
them: I observe this thing called “meaning” which is not viewed
as compatible with mundane living and I must therefore seem
like some alien or dinosaur at best. Truly, there is so much mean-
ing in my little world, for I have devoted the whole of my life to
carefully cultivating that meaning; but out there... it is feared and
despised by them who believe that there is no other purpose to
life than a career and a relationship and since having ideals and
standards in those departments is likely to hinder one’s prospects
then it is not these institutions that are demonized by the truth
and meaning of our silenced souls that are treated as unwelcome.
I feel like there is nothing I can do to even entice my so-called

audience to actually interact with my work to a greater degree. I
can’t even give away my art, my gear, as it is essentially worthless
to them at this point.
In this lifetime of bottomless staircases, I have thought about

death with all the frequency and anticipation that the average in-
dividual entertains thoughts of sexual intimacy.
*I wasn’t merely someone who took without giving back. In fact,

I only wished for the public to enjoy my offering, and while it
can’t be said that that is entirely selfless as a desire, I never really

took much if anything, in the traditional sense—at least in my
perspective. This society didn’t really have anything that interest-
ed me on the material level, be it sex or wealth or possessions, and
so I only ever sought companionship and I would have liked to
see the people growing, overcoming all that held them back so as
to live the life that they always wanted for themselves (whether I
had any influence in that growth or not, although it would have
been nice to know that I inspired such growth through my words
and efforts, yet I am not so focused on being a hero or what-have-
you that I can’t applaud those who find the light in the absence
of my involvement). Even if they didn’t want what I was offer-
ing, it’s like there was zero part of them that wanted to see me
succeed, to see me smile, as there was no acknowledgment of all
the effort and intention and sheer care that I put into every ac-
tion and interaction and no one could be bothered to fake even
the smallest bit of kindness, gratitude, respect or anything of the
sort. It saddens me. And I must have really devalued my own
happiness for so long that it feels so filthy to even say that sen-
tence wherein I seem to attribute importance to ‘my smile’ or
like the people of society (or, in this case, those who considered
themselves my friends and family at one point or another) are
under any obligation to service me, which is clearly not what I
am saying. It is as I had to say elsewhere: maturity and good be-
havior aren’t really things we observe readily in others, since we
wrongfully tend to consider these the standard—not necessari-
ly because they are commonplace, but because they fit with our
ignorantly held demands and expectations, and not until some-
thing goes against our demands will we call it out, and therefore
I have not received even a single acknowledgment of my maturi-
ty or wisdom or any other aspect of myself whereof I am proud
over the years, yet the sharks will be all upon me should I stumble
even once over my words or fail to disguise the fact that I am fun-
damentally an awkward and uneducated outsider and that some-
times I put my foot in my mouth or behave in ways that demon-
strate my lack of understanding.
I don’t think people would believe how little it would have taken
for me to be ‘helped’ but how rare it was for me to get even a
modicum of support from the outside.
*Self-awareness and self-fulfillment are our birthright, and not

only are the people being conditioned to go their whole lives dis-
missing the necessity of actually examining those lives, but those
who do go on to break free are cursed by the embittered mass-
es and forced out of society for their failure to take part in the
drudgery as all else. So there can be no winning for anyone un-
til something takes effect on the larger scale. Is that possible?
Absolutely. Though I am not convinced that the answer resides
within any of our extant popular options. This is a terrible con-
sequence of knowledge and information, which amounts to false
dichotomies and false boundaries in the minds of those who are
still too ignorant to wield knowledge with a steady hand and a
sober mind. And so it would seem, in such conditions, that we
are often better off knowing nothing at all, and I wish I could say
that I was kidding, but then again, as you should already know,
it is only by such means that I, myself, found my way. It may
very well be a controversial position to hold, appearing as naught
more than foolish fideism at a glance (which it is surely not), but
I stand by it, believing that without a path we are more liable to
find treasure than when we must deal with all of the multitudi-
nous failed paths of those who came before us, as this only leads
to confusion. Ah, but this is beside the point that I had original-
ly set out to make and I am much too tired to go back and start
again.
There is the temptation to paint myself up as someone who

shrugged off the masses—coolly so—and did not actually seek
to get his work out into the world, but that simply ain’t the truth.
I have made ongoing attempts since 2017 to reach a wider audi-
ence with my work. My efforts may be more subtle than that of
many a promoter, seeing as I must be careful to avoid getting my
work before the wrong audience and I am not so senselessly des-
perate as to display my name and my heart indiscriminately and
where it isn’t wanted; but they are efforts nonetheless, regular-
ly being preceded by copious amounts of research. I was treated
to more ignorance than I could bear (in which case I am literal-
ly referring to my being ignored like some invisible man whose
kindness and efforts do not even merit a conscientious “No”),
and it has led me to a place of serious dissociation. The only time
it doesn’t hurt is when I am creating new works, because I am
somehow able to hold onto that sliver of hope that this current
work over which I labor will be the thing that changes all of that
and helps people understand, or the thing generates an interest
in my life and my person. Yet when I finally share the work it
garners not a single acknowledgment. Then they’ll try to paint
me as some tortured artist or psychotic individual, not caring to
acknowledge that my ‘downfall’ had so little to do with my ac-
tions and so much to do with the ignorance of those around me.
I am bothered by the knowledge that people are going to try and
come up with their own conclusion. “He must not have done
it right,” or “Maybe he tried the wrong avenues and didn’t do
enough research or have his expectations in line,” or “Maybe the
problem is all on him and he isn’t disclosing all of the relevant

information.” The problem ain’t always missing information. As
much as I hate to admit it, not everything seems to be based on
a valid or conscious line of reasoning, and some of us are simply
asked to play the game with shitty cards.
I despise the fact that my dreaming brain still depicts a typical

nuclear family: a father, a mother, a sister, all interacting with
myself and one another as if there is no underlying problem. My
dreaming brain does not yet seem to know that my sister left a
decade ago and my mother is long dead. My dreaming brain does
not yet seem to know how deeply I have been hurt by my family
system.
Why must our ability to be heard by the masses depend more on

the health of their ears than on the volume of our shouts...
I am just caught in this never ending mental cyclone that lacks

input and is forced to feed off of and contend with some horrid
combination of fears and assumptions and other incomplete da-
ta due to a complete absence of care and consideration from the
people of society when it came to dealing with someone who
trusted them with his sincerest soul. How can you do this to your
own...
Many will ignore those who are in need under the assumption
that they’ll just find help somewhere else, yet what they fail to
apprehend is this: after being denied help enough times, those in

need will simply stop asking and surrender to their demise.
When I am feeling suicidal, I am most open about my feelings

and my intentions when I am at around an eight or a nine on
my own little measurable scale of suicidality. When it reaches
ten I fall completely silent and refuse to broadcast my thoughts,
since at that point I have likely decided that I am beyond hope
and am planning out my escape route and cannot risk saying any-
thing that garners unwanted attention or creates an interference
for any upcoming attempt that may be in the works. Keep this
in mind, all of you who think that someone is no longer at risk
simply because they have stopped speaking openly of their dis-
tress. And by drawing this to your attention I am not saying to be
an asshole and interfere in the lives of others in such a way that
objectifies them and their struggles, but to actually be there for
them without trying to push them off on heartless therapists and
counterproductive hotlines which only make matters worse nine
times out of ten.
I must be in the minority in that I am someone who, when seeing

someone in trouble or visibly distressed, I will do all I can to aid
or comfort them until they have made it explicitly clear that they
are okay or do not want my company and support. I was never
able to convince myself that we are not each other’s problem and
responsibility, as in the case of helping to maintain the wellbe-
ing of our fellow man. Of course there are boundaries and lim-
its at play and there is a pretty firm line in place separating care
from intrusiveness (or even my personal code, which states that I
should not take my problems to others until I know with certain-
ty that I am not equipped to deal with them fully on my own)

but I’m not here to map out all of these exceptional scenarios
as much as I am wishing to acknowledge that mankind is like
a web of interconnected parts, and if the gear doesn’t turn, the
surrounding rods or whatever won’t do... whatever they’re sup-
posed to do (I apparently don’t know enough about mechanical
structures to even craft a simple analogy). I can’t sit here and act
like my actions don’t have consequences for everyone around me,
and I’m not about to turn a blind eye to the suffering of others.
Our faults and flaws have ramifications that are far-reaching, and
only those who are incapable of seeing the connections can so
easily opt out of caring and doing our part to create a better real-
ity for all.
**This sort of ignorance (by which I am referring to our ability to

actually ignore the words and block out the presence of others)
perpetuated in the online age is not something we must accept
as par for the course of technological advancement. Perhaps my
take will be seen as naïve, but I base my understanding of what
is and isn’t rightful not off some vague interpretation of what it
means to be modern, but on the effect that all of this is having
on our psychology, and indeed it merits to be said that despite
the widespreadness of such discourtesy and neglect, it can not
be said that the human mind has been able to accept this prac-
tice and suffers extensively therefrom. I am not on the side of one
party any more than the other in this case and fully grasp the fact
that people shouldn’t have to take part in situations or conversa-
tions in which they do not wish to involve themselves. The most
sensible fix, in that case, is in simply becoming more comfortable
saying no, and we must accept that this is better for both parties
in the end. Normal, in-person communications would absolute-
ly not work in this manner. If I walked up and said something to

you, whether kindly or rudely, you would respond in kind. You
wouldn’t just avert your eyes or keep walking unless there was
something to my demeanor that struck you as either highly of-
fensive or potentially dangerous.
Fortunately I won’t have to deal with any such scenarios any-

more. So long to those who determine what is rightful based on
what they can get away with! So long with those who find it eas-
ier to be inconsiderate than to be kind!
And since I have dedicated myself to wholeness and open-
ness at all costs, the people will stand convinced that I am just
built different to take on a lifestyle that they couldn’t deal with
themselves, but don’t let it be said that I don’t understand. Don’t
let it be said that I cannot grasp the pain of sharing with others
what you love only to have it criticized as sport. Don’t let it be
said that I cannot grasp the consequences. Instead let it be said
that I was ever more fearful of the consequences of being untrue,
and then let it be said that I did as I did in mind of the cost, and
in spite of it, and not in ignorance thereof. Regret your world if
you have to, but never regret the truth.
I have said it before that Steulugalnemraiant is not Existence it-

self but my Existence. In that sense it is more accurate to com-
pare Steulugalnemraiant to my Intension, perhaps not literally,
although Intension does grow without fail when Existence is
kept in view.
**Given the autodidactic nature of my approach, every statement

that I make and/or conclusion at which I arrive, or many of
them, end up interpreted by my mind as profound, while it is
hard for me to say how much of what I am saying is actually pro-
found on the objective, societal scale, since I am quite unaware
of the standards at play. That being said, there is a lot of incen-
tive for me to simply continue speaking; to continue divulging
my private analysis to the public. I just wish that I was able to
get a handle on which of my undertakings and statements will be
latched onto by the people of society and which will seem as ele-
mentary and obvious. Then again, despite the will to know these
things, I realize it is better that I don’t. The conditions in which
I have worked my whole life, while having many drawbacks, do
present me with what may be the most fertile grounds for cre-
ativity and invention of any that exist and I have nothing but sat-
isfaction to express for such working conditions.
It is the same as it is with my singing voice: I put so much
effort into doing something new and creative with my vocals, so
there’s certainly part of me that likes when people think it to be
the product of special effects and then realize it isn’t, since that
seems to affirm the profundity of my achievement, but at the
same time there’s this annoyance that comes from the lack of ac-
knowledgment of my abilities and the fear that they might not
believe that I sang those songs without effects in spite of plenty
of evidence to support my feat. It’s the same with my autodidac-
tism: I achieved unlikely results in the absence of any input, or
extremely limited input, and my intelligence, as well as my grasp
of language, may have it to seem difficult to believe. Or maybe
I’m not as wise as I think and this is self overestimation bred in
an absence of comparison and nobody will find it remarkable at
all, hahaha.
When I first started experimenting with drugs at the age of six-

teen or seventeen I had a lot of ridiculous experiences as my
brain acclimated to the nature of such altered states. I remember
this one night—one of my first experiences with dextromethor-
phan—where I downed a bottle or more and thought that I had
started a band with Josh Homme and Lando Calrissian called
“Flesh Boxer”.
I’m quite convinced that, had I continued Mascherari, it would

have developed into something that I could have brought into
the mainstream, and I am convinced of as much by the con-
tinued success of a certain well-known pop-metal band that in-
corporated religious imagery and masks into their production. I
maintained a very similar style of project in mind when playing
with ideas of Mascherari back in 2010 which was also meant to
incorporate masks and religious overtones. The vocalist was even
known as Bauta, and his mask was to derive inspiration from the
Hindu demon Ravana, which appears like many heads in a row.
I wanted to have ten heads or more all splayed out, all wearing
a bauta mask. I envisioned myself make these mesmeric head-
tilts and motions while performing, like as if my head was this
massive propeller sitting atop my pencil thin body. I was also go-
ing to use backing tracks at any prospective shows, so this would
have fed the impression that I contained many spirits or ghouls
and explained the backing vocals which did not appear to be
coming from any of the other performers. It would also allow me
to make ‘guest appearances’ as Tendon Levey with someone else
dressed as Bauta and pretending to do the singing tracks. It took
me a while to get my voice under control and to know what I
was aiming for, and those early demos were quite cringeworthy,
what with the vocals being so erratic and yawny, but it had so
much potential as a project and I was capable of pumping out

those songs so quickly. A dozen or so of those Mascherari songs
came from a single day. My ego wasn’t in it like it was in the Ten-
don Levey project so I would pump it all out in rapid succession.
I was also drawing from more punky and gothic styles of mu-
sic, or at least what my mind thought that meant, so it was so
much more fertile even than Tendon Levey which, despite high
fertility, also had a strict vision associated therewith, as previous-
ly noted. And by the time it began to evolve past poor Peter Gar-
rett imitations into a beast in its own right I essentially integrat-
ed various elements of that project into Tendon Levey and nev-
er picked it back up before the loss of my voice in the following
year, and damn if that ain’t a shame.
Maybe they perceive me as rabid or unhinged. But this I have to

say: the only distinction between myself and anyone else who is
suffering is that I was willing to be open and honest about my
suffering. And no one came to my side. No one stood up for
me. I was observed in silence like a sorry specimen within a cage
and every attempt to interact, every attempt to bond, every at-
tempt to love was denied and ignored by them who saw no need
to acknowledge that I spoke, that I wept, and that I sang until I
choked. My fate is the fate of the lathotropic who imbibe the sins
of mankind like fortified wine. My fate is the fate of the moths
who fly instead toward deepest shadows.
The problem, as I see it, is not that my methods were wrong, but
that the structure of society and, as a consequence, humanity, is
built upon a framework which does not permit such processes
and ends as those to which I have committed myself. It’s like liv-
ing as a vegan within a carnivorous society. The potential health

benefits of such a lifestyle are of no consequence, since if no one
is willing to actually cater to that way of living and it becomes
difficult to source fresh and organic foodstuffs then you will only
end up starving and the importance of all such prospective ben-
efits is thereby challenged and undermined. Of course this is not
meant to say that veganism and carnivorism form a dichotomy as
blatant as right and wrong, and I shouldn’t even have to provide
such a disclaimer to my analogies, when I am merely attempting
to explain how the potential benefits of an attitude or lifestyle
can not always be accessed and tapped if it is in the disinterest of
the masses, and rarely will the majority have any interest in cater-
ing to the special requests of the individual, right or wrong.
Firstly, there is the part of me that doesn’t want to disappoint

the perceptions that others hold of me; and then there is the part
of me that never wants to close myself off to new opportunities
which could rewrite my perceptions. There’s always that hope in
my mind that there will come that one experience which man-
ages to tell me that not all people are inconsiderate asses. I left
my door open until the very end of my life, but my house only
saw robbers and roamers.
Such claims [regarding the notion that fame and influence are
so easily achieved by anyone and everyone in the modern era
due to advances in technology and social media algorithms] can
be extremely discouraging and even delegitimizing to those, like
myself, who ultimately fail to find an audience for my work. I
tend to view social media as I would a sort of prostitute who of-
fers to gratify anyone that pays them appropriately. In a world so
lonely and desperate and deprived of affirmation, such an offer is

sure to be seen as a no-brainer by the general masses, and those
same individuals who are willing to go by such a route to meet
their needs then propound these misleading statements about
how loneliness is no longer an issue in the modern day, seeing as
all of society has equal access to this great and ubiquitous whore.
Yet that is to discount the existence of those who do not wish to
pay for intimacy, wishing for the experience of love and intima-
cy to come about via more natural or meaningful means, as well
as those who would rather not risk contracting the diseases that
so often come with such transactions (which, within this con-
text, can be seen as referring to anything from narcissism to scan-
dal to any of the other pitfalls encountered by those who achieve
fame in the absence of the appropriate mindset and also an ap-
propriate, if relative degree of efforts). It’s obviously not as cut
and dried as I’ve made it out to sound, and I am sure that there
are many who won’t appreciate my painting it in such a nega-
tive light, seeing as there are many individuals whose actual inter-
ests and nature do not conflict with the demands of social media
and therefore there isn’t much in the way of compromise when it
comes to getting them to play the game; but we mustn’t contin-
ue to overlook the fact that there are many types of persons—in-
cluding what I would think of as being the majority of ‘tradition-
al’ creatives—who do not and will not take part in that game out
of a desire to build a different sort of legacy for themselves.
I suppose I was never able to come to terms with the fact that
kicking a ball and living a fake, dishonest existence gains you the
respect and adulation of the world while all my efforts to be-
come something honest and honorable have only amounted to
a life of opposition and despisal, like some madman who ought
not exist in the same room as the pretties and their parties. As I
said previously, I labored for all of these years with the expecta-
tion that a different outcome awaited me. That isn’t to delegit-
imize the earnestness of my efforts, as it doesn’t change anything
about my motivations; however, it never truly occurred to me
that my attempts to improve myself and become a better, more
conscious person could actually damage my relationship with so-
ciety. I mean... isn’t it sensible to expect as much from a society
which purports to respect truth and honesty? Of course I realize
now that that is all a meaningless ruse, as are most of the self-es-
timations that drip off the tongues of the uninspired population
which is made up of those who would sooner consult their go-
nads than their heart and ‘soul’.
It is similar to how Hollywood loves making movies about out-

siders, loners and weirdos, but that hasn’t actually changed so-
ciety’s stance on or attitude toward perceived outsiders one bit.
If anything it has led to a strange fetishization that only causes
‘insiders’ to feign outsider status as part of some sick, attention-
seeking pleasure. It’s like how so many of our most famous and
influential movies are about people who took chances and fol-
lowed ideals despite opposition from the world and went on to
succeed and win our hearts. It’s so common it’s practically be-
come a cliché. This leads to undue levels of hope and confidence
in the masses who essentially insert themselves into the role of
that hero, when in reality their roles within the game of life
more closely resemble those who are obstructive, preventing oth-
ers from bringing new ideas to the table. I am not saying that that
is surprising, although I think that it can result in false hopes
and cognitive dissonance in those who expect that these stories
are an accurate reflection of reality and that our society will ac-
tually reward us for taking legitimate risks or following the stars,

as it were. I ain’t saying that no one ever breaks the lottery, but
our media is surely misleading, and perhaps we are fools to think
otherwise.
It’s not like I couldn’t change course at any given moment if I

was so desperate to be accepted or respected by the public. How-
ever, I am committed to the value which I see in what I made. I
don’t care one bit about fame as a concept in its own right. I only
want to know that others derive value from my heart’s outpour-
ings. And if the stark, uncompromised reality of my person and
my lifetime which has been lived honestly and intentfully does
not merit the respect of men then I want respect by no other
means. Not even Heaven would be worth all of this. This comes
in stark contrast to most persons who seem bent on gaining fame
and respect without regard for how they go about it. In my case,
I have a specific set of ideas, practices and publications which I
wish to see enter circulation and receive their fair degree of con-
sideration from modern society, and it is those few things, in par-
ticular, which I want to see esteemed. I am committed to those
ideas, in themselves, which I associate with my onliest Volens. If
someone were to offer me a fat sum to host a food review I would
kindly decline on account of the fact that this position wouldn’t
make any sense in line with my battles and the world that I built,
which is to bring a specific set of ideals and practices before soci-
ety and its deficient attention.
**It is just such a surreal disappointment, and the masses can
sit back and say “This is just the way it works,” yet there is a sure
conflict in the narrative being perpetuated by the people if we
can be turned away for the same reasons that we were called up-
on. It is evident that this society which claims to value honesty
and sincerity doesn’t actually practice its proclamations. We ain’t

living in the 1800’s when classical music and landscape paintings
defined the arts and the weirdo was an outcast. We all grow up
hearing about the outcast and the artist and how awesome they
are for not compromising their beliefs and what it did for soci-
ety and you come away inspired but as you grow and put these
ideals into practice you quickly realize that it doesn’t really count
for anything. A big problem in the modern art world is over-
saturation and I don’t see it improving but becoming worse un-
til we find a better means of separating art from entertainment.
The weirdness of Dali and the purported misery of Van Gogh
are now for sale at your local Walmart and Target in this day
and age. The avant-garde of yesteryear is now on parade. Most
music being branded as weird or avant-garde these days lacks all
semblance of authenticity and only seems to be attempts by the
masses to replicate the past successes of those were deemed ‘off-
beat’ or ‘ahead of their time’ in the eighties and nineties in the
belief that this still somehow makes them weird or unique all
these years later for ripping the other off (and the new genera-
tion eats it up, feeding into their foolishness as though they in-
vented anything at all or took even a single goddamn risk along
the way).
Oh I would rather not be saying all of this, as it l seems like
the sort of stuff whereof most artists feign ignorance, since it
doesn’t do anything for our image and can even seem foolish or
piteous to such a degree that decreases our ‘allotted’ sympathy, as
it were. Then again, nothing said in my diaries is said in an effort
to make myself look ‘good’ but to capture my own personal expe-
rience and observations, especially in the hopes of providing oth-
ers with insights that could potentially prove valuable and spare
them from needless suffering, if only by convincing them that
they aren’t alone in their experience of the world.
[Speaking in reference to the incident in which I was exploited by

my former childhood friend before the church congregation and my
expecting that Christians will subscribe to some false narrative to
explain why I have suffered so terribly] Though I once opted to
see it all as some cosmic battle taking place over my soul, the fact
is that I tripped, fell and suffered consequences because I was
an uneducated individual who, after decades of having his works
taken from him and his personal space invaded, was desperate to
hold onto something and overdid it due to sheer ignorance of
the consequences. It was not that I rejected the spiritual but that
I believed in the spiritual over my own physicality that fucked
me over. It wasn’t a lack of belief but a belief that drove me over
the edge. So anyone who wants to misinterpret and misquote my
life to fit their abusive, insane religious narrative can fuck right
off to Nazareth.
My erstwhile obsession with being a jumper (as is heard refer-

enced frequently within my Tendon Levey discography) relates
back to my leap from the Edge of Knowing in the Divinity of the
Idem, which made the idea of ‘leaping to one’s death’ seem very
romantic and symbolically resonant.
I feel as some ill-fated superhero who gains a spectacular ability,

like the ability to shoot fire from his mouth or hands, yet I have
taken on this ability without undergoing any sort of change to
my body and therefore maintain my standard, flammable form.
So it hardly seems like a gift when I am burning myself on every
occasion that I make use of my so-called power, and ultimately
I never really want to use my power under current conditions.

That is precisely how I have felt since my trial, and it is a burden
so indescribable. I imagine it must sound bizarre, if not incoher-
ent, to onlookers, and that only deepens the level of sadness that
I am experiencing.
There are endless ways, a lot of them devious, in which I could

have forced myself to the fore, gaining the acknowledgment of
the masses; though I never permitted myself to act in dishonesty.
I respect my work and my findings too much, and if I should
disgrace them, I will have lost my reason for being and do not
deserve to act as a spokesperson for such ideals. At any point
I could have taken my business-related profiles, which had up-
wards of a thousand followers at the time of my abandoning
them (and after only weeks of activity) and changed it to become
my personal account. It would have been a bit underhanded to
do so, given that I would be repurposing an account and essen-
tially stealing all of the VAMA followers and putting them to
my name, but I doubt that most people would even realize what
had happened—not only because I haven’t posted in a very long
time at this point but because I simply don’t think people are all
that receptive to their subscriptions and the sort of shit that they
take in each day. My father can rarely even recall the name of
the movie he is watching—only that it was ‘trending’. I thought
about it, I did, but it’s not something I would ever end up doing
since it’s not natural, it’s not honest, and I don’t want my work
coming before those who didn’t deliberately seek it out or sub-
scribe of their own volition. It’s easier for me to suffer day in and
day out in this oubliette so obscure than to enter into a party
to which I was not welcomed, even where it would be putting
my work in front of leading musicians and music fans all across
my home state, which could have benefited me musically. In ad-

dition to the insincerity of it all, I also don’t know that I could
physically handle the pain of seeing even a couple dozen people
unfollow after I start posting my personal and heartfelt messages.
It’s to be expected that that would occur, but even that under-
standing cannot brace me for the disappointment at this point in
my life. And ultimately I would never feel like they were listen-
ing and all it would end up doing is instilling in me the fear and
paranoia that I have when posting on Facebook and all of these
others channels where I tend to doubt that the people who are
following actually even know who and what the fuck I am and
will unfollow me as soon as I say anything of substance. After all,
they only came to see a circus. They only came to watch a man
die.
I say all of this only because I need people to know what I am
actually communicating when I utter all of these sorrowful state-
ments about the perpetual obscurity in which I have lived. If it
was simply about becoming famous or even beloved then I don’t
imagine I would have had any issue coming up with woke crazy
viral scheme to pique public interest and commandeer the chem-
ical processes of the masses, though I aim to play the game of life
with a certain integrity, and I play the long game even when it
holds the risk of never being realized in my lifetime. I am satis-
fied with my body of work, and I take great pride in my pertinac-
ity, yet it is still so hard to say one way or another whether or not
all that effort has truly paid off.
One is never truly out of options, though the virtuous means

seem to get exhausted rather quickly—not as a natural outcome
of our world but due to the society in which we have created
from infinite means. That has been my battle: trying to achieve
my desired ends without compromise or artifice as such that will

dismantle the reasons for which I am fighting in the first place.
My circumstances and experiences have had very little influence

on my actual opinions of religion, so don’t go believing that my
dislike of religion can be chocked up to my shitty upbringing
and my years of physical suffering. It’s understandable that one
might conclude as much, and it is standard for religists to try
and delegitimize the process through claiming that the decon-
version of its adherents has nothing whatsoever to do with a rig-
orous contemplation of its core proclamations, though it is not
accurate in my case to blame the outcome of my beliefs on my
physical circumstances, and suffering in itself was not enough to
convince me of anything, let alone being enough to cause me
to oppose religion and God. I don’t know why that is. Perhaps
it relates to my innate nature in that I tend to see suffering as
righteous. I remember once telling an old friend that I was no
longer a Christian, to which he responded by saying something
to the effect of “I can’t blame you, considering what you’ve been
through.” Yet I don’t really think that what I’ve been through
is relevant to my opinion, which has been formed primarily, if
not solely, from contemplation and observation. Suffering brings
us to God and religion as much or more than it brings us away
from these things—see the popular idea of there being ‘no athe-
ists in foxholes’—and this is something that the religists don’t ap-
pear to readily grasp, believing sufferment to be some challenge
of faith when it is just as likely, if not more likely, to be the catal-
ysis of that which we so fancifully opt to regard as our faith in
life. Those who can not see the meaning in life of their own ac-
cord are more likely to accept a readymade meaning which is fed
forcefully to them.
In my youth I don’t recall feeling particularly self-conscious

about being an outsider. I was somewhat oblivious to all of the
ways in which I differed from others, having not yet come to re-
alize the extent to which my peers lived differently than I. Back
then it seemed to boil down to “I’m homeschooled and you go
to public school,” and there didn’t seem to be any other differ-
ences... none that were outwardly or openly acknowledged (al-
though they did seemed to have more liberties when it came to
which media they were allowed to take in). Most church kids are
stunted in some way or another anyhow. But now as an adult I
find myself experiencing a lot of shame retroactively for my be-
haviors, particularly those which demonstrated my lack of social-
ization growing up.
At times I worry I’ve become more awkward over time, and
it’s not unlikely that my years of isolation did have some effect
on my presence, even if I ultimately managed to overcome those
problems over the years with continued and intentful attempts
to do so; but perhaps I’ve always been somewhat awkward and
bumbling—more than I realized at the time. Throughout my
teenage years I regularly traveled in the company of peers, and
so even when I blundered it was teased or seen as funny and
their presence sort of protected me from feeling stupid about my
actions or my ignorance and I was able to counter my naïveté
with confidence—confidence perhaps undeserved, coming only
from the illusion of security in community. Yet without that en-
tourage, as it were, I just feel like an utter alien wherever I go.
And like I noted, I am often hard on myself, thinking I’ve be-
come more awkward with time, when in reality I’ve not changed
as much as I tend to think, and perhaps I’ve even improved in
some regard. An apt metaphor would be to say that my acting
is unchanged, but without the steady backing of a laugh-track,
the delivery of my lines and their reception can seem quite a

bit different. I know that there are videos on the internet of sit-
coms sans laugh tracks and they are often posted to highlight the
stark distinction between how it comes across without an audi-
ence laughing at every line. An otherwise comedic show can now
seem somber, creepy even. That’s precisely the sort of difference
I’m experiencing; but I’m not really doing anything differently.
Indeed my interests have changed, and that is what prevents me
from gaining the favor of the masses, since I’m not just about
pizza and pills at this point in my life but about philosophy and
psychology and metaphysics and other matters which the gen-
eral public seemingly opts to view as a chore which can only be
taken in small doses.
When I listen to End Time Locust I imagine them being per-

formed by my child self. When I listen to Gravedancers or any
of my other projects from that period I envision my adolescent
self. However, when I listen to Tendon Levey, which was record-
ed within a few short years of the aforementioned projects, be-
ginning when I was only eighteen years of age, I am envisioning
these songs being performed by my current self, and I find that
very strange. For example, I could never create a music video
where I lip sync to the words of my older projects, because it
would not seem at all right since I’ve grown so much since then;
but if I made a video for a Tendon Levey song now, at this point
in time, it wouldn’t seem so unusual to me. It’s as I’ve said else-
where in regards to the everduring relevance of that project to
my life: though I may have changed and matured quite a bit since
that time, becoming almost unrecognizable on the surface due
to a shift in priorities, that project was never actually focused on
the outside or on my opinions of who I thought I was or what I
liked at the time, preferring to capture the ‘soul’, as it were: the

essence of my being, the animal instinct; and those parts remain
unchanged within a person over time even as they learn to wash
their hair and rein in their behavior.
In addition to my water jug which I often played as percussion,

I would regularly place my tambourine around the neck of the
bottle so that it became a sort of two-in-one percussive instru-
ment. I also utilized the knob to a silver oven pot in place of a
pick when playing my guitar, which is how I often got the weird
harmonic sounds which appeared in many tracks in 2009 (and a
great staccato effect which sounded much like a keyboard). I al-
so inserted my glockenspiel mallet under the guitar strings so as
to create for ‘chimey’ muting, and at the time I didn’t realize that
this was actually a practice that some guitarists employ, and it an-
noyed me greatly to eventually discover as much, since I thought
I was being clever at the time. Again, this was very common in
2009, in which I experimented with a wide variety of instru-
ments. It was fun for a while, but I eventually burned out on it
all and decided to go back to focusing on melody rather than fix-
ating on creating ‘strange, unidentifiable sounds’. That’s the thing
about focusing on novelty... as soon as someone else copies you,
or when you find out it’s been done before, you feel like a fail-
ure or as if you have wasted your time, which is why it’s best, in
my opinion, to focus my attention on the emotional outpouring,
since no matter what you or anyone else does, before or after, it
can never be called a waste to express your heart.
The symbol which I regard as my ‘personal sigil’ came about in

somewhat of an unusual way: I was actually tracing Egyptian
hieroglyphics in Photoshop and I used the Polar Coordinates

function and I was shocked when the resulting imaging appeared
like a stylized version of my head. I cleaned it up a bit after the
fact and made slight adjustments, so it wasn’t quite as simple as
clicking a button. A bit serendipitous, I would say.
One of the most important things I can do... one of the most im-
portant things that I can create with my time... is affirmations.
Each experience that I share with an audience is, to me, like one
less excuse that a person has to feel lonely and isolated. It is a pos-
itive aspect to experiencing new depths of misery, because with
each floor that falls beneath me, I am able to reap a new offer-
ing which can hopefully reach and console and affirm an all-new
demographic that would not be reached by any other means. It
is this line of thinking that has gotten me through a lifetime so
dark and disturbed. I know from firsthand experience how much
it changes my experience, however negative it may seem, when I
know that others have endured something similar and that I am
not alone in my experience of this life, whether does that have
to do with suffering or even ideals, ambitions and joys. And it is
not enough to say “You’re not alone.” That’s not different than
saying “Don’t be so selfish as to think that out of billions of peo-
ple you’re the only one to experience such and such.” That may
sound objective to you, but even if it is accepted by the individ-
ual as an objective idea, it is... well, it’s impersonal and cold and
can’t be applied to anything on the personal level, such as our
emotions.
They think they can neglect, abuse and ignore you all they want,
and then when you pull back they can sit there and say “There
he goes disappearing again! So unpredictable. Such a bad friend.”

“There he goes deleting his profile again. He’s fickle and not
worth trusting.” If people actually spoke to me or showed me
even the slightest sign that they wanted me around then I would
have stayed. Like I’ve said: I go where I’m wanted, and it is for
that reason that I have kept to myself within this cellar all along.
And all of these scumfucking self-styled friends who want to act
like I’m finicky or emotionally volatile just because I’m not will-
ing to wait four months for a text response were never my friends
at all. The pain that I experience over this issue, as with many is-
sues of the sort, compounds over time, since I’m not really able
to air this within earshot of all of the people that it’s really meant
for... all of the people who hurt me in life and then want me to
feel foolish when I reacted to the pain that I was caused. So even
though I’ve been able to vocalize these feelings as so, they’re not
really dissolving—an ever-accumulating traumolith.
I’ve begun to think of confidence as an ugly thing. And surely

my saying so is going to raise some eyebrows, since we tend to
consider confidence attractive and overall of benefit—and that
is not entirely inaccurate. Then there must be a distinction made
between a basic level of conviction and a willingness and com-
fort to continue on in our ways; in our body; in our art. Yet that’s
not really the confidence of which I speak. When looking up-
on the faces of the masses I behold something that rooted in ig-
norance and delusion; something which leaves us thinking we
don’t have to return every smile, respond to every call, eat every
bite. This might be a semantic issue... but goddamn it, I am dis-
turbed by what I see, and it makes me somewhat relieved that my
confidence was stripped from me, even though I have suffered so
much as a result. If this is the natural allowance of one who is
ignorant and errant and vulnerable as are all humans then I will
cherish my torment as truth.
It’s difficult for me, as someone who has read hundreds if not
thousands of notes from those l whose loved ones have killed
themselves, or as someone who is surely aware of how we speak
of and venerate deceased artists and musicians and talk tall, “Oh,
if only they were still with us,” “I wish I could give them a hug,”
“It shouldn’t have ended this way for them.” And I internalized
all of these statements and I allowed them to motivate me to
continue living long past my breaking point, because it would
have taken so little—just a little ray of light, just a little smile, a
little kindness, just a little acknowledgment of my efforts at be-
ing a decent human, a courageous explorer, an artist at the van-
guard, an insightful individual, what have you; and it’s so hard
to imagine that people will only appreciate me when I’m gone,
if ever at all, and so I tried my damnedest to stick around and
put up a fight, but I only feel more invisible, more disregarded
and disliked with every effort, every act, every online bulletin
that garners not a single low-effort reaction after I have dedicated
hundreds of hours to careful, impassioned assembly. It’s so hard
to be aware of how these things work... and to know that it made
no difference, apart from making me feel foolish.
I have sometimes claimed that I never really received any com-

pliments regarding my work. While I do tend to feel that way, it
isn’t entirely true, although the thing about that is that the only
(or at least the majority of ) persons who have ever been compli-
mentive of my work are the same individuals who have gone on
to hurt me in horrible ways and it has had a negative effect on
me to receive my affirmations from the same people who have

dealt the severest damage, and in the end I find myself either un-
willing or unable to count their affirmations. DJ comes to mind.
He legitimately seemed intrigued by my work and would ask me
questions about certain songs and lyrics, and I loved when he
would ask “How did you do that?!” Or just basic questions that
showed him to be at least mildly fascinated by certain techniques
or sounds... and out of the twenty or so CD’s I handed out in that
year, he was the only one who really seems to have ever opened it
up and given it a listen. But if you’ve read my work, you can see
why I would feel negatively about that now, or not know how to
process it. I would feel better if I had never given him my work,
since there is nothing in the world that is more painful to me
than thinking someone has seen and heard my offering, my soul,
and yet can still go ahead and betray me, or even dislike me. It’s
why I never allowed my parents or sister to hear my work; be-
cause I view my music as the most personal expression of my in-
dividual soul to date and I knew that when my parents treated
me harshly, which they inevitably would, that my mind wouldn’t
be able to understand or come to terms with how they could hear
my soul, my vulnerable self and emotions, and still do what they
do to me. That’s part of the reason why I haven’t really done any-
thing to get the word out about my work and rely mostly on tags
and search terms for people to find me. I want my work found
only by those who are seeking it out, rather than forcing it before
the wrong crowd.
There was this guy in my youth group who was insistent that
the face of a demon appeared in his microwave one day, reached
out and grabbed him by his shirt collar in an attempt to ‘pull
him in’. He then went on about how his shirt was left with wrin-
kles in the aftermath of this event, pinched in such a way that it

would have been if a physical hand had actually grasped it. I al-
ways found it intriguing to consider, and the line on Stock Bird
Stork alludes to exactly this.
It is frustrating to me, since I do not behave rudely, impatiently,

sarcastically or disparagingly in the presence of others. I would
be considered an agreeable individual overall, despite my hold-
ing to views that some may consider off-kilter, and it hasn’t
served me one bit in the realm of relationships. Note that when
I use the term ‘agreeable’ I do not refer to being a pushover, as I
don’t hide my feelings, or I try not to, but I am comfortable with
making sensible adjustments and compromises in cases where it
could benefit or soothe others. I’ll tell you my preference but
then I’ll add that it’s not so important to me that I am closed off
to going against my preference. That kinda stuff. I’m not force-
ful, and I’ve had things not go my way enough in life to where
I’m just not demanding when it comes to having my way.
It is a rare sight for someone to suffer so unimaginably but have

no regrets and no attempts to stop. It’s because I still, to this day;
believe in my cause; and I want that to be known—unequivocal-
ly so. My writings are at times graphic and unimaginably dark,
and it’s true I suffer greatly in the absence of a helping hand.
Though you must be more perceptive than to state “pain equals
bad.” I am part of a series of stepping stones... that’s how I see
myself... and they’re everywhere throughout history... you find
the discriminatory stepping stones, like those involving prejudice
and overcoming them, and then you find scientific, technologi-
cal and artistic stepping stones, with certain practices and theo-
ries going decades, centuries, before being accepted and requir-

ing a long line of supporters and willing sacrifices. The fact is
that if our actions yield immediate results, and everything takes
off all splendidly and permeates through society, then there is a
pretty good chance that what we are effecting is not an actual
change, because the world is not known to embrace change so
easily. That’s called a trend, or it could be a convenient lie that we
all want to believe about ourselves. Of course this is not a rule. I
just know that true change often takes time, and if I give up due
to difficulty then I will fail as a sacrifice and my efforts will not
be put toward this process, or so I feel. And perhaps this analo-
gy isn’t perfectly compatible with the idea of Existential propa-
gation, although there are still aspects to it that are applicable.
I will not deny the scope of my misery in life, although we
should also not overlook that there are different strains of mis-
ery, made better and worse by a whole slew of considerations, in-
cluding but not limited to the purpose that it serves.
I look at the suffering that I was forced to endure and I won-
der if it will be like when we look back at history and see queer
individuals who were being put to death merely because they
were queer, and it’s so hard to stomach such atrocity (and I’m
not trying to say that persecution isn’t still going on in different
forms around the world, although it’s clearly lessened in many
places and continues to do so), but we’ve come so far since then
and... while I don’t want to say that it was a necessary stepping
stone, since that just seems cruel and uncalled for, it did eventu-
ally lead us to where we’re at. It’s something I think about a lot
and I’m always having to be conscious of how I speak about my
life while also trying to represent my circumstances accurately.
They’re not pretty—we can all agree on that much. But it’s not
pointless suffering. It’s meaningful, or I perceive it as so. And it’s
why I’ve lasted so long. And like “the gays of old”, they weren’t
suffering because they were wrong, they were suffering because

the standards and the narrative had yet to shift in their favor, be-
ing it narrow-minded and dominated by ill-meaning and igno-
rant individuals.
I am very, very glad to have gone through my archives and sal-

vaged all of this Rejectamenta before leaving. There was a sadness
to the process, as I cannot escape the knowledge that all of this
work, this expression, which brings me such great joy, will only
disgrace all that I’ve worked to achieve in other areas of my life
(like personal development and mysticism) since the population
shall surely fail to understand my expression as just that. I don’t
doubt there will be those who benefit unironically from my ex-
pression, and I hope with all my hope that they benefit great-
ly from my efforts, which I dedicate to all who can find it in
their soul to allow themselves to be so vulnerable, so honest with
themselves. Yet ultimately I feel I’ve sacrificed my all for some-
thing that no one wants, or something that will cause me to be re-
jected. In a world that so often fails to grasp the worth of willful
sacrifice, let me rephrase that: imagine shelling out a massive sum
of money on something considered worthless or even poisonous
by the population at large. It doesn’t change my understanding
of my accomplishments, for I know that I put in good efforts for
the worthiest cause, but it does sadly influence the happiness (or
lack thereof ) that I feel in the end after reaching my goal (and I
am speaking no longer of music alone but my life on the whole,
especially my mystical pursuits). My final years were spent con-
fronting this very matter. Sometimes I call it shame, but that’s
not actually what it is. It’s sadness... the sadness of achieving all I
ever wanted; but my treasure is not treasure in the eyes of others,
and what am I to think about that? And I don’t just mean artis-
tically, but spiritually and existentially. It’s such a weird position

to be in and there is no quick, pithy statement that can sum up
how one should respond thereto.
I am an anti-natalist, and while some may take that to mean that

I dislike children, the opposite is true. I am very fond of children.
I even used to help out in a nursery. I don’t know if it is my car-
toony presence or what, but the little ones always seemed to take
to me and I have never understood all the hate that they get from
the tired and selfish assholes of the world. Children are wonder-
ful.
At times I look back at my work and I wish it was more obviously

relatable, like in the anthemic sense; but in attempting to achieve
that superficial, accessible sense of relatability I would have sacri-
ficed the true relatability that comes from vulnerability and sin-
cerity, and I would sooner opt to recreate the feeling heart than
the familiar flesh.
In an alternate universe, in which my crazed interests and mysti-

cal commitments hadn’t rendered me a social outsider, I like to
think that I would have made it as a goth-pop sex symbol.
I take great interest in analyzing the development of my style and

the evolution of my self-concept, and to see where certain com-
ponents were picked up along the way and identified with, be it
my excessive string bending or the willingness to actually sing in
a lower register when I was very clearly in favor of my high voice

(which provided me with far more in the realm of catharsis).
It is disheartening to me that I would never get the chance to
sit down and have an analytical conversation about my work, be
it my music, my writing, my visual art or anything at all. I wonder
what adjectives people will use to describe me. I’ll never know,
and whereas I once would have assumed the best, I now assume
just the opposite. I wish I could engage others into discussions
about the nuances of my discography. Like, I think a lot about
how interesting it is that each epoch of my work, despite being so
close together, are so well delineated by a variety of slight means
which weren’t really intentional or easily describable. For exam-
ple, I am fascinated by the darkness that entered into my music
around July 2009, which is when the Tendon Levey sound real-
ly took form, in my opinion, whereas the first thirty albums yet
resembled a child musician screwing around and figuring things
out. I wish I could discuss the psychology or why certain patterns
and things took place. There are a million points I could be mak-
ing but I don’t expect to get that chance.
The first song ought to start the album off strong on a note that
should set the tone for the whole album. Is it weird, beautiful,
intense? The first song must embody that tone and do it well.
An album need not be a literal concept album in terms of a sto-
ryline for it to be arranged in a meaningful and semi-concep-
tual order. All of my stuff is sequenced in such an order that is
most conducive to a semi-conceptual narrative. The second song
is there to say “Here is some variety, just so you know that it ain’t
all gonna be like the first song.” The third song, in my experience,
often follows the first in terms of tone. Of course this doesn’t
apply when the first track is an intro, in which case everything
ought to shift up one. The last song is as important as the first

song. I say all of this as if it was some concrete formula to which I
adhered religiously, although that isn’t so. Rather, it is something
that I only considered retroactively, observing the pattern among
my works and the pull of my intuition.
The last song should be as meaningful as a death. As so, the
closer of the album was always very important to me. It should
not only leave off on a note that could act as the last note you
ever produce, but also a note that causes people to go back and
listen to it all again. We all know those movies that end on such a
note, a revelation, which recontextualize the whole script. Con-
sider, if you will, those news stories wherein someone phones
911 and pretends to be putting in some type of food order since
they’re in immediate danger and can not let their attacker know
what they’re attempting, and they can only hope that the emer-
gency operator understands the situation by urgency in their
voice. I think of my music like so, in that it may initially come
across as a casual food order, and sometimes it takes several songs
or even until the very end to realize that I had a gun to my head
the whole time.
So I aimed to end my albums on bold notes. Like I said, I
never knew when my discography was going to end, either due
to death, injury or incarceration or some other unknown variable
that I was always anticipating in my anxious heart.
Less Beating ended with my vengeful statement regarding re-
venge and going to prison. Candlelike ended with the comments
regarding the dead babies and the loss of my voice. I Recant ends
with my death (and implies my throat and neck problems, along
with the implications that I was tricked) as represented via a
mouse trap. Awake Eating the Drill ends on a very indeterminate
and anxious note in which I mourn my lack of safety and my less-
ening humanity. Extinguished ends with my death, followed by
returning to the willow tree to take me to Heaven like an angel of

death. Bot of Big God ends with suicide and was actually intend-
ed to be my final song and album. Winter Owner ends with par-
ricide. Carnage ends with the loss of my voice. Reaper ends with
my being decapitated. Stomachic Chariot ends with my waking
from a dream. Countertorch ends with the abstract death of my
voice. These are just some examples.
I often threw in a couple weaker tracks for the sake of variety.

Like on All Pepper Blown Away I had “New Characters” and
“Oversplits”. On Winter Owner there was “Bat in the Wall”. Not
bad songs, per se, but they’re mostly there to diversify the album,
although in retrospect I tend to feel negatively about a lot of
these additions which have upset the homogeneity of the record
in order to meet some subjective standard of diversity. I do have
some albums without any ‘weaker tracks’, but probably not very
many, hahahaha. I sort of wish that I had taken all of that more
seriously at the time, as I now have to consider such stupid, im-
personal matters as how they will be scored and reviewed by the
public.
Others may be content to look at the choices that I made with

my music and other little matters of style and say “That’s simply
his style,” like as some punctuation to end all analysis, but I love
to break everything down and examine how it all developed and
how it all fell into place and progressed throughout the albums;
how some incidental sound appearing within my first and sec-
ond albums led to these significant stylistic shifts and strange ac-
cents that would evolve along the way. I like to ask “Why?” while
never accepting that “It is what it is.”
I’ve already provided a breakdown of the faces or phases

which helps to pinpoint changing paradigms within my music
and encompassed playing style, lyrical themes and more. Here is
another way of looking at how my personality and self-expres-
sion evolved in that period, broken up by year.
2007: the court fool
2008: the lost boy, world orphan
2009: the feral child, the psycho killer
2010: the anxious lover
2011: the foreigner, the tragic villain, the wounded soldier
The vocal dynamic clearly changed over time. In the earlier
years, say 2007-2009, the varying vocal variations employed
could be described as a relationship between a boy and a crea-
ture, along with a more psychotic individual that was introduced
in 2009. Around late 2010 and especially in 2010 the dynamic
switched to become something more mystical almost: the sup-
plicant, the angel and the demon. Myrrh is Mine and Cadaverine
really show this trinity. My clean vocals became cleaner and more
airy. My aggressive vocals became harsher, more inhuman. My
lower register really came to the fore, becoming satisfactory in its
own right. The last two phases saw that dynamic. The material to
come of 2009 sounds clinical, but then the tone becomes mortal
and spiritual around late 2010 and I find it to be a very interest-
ing transition, and none of it was intentional. That’s why I love
analyzing my music and can do so endlessly, since none of it was
intentional, so it’s like scraping around in my dream journals try-
ing to make sense of all the symbols and similarities and whatnot.
It’s not about talent. Not even relatability. It’s all fashion. That’s
all it is. Every entitled twat that can point a camera wants a piece
of the pie. Talent used to feel like currency; like precious jewels.
Now I know it means nothing in itself. The people only want you
if they can wear you, if they can share you.
My father was a carpenter and a communications technician. My

mother was a hairdresser. My grandfather was a stock boy (al-
though he did have a short run as a pastor) and my grandmoth-
er was a daycare employee. You will find nothing prestigious or
impressive within my tree. I find this bothersome—more and
more as I age. It’s like I didn’t even have the merest stepladder
onto which to start my life. All of my friends seemed to be given
a stepladder of sorts. Their parents’ vocations and achievements
went to bettering the lives of their children in some way, includ-
ing out-and-out nepotism in some cases. It sounds like a very im-
mature complaint to be voicing. I honestly don’t think of it all
that much, and it wasn’t even until my final years that I really re-
flected back on the fault of my parents (beyond the more obvi-
ous emotional faults... looking more to the foundations they laid
—or the lack thereof—and how I hardly had a fighting chance
to make it in this life with what they did to me). It’s not the fail-
ure of my own parents that bothers me in such a case as much as
it is the idea that the home into which we are born determines
so, so much about our lifetime... and it’s beyond all of our con-
trol... and it is so harrowing to consider... and the more you think
about it the harder it becomes to look at pregnancy and babies
and think of it all as some beautiful miracle of nature. It is hor-
rific what is taking place.
I was just assembling some of the Rejectamenta collections and

I was listening to “Redfrozen” off of Demon Daycare, and I’m
thinking “Goddamn, this isn’t a song, this is an incident.” And
that’s the thing about my music: they’re all incidents. This ain’t
songwriting. These are my attempts to convey what is taking
place and putting it into words and melodies and whatever other
communicable means. I would say that such talents relate to my
extrapolative ability, which is central to my lifestyle and mysti-
cism (as in the ability to form abstract connections between two
seemingly disparate systems and apply the principles from one
to another). The standard of the music industry is that songs
are written and rehearsed and performed to perfection. That was
never my practice. I would go into it without a melody or even an
idea and whatever came out was what came out. And it wouldn’t
take me more than a half hour at a time. Some may think that the
lack of time devoted to any individual piece speaks to a lack of
emotional investment or somehow cheapens the inherent mean-
ing, but that is a ridiculous conclusion. A child is conceived in
less time than that.
Sometimes when I speak in favor of improvisation I wonder
if it seems to degrade the intention and meaningfulness behind
the music, as many seem to equate meaning with tedious and
perfectionistic mapping and I don’t agree with that at all. I would
often set aside about thirty minutes to record a song, and in that
time I would pour out everything that I had into that perfor-
mance. Nothing half-assed about that. A very firework-like ap-
proach. Come at it at full intensity and then recognize that it is
done, complete in itself, a moment of emotion that has come and
gone and must now be sealed. If I keep opening it back up for
edits then it ceases to reflect a moment and becomes some talent
exhibition, rather than a diary, and that’s when it stops becoming
fun for me.
Then on that same album you have “A Toast” which I just
find to be absolutely chilling, especially in being placed toward
the end of Demon Daycare, since it acts as a prelude to the win-
ternecine. It’s an earlier incarnation of “Get Thee Inside Me, Sa-

tan” but it contains an extra guitar track which muddies up the
arrangement and somewhat obscures its identity at first, and so
it is likely to strike listeners as familiar before it even occurs to
them that they are listening to an alternative arrangement of
said song. Then, as the extra guitar drops out and the underlying
melody is exposed, the heart sinks. That’s my experience when
listening to it, anyway. Like something was let into the house
by mistake. Then the collection ends with the words “Who are
you?” In the track “Naked and Crawling.”
You see, I put so, so much care into the album sequencing
and I really wish I could share with others my vision of how it
all comes together. It makes it so much more powerful if you un-
derstand the story progression. It’s the prog rocker in me that
just has to arrange everything in the most cinematic way possi-
ble, giving way to a storyline. I will do the same even when as-
sembling playlists by other artists. There are definite strategies at
play in the order, be it sonic strategies or conceptual strategies. I
don’t have the time to get into it so I guess I’ll leave these to be
figured out and explored by my potential listeners. I will spend
long amounts of time and energy figuring out the perfect order.
As for these neuterocanonical and Rejectamenta collections that
contain up to 100 tracks, I have been known to spend days and
days focused on ordering a single track list, even with Mora’s help
and input. The Rejectamenta compilations weren’t even being
counted as official albums at first, but I had to rethink that after
having spent so much time working on track transitions and get-
ting everything to blend how I wanted it. It sucks, however, since
many people will just listen to the first couple tracks and deter-
mine their opinion thereby, but I try to keep everything spread
out to whereon doesn’t become front heavy or back heavy. I also
tend to keep some of the more intense stuff at the end. And then
Fountain of Euth... damn, I always talk up Northern Thorns and

Rifles, but Daycare and Fountain are practically as good, as insid-
ious, as intense. When I found the songs I Don’t Accept This and
Should I Be on my hard drive it made me so anxious, it made my
heart drop, and I could hardly listen to them. Rifles is a very De-
cember album, while Fountain favors October with some Sep-
tember starting things off (the latter half is mostly Oct/Nov with
all of the robotic sounding tunes). My robotic themed period
chills me to the bone: that time of weird, nightmarish dehuman-
ization. By ‘robot period’ I typically refer to the period around
Oct 2009 like Awake Eating the Drill and parts of the surround-
ing albums... and unreleased from that period like Metal Man,
Moldavite, Aburio, Sheol-Infernomental, Defibrillate This, Mer-
cury Fever Madness, The Drill, Beekeep, Aluminum and those
types of tracks. It wasn’t exclusive to October, although I tend
to associate the ‘Dehumanizing Madness’ with that month while
December I associate with a more cosmic sort of madness. There
is so much intent within every track list, and everything that I do
is organized to tell a story.
I listen back to the instrumentals in Northern Thorns era, and it’s

so messy and clunky, like a death rattle playing out on a guitar. I
love it, and I wonder how it will be received by others, since soci-
etal standards dictate that such playing is ‘wrong’ and/or ‘sloppy’,
yet it is so wonderful and so poignant to me. I just loved using
these thick picks and going crazy and chunking the strings and
bending them and plucking them and taking out all my anger
and disappointment thereon. The fact that it sounded as it did
was simply a secondary benefit to come of the catharsis. Similar
comments can be made about the vocals. It may cause some to
wince since it is so unlike what is heard on pop radio, but that
isn’t to say that it accomplishes nothing if it fails to make you

dance. There are two purposes to art and music. Some seek to
entertain, while others seek to affirm, as in creating a product to
which others can relate; something which extends from heart to
heart in the aim of decreasing the loneliness of our human ex-
perience. Yea, I am not looking to entertain, but to affirm the
minds, the emotions, the fear, the dreams and the curiosity of
others like myself.
The song “Pollen” just came on, and those first few seconds
hit hard. It’s such an unusual and poignant feeling... and it’s so
strange... it’s so mental... so abstract... like some medieval heretic
being walked to the gallows (or an even worse type of medieval
torture device). I love the combination of mystery and delirium
that emits from these tracks. It’s not something I would ever just
throw on a stereo and show off to someone. I think I’d feel em-
barrassed. I know I would. But at the same time it affects me
so deeply and I love it and I’m glad that I did exactly as I did
with my music, not catering to the masses and their popularity
polls; not considering shame as a reason to stop; not consider-
ing shame even a bit. I wish that it had kept that way forever, but
all of the shame that I refused to feel during my years of record-
ing were all forced upon me after releasing my work to the public
where I had to live with the fact that people didn’t see my work
as I did. Surely my circumstances are complicated all the more
by both what the music cost me, in terms of my health, as well
as the fact that I’ll never be able to make any more, so you must
not neglect these considerations from the equation. Were it not
for my vocal loss, I don’t think I would experience half as many
gripes and conflicts as I do nowadays, which often stem direct-
ly from my inability. Instead I would just keep recording, and I
would be able to implement any new ways of thinking into my
music and there would be no problem. But it’s my inability to do
so that leaves me so heart aching. I had one shot to create some-

thing good, and so far the stats are looking bad.
Again, we don’t seem to have much available music which re-
ally represents these states in such a way. When we think of ag-
gression, we think metal or industrial or something that sounds
heavy, cool and calculated and follows along with our stereotyp-
ical categorization of anger and rage while not considering that
most of the time when we’re angry we’re also feeling sad, dis-
turbed, blindsided, wounded, maybe intoxicated, regretful, and
that moment that we hit our boss, our father, our friend, or cut
our arm, or whatever, it’s not this cool, emotionless metal that’s
playing within us... but this disorienting pool of emotions that
ultimately boils down to “Why is this happening? How did it
come to this? Never would I have expected this. What has be-
come of me...” and that’s why I am truly pleased with my work,
because it shows the vulnerability and raw delirious excitement
and unashamed, nose-drooling anguish to come of our most im-
pactful moments. And I find it to be a more accurate represen-
tation of fear, anger and heartache, rather than the polished and
romanticized versions that line the store shelves. I don’t want to
make some stupid blanket statement about how those who don’t
understand my work are out of touch with their own selves, al-
though I do think that those who are especially in touch with
their emotions and selfness will get a lot more out of my work
and incidentally see it as far less ‘weird’ or ‘eccentric’ than so-
ciety at large may be prone to seeing it. These aren’t meant to
come across as these masturbatory statements. I’m simply ana-
lyzing my music and the qualities that make it stand out in my
mind, so take all such statements as you will.
Oh, I used to love eating in the middle of the night. I would al-
ways eat cookies or snacks or whatever we had on hand and then
return to bed. Always gave me great dreams. I had a whole draw-
er under my old bed (in Londonberry) that was filled with oat-
meal cream pies and the like. Haven’t done that in many years
now, sadly, though it was once the standard. I don’t know why it
comes to mind. I miss it. And in New Jersey I would just go and
drink from the faucet in the bathroom and it tasted so good in
the middle of the night. I don’t like the Virginia tap water and
refuse to drink it, so I haven’t had tap water in a very long time.
It’s like no one has any interest in learning and growing on their
own time. After graduating they tend to shrink back into their
monotonous lives, feeling they’ve earned the right to discontin-
ue all meaningful development. When not working, there is no
drive or motivation to pick up a project. All they can do is take
a break. And then on the weekends all the muppets can be seen
outside mowing their lawns like it’s the only thing they know
how to do with themselves apart from watch television (unless
it’s Sunday, in which case they can all gather around like zombies
in their pews and praise a fictional character for its promise to
save them from their lives... oh the fucking horror that we are liv-
ing).
It is surreal to see society celebrating the kind and honest acts ex-
hibited by certain celebrities while demonizing or simply failing
to acknowledge the kindness of others. It is so odd and disori-
enting, if you take it at face value: if you trust that the masses are
actually celebrating the particular qualities of which they sing.
It is sadly the case that special circumstances or status are typ-
ically required to merit such praise and it often has little to do

with one’s actual character or acts on their own. We could all be-
have ourselves just as nicely and compassionately and what-have-
you as these figures regarded as the kindest, most down-to-earth
celebrities, however, even if the people will allow us the oppor-
tunity to display our virtues, as it were, which they likely won’t
without seeking to exploit them or humiliate us, it is next to im-
possible for our actions to be recognized within the appropri-
ate context. And it is so difficult to stomach. What we praise as
honest and genuine is really just someone or something align-
ing with our existing beliefs, expectations or fancies. The peo-
ple don’t want a savior. They want an absolver. They don’t want
the truth. They want affirmation and confirmation. This goes to
show why I have taken it so hard to be made an outcast by my
process. I was once so gullible as to take their words at face val-
ue. It’s just strange to see the ugly and the poor being scolded for
these deeds which are praised when carried out by the attractive
and the wealthy, or when such and such race is criminalized for
the same while all else are uplifted. To those who suffer from this
inconsistency, I apologize, on behalf of all, for I am equipped to
speak for such inconsistency, as Discrepancy is my name.
Looking back, I feel a sense of bitterness and frustration toward

many of the individuals with whom I associated in childhood,
when I trusted them to provide me with an accurate estimation
of what I was allowed to do and they could not be trusted. For
example, they would tell me that I was allowed to come over, and
then I would show up and the parents would tell me ‘it’s late’ and
‘I am unwelcome,’ leaving me to appear as some crazed individual
lacking in propriety to be showing up at this time of night when
I was only trusting what I had been told, and their kid was un-
willing to speak up and tell them that they called me over. This
was always happening. And it sort of scarred me to know that
people saw me in this way. When you’re so unsocialized you are
really forced to rely on the idea that your peers know better than
you when it comes to what is permissible and I think that it was
really easy to manipulate and abuse me in that way because I was
so trusting. Like, if they said that this is the way the world works,
I wouldn’t normally question that estimation. I could take that
information and I can decide that I agree with it or I oppose it,
but I didn’t have the means to really say if it was true, at its base.
And I wonder how this plays into my personal typological pro-
file.
I cannot fathom for the life of me how people can be attracted to

one another without knowing anything about their nature. Even
if I wasn’t so repulsed by the idea of sex in itself, the idea of hav-
ing flings is even more bizarre to me. That deep personal connec-
tion is what defines romance for me. Without that it’s just a cou-
ple of warm meat patties hitting against one another.
We are so quick to classify others as naïve or ignorant. However,

gullibility isn’t always a product of stupidity. Consider the fact
that I am not as disposed to deception since I don’t experience
that urge within myself to lie and I am not going to expect it
of others. It probably sounds pretty incredible to say that some
people are less disposed to dishonesty, but I think that in my
case it has all to do with my distance from society rather than
any innate virtue or what have you (although that isn’t to say
that I have aspired toward honesty for so much of my adult life,
committing myself thereto). I am not speaking of anything apart
from impulse in this case, and when you’re alone for most of your
life it is simply not a train of thought that you’re used to enter-
taining... even if you’re constantly deluding yourself (which is no
less common in aloneness, though it is still not a conscious af-
fair). There aren’t many reasons to concoct lies when I am on my
own. And what this has done is it has really removed ‘deception’
from my instincts altogether. While I love the thought of that, I
do also think that it has made me unreasonably gullible and will-
ing to believe that all others are fundamentally like myself, even
if I wouldn’t say that out loud or necessarily believe that ratio-
nally (I clearly don’t believe it). And then when I meet with oth-
ers, I experience this overwhelming disgust to find that they are
working off of this dishonest system to which they have adapted
in order to survive society. It is tragic. It is horrid.
There’s also the fact that the conformists of the current year re-
semble the individualists of yesteryear and that always throws me
off when determining relations. I am so clueless as to trends. I re-
member when I met my ex, and I just didn’t realize the degree to
which she was a product of her age. Colored hair was still semi-
unusual when I was young and you’d remember those who had
it. I had purple hair as a teenager. There was a girl in my town
who had blue hair. And if you went to a punk show you might
see something. But it was uncommon, and though that may have
something to say about my geographic region, it’s also quite ob-
vious that it has become more commonplace.
My childhood was flooded with messages that painted the world

as evil and desolate and corrupt, and yet you think that I can
just stand up to my feet after decades of indoctrination once my
birthday hits and go out and live a normal life? There are conse-
quences to all acts. The entirety of my childhood hinged on the
belief that ‘the world is evil’, ‘the world is ending soon’ and ‘God
will take us’. It’s funny how something can seem so fucking nor-
mal to you if it’s what you were raised with, to the point where
even if you stopped believing as you did more than a decade ago,
it still doesn’t come naturally to really take a step back and re-
alize the abuse that you were put through. It makes me so up-
set. I wasn’t taught anything except to trust some fairytale. They
failed me. They failed me so miserably that I can hardly compre-
hend it. And each year, as I take another step back from it all,
I am able to take more and more of it in, seeing my upbringing
for what it was, and I am so dismayed I can hardly think to con-
vey it. My fate was entrusted to fools and fantasists who failed
to approach this life with the respect that it deserves, and by the
time I was able to see straight I had already destroyed my body.
And not necessarily just because I was stupid, but because when
everything is taken from you in life, and every part of yourself is
challenged and denied, there is nothing in the world that seems
more important than expressing that self in whatever the way it
is asking to be expressed. There were years of my life wherein self-
expression trumped even health in terms of importance. I would
have rather died than keep my mouth closed, and I really haven’t
moved far from that mindset, if any at all, although I’ve found
ways to go about it more sensibly and not see everything as black
and white, either/or.
I feel so much compassion for the children being reared un-
der such an abusive and heinous system. It has influenced the
manner in which I approach the topic of religion. I don’t wish to
ever be seen as some type of Marilyn Manson or Aleister Crow-
ley who appears to the masses like some antichristian symbol and
appeals only to those who are on one side of the line. My terri-
tory is, itself, that line; that point of questioning; that point of
deconstructing; and those are the people to whom I cater with
my tone—the people who are lost and questioning. I just think
about my child self, and how I lived so long on that line... I am
positively antitheistic, although i see myself as more beholden to
the agnostic and “doubting” crowd. The ones who are unwilling
to treat belief or the lack thereof as a fashion accessory and re-
ally wish to analyze everything objectively and with sensitivity,
not closing themselves off, not giving way to sensationalistic at-
titudes. I guess I just hope that I can be seen as a friend to those
who are searching, and deconstructing, and questioning. I don’t
really care if they believe as I do. That is secondary to my wish-
ing that they can have a friend who doesn’t leave them feeling
judged and damned or pressured to follow the opinions of the
crowd. I only wish to make the alone feel less alone. I only wish
to make the lost feel less lost. I only wish for all to know that
there is no greater wisdom than in admitting you don’t know. So
many people seem to hate that uncertainty! And I can’t fathom
it, personally, because I am some freak who thrives in vulnerabili-
ty, nakedness and uncertainty, as it makes me feel truly alive, tru-
ly true. I just believe that we can’t really be anything apart from
vulnerable and uncertain, on an objective scale, and we spend
our whole lives in denial of our nature if to sate our immediate
need for security. I haven’t done anything unusual. I have simply
refused to hide from what I am, where hiding from ourselves has
become the standard in this society. And so it is not some weird
masochism that leads to these feelings of elation. This elation is
the result of facing my nature as a vulnerable and ignorant be-
ing and anything which tells me otherwise about myself hurts my
relationship with reality. Oh, I’m going off on a tangent! I also
have a growth mindset, so I’ve never been threatened by what I
lack, be it certainty or knowledge, because my response thereto is
always simply “Well, if I value it so much then nothing prevents

me from attaining it for myself.” And I never had any doubt that
I would become the person that I willed to become, surely as will
implies prioritization. Oh, I love uncertainty... though it never
lasts long, ‘cause I’m so quick to leap upon it like one of those
coin-operated kiddie rides outside of the supermarket.
I can’t help but look at what I’ve become and wonder to myself:
if I was able to become all of this as someone with so much
against him, I wonder what I could have become if I was loved
by the people. Could I have risen even higher, or is that not how
it works?
I still recall many of the dreams that I had as a child. It’s amazing
that they’ve stayed with me so long when there are some days
where I can hardly recall the dream that just took place five min-
utes earlier.
In one dream I recall driving down the street next to my
house and getting into a car accident. Following the impact, I left
my body and floated slowly into the sky and the guy who crashed
into me stepped out of his car and looked up at me as I float-
ed away. I'll never forget how creepy it was as he turned his head
slowly, and he had the creepiest look in his eyes and his mouth
was ajar.
I was often jumping off of my backyard fort and flying. I
don’t really get flying dreams as an adult, but it seems to me that
I had a fair amount of them as a child.
I recall a woman stabbing me repeatedly in the back as I was
walking around in my yard at night time (en route to my cellar).
The night was so still, and she approached me in the dark, cry-
ing. I tried to find her help, and then she began to stab, and she
kept crying while she did it, not saying anything. And I still re-
member the strange feeling of the knife as or stabbed me. It was
a unique sensation that has remained with me. It was cold, but
that was not the defining feature.
There was one dream that featured Patch, which refers to a
Speedy Gonzalez doll that I owned as a child. He was alive in my
dream, but he was dying, and I had to open him up and sacrifice
my childhood ‘blankey’ to save his life, which needed to be put
into a compartment within his back to keep him cold or some
such. It would recharge him. I don’t think that I was able to save
him. It was very sad at the time. I must have been five years old at
the time. All of this took place on my Pine Hill deck (within the
dream).
I always recall this one dream that depicted this amazing
world. I would liken it to a mall due to how it was set up, but it
wasn’t really a mall at all. It was so surreal. And I vividly recall be-
ing on the second level and stepping into this huge Frankenstein
mouth. And that image, that scene, has always remained with
me. There were weird tunnels to walk through... tubes... every-
thing was purple and green and dizzying.
I recall one dream in which I went down into the cellar of
my New Jersey home. There were often monsters and demons
throwing a party in the cellar. They let me into the party, and at
one point I remember going to a closet (which did not exist in
reality) and opening the door to find the closet packed full with
demons that were stacked one on top of the other and all wedged
in. The demons then simultaneously reached out their hands and
pulled me in, and it was unforgettably creepy. All of the afore-
mentioned dreams are from around the ages of five, six and sev-
en, from what I can recall.
Oh, and let’s not forget the infamous ‘chugga chugga’ dream.
I once dreamt that I was standing within an oversized crib, which
was located in some verdant outdoors picnic-type area, although
the area was somewhat walled in. All was very still and quiet,
with no one else around. And I stood there in my crib awaiting...
awaiting something. Then I heard it faintly in the distance:
“Chugga chugga chugga chugga chugga...” It was not the sound
of a train, but actual words being uttered, chanted, in a most sin-
ister monotony by multiple individuals in unison. It continued,
growing louder and louder and faster and suddenly, as it peaked,
four or so figures, resembling the Banana Splits cast, turned the
corner, entering into my field of vision, and immediately fired
some type of weapon in my direction, causing me to wake up
then and there.
There was a brief period in my youth during which I had a
bunk bed. This was before I had my awesome loft bed built. I
would typically sleep on the top, and sometimes my father would
come in and sleep on the bottom and I would have all of these
dreams (and possibly even some hallucinations) about a black
gas seeping up from the bottom bunk and coming up through
the head of my bed. At the time I thought of it like Hexxus from
Ferngully. This must have happened more than once.
Things I cannot do in my condition without suffering dire con-

sequences of health (2019):
Eat solid food
Chew
Tilt head to the right
Sleep on my right side
Cough
Clear throat
Vomit
Jump
Speak
Sing
Yell
Walk
Dance
Exercise
Use the computer
Create art
Play instruments
Play games
Go outside
Shower
Breathe freely
At this point I’m just happy that I can orgasm again. And as
long as I am still able to type out my thoughts, I am fine. The
ability to do so waxes and wanes on the daily and will be lost if I
should do anything stupid from the above list, but I have some-
times gone months at a time without compromising my ability
to write and that is wonderful. What sucks about all of this is
that I now get angry with myself if I slip up and do anything that
will upset my condition, like turning my head the wrong way
(which upsets my vertigo), or recently I had to turn a spigot in
my bedroom wall to cut off the water flow in the house and the
specific muscular movements required of this task left me unable
to write for most of the day, and it’s unfair to me that I get so
down on myself whenever I do these basic things like sniff too
hard or clear my throat. These feel like such huge fuck-ups on my
part due to how I’ve had to become extremely carefully and train
myself, and it’s a shame that I so often feel like a failure for not
being able to do things that most, if not all people, would be un-
able to do.
It is so strange, because I say these things and I describe myself in

a way that many may be apt to regard as a virtuous or kindly or
loving individual, and I wouldn’t say that any of that is untrue,
nor would I say that there was a time when that was not the
case; however, there was a long stretch of time during which I
didn’t realize or outright refused to accept that about myself, and
I would have rather spent my time justifying my wrongful in-
clinations and telling myself that I am a ‘villain’ or ‘monster’ or
whatever else I had adopted over my years of defenseless defen-
siveness. I would have therefore offered up a very different and
very unsympathetic biography had I approached the notepad at
an earlier time. You even see a bit of it in Traumaturgy. And I
think to myself: yes, legitimate change and maturation has tak-
en place in time, but a lot of this change in how I view myself
indeed has to do with my self-awareness, whereas my self-aware-
ness was previously erected upon a foundation of self-defense,
and I mourn to think of how many people don’t realize how vir-
tuous and potent they really are underneath all of the ugly orna-
ments they’ve donned in conformity to an ugly society. The child
we once were shall remain forever the most suitable pole star to
bring us back to our natures. And I don’t speak of nature in this
case as some base, animalistic act but as that which exists beneath
all of the conditioning and impositions of society: a surface free
of dirt and impressions.
I think that the biggest reality check I’ve had in terms of the art
world, or just society in general, is that... well, it’s natural for a
creative individual to think that their reception will be based,

if largely so, upon the quality of the story and the work that
they craft, and that if one puts out an intriguing and original
work then acclaim is a sure thing. This applies even to non-cre-
atives, speaking to anyone who puts in grand effort, as we expect
the outcome to be determined by the quality of said efforts and
that is what drives us to work, study and smile as we do (and of
course all of this assumes that the artist is even capable of accu-
rately assessing the quality of their own work without overmuch
bias). Though that’s assuming that the masses have time, interest
or attention in actually consuming that which we’ve prepared.
There are billions of works, applications, events and thoughts
competing for our time at any given moment, and the internet
age has really taken everything up to a whole new level. As for
me, I’ve had to learn the hard way that it all comes down to first
impressions, and if the people aren’t captivated in the first five
seconds, then it doesn’t matter what you’ve crafted. And this is
what I am saying more than anything when I complain about
my lack of audience and my overwhelming sense of rejection.
It’s not like people consumed my work and are saying my story
and music and everything sucks. It’s that they aren’t really inter-
ested in moving past the first song or actually reading past the
first paragraphs to get to know me and what I’ve created. That’s
part of the problem in today’s modern over-saturated world and
our resultant decreased attention spans: we’re consuming more
but at a far shallower level. We’re a culture of skimmers. We’re
not spending time with anything. We’re not allowing meaning-
ful connections to take shape within our lives, surely as meaning
develops via an extended and intentful process, like the devel-
opment of any other attachment in life, be it love or esteem or
whatever the hell. Meaning doesn’t come pre-packaged, despite
what many have been led to believe via their stopgaps such as re-
ligion, relationships and similar means in which the concept of

meaning is actively being conflated with a mix of security, com-
munity and pleasure and promised to them upon proof of pur-
chase. It needs to be nourished, and when looking around I re-
ally can’t tell if people acknowledge this. That’s frightening to
me—not only because of the effect that it is having on people
who are failing to digest and then shitting out these undigested
hulls of that which could have otherwise provided great nour-
ishment, but because the modern wave of artists and entertain-
ers (“content creators”) are adapting to this decline by creating
shallow, more flashy and overall more vapid work containing no
mysteries or hidden goodies or anything like the level of effort
that artists used to put into releases (from my limited perspec-
tive). This is discouraging as both an artist and a fan. Then you
must also account for the fact that I am someone who likes to
understate, undersell or just utterly mislead my readers and lis-
teners to the ends of surprising or enticing them later on. I “play
the long game”, as they say. But a lot of my preferences and ideas
don’t work in such a setting. Like, as a silly example, I always
thought it would be funny if I just used a picture of myself hold-
ing a guitar as album art, like some boring country album, be-
cause it would mislead others into expecting something uninter-
esting. But in today’s world, that means no one will ever be will-
ing to give it a chance; and I am not compelled to adapt to suit
the needs and demands of the ill and impatient.
Ever since I was a child, I just loved the idea of store supplies.
Every holiday season, while compiling my infamously detailed
Christmas lists (which laid everything out on tables sectioned off
by price, type, location and priority and ultimately took the fun
out of the holidays for my parents) I would visit the websites of
those companies which supplied retail stores with shelves, racks,

countertop displays and other display cases, stickers, 25 cent ma-
chines, plastic bags with cardboard tags on top, dezinezinet.
That’s still fun to me. I would rather buy that stuff than almost
anything. Those months back in 2017 when I was creating DIY
Tendon Levey merchandise boxes was a lot of fun for me because
I was shopping around for custom boxes, envelopes, stamps, con-
tainers, wax seals, and it was sooooooo muuuuuch fuuuuun. The
idea of my room looking like a store, with actual aisles, and every-
thing is sealed and displayed... that is soooooooo muuuuch fuu-
uuun.
Periodic assessment of confidence incoming! Clearly I display a

lot of frustration when it comes to communicating with the pub-
lic, especially with my feeling that I will be misconstrued. Break-
ing that down further: where is that coming from, specifically?
Well, at this point I no longer fear that people will be able to see
my heart, in the sense that I can’t actually imagine anyone doubt-
ing my intentions or that I am who I say I am, given all that I have
shared. That might have been a concern at some point along the
way, but I don’t fear that at all at present, having decades of mate-
rial to reinforce almost every claim I make regarding my person.
Hmm. There remains the concern that people won’t see value in
my offering, and there remains the concern that I will be target-
ed by those whose insecurities are aggravated by my claims and
seeking to attack me as a person to undermine my ideas. I think
my biggest struggle at this point might honestly be the idea that
nothing I do makes a difference. Confident though I am in the
value of my offering, society has left me feeling invisible and un-
valued, as a person, as an artist, as a thinker, and when you ac-
complish as much as I have and do so to the sound of crickets
and opposition, there isn’t really part of me that can imagine that
changing. However, it progresses beyond bitterness after a while,
entering into the territory of disorientation and derealization. I
wouldn’t call myself bitter, but dizzy. Nothing makes sense. I’ve
resided here in Dizzyland for a long time, fighting the patterns
in place in order to deliver what I see as meaningful content to a
world that doesn’t acknowledge my existence. Maybe it’s a code
to crack. Or maybe I’m just plain wrong in my assessments. In
any case I shall press on and I shall do so until the curtains catch.
There is so much discomfort and vulnerability and fear that

comes from being in my position, where I have resolved to forgo
all medical help for anything that I should face from here on
out. Whatever becomes of my health, I must endure in solitude,
and I shall stick it out with poise until I can do so no longer. It’s
very unnerving to see your body being eaten alive by the likes
of illnesses and ailments that haven’t even been properly iden-
tified, with new problems cropping up or trading off on an al-
most weekly basis. There is never a respite after one issue sub-
sides, or after accustomization sets it, as it always switches over
to something else, like an ever-mutating virus for which no so-
lution works twice. However, I will say that I am more at peace
in my resignation than I was years ago when I was seeking treat-
ment and fighting to keep my life in a way that put my fate in the
hands of those who so clearly did not value my life. It brought
a lot more anxiety with it. I still had things that I needed to do.
Now I have essentially completed all my work and am now mere-
ly attempting to squeeze out as much of my ideas for the public
as I can before departing.
I feel so much less stress in my life without having that worry
of ‘Can I afford it?’ ‘Will they find something?’ ‘Will they make
it worse?’ ‘Will they undermine me and waste my time?’ And

then in the case that they actually identify the problem, along
with a viable and affordable route of action, I still ain’t home free
and must how wonder ‘What horrific things will it be? Is there
a cure? A fix? And will it be gruesome? Or easy? And will it be
worth my while? And how many meetings will it require?’ And
I’m just... I’m happier not having to deal with that. I’m happier
dying on my terms than living by theirs. Pour one out for me on
the lawn of your local hospital when the godforsaken U.S. of A
finally joins with the rest of the civilized world and deprivatizes
the healthcare industry. Until then, aegrescit medendo!
I have analyzed my suicidality a whole lot in time and I’ve made

some interesting observations along the way. I think people will
hear that someone is suicidal and just expect this constant low,
which is why they always seem so befuddled or otherwise refuse
to believe it when they find that someone is legitimately suicidal,
as if they expect the person to be scratching at their wrists at
every second of the day. I would say that I experience suicidal
thoughts, on average, between one and a dozen times each day,
and it is almost unheard of that a day goes by in the absence of
any such thoughts. It wavers in accordance with my ability to
distract myself, though it never leaves. And what do I mean by
‘suicidal thoughts’, exactly? Not all of them contain intent. Most
of them don’t. Yet there is this vague and persistent wish to be
‘done with this’ which forms an undercurrent to so much of my
time and I am often considering methods, either to assuage my
hopelessness, or to increase my security in knowing that I’ve got
everything worked out. I always have several methods ready to
go at any time, be it a silk necktie on a pipe in the corner of
my room, a hefty stash of antiemetics and chemicals or an altar

stuffed with accelerants.
I have observed that my survival instinct is lower in the
morning, when I awaken. Suicide is less of a formidable ordeal
to me at that point, though by the end of my day when I am ex-
hausted and getting into bed it sounds ever more doomful and
tragic, which is almost the opposite of how you would to expect
it to be—like you’re worn out from a long day and just want to be
done with it. It’s more complex than simply wishing to not die...
to not be alive... I am always trying to put myself in the moment
of death, imagining it with all the vividness that I can muster so
that it is not as vague in my mind as simply ‘wishing to die’. It’s
“Could I actually off myself in this moment?” and all that that
entails. Could I burn up or bleed out or whatever...? I also no-
tice that even in my worst health scenarios... my survival instinct
is actually kicking in... but when feelings of trauma and betrayal
come for me and I end up in a vortex of dark thoughts having to
do with my family and those who betrayed me, my survival in-
stinct drops to zero so quickly... and it’s crazy... it’s crazy to me
that that can do it to me faster and make me want to leave this
world more than lying on the floor suffocating and writhing for
days in silence and aloneness with no help and no hope. I keep
these things in mind, or I write them down, knowing I may soon
have to break down my survival instinct.
Oh, the walks that I used to take between 2004 and 2006! I’ve
spoken previously about how I used to go for midnight walks. At
the time I lived on Londonberry, which is in Forest, Virginia. It’s
a nice little neighborhood—probably outside of our price range
if not for the fact that we were renting our house from overseas
missionaries (which is also the reason why we moved out when
we did, since they were returning). I would leave my house at

night and walk to the end of the street, where going left would
take me to the gas station at which I bought my cigarettes, and
going right would take me down Waterlick toward Jefferson and
I would typically walk until I came to the soccer fields, or I might
go further. I am absolutely horrible when it comes to recalling
street names or just directions in general, so I don’t know what
this area was called, but it was a really nice area. I had to pass
through a very long expanse of empty fields to get there... fields
with no trees and sparse housing. And then at the end of it there
is this super nice forested area that’s a bit more well-to-do, and I
had some youth group friends that lived in that region so I would
sometimes walk out that way. It would take me well over an hour,
maybe two hours, to arrive. I would do so without a phone or a
watch or anything apart from my trusty iPod. That was normal
back then. Going down Jefferson would also bring me to Alex’s
house, and I was often walking to his house back in 2004-2005.
I don’t know if I ever acknowledged this previously within my

texts, but I am unable to grow a beard. I can’t even grown side-
burns. As a child and adolescent I very much desired sideburns
and always intended to grow them large, like mutton chops, but
it simply isn’t possible with my genetics. The chin hair and mus-
tache is pretty much the scope of what I can grow in full. I’m
just not a hairy individual. I have almost no chest hair—only a
tiny bit on my upper chest which I shave periodically. I don’t re-
ally have any hair beneath my belly button either (despite the
cover of The Room of Burglaryable Spirit depicting otherwise).
In my teenage years I actually used mascara on my light hairs to
provide the effect of sideburns, as well as smearing a little bit of
dark make-up on the skin to increase the illusion of thickness. I
did the same with my mustache during my teenage years as well.

That’s what you’re seeing in early photographs, like from 2007,
where I appear to have sideburns. I would be a lot more disap-
pointed by this fact if my life wasn’t so hectic and abysmal as
to make such things seem trivial. Also, I think that the fact that
I have very little if no body odor relative to others is a suitable
trade off (I’m not saying that the two are connected, but that I
do have things about myself and my body that others might en-
vy). I have always been pretty confident in my overall appear-
ance and proportions, although some aspects of my person, be it
my features or my style, are so complicated that I was never real-
ly allowed to experience that confidence. It’s a difficult concept
to describe. I like the way that I look, believing my appearance
suits me well, though my hair and my features seem somewhat
more complex than those of my peers, or some of them, to where
I was always having to worry if my hair still looked right or if
my make-up was smudging and other high maintenance behav-
iors that prevented me from really feeling totally secure in my-
self. Like some people can just take a photograph with someone
and be confident that it will turn out alright, but I seem to look
vastly different at every angle, and it would create in me this sort
of anxiety. I don’t think I felt overtly anxious, but I wasn’t as re-
laxed as a lot of my peers and it hardly occurred to me that others
weren’t experiencing these same frustrations as I. In sum, I like
the way that I look, but it always felt so complicated to maintain
my desired appearance and so my confidence in my general ap-
pearance was often done away with by a lack of confidence in my
presentation, if that sounds sensible to you, haha. Fortunately I
don’t have to think of such things in isolation. This information
isn’t important. I’m just reflecting on different aspects of my life.
Others are always seeming eager to find a chink in my armor or

hoping to find that I’m a phony, as in not what I purport to be,
be it morally, intellectually or otherwise. It’s so bizarre to me. Of
course you have to understand that when I say “people” I am re-
ally referring to only a couple of individuals who I have encoun-
tered along the way, but it’s like I have awoken to the greed and
fear of mankind and I can smell this bitterness on the breath of
all men. Until my late twenties I never really had any experience
with those who couldn’t stand to see others being successful and
wanted to degrade them, or I failed to notice such attitudes in
my naïveté, yet now I can’t unsee it. I remember once comment-
ing about being picky with my purchase of certain used (pre-
owned) multimedia items and getting them for free after com-
plaining about their condition, and to me it was amusing, and
someone responded with “Oh, I always wondered how you made
your money,” and that was just a very upsetting and insulting re-
sponse to me, as if to imply that I had made my money by less-
than-honorable means. I made money as a result of my business
strategies which involved copious amounts of time, research, ob-
servation and timing. Yet people are so quick to say “Oh, now
it all makes sense,” after catching wind of some act or tendency
which could be perceived or stretched into dubious dimensions.
The chest pain; the smell of smoke; the abdominal swelling

which creates for severe breathing difficulties that have taken me
to the threshold of fainting in hundreds of instances; the tight-
ness in my gums and palate that is becoming worse in time and
driving me to madness. I’m tired. I’m so tired. It’s like a flu that
never ends. The malaise is constant and unbearable. When you’re
a child and you hear others discussing death, or cancer, or some
such terminal illness, this is precisely what you would imagine.
It feels like what one imagines of dying. It feels like I am being

feasted upon by a hundred thousand tiny mosquitos all wanting
a sip. The tiredness is inexplicable. I continually refer back to it,
but I just can’t deal with it. It’s so strange and intense, like I’m
sinking into quicksand. And I sink in utter silence, aware that the
world won’t listen to a single word that I say.
It is utterly astounding the different results you will yield when

looking for a community geared around intelligence versus emo-
tional intelligence. The latter is what any sensible individual
should be seeking with their time. If you’re like me and spend
your days wondering why you could never manage to find any
substance in the world, it’s the latter that you’re really looking
for. I tried all my days to find a community of likeminded indi-
viduals. Mystical communities couldn’t cut the fluff. Music com-
munities provided nothing substantial beyond elitism and self-
promotion. Intellectual and philosophical communities felt like
masturbation and people who, rather than seeking the truth,
were only interested in building philosophical walls and justifi-
cations for their own natural instincts. Only when seeking out
communities with a focus on honest self-awareness and emo-
tional intelligence did I notice any semblance of something with
which I could relate. It’s too late at this point for me to attempt
to actually join any sort of community, but I am glad that there
exists others actively seeking to increase their emotional intelli-
gence and become self-aware. It sounds so simple and uninterest-
ing, but it is perhaps the most important thing you can ever do.
Please, please, please, do not neglect the development of emo-
tional intelligence in your life. It can be hard to sell since, after
all, it doesn’t go on a resume and it isn’t qualifiable by any avail-
able means and there honestly isn’t any incentive to develop it in
this world in which it seems that the ignorant and the sociopath-
ic rule... therefore it isn’t something that you hear people talk-
ing up. But it is so, so necessary to experiencing a full and satis-
fying relationship with one’s existence. And don’t be a fool that
confuses emotionality for emotional intelligence and empathy.
I’ve already had enough negative comments to make about all
that. I don’t believe that anyone is naturally emotionally intelli-
gent or empathetic. This may be argued, but I don’t see why it
should be seen as any different from the accepted idea that no
one is inherently wise. The element of experience is indispensable
to such characteristics, and when I speak of experience I do not
speak of experience alone, as experience in itself achieves noth-
ing, being no more than an opportunity, and it is the actions that
we take in response to that experience that determine the out-
come. Wisdom and empathy are byproducts of experience, ap-
plication and intention, forming the applied versions of intelli-
gence and emotional intelligence respectively. To think that you
are naturally empathetic on the basis that you cry when others
cry is utterly naïve and speaks to nothing but a lack of self-oth-
ers distinction. What is the best way to develop emotional intel-
ligence? Man, that’s a difficult question to answer, even for me. It
is natural to think that suffering is a leading aid, but even I, my-
self, went for many years angry and bitter and intent on causing
harm and destruction. It was a slow growth rather than rapid...
happening over many years, and so I can’t even pinpoint when it
started or how. Through constant analysis of myself, and through
honesty and openness unto myself, I somehow found my way.
Though I wasn’t always as I am now. It took a lot of dedicated
effort and introspection. Even in my musical discography mu-
sic you can hear frequent overtones of “When I get out of this
cell I’m going to destroy the world for what it did to me,” so to
speak. It seems strange to even reflect back on that at this point,
but I’ve changed enormously in such a relatively short window

of time—unrecognizably so.
Having focused so much on the loss of my voice, it may not be

readily evident to all that I stopped playing my instruments and
other artistic activities (and when). To clarify: after losing my
voice, I only continued to play my instruments for a few weeks
before going on a hiatus which lasted until late 2014, as I simply
didn’t feel like I was able to play my instruments without being
overcome by the temptation to sing, and it was just too painful
for me (as well as feeling meaningless without vocals). When I
started with my Dean glove I was hopeful that enough time had
passed and I could ease myself back into music. I took part in
a few improvisational sessions at the start of 2015, although I
failed to pace myself and my stupidity resulted in injury and I
was forced to stop yet again after suffering a severe relapse of
my throat condition, and I only picked up my instruments once
thereafter to record a couple Specularii demos. Around that time
my nerve and hand-related injury started up and I became un-
able to play any instrument without it causing my throat to con-
strict. I haven’t been able to play anything since—neither guitar,
nor keys, nor drums, nor anything whatsoever. I ended up hav-
ing to sell my six-string fretless Ibanez bass, which was very sad
for me since I felt like I had acquired my ‘holy grail instrument’.
As for visual artwork, I continued creating art, mostly digital,
for about a year following the end of my musical career, which
mostly involved putting together websites or touching up old
artwork. I think my last canvas painting was done in 2012, al-
though I mostly stopped painting in late 2010 in favor of digi-
tal art. I tinkered about for years in Photoshop, since I was al-
ways making websites and having to design graphics and differ-
ent interfaces, so even if it wasn’t explicitly artistic I was still do-

ing designs on a weekly, if not daily basis. That all came to an end
around March/April 2017 when the abovementioned issue (in-
volving the tightening of my throat when using my hands) pro-
gressed, limiting the use of my hands all the more. I still find ways
to get my designs done, which is now done via phone and usual-
ly by use of crafty expedients or means that otherwise lessen the
stress on my neck—which might involve spreading a simple, five
minute job out over several hours or even days, depending on my
condition—however, the idea of actually sitting down and cre-
ating art anew is basically out of the question at this point, and
I can only do the most basic touch ups and resizes in my condi-
tion. I have an app on my phone which allows me to control my
desktop via my phone, which is what I use if I am forced to take
care of a computer-related task like Photoshop or file manage-
ment. I still haven’t been able to identify why exactly I can use my
phone when I can’t use my computer, as in what are the offend-
ing movements/muscles (it’s far more complex than you might
think and I also fear that over-analyzing it will make me so self-
conscious as to limit me all the more via possible somatization/
somatic fixation).
I’ve known many who express discontent with the way that so-
ciety works, are disappointed with their life and are flirting with
outre interests like the occult, yet grow uncomfortable when it
comes to making the necessary changes or stepping out of their
comfort zone. They’re the worst to me, although that may on-
ly be because they’re the ones who are most often attracted to
me, and I to them, and the result is nothing but frustrating, since
they would appear to have the answers, yet they lack the resolve
or the courage to actually follow through with what they know
to be true, and they spend their whole lives using their discon-
solation as a way to inflate their sense of superiority or pat their
complacent selves on the back. ‘Seeking’ isn’t seen as a real valid
solution to them but treated as another distraction with which
to fill their time and make themselves feel productive. Philoso-
phy then only ends up becoming an aesthetic for them; a means
of self-consolation. I dare say that this describes the majority of
those that you will find in occult and philosophical circles. They
speak the language, they read the books, yet there is no sense for
exploration. That’s because, at its base, their interest has less to
do with liberation than pacification. They’re timid things who
want to win the jackpot without being willing to put in their bets
and risk their chips and so their life becomes one big self-con-
solatory fantasy of power and they will do no more than parrot
the words of great men and revolutionaries before them. Go look
at any philosophy video on YouTube and I can almost guarantee
that an overwhelming majority of the comments will be made up
by people simply tossing out hardly-relevant quotes by history’s
thinkers, and I grimace to imagine that their minds are so thor-
oughly fooled at this point that they even experience a sense of
reward and chemical satisfaction when this quote garners posi-
tive approval, as if their mind now believes that this quote says
anything about them whatsoever, unconsciously taking credit for
the labors of others. To them I deliver a dull and cynical “Con-
gratulations,” or, in their language, “Squawk.”
I do not mean to act as if I am beyond doing stupid things, but

it should be readily apparent to all who listen in to what I have
to say that I am well-intentioned, as well as being emotionally
intelligent, and therefore my goof ups shouldn’t be taken offen-
sively or even as a strike against my actual character, since I am
always so quick to acknowledge and apologize for any mistake

I may happen to make. And that makes it so difficult for me to
fathom how I can still end up in situations like those which oc-
curred in 2018, where people are just going off on me. I don’t
understand, since I’m such an understanding person who is will-
ing to talk things through in a calm and rational manner, along
with being willing to admit when I am in the wrong. I don’t
yell, I don’t insult, I don’t cast blame (amid conflicts), I don’t
demonize. I see it as a problem to be solved, not unlike some
math equation, and I remain fortitudinous in the vast majority
of cases. Most don’t seem at all interested in cutting down on
the amount of conflicts that are experienced in life and simply
figure that they can just go on acting as they please, ignoring all
question of right and wrong, and then when disputes or other
undesirable circumstances break out they can just write it off
by convincing themselves that this is a normal part of life. So
they expect they they can go through life failing to communicate
with themselves about how they actually think and feel and then
make it the problem of those around them, those that care, and
I am not about that. I am about making this existence not just
more livable, but more nurturing, more auspicious, to everyone
in it—myself and others both—so it saddens me that others
don’t put in that same level of consideration into how they live
their lives. It’s a complete lack of responsibility resulting from ab-
solute ignorance.
Sometimes at night, as I’m lying in bed, I would attempt to write

out one or two memories from my youth before going to sleep
so as to stave off dark and traumatized thoughts (which are often
worse when trying to sleep) and I may be adding some of them
to this document at random. So that is why childhood memories

appear sporadically within this text.
As a youth living in New Jersey, my father and I collected insect

exoskeletons and we kept our findings on a little shelf in the cel-
lar. There were lots of beetles, dragonflies and wasps, although
I don’t readily recall the specifics, unfortunately. There was also
a little strip of land in my backyard that was up against the
back of the house where there wasn’t any grass, only sand and
dirt, and all the antlion larvae would set up shop over there and
create these formidable pits and I would sit around watching
them all the time while eating onion grass out of the ground.
Those antlion pits have become such an unlikely symbol of my
childhood simply due to their presence in my day-to-day life. It
seemed like I was always over there watching them.
One of my favorite games as a kid was this PC game called Story-

book Weaver Deluxe. It came with all sorts of clip art and music
that you could edit and arrange to make a story and I was so en-
thralled by it. There were a lot of cool, educational CD-ROMS
out at that time and I played them as much or more than typical
video games as a kid.
As a child, my mother would often have my sister and I create

these long lists in which we would list out our favorite items
within a given category. It was something that she, herself, liked
to do as a child, so she made it a part of our schooling, and I feel
that I spent as much or more time writing out these lists than do-
ing actual school. We would be given a topic, such as movies or
animals, and then write out a list of our top fifty or so. I wonder
if this contributed at all to my interests and habits as an adult.
I love Countertorch and all, but seeing as it’s the only album with-
in my repertoire that has actually attracted any sort of atten-
tion in all the years I’ve been public (and by “attention” I don’t
mean anything more significant than receiving thirty listeners
over the usual zero), I have naturally grown somewhat frustrat-
ed. Notwithstanding my tendency to rank it so highly, hearing
someone else claim it to be their favorite just sounds like those
people who say their favorite Pokémon is Pikachu, and I’m over
here thinking “Okay, awesome. That’s a good one and all, but
have you actually listened to the other ones? Have you actual-
ly listened to more than eighteen tracks from my 2,500+ track
discography? Because while it may arguably be my most pol-
ished, it isn’t so utterly distinguished from the rest of my discog-
raphy to where I would expect an overwhelming majority vot-
ing for it. I hope not, anyway. I just think it would be cool to see
everyone having their own favorites and tastes all across the spec-
trum.
It’s ironic that my erstwhile parodical projects are probably the

nearest that I ever came to making ‘normal music’—normal by
the standards of society—and they were by far the easiest to cre-
ate. So if I was about ‘sounding good’ or ‘fitting in with normal,
tuneful music and established genres’ I could have quadrupled
my output, as difficult as that may be to believe, considering my
output is already quite large. All or most songs associated with
The Toreadors and Mascherari were recorded over a single hy-
peractive day or two. So it’s strange to consider that, had I gone
with a more common and established style I could have not only
made more music, but also gained more fame and... also not lost
my voice. It’s just not difficult to build upon already-established
style of music. I honestly don’t regret my path. It’s just interesting
to think about how I may have had a lot more to show for myself
if I hadn’t been so concerned with following my individual vi-
sion. I could have done anything and I chose the path that would
end up isolating and destroying me... and I did so not for any rea-
sons so masochistic, but because it liberated the silenced parts of
myself. Really, I couldn’t be happier with my output, and I think
my satisfaction with it has increased in time, especially after all of
the neuterocanonical and rejectamenta releases which really put
my body of work into perspective all the more. These types of
musings are simply inevitable in a case like mine, so please don’t
take all of the regretful comments for more than they are worth.
It doesn’t matter who you are or what you created: when you suf-
fer such a significant setback as I did with the loss of my voice
(and the subsequent failure on my part to achieve any recogni-
tion for what I had created) you can not possibly go without
imagining all of the alternative scenarios that might have been
possible.
Integrity, for me, isn’t just about being some unrealistic buffoon
and holding on to impracticable ideals or values. Integrity, as a
concept, has both a defensive and offensive element, as should
any stance. And ‘offense’ is not just about saying “Fuck you, I’m
right and you’re wrong.” It is also, or more so, about making sure
that you do absolutely everything that you can within your pow-
er to ensure the health of that which you value. For example, I
care deeply about my creations. Integrity, in my case, means that
I’m going to fight for their longevity over fighting for my own
whims. It’s about finding the exact spot where you’ve done ab-
solutely all you can to ensure that something will work; and if
it doesn’t end up working, then it’s because it wasn’t meant to
go any further. People may very well end up looking at my story
and thinking “Well, he could have done more with himself,” but
I did as much as I could manage without parting with the indi-
vidual components that make my life worth living. Integrity also
refers to specific parts of the self: the parts that make you you.
The parts that make life worth living. It does not seem correct to
say “I won’t use red when I usually use green. I have integrity.” In-
tegrity is not, or shouldn’t, synonymous without basic stubborn-
ness and unwillingness to change or adapt. There’s nothing hon-
orable about that and let’s stop pretending otherwise. Integri-
ty relates to what is literally integral, as the name connotes. So
could I have made compromises that might have ensured that I
would have received more exposure and respect (and also poten-
tially lived a longer life)? I think so. It’s not like I exhausted all
known options. However, I did as much as I possibly could while
keeping alive the integral parts of myself that made this life so
worth living. And to have done any more in an effort to keep
myself alive... it wouldn’t have been worth it, as I would have
been out what so made it worthwhile. It’s a tricky thing to deter-
mine, because there are countless times in our lives where we sim-
ply don’t know what’s best for ourselves or otherwise misjudge
and grossly underestimate our ability to adapt and find new loves
and interests, so I’m not speaking of something so superficial. I
might attempt to relate it to the Volens, but that doesn’t make
it any easier to judge since there is still no objective, child-proof
method of differentiating Volens from learned behaviors.
It’s very difficult to look out and see so many people attempting
to popularize (and defensively so, I might add) the idea that it
is wrong or weak to be ‘nice’ and kind to others and that we
need to stifle our caring thoughts and behaviors. There are so
many wrong messages being put out, and it is doubly frustrat-
ing to me, not just because I believe in the importance of kind-
ness—though not to a degree that connotes fakeness or entails
‘silencing the self ’ in the process—but then you also have the
fact that it has never really netted me any positive results to have
lived in such a way, and so that causes all of this to sting even
more so. I don’t intend to change my ways in conforming to a
sick standard, however. I just want to know that there are more
people like myself who are committed to benevolent motivations
and behaviors and won’t give in to these defensive rationaliza-
tions of virtue and goodness when this is how we perpetuate
suffering and negativity in the world. We need to break the cy-
cle. We NEED to break the cycle. Defense rationalizations have
combined with the profit motive to create an outcome that is
truly apocalyptic in its implications and there must be those of
us who are willing to prioritize the stability of tomorrow over the
stopgaps of today.
I no longer identify with the solipsistic viewpoint of yesteryear,

although I still see myself on the spectrum of metaphysical ide-
alism, which simply means that I subscribe to a mental model
of the universe and existence (opposite materialism). That isn’t
to say that the physical reality before us is somehow false or il-
lusory—although some may favor that idea. Its apparent consti-
tution hardly explains our experience. Idealism only implies that
the mental precedes the physical, rather than the physical having
its own separate existence.
Idealism tends to not be taken seriously, leading to its ab-

sence among the modern scientific landscape (which is utterly
materialistic). But let’s be clear on why that is, since at no point
along the way has any scientist or philosopher been able to dis-
prove the position of an idealistic reality. It is, by its very nature,
unfalsifiable, at least by our current means (although, of course,
that has nothing to say of whether it is actually true or false).
However, due to the various perceived implications of this posi-
tion, it strikes many as being a dead-end, and justifiably so, and
for this reason it has been discarded from our consideration: not
because of any proven falsity, but because there doesn’t seem to
exist any advantage to giving it our consideration. I am hoping
that my writings on Aseitism will change all of that, not only
in generating a renewed interest in idealistic philosophies, but
in painting it as more than some dead-end lacking relevance to
our immediate existence, being it something which can be reli-
ably expanded and in a way which comes with immediate conse-
quences for all.
As I began attending events for the first time in a decade, I was

acting in strict adherence to what I believed was the rightful
course of action without paying excess consideration to the acts
and mannerisms of those around me. As I would leave an event
space I would go and make sure I said goodbye to everyone with
whom I had interacted throughout the night, and then when I
got home I would sometimes send a short “It was a pleasure to
speak with you tonight! Let me know if you ever want to get to-
gether for lunch or a show or something and we can continue
our discussions,” or something to that effect. Later on as I strug-
gled with my voice I would usually feel it necessary to apolo-
gize for the inconvenience of my presence—not to the point of
being annoying, but at least to acknowledge that it’s not ideal

and that their patience is greatly appreciated. Over time, as I re-
ceived no responses, I started to take on more and more shame,
feeling no one cared. As time went on I started leaving unan-
nounced—not in intimate settings where my presence would be
missed, but within more casual settings where perhaps it wasn’t
necessary to hunt everyone down for a goodbye, and I only did
this because I began to feel that no one really cared anyhow, and
it had me feeling awkward to care so much about saying good-
bye and thank you. That seems like a pointless example, but I’m
just interested in how my actions slowly began to shift over time
and I begin to take on these attitudes and acts which might not
seem as friendly and, in some cases, I imagine could even be seen
as offensive. I never heard of anyone taking offense at my leaving
but I know that I would feel weird when someone I was with just
suddenly left. It makes me feel like maybe they weren’t as invest-
ed as I was. Then again, others don’t seem to care about that so
much because they’re around others constantly and all sorts of
other things that come along with that level of accustomization,
as well as mask-wearing that becomes necessary when forced to
spend so much time within such unintimate settings and it sort
of keeps the world at arm's length. I still always wrote a “It was
great to see you! feel free to hit me up if you ever want to grab
lunch or something”... but 9/10 times I never got a response back
and that always made me feel shitty and even having to question
if I regret my kindness, because these were always cases where I
thought I had established a connection and suddenly I felt like
I was simply being tolerated. I’ll never understand why others
don’t think it important to at least acknowledge these courtesies.
Even just saying “ditto.” There isn’t any excuse... not in the vast
majority of cases. And it has scarred me, forcing me to form my
own conclusions; to fill in the gaps with spit and shivers. And
when it’s the other way around and people contact me at a ‘bad
time’ and I’ll have to give a reason, then I don’t hear back despite
my attempt to be kind and let them know it’s not their fault be-
cause perhaps my struggle to type in my condition. And I’ll nev-
er know what they think... does my tendency to always provide
reasoning get filed under “excuses” by them and make it sound il-
legitimate even though I was only saying that to stave off any po-
tentiality that they would take it personally or speculate?
There is a large area at issue which goes up under the right side
of my rib cage and I’ve described it as a baseball in the area of my
floating ribs which distends with straining, coughing and gas. It
feels like an extra rib. Is it hard, soft, I can’t say, ‘cause I’ve nev-
er really just pushed or palpated it... not with the roughness that
a doctor might. It doesn’t feel like a bone, though it doesn’t feel
like what people imagine of a hernia either... it’s not like oh a lit-
tle gopher popped out of a hole now let’s push him back in, ha-
hahaha. It feels like a fucking elongate plate and acts more like a
swelling than a herniation, yet it spreads. I would have suspect-
ed liver enlargement or something of that nature if it weren’t for
a total absence of symptoms related to liver and kidney prob-
lems. Always wondered how Kratom could affect those organs,
but like I said, I don’t really have any symptoms of liver or kid-
ney failure, to my knowledge. Also, it’s not like this mass just ap-
peared gradually over time, being a pretty direct consequence of
my 2013 injury, which I’ve described as a rapid twisting of the
torso. What scares me mostly is its effect on my diaphragm and
surrounding organs.
I never once asked (or expected) others to rearrange their lives or

bend over backwards for me, yet it’s amazing how quickly every
one of them switched into “fuck you” survival mode as soon as
something wasn’t going their way to where they can so easily
dismiss everyone in their lives and convince themselves that it’s
every man for themselves. I know better than believe that every-
one is this way. I’ve simply been incredibly unlucky in my general
yield and the fact that, when looking outside of family, most of
the people who are naturally attracted to my image and offering
are... well, not the most agreeable people.
Sentimental/symbolic attachment versus utilitarian attachment.

For example my father won’t miss the old as long as it can be
replaced with something that fulfills the same function, because
he is not prone to symbolic attachments. I’m the opposite. That
means I can’t just up and “replace” people, since everyone con-
tains a unique symbolic position.
My opinion never seemed to matter within my family system

and this remained the case even into adulthood. I mean this
specifically in the sense that my parents never felt the need to
consult or discuss things with me beforehand and felt that their
status meant that they could make whatever changes and do
whatever they willed and I would be force to deal with it. It
wasn’t like “Here is my side, or take; now, what’s your side?”
Rather, it was always “I’m older and whatever I say goes.” It
wasn’t only my parents and grandparents that spoke to me in
this manner. I’ve felt such condescension coming from others to
whom I was not related. My take on a given situation is of no
worth to them.
There is an anguish that comes from such a state; to feel the suf-
fering of all Essence so strongly and to be in no position and with
no allowance to do anything about it. I could embrace them only
to be pushed away. I could weep for them only to be mocked. I
don’t imagine that my estimation of my own condition and sit-
uation will ever be accepted by society at large, or at least not
its more ‘rational’ factions, being that it builds upon a whole
host of decidedly metaphysical postulates and ideas. And I still
don’t know how to explain the actual dynamics of what is oc-
curring within myself except to point toward the fact that it ap-
pears to have arisen from my present paradigmatic configuration.
If what I am saying is true, then it seems to me like such a po-
sition should come with some inherent power, except one must
consider how little influence consciousness actually has within
the population, being that most consciousness is... well, ‘uncon-
scious’, and the majority of the thoughts within our minds are
being written off or entirely missed on a minutely basis. This out-
come has left me feeling not powerful, but intensely weak. It’s
difficult to say aloud, since I really want to talk it up and paint
it to be some classic victory in the way that people would un-
derstand; and it is a victory indeed, but I can’t imagine that the
world will readily grasp its many shades and nuances.
I think people assume that, because of my hermetic nature, I

must be a very solemn and quiet individual, but I am like a tor-
nado that spins in place—or, if you are familiar with the sight of
a hummingbird as it hovers and zips. Oh, it’s been a while since
I’ve seen a hummingbird at this point, but there was a humming-
bird, or possibly several, which used to approach me on a fair-
ly regular basis back when I would sit outside on my porch, and
it would always get me giddy and feeling the need to tell some-
body.
Everything that I do in terms of how I reveal my life to others

is done to get people to look at their lives differently. In a way
it is my way of concretizing and organizing the abstract so that
it remains in focus. And that’s a huge issue... I’d say one of the
biggest reasons why people fail at their so-called aims and spir-
itual and inner pursuits is because it’s too abstract to cling into.
And through my “legacy vaults” what I’m really showing you is
how I’ve tied the abstract to physical objects and methods and
brought my abstract mind into a physical domain where it may
be organized and worked with. Do not underestimate the worth
of doing so. The physical world has been turned into my mind,
so I’m never really out of my head... the world is also my head. It’s
difficult to explain.
I always feel like my work is extremely human and relatable. so

it’s deeply painful when the world looks right through me with a
look which seems to be saying “what’s the point” and can’t even
pretend to grasp how this might all be applicable to life. It is
deeply, deeply painful and that pain courses through me in every
damn second of every damn day. I want to cry, as if I have failed,
or as if I was off in my estimation, but an even more difficult
thought to confront is the fact that this is simply a reflection of
how far our species has fallen from awareness and understanding
of its needs. Maybe that comes across as self-aggrandizing, and I
surely don’t like that it may seem as if I am holding myself up as
some symbol and ultimately truth and purity, where anyone who
rejects my efforts is rejecting not a fallible individual as I am, but
truth and purity and concepts. This is surely not what I mean to
imply, although I don’t doubt that some might accuse me of this.
The thing that you must understand about all of these emotion-
ally-charged analyses is that they are fueled not by pomposity but
by a desperation to grasp the dynamics of my circumstances and
put my weeping heart at ease. So many of the conclusions that I
reach to in my desperation belong in the rubbish bin, and their
being written out in this diary does not change that fact. I just
want it all to make sense, and a lack of direct communication on
the part of those who have hurt me has left me grasping at any-
thing at all. In that regard, The Dissolving Path should not be
seen as an accurate representation of my sensible. That was nev-
er its purpose. Its purpose, rather, is to serve as an accurate rep-
resentation of my emotionality and the traumatized fixations by
which it has been so clearly influenced, for therein one glimpses
the unkillable colossus that is the Volens (and yes, I derive little
bits of pleasure from leaving inconspicuous references to my mu-
sic within my writings).
It’s been a very long time since I’ve told a lie. That’s cool and
all, though I was just pondering it, and I think what’s especially
cool is that I have no reason to at this point. After all, lying isn’t
some random occurrence which occurs in connection with any
old event or thing. Certain situations encourage dishonesty, and
I guess I don’t feel that there is anything going on around me
which should ever require me to lie. Others might argue that
point, especially when I am so vocal in my various struggles and
how they affect me, but I don’t think of it in that way. Maybe
that’s because I don’t believe that being dishonest would benefit
me in any way in getting myself out of these very particular sit-
uations in which I’ve landed myself, which depend by and large

upon something true.
That which we opt to regard as knowledge is, for the most part,
simply our accumulated understanding. Gnosis is knowledge on
the scale of the greater paradigm: it is the objective understand-
ing known to Existence itself. I do believe that my theories of
Gnosis and Agnosis are fully compatible with working scientific
hypotheses such as the Big Bang, cosmological inflation and sim-
ilar ideas in which the known universe expanded was said to
expand in an instant. I am neither for nor against the main-
stream scientific view of the origins of our universe, especially
since our science is contingent upon the lesser, dispositive para-
digms, which relate to the greater paradigms through the myr-
iachoron (which is to say that our reality should not be taken
literally but as an immanent analogue of a more objective reali-
ty); though while the understanding of modern science remains
incomplete, I see no existing contradictions among the available
information (or the available information whereof I am famil-
iar). I could also see the tie-ins between the likes of Agnosis and
Dark Matter: that which pervades our world but evades our sens-
es as it has yet to be acknowledged on a greater scale. It sounds
like such a sensational comparison, though I would urge you to
keep it in mind over time as we grow in our scientific under-
standing of these concepts.
I really appreciate the sense that we (Essence) are working to-

gether with Existence toward a mutual aim, in a way—a far cry
from the narrative which posits the existence of some great om-
nipotent God who opts to force us through rat mazes while he
stands by and watches. Not only does such a God appear to

do nothing while watching, but it would appear that the maze
serves no actual purpose. However, Existence and Essence are
running the self-same races and fighting the self-same battles, be-
ing that we are not actually set apart from Existence but existing
like outgrowths of its very races and battles.
I would consider myself to be an insightful individual, though

I wouldn’t say that my knowledge is particularly extraordinary.
Give me a puzzle and I’ll crack it with relative ease and haste,
though I may not be able to tell you how I did it. I just think
that I really shine when it comes to dissecting, patterning and ex-
trapolating. I definitely wonder about the fact that I am working
with much insight and little knowledge and I often consider all
of the ways in which I may be limiting myself. Would my ideas
change, as in improve, if I was introduced to more information?
I can’t answer that, and I don’t believe it is so clear cut. At the
same time it is my personal conviction that the relevant infor-
mation is available unto all and at all times and I do not want
to go against that simply because the world tells me that books
are necessary for understanding... books which merely contain
other men’s thoughts (despite being handled as law in many cas-
es). Any thought or theory previously posited by others is equal-
ly accessible to my mind, barring absent catalysts, and .... Again,
I am not a proponent of fideism. I simply hold that the attitude
which we take toward our experiences and information is over-
all more crucial to the outcome of our understanding than any-
thing which we may consume. After all, how did we ever manage
to build our libraries in the first place if without the curious em-
piricism of scriptless children.
Then there is the Immunomodel. I don’t like to mix analogies,

though perhaps it is not so farfetched to mix analogies of the
mind with analogies of the body. There is a lot to explore if one
wishes to consider this theory, and I admittedly haven’t suffi-
ciently explored it in my writings despite how greatly it fascinates
me just because I only really started considering it toward the
end of my writing process and I’m too tired to really write more.
I am no scientist, but I do feel this to be a pretty convincing ar-
gument for my theories on Volens which are, themselves, theo-
ries on purpose, or inherent individual function. I just don’t un-
derstand how someone can observe biological processes and see
all such intricacies and then also claim that the same is not like-
ly to occur on a larger scale, i.e., ‘the universe as a body’. Also,
one should really consider what I previously said regarding how
it should not be seen as far-fetched to mix analogies of mind
and body. The two are, in many observable ways, a mirror, and it
wouldn’t surprise me to find that they mirror one another in all
viable ways.
*This society is not geared toward raising us to be better humans,

but better laborers. The education system and the workforce do
not exist to foster the emotional intelligence or self-awareness
of its people. It does not care about our mental and spiritual
health. Humanity isn’t doomed by nature to fail. Nothing needs
to be neglected. If the workers are happy and healthy, the system
thrives. And as it currently stands, our systems are not even
working for us. They are barely, and I mean barely, sustaining us,
and all that even means is that our inevitable collapse hasn’t hap-
pened yet (by some utter miracle, even though the horizon is
clearly growing dim and the seas are, quite literally, rising). Our
world would change if we would only prioritize emotional intel-
ligence. I’m not talking a hippy dippy love fest, love your neigh-
bor... lick your leader. This conception of love is a poor surrogate
for what can be achieved with basic understanding and respect.
I cannot even imagine the sorts of relationships and systems that
would be possible in a world in which all individuals had a basic
degree of emotional intelligence.
I try to be supportive and kind but all I ever end up feeling is in-
trusive. Every interaction only feels like an intrusion on my part.
Every door that I open leaves me feeling like I am committing
a crime, entering into a place where I am not allowed. I tried so
hard to make a good impression and have a positive effect on
people, but it simply didn’t work out for me in this life.
It is truly paradoxical, since our society, our humanity, is in a

place where it wants everything pitched and fed to us all at once
and rapidly so or else it loses all interest and moves on to the next
item on the conveyor belt, though the more meaningful aspects
of this life cannot be received in such a way and require a bit of
nurturing; yet we go on to declare an absence of meaning in life,
while it is our own habits and inabilities which effectively act as
a filter, preventing meaning from entering into our activities, our
thoughts, our days.
The idea that everything is meaningful, though not necessarily

intentful, presents us with somewhat of a unique framework
which differs from anything we’ve seen before (as far as I am
aware), whereas many faiths and philosophies see the two dis-
parate concepts as interlinked and therefore you either have a
universe in which there is no intention and no inherent mean-

ing, or you have the opposite.
[Referring to the fact that much of what we attribute to religion in

the modern day is believed to have developed out of Existence’s own
inability to ‘make sense’ of its needs and how they are to be fulfilled,
which is miscommunicated as the idea that there must be some-
thing greater that can satisfy what it cannot. I’m not sure that this
is the best or most accurate description since it’s such a difficult con-
cept to describe] It will seem odd to attribute such traits to Exis-
tence, even metaphorically, yet that’s all due to what we are used
to and as we consider these things in all their implications it will
surely reveal itself as the more sensible explanation in compari-
son to anything else cooked up heretofore. It is much stranger to
say that the human species just developed its traits such as confi-
dence and need and similar out of nowhere, either because ‘God
wanted us to become weak and reliant’, or other related so-called
theories. From where did confidence, power and need develop
and why were they necessary, as opposed to us continuing to ex-
ist in a world wherein they were absent? More importantly than
asking how, we must ask why; and not just “why, as in to suit
what purpose” but in a different, more religious system, or even
within a more intentful system, why couldn’t the need have been
done away with altogether rather than having to find a solution?
With that being said, I am quite confident in my conclusions.
There are just so many discussions I wish I could have with peo-
ple on the topic of the music and analyses that just won’t come
about since I’ve yet to meet anyone that really cares to hear what
I have to say on the matter—speaking of analyses of the individ-
ual phases of my project and what defined them and made them
distinct in style and tone, or the way in which I evolved and how
it is evident in my music and what it says, or the strange way in
which the tone of the music went from neurological to cosmic
over the span of only a year or two. I feel like that is sort of how
my life and story on the whole will appear. It starts off and it ap-
pears like I’m some psychotic individual... yet at some point the
tone shifts and it becomes clear that I’m something altogether
distinct... though it may take a more trained eye and a commit-
ted listen to spot that I am a mystic, since most don’t differen-
tiate between strangeness and only divide the world by normal
and weird or comfortable and uncomfortable. Though because
of my lack of status it was seemingly inappropriate for me to dis-
cuss and share these things anywhere outside of my own private
journals, like one who opens up a street team or fan club while
having only dozens of followers: people would think it inappro-
priately egoistic, basing it not off of my actual content and mer-
it but my audience and reception. Altogether I just really want-
ed to analyze and discuss these things with others and I’m sad to
not be given that chance.
The masses look at me and I feel I must apologize for my silli-

ness, my suffering, my excitability, my creativity, my intelligence,
my ignorance—all of it. They make me feel like I must apologize
for and seek to curb all of it. This has led to my defensive nature
which manifests through excess analysis as opposed to the more
common snappiness, since I never felt like I was actually allowed
to be “snappy” and defend myself in the standard fashion with-
out increasing the scope of my loss. It’s as I’ve said before, I might
have been able to survive alone in the absence of help, but it is
not possible that I could survive, in my state, with such antago-
nism. It might have been different if I was a pretty girl or some

such but no one holds out their arms for someone like me so
readily, and it sounds silly for it to be based on such superficial
terms, but it’s the truth. I’ve not lost my creativity and it has con-
tinued to grow in time with my ability, but the joy of creating
has been mostly lost, or it has been weighed down by the reality
in which I now must live. And because I am not willing to com-
promise my vision then I must experience this sickening sensa-
tion as I work. The joy of being honest and open and vulnerable
has been lost, turning to paranoia. The joy of strength, tenacity
and endurance has also been lost. Where I once felt like a hero to
push myself and survive my suffering, creating a stronger story,
I now feel just the opposite. It doesn’t make me appear stronger
or more credible, but weaker and less credible, as it is more likely
they will begin to doubt my claims as to the severity of my cir-
cumstances than to believe that I am as strong as I have shown
through my acts.
I never really know where the line is to be drawn between per-

former and audience. When receiving messages from listeners I
try to speak to them as a friend and I go out of my way to re-
move any sense of hierarchy—not that there is any hierarchy to
begin with, but because I know that when I’ve reached out to
artists that I respect in the past there is inevitably this sense that I
am a beggar taking up the precious time of royalty, if that makes
sense, and that even if they respond kindly to me they don’t actu-
ally care and are just being nice for the sake of being nice. There-
fore I always tried to say and do little things, if inconspicuous-
ly, that would make others feel more at ease or welcome in my
company, leaving no doubt as to my interest in what they have
to say. Nothing that would risk coming on ‘too strong’. I’m just
always considering my psychological knowledge and what puts

me at ease, putting myself in others shoes, as well as NLP-type
stuff. So I would do little things like I would try not to just make
the conversation about me and I would try to ask about them
and give them a platform to share, but I always felt creepy when
I did so, even though I didn’t actually do anything wrong. It was
a sincere effort to be considerate, but ultimately I am left feeling
like this isn’t effective... not that I didn’t succeed in what I was at-
tempting; but maybe people didn’t want this? Maybe that’s not
what people wanted me to be... some considerate and approach-
able human. Maybe they wanted me to be some aloof guy who
speaks in riddles. I don’t know. It was a disappointing and lonely
experience over all. No community to be had. I just feel like a cir-
cus act. Maybe this ain’t representative of the industry as a whole.
It’s just the fate of an outsider; and even when there are others
out there like myself, outsiders don’t really gather together.
It is very often our defenses which are prolonging our mental/

spiritual illness and I have refused to don the defenses of the
common man, willing that I should be whole in myself. These
defenses which are made to protect us do so much harm, ironi-
cally. Unfortunately, with the way the world is, by foregoing my
defenses I sentenced myself to continued abuse and by the time I
healed from past traumata I had picked up more.
I notice that when I become upset or frustrated I tend to grow

more calm and rational overall, which seems to be the opposite
of how it works for most people. I wouldn’t equate it to maturity
as a rule. For some, conflict brings on survival mode, while for
others it brings out problem solving mode. I never thought
about it until I noticed such traits in my partner, to which she

responded saying that the same could be said of me. It makes
confrontations extremely easy. Disagreements generally do not
feel threatening and I do not dread them. I take pride in that
fact, since most people wouldn’t appear to operate in this fash-
ion. They quickly lose sight of what’s important to them, or what
they’re doing, and allow themselves to burst. I often compared
them to etch-a-sketches because whatever image or self they were
building would vanish as soon as they began to tremble (becom-
ing nervous, agitated, furious). What a waste that we will undo
all that we are and all that we claim to believe in and strive for in
a single moment of frustration.
The powers that be may deny it, but where security and fear
constitute our highest, most visceral instinct and crisis, “God”
becomes the controller, and those who speak for God end up
speaking for us all. Is it any wonder, then, that religion has been
worn like a mask on the face of the power-hungry for so long.
I’ve been given very little insight into what the public is taking
away from my expositions and artistic works, and I am very dis-
heartened by the little that I have seen which is demonstrative
of a lack of attentiveness to my offering and the intention with
which it was created.
Agnosis is not an absence of Existence but an absence of under-

standing. Often we fail to recognize the existence of something
unless we have a name or some other concrete attribution (a phe-
nomenon that I have ever regarded as the ‘innominate void’)
with which it may be anchored to our material understanding.

Most individuals go through their daily lives not conscious of the
fact that they can see their nose right in front of them. They gaze
right past it. Yet if I were to draw attention to it and even give it
a name, it will increase the level of attention that it is given. It’s
not a solid example, but it does ultimately trace back to the fact
that concepts of creation and awareness, or realization and real-
ization, are the same as far as it concerns us with our established
definitions and understanding (although I am not attempting to
speak on the objective scale).
It’s like when you say your goodbyes and then stick around with-
out leaving, if even for a little while. They perceive you as a liar,
and I feel that shame every day of my life. It is unfair to me that
I should be made to feel that way. If it isn’t already difficult to
continue this fight against my deteriorating, dehumanizing con-
dition, I must constantly feel that by continuing to fight I am on-
ly damaging my credibility, my story, further, by not dying, hav-
ing declared my condition so openly and for so long.
I analyze everything to death partly to avoid falling into un-

healthy, irrational and conspiratorial ways of thinking, although
I am often getting caught in these analytical vortices which don’t
amount to any real conclusions and solutions and... well, who
can really know if I am better for it...
I wish that I could go back in time and confront Patrick and cut
through all of the bullshit and say “Let’s just stop taking from
one another. Let’s stop all of the inconsideration and let’s use our
friendship as a safe and supportive place from the troubles of

our life and actually look out for one another rather than treat-
ing each other’s problems as personal attacks or as matters be-
yond our expertise. We’re all human, and we all have the capac-
ity for more.” It’s so weird how these sorts of things were never
said and just never came up. It's generally not how relationships
work... sad as it seems. When things are going well and every-
one is getting along you just coast and use the relationship as a
crutch. When things become uncomfortable you ditch it or yell
at it and abandon it. So few of the friendships in existence are ac-
tual friendships and will disband with the second huff, if not the
first. There’s no emotional intelligence, and where there are no
efforts to understand and empathize there can be no love—on-
ly animal impulses and responses. As much anger as I have ex-
pressed over Patrick in time... man, there is so much hurt under-
neath all of that. We were once so close, and it hurts me to think
what we could have been and where we could have gone if on-
ly we had that extra little bit of guidance and maturity. We both
came from unhealthy places, and it was just such a bad point in
time, what with his parents divorcing and then with drugs be-
ing brought into the picture. He had his issues, as I had mine,
but he definitely wasn’t some demon beyond all helping. Not
at all. The most basic—stable—network of support could have
changed everything. That is often all it takes.
I lay in bed at night thinking of all these ridiculous memories;

all these things that are horrible in retrospect but once seemed
normal, acceptable. For instance, I recall this one time when I
was getting ready to visit the doctor and my mother told me that
when giving a urine sample to say “Have fun!” That was just her
sense of humor, and she was very inappropriate like that, but it
was amusing to me and I told her I would do it, thinking it hilar-

ious. And, I mean, it does sound funny in your head, but in ret-
rospect I’m sitting here wishing I hadn’t actually told the woman
receptionist to ‘have fun’. So fucking inappropriate. Like what
the hell, Tendon, hahahahah. I wasn’t always able to put myself
in others’ shoes, so to speak, and so I probably did my share of
things that were otherwise strange or inconsiderate outright just
to amuse myself and the people I was with (if not simply due
to my awkwardness). I don’t refer to anything extreme or tru-
ly regretful, though I still get bothered to think of any instance
in which I may have made people feel foolish or uncomfortable.
It’s so important to me that people around me don’t feel disre-
spected or unappreciated, especially when they put in effort. I
just don’t want to be the guy to leave them feeling like less, or to
leave them regretting that they ever trusted me. I remember be-
ing at some game when I was sixteen and some girl approached
me nervously to tell me she found me attractive, and I was only
a dopey teen at the time and I was with my friend Matt, and we
were just constantly being silly, and I responded by saying “Oh,
I’m gay!” Because at that time everybody suspected I was homo-
sexual and it became sort of an ongoing joke with which I went
along (not that it’s funny in and of itself... people were always just
speculating about my orientation). And I remember him correct-
ing me, saying “No, he’s not gay, he has a girlfriend.” We were
simply amusing ourselves, though I just look back at those types
of situations thinking damn that was so disrespectful to behave
in such a manner to that girl and her attempts to express her feel-
ings. And even though it wasn’t some major offense, it’s that kind
of insensitivity that makes me happy that I had my ass kicked so
hard early on and developed my empathetic capabilities. My on-
ly wish is that I got to actually make use of them... as in, I wish
I actually got to see my empathy amount to more than me just
weeping in my bedroom and regretting all of the things I said or

didn’t say in the past. I wish that I could actually use my new-
found maturity to really improve other people’s lives and spackle
up the holes and imperfections in this hurting world.
I keep feeling the pressure to write a ‘principal text’ on the sub-

ject of Aseitism, though I hesitate. Texts as these require one to
speak with a certain level of authority and I am simply not into
that as it conflicts with my approach, as well as the reality of my
person and the knowledge that I contain. I worry that it would
stratify my readership, as if to say that they are only hear you lis-
ten and may not contribute. Even looking past all of that, I have
my reasons for being uninterested in writing such a text. Still, it’s
bothering me a bit, since I feel like I may be passing up an op-
portunity or otherwise failing to create the most important work
of my lifetime. And it would be so, so easy to create some cryp-
tic book that would create a buzz; but I’m not looking to cre-
ate a marvel, wanting, rather, to create dialogue; something that
can be understood and built upon, rather than hiding behind ab-
struse speaking patterns in a way that contributes to some stu-
pid image that I have of myself. In my adolescence I would skim
through the occult and pagan books and I would be so intrigued
by the cryptic aspects thereof... and I wanted to do something
like that, even if I had nothing to say. And so often such books
are truly saying nothing at all, being only attempts to sound pres-
tigious and convince the population that you know or possess
something they don’t. It’s like the use of distortion and effects
within music, as it helps to cover up all the flaws in playing. In
the vast majority of cases, when when done by occultists and re-
ligists, it is pure stilting, while in all other times it can likely be
chocked up to one's inability to actually write their book in a way
that their readership will readily understand... and it’s interesting

that this is often thought of as making them to appear more in-
telligent when it is rather a mark of a deficit... sort of like the idea
that glasses make a person look intelligent. I’ve technically given
life to a spiritual philosophy/system even though that wasn’t my
intention and I am just attempting to organize my late-life rev-
elations and insights, and it’s so weird... because my younger self
would have been obsessed with the customization and personal-
ization aspects... coming up with names for concepts and com-
ing up with the symbols and acknowledgments and customs and
standard shit like so... but I am so tired, so malaised, that I just
have no interest in any of that and I’m letting it pass me up and
I’m just okay with that. It’s not the priority, and I’m especially
not seeing it as some custom creation that I get to cover in all my
glitter and stickers, even though I technically have the ability to...
but I’m still handling it like community property and with great
respect. And I suppose that when I reflect on that it just seems so
unexpected of me, because it’s like I am passing up a major cre-
ative opportunity and I simply don’t care. I’m so tired... I’m so
ill... and I’ll consider myself lucky if even the basics are preserved
in text before my inevitable death.
I was always the one to initiate conversations. In the past decade,

I can think of only one or two instances in which someone ac-
tually wrote to me first (not counting the few individuals who
wrote to me as Tendon Levey, although that didn’t normally de-
velop into long term communications).
I’m just such a work-driven person who is constantly pushing

himself to improve and create that I can’t imagine such a men-
tality. I often say that I spend x amount of hours each day work-
ing, like fourteen or so hours, and I would say that I used to
spend twelve hours each day working on my music, though the
remainder of my day, so to speak, isn’t spent relaxing. It’s spent
showering, grabbing a quick bite of food, and usually switching
temporarily to another project that is slightly less demanding.
There are no parts of my day where I actually take a break. There
are parts when I slow down because my illness and fatigue is
overpowering me or I am struggling with discouraged, but 100%
of my waking hours are consumed by my projects and mystical
practice and this has been the case for nearly half my life at this
point. It took me until late in my life to realize how much energy
your body burns to actually cogitate and it hadn’t previously oc-
curred to me that this could be responsible, if partly so, for why
I am always so tired and was previously required to nap three
times each day just to stay afloat. Of course my illness has also
contributed it’s fair share to all this fatigue.
Patrick and I had this thing where he would say “Biggity Boggity
Boo?” And I would respond “Biggity Boggity Bohgitty Bagat-
ta!” It crops up within a couple songs of mine, so I thought that
I should make it clear what that is a reference to. We were doing
this all the time, particularly in 2007, filling in all silences with
biggities and boggities.
Say that I am struggling with my ‘inner demons’ and in my in-

ability to cope I go and shoot a bunch of holes in the wall. It can
be said that those holes are ‘meaningful’ for the very basic reason
that they reflect the actions taken by myself, which is a reflection
of where my mind is at, and surely if some investigation were to
be underway then investigators would find these acts and their

evidence to be valuable for what they say of who I am and what I
was experiencing, but do those bullets serve some ultra meaning-
ful end apart from the fact that I am simply reacting to a struggle
or something else within myself ? No. It is an outcry of the ongo-
ing process or processes in which I am engaged, and though we
can find answers therein, given how all things connect, it can’t be
posited that every outburst we have along the way is some pre-
meditated and complex plan or contingency laying the way to-
ward some greater outcome. Sometimes a sick body simply con-
vulses; but we should look at those convulsions not like beggars
dependent on signs and similar, but as doctors looking to diag-
nose and ultimately heal the problem. It is in this way that I be-
lieve all things before us to be meaningful.
I find it unfortunate, since I would have liked to bring my in-

sights to the general masses and actually carry out discussions
and exchange ideas before my departure so as to make sure that
I have covered all principal aspects of my belief system and fixed
any faults along the way; however, the means by which such in-
teractions would transpire are highly limited and I feel that I
would disgrace myself to take my cherished insights to some ra-
bid internet forum merely because that seems to be the only op-
tion.
I become so frustrated feeling like I have to figure out every-
thing for myself and get everything right on my own strength
when it comes to putting these insights to paper, lest the baby
be thrown out with the bathwater and all my efforts count for
absolute naught. I can’t say that every word out of my mouth is
an accurate reflection of the insights I’ve been given. It is by no
means an easy process to sit here and not only translate these re-
alizations into words but to do so in a way that can be under-

stood by people operating under a different paradigm and also
containing varying levels of intelligence and experience. I may
not manage to do justice to my insights in all cases, or my inher-
ent tastes and biases may bleed through and paint an authentic
revelation of our reality in a way that is incidentally inaccurate or
misleading. In some instances I may just be altogether mistaken,
which is okay, since some of what I have said is purely speculative
and meant to encourage thought and conversation and explo-
ration more than it is to be taken as an undisputed fact. I haven’t
written some holy book which claims to be infallible and where
if one detail is found to be off the mark then the entire text loses
its credibility and falls apart. No. That’s not my field, that’s not
my game, that’s not what this is. This is part of the reason why
I haven’t attempted to release some official “holy book” or prin-
ciple text detailing Aseitism apart from a pretty basic and loose-
ly organized pdf file containing my various ideas and arguments.
I do not desire to speak with authority or put my worldview in
the position to seem like it must be taken whole or not at all.
And therefore my insights will be shared as they are: like insights
derived of my personal experience, and others may take it on as
they please. When someone throws a lacquer over the painting
and calls it done it cannot be added to or improved upon by oth-
ers and the communal task switches from ‘understanding life’ to
‘understanding the message of the single messenger’ and I just
don’t agree with that at all. I don’t want this to become about me
when that will only hinder the focus that is given to Existence. I
am not into creating some daffy cult of nodding noggins. Rather,
I offer up my insights to all: to the scientists, to the psychologist,
to the seekers, to the artists; like ingredients, like mediums. I set-
tled upon a similar path for my music. In my last days, I have let
go of all sense of ownership. The paradigmatic changes that have
overtaken me have really changed my heart on so many things,

for I know that my thoughts and my heart belong to everyone
that exists. It’s a strange idea that I don’t expect to be understood
by those on the lesser paradigms in which we are bound to our
subjective, dispositive views of the world.
And I am far past the point of feeling that I’ve any room or al-
lowance to actually write to them and say “Is there a problem?”
Or ask to know what’s going on and what to expect, lest I suffer
the ire of the defensively inconsiderate. Because that’s the thing:
pointing out someone’s error, as I’ve learned, is far less likely to
garner an apology than an attack and a grudge from one who
feels the need to defend their inconsiderate actions and make
you out to feel stupid and small for expecting the most basic level
of courtesy from those in whom you have placed your trust and
faith.
I wish it wasn’t so. I wish that I was with the ability to look out
at them and say “Let them believe what they will, it ain’t hurting
anyone,” but that isn’t the case. Religion—distinct from spiritu-
ality—is not a victimless crime. Like the lies, delusions and ma-
nipulation which make it up, it disrupts the fabric of our world.
I wouldn’t say that we, as Essence, hold equal say over Existence
as Existence itself, but it cannot be forgotten that our relation-
ship is comparable to a mind and its thoughts... so this isn’t just
like parent and child where one is clearly subservient... this is a
mutualistic relationship in which we are affected by all that it is
and it is affected by all that we are.
What happens when you doubt yourself, and then continue

to dwell on that doubt, and continue to catastrophize, which
takes you down dark alleys of thought in which one recalls all
of the negative memories and other ideas supporting why they
should doubt themselves, and then we begin to crumble. It seems
that the bond between Existence and Essence is not unlike this.
Existence may be “greater” and “more powerful” than Essence
in the sense that a mind is more powerful than its individual
thoughts, but at the same time it is not a typical example, and
therefore its power and greatness doesn’t actually give it any bit
more sway over Essence. We’re all in this together, truly, and it
takes from its Essence as much as we take from it, and so we can’t
rely on the fact that it is apparently grayer in scope than Essence,
because we are the reason why it is great, in a sense.
I suppose I am also self-conscious of the fact that I am attempt-

ing to approach the concept of individual purpose from such
a structured, philosophical angle and many in the philosophies
and sciences seem to reject such ideas outright (a generalization
on my part, no doubt). Every cell in our fucking bodies serves a
specific purpose and function according to our trusted science,
so why should we balk at the idea that so-called human existence
is just a free-for-all, choose your own adventure world of am-
bling? Why should we be so quick to scoff at the concept of an
inherent purpose as if it is some primitive or spiritual concept
when, in fact, it is deeply biological and therefore natural. This is
what I will never understand about the nihilists. Why is our so-
ciety not a body as much as our little skin sacks? What has con-
vinced us otherwise? For we see, when a society is in turmoil, the
people, the masses are sick, unhealthy, dying. Function and pur-
pose! Are! Not! Self-consolatory! Creations! Of ! The! Mind!
And while you sit back and think up your arguments against
such a point, I suggest you first work to answer why you are so
bent on arguing this point in the first place.
As I have noted in the past, I am highly attuned to the work-
ings of the ego and the various means with which we seek to de-
fend our egos from harsh or unwanted realities. I have studied
and considered the concept, along with logical biases and fallac-
ies, so thoroughly in my years of deliberation while attempting
to break free from my suffering in the healthiest, most sustain-
able manner. It is so ingrained in me to watch out for biases and
defense mechanisms that I naturally approach all claims with a
particularly telling opening question: “And how does that bene-
fit the believer?” It is a very powerful question, casting an imme-
diate light onto the potential ways in which its presence in our
lives could hint at an underlying defense plot, so I ask this ques-
tion constantly, even as I write out my theories and theses—espe-
cially as I write out my theories and theses. This has even caused
me to take up a bias against that which benefits our ego. My first
question, when considering a conclusion, is how does it benefit
us as a species. It may not be a sound way of determining whether
something is inherently true or false, though it can often expose
our motivation right off the bat, offering significant hints into
the nature and quality of our position.
“How does the individual benefit from such a belief ?”
If the benefit unto the individual outweighs its function un-
to the whole then I begin to question the validity and nature
of the postulate. It’s why you see me getting sheepish or embar-
rassed from time to time when I express certain ideas, because I
am well aware of how they serve me.
Even when one can accept that vile, manipulative individuals ex-
ist within our world, it is not so easily accepted that such indi-
viduals are praised, prioritized, and their existence is implicitly
encouraged by the dehumanizing ways of our society. I struggle
with it quite a lot, if you can’t tell by my writings. I struggle with
the idea that abusive behaviors are rewarded within our world
and that the people are with so little incentive, societally speak-
ing, to behave with loving kindness unto others.
Goodness and awareness are not viewed as ends in their own
right. A lot of this may come back down to our failure as a so-
ciety to really incentivize these acts, or to at least stop incen-
tivizing their opposites in greed, deception and ignorance. So
even when our parents and our teachers attempt to teach us right
from wrong, it is not for goodness in itself that we are taught
such things, but so that we can avoid harm, harming others and
fucking up our lives in such a way that fails to benefit the system.
Education concludes for the majority before we have reached
even a quarter of our full life cycle, and I keep hitting on this be-
cause it baffles me that our understanding of knowledge and ed-
ucation only reaches up to the heights established by our fucking
government institutions.
I worked as a painter on and off throughout my teenage years.

It was the only ‘normal’ job that I ever had. I was working as
an apprentice to a friend of the family, who was also the church
worship leader at the time (or he was previously). I actually en-
joyed the experience. Each day he would pick me up in a white
pick-up truck in the early morning hours. We tackled various
locations, ranging from apartments to public stores and facto-
ries, although the largest job that we had was working at a place
called Flowserve. I was working there every day for what must
have been months, just painting away. I liked the environment. It

was so unlike anything else that I had experienced as a terminal
hermit. Oh, such a large, loud factory. I’m very sensitive when
it comes to sensory stimuli and it seems to effect me differently
than a lot of my peers, so being in a place like this was a real head
trip... almost like an out-of-body experience. Yet at that age I en-
joyed it. I enjoyed that lightness. I would bring my little silver
boombox and I would get to blast my music while I was working,
which was a huge plus (especially since my boss wasn’t as privy
to which of my music was secular and which was Christian and
I derived a sick sort of amusement from forcing all of these mid-
dle-age workers to put up with my crazy space prog). When I
think of working in that factory I often think back on this little
booth that I recall seeing within the building, set up alongside
the walking path. I never knew what it was, but I was mentally
obsessed with its existence. I just had this ominous feeling when
I was around it, and it was the sort of feeling that I would get
whenever the candelabrum vision manifested in reality. It was
like a vaguely sinister deja vu. And I loved it. I loved the expe-
rience of such feelings at that age. I was already so mythopoeic
at that point. Actually, hmm, this might have even been during
my first astragon, or some of it. It would have been in that time
frame I suppose. I still think of that factory sometimes. I don’t
understand how people can labor their whole lives within such
a setting; but for someone such as I... coming from a very differ-
ent world and then stepping into a place like that, it was almost
unreal. Like a dream. It feels like a dream looking back at all of
that. Those white painters clothes... the drop cloths... the odors...
the sounds... the lunch breaks in the cafeteria. My boss suffered
a hernia at one point and had to step back from work for a little
while, which is when another guy from church came in to fill his
role... the drummer in the worship team... and this guy was fun
to work with. They were both pleasant, overall, and I enjoyed the
experience for what it was. It was with the funds from this job
that I bought my Alesis synthesizer.
Unfortunately we eventually came to a point where the job
required a lot of working in lifts... like high places... lifts that
would take you like thirty feet in the air and it would be just
this tiny platform and a crank. I was totally uncomfortable with
heights and I had to drop out and he continued without me for
a while. I searched for other jobs over the years. I submitted job
applications to all sorts of stupid places: Target, Olive Garden,
Red Lobster, The Dollar Theater, Michael’s, AC Moore. I never
got hired for anything. Slicked my hair back and put on a nice-
boy shirt for nothing. It’s so strange to think that I applied to
such places as a teenager. It makes me think about... what would
have happened if I got hired? Would I have become what I am
today? I wouldn’t have been able to isolate if I had a job at the
time. And something so simple could have meant that my life
would have turned out completely different. It’s strange to imag-
ine.
I actually got picked up by another paint contractor in late
2008. My old boss had recommended me, or so I believe. An-
other guy from church. We worked a couple jobs in late 2008, I
think it was. That’s weird. I don’t usually think of that as having
occurred in that period, but I wasn’t totally shut off from society
yet. That lasted for a month or so and somewhat sporadically un-
til my anxiety started to increase and I had to cancel on him.
Anxiety was new to me at that point and I so didn’t realize what
was coming my way. What had happened is that my level of an-
ticipation was so high, knowing that I was going to work in the
morning, that I couldn’t sleep and I stayed up all night sort of
on the fence and got super dizzy and had to cancel at the last
minute.
This is not just the granting of secret knowledge or what have

you. That doesn’t make sense in reality as it stands, since no one
is intentionally keeping anything from us (at least where it con-
cerns the constitution of reality). What it means is that I am see-
ing as Existence sees, having my perceptions bonded to those of
Existence, itself. As I’ve said before, paradigm has naught to do
with knowledge. One who graduates to the greater paradigms
does not suddenly become some geology expert capable of list-
ing every minor detail of the natural world. In some strange way,
it may be said that Essence itself is comparable to our concept
of knowledge, or a relative thereto, and this may be worth con-
sidering as a reason for Existence’s dependence on Essence. My
pool of knowledge doesn’t seem to have changed so significant-
ly, if at all, in the wake of my operation. My paradigm—or as
you might call it, my perspective, my means, my worldview—has
changed. It is like I am seeing the world through a vastly different
set of eyes, and the result is a sort of wisdom which comes from
beyond my inherent means and grants me a level of objectivity
that isn’t always explained away by my experiences on this earth.
The onset was gradual and not sudden, and even though I did
experience a notable change in the wake of my operations, one
can see all of this coming into effect over my writings since 2018,
which can be seen as the year in which my bond with Steulugal-
nemraiant (my existence, or Intension) took on a higher form.
The most obvious outward indicator of this process is the way in
which objectivity and subjectivity have been dissolving over time
and fueling extreme conflicts and despondency in me (as well as
other symptoms, such as solipsism, which I would now regard as
a side effect of this integrative process, whereas I do not actually
consider solipsism to be valid on an existential level—not in ac-
cordance with what I have learned). I have considered writing a
short story or text based on this new paradigm—a greater para-

digm which draws its perspective through Meaning rather than
Representation, or from Existence rather than through the Vo-
lentia of Essence. I wish to say that it is a prize, a victory, but I am
neutral on the matter of what has become of my perspective.
There is a tremendous amount of suffering which comes from

viewing all things around me. The world in which we live is al-
ready so difficult to bear for anyone with a sufficient degree of
empathy and sympathy, what with human greed and ignorance
fueling endless abuse, cruelty, dishonesty and the like. Some
learn to accept such a reality over time, whereas acceptance really
only refers to a form of desensitization. As for myself, I am far
from being desensitized to the darkness of life. These things are
coming as a constant shock to my system and I am finding it in-
creasingly difficult to handle. It is as if all that I have been feel-
ing over the past several years has been magnified tenfold and I
can’t so much as catch a glimpse of social media or the daily news
without feeling completely overwhelmed by what has become of
our species. We’ve truly lost our way—or rather, we’ve given up
on finding it, opting to convince ourselves, instead, that we’ve
already experienced all there is to experience, and it is through
that that conclusion that we find it in ourselves to become ni-
hilistic, since nihilism is only possible where curiosity is absent,
and therefore it is only once we have managed to tell ourselves
that there are no questions left to be answered and nothing left
to hope for that we see fit to slump over.
These claims are worth keeping in mind as you read through
some of my late-life rants which, while regularly developing from
my own personal experiences and the ensuing frustrations, do
often move beyond rants regarding how an event or action has
affected me, personally, and I begin to tackle it on a level that

seems ultimately beyond me. In these cases it should be easy to
see the effects of my paradigm or multi-paradigm at work.
It’s difficult for me to predict how the masses will respond to
my claims and what they entail, and a lack of audience during my
lifetime leaves me with naught more than pessimistic assump-
tions regarding how I will be viewed posthumously. It will be
very easy to frame my every claim as some colorful and self-con-
soling delusion by those who wish to write off whatever is novel,
conflating what is ‘unheard of ’ with all that is ‘impossible’. And
then you have those who will relate my revelations to the trau-
ma and dissatisfaction with which I so vocally contend; but I tell
you, and so do I urge you to consider that the evidence is before
us all in the form of visible and well-documented patterns which
have repeated throughout history, and once you open your mind
and your eyes to the existence of such processes and their influ-
ence on us, as individuals, you will begin to see signs of a war that
has been raging on all along in our midst as we saunter about in
our ignorance. We wonder why we fall ill and die, not willing to
acknowledge the monster which howls in loudest silence.
We practice a very specific type of meditation which connects to

the concept of Existential propagation as I have explained, albeit
briefly, within my writings. I have given this form of meditation
the name ‘governailia’. And whereas it can be taken up by anyone
and everyone, it is believed that one must first be connected to
Existence via a basic thread of awareness in order for it to have
any effect, in which case our being aware of Existence allows Ex-
istence awareness of us and a sort of empathetic channel is estab-
lished thus (by which I am referring to the ‘inspired’ paradigm).
Sorry if this should sound so New Agey. I try to present an accu-
rate picture but must often resort to limuviation.
My lover has been known to carry out her meditations sur-
rounded by photo frames and trinkets which emblematize that
which she loves most in life. From the people to the events, all
that is of personal importance is represented and encircles her as
she sits at their center and sees herself as being the point at which
these things converge. This, she claims, is how she gets into the
proper mindset for governailia meditations—a mindset which
she describes as both humbled and determined. This is some-
thing that she has been doing for a long time, long since before
I knew her, and it is this practice from which she claims to have
really come to develop her sense of self. She doesn’t really ‘have
a Steulugalnemraiant’, as in a walking, breathing manifestation
of her Existence or Intension, so this is pretty much the nearest
equivalent in her world (she does have a certain affinity for cer-
tain Hindu figures, such as Shiva and Shakti, although her rela-
tionship with that faith is quite similar to my relationship with
Christianity in that it is more of an inbuilt cultural paradigm at
this point), and I feel that that is worth noting since a lot of ex-
pectations may develop in the minds of those who read my work
and, the thing is, not every case will resemble mine. Not every-
one will find my methods effective, though that shouldn’t and
mustn’t prevent you from reaching after the ends toward which
I am reaching. Therefore, see this as an inspiration for the types
of exercises and rituals that can be undertaken to help one into
the proper mindset. She spends much of the day in quiet medita-
tion while I am writing or resting. We interact with one other on
and off daily but sometimes days can pass without any real ‘qual-
ity time’.
Once again, I am trying to put myself into the mindset and para-
digm of one who may not hold the same understanding as I, and
I think back to a time when the likes of emotional intelligence
and the fate of humanity didn’t really mean a lot to me, and I try
to recall how I viewed them at the time. I’m sure they seemed
flat or at least too vague to really ignite my fire. And what was it
that really changed that? I often point back to the Ritual of Nul-
lity as being tied to a lot of my changes in awareness, but I don’t
believe that it was the case here, since my awakening to my pas-
sion for humanity and psychology and empathy and all of that
really blossomed gradually over time. I would say that it really
came to be between 2012-2014 when I was submersing myself
in more philosophical undertakings and writing my biography.
In that case, I have to imagine that the writing of my autobiogra-
phy was an important first step to take in really changing my way
of thinking about life and moving myself from the microcosm to
the macrocosmic, although it wasn’t the final step. Yet through
that process I really began to face down my problems and trau-
mas and grief. In the beginning that wasn’t even my intention,
going into it. As I’ve noted elsewhere, my abandoned biography
began as a letter of apology to Anita and the tone was justifica-
tory more than anything, as in I was attempting to justify and
exculpate my actions, my fate, and defensively so; but over time
a shift took place, and I’m really trying to analyze all of that in
light of these things.
I can’t run your process for you. I can’t change your para-
digm. Though I do try to say whatever I can to help you along
and give you that initial boost by recounting my own personal
experiences with nothing being held back. And it’s not like I ever
really stopped growing in regards to these facets of my person-
ality. I continue analyzing my history as if expecting a particular
event or point where I just jumped off and my stats shot up, and
while there were definitely years that saw huge improvements,
it was more of a gradual growth coming with repeated commit-
ment to these ideals of health and truth and self-improvement.
My nearness to death also had a lot to do with the nature of my
approach, since I don’t see as much reason as the average, healthy
citizen to be a dishonest prick who takes his life for granted.
I wonder what my honesty and forthrightness did for my devel-

opment. I simply can’t imagine how a mind can grow in the pres-
ence of dishonesty, compartmentalization and guilt in general. I
can’t imagine it. Is growth even possible under such conditions?
Must they be dispelled before something beautiful can flourish?
The idea of guilt is not really known to me; and I don’t have any-
thing that I’m hiding. And that’s what I am trying to get across:
not that I am faultless, but I have long been in the habit of aton-
ing for all such faults in a hasty and earnest manner so as to pre-
clude the gestation of guilt. I imagine that would rob so much
from the mind to be holding on to something of that sort. For
instance, I was watching home movies earlier and I saw my old
pastor, who married my parents. He also baptized my sister (and
was supposed to baptize me, as well, except I ended up moving
elsewhere due to the size of the queue). My parents and I also
did work for him for nearly a decade of time, doing his church
website and the Creation website, which was my first paying job
in a sense (mostly recording, uploading and transcribing weekly
sermons). This man was outed several years ago as a child moles-
ter having carried out his acts over a decade or longer. It was all
over national news and whatnot since he had made a name for
himself in Christian circles because of his involvement with Cre-
ation Festival. In any case, I find it so difficult to imagine what
could have been going on in the head of someone like that... to
have done something so unspeakable and then to keep it total-
ly hidden and compartmentalized from the image you maintain
publicly, which is the damn antithesis of everything he was. I just
can’t imagine what that sort of mind would look like on the in-
side. This may be considered an extreme example, at least rela-
tively speaking, but I believe that most people live with some
sort of dissonance of this sort and it’s scarier to me than anything
imaginable.
Something that will always stand out to me regarding my father’s

nature is how suddenly he will turn on you and drop his mask
as soon as he sees you as standing in the way of what he wants.
Those instances... those are what I will remember my father by...
those sudden changes in character wherein he switches from this
agreeable and unobtrusive everyman into this heartless bully, ex-
posing the cold and broken human being that he truly is. It’s in-
teresting to me, since I tend to go the opposite direction when
engaged in l situations that appear as if they have the potential to
develop into conflict. Instead of becoming more aggressive and
attempting to assert myself over the other I will become gentler
and more thoughtful in tone, as I see we are entering into ter-
ritory where every little nuance becomes a potential hindrance
to understanding and a danger to the relationship at hand and

so I care to minimize all unnecessary trouble. I’ve spoken up
about this before, where I enter into a more lucid ‘problem solv-
ing’ mode. It occurs to me that that is an uncommon response,
whereas many become increasingly aggressive. I’m thankful for
that tendency of mine, though I wonder if the difference in my
approach from, say, my father’s, could relate to our positions, as
in our hold of power, real or perceived. Then again, that isn’t to
say that my maturity in how I handle conflict is to be chocked up
entirely to the circumstances in which I find myself. That would
seem somewhat unfair, since I’ve put in a lot of effort to become
as I am and I behave the same way with strangers as I do with
family. This ‘problem solving/soft spoken mode’ was a near con-
stant throughout 2016 as I was dealing with a partner who... was
utterly abysmal when it came to handling conflict... so I feel like
I had to do everything shy of painting myself pink and hopping
around like a bunny just to keep her from overreacting or feeling
threatened during interactions.
Our achieving relevance unto Existence and becoming what I

call ‘Homo Spiritualis’ mostly relies on our ability to resolve our
Volens. I have spoken of numerous ideas, from discrepancy to
relevance to acknowledgment, and I can’t readily tell whether or
not I have succeeded in explaining these ideas in a helpful man-
ner or if I’m leaving my audience confused as to the process and
how to divorce the philosophy from the practical parts to be un-
dertaken by us. Volens, however, seems to be the most important
idea to ensuring our relevance. Think of it as our being given a
mission, and that mission is encoded within our DNA and in
our psychology and reveals itself in our passions and dislikes and
everything in between. This is not a free pass to act out on our
animal urges, but a call to treat our natural, inbuilt tendencies as

a puzzle to solve. This is why I speak so fondly of the child ar-
chetype, since most of us will get no clearer sense of our Volens
than by looking to our youth and seeing how we behaved and
what we wanted and what we despised before the demands of so-
ciety were overlaid upon our developing minds and interests. Yet
you have to understand it is an abstract concept that isn’t some
simple and fanciful “I am fated to be an artist!” or “I am fated
to assassinate the archduke!” This is the crux of the Lesser Op-
eration, and as complex are my rambles, this is really one of only
two main things you must concern yourself with, with the other
being to keep focused and aware of your Existence in all that you
do so that your actions are carried out mindfully (of Existence)
and not mindlessly, which produces no Intension (since Exis-
tence can not adjudge what it cannot acknowledge—a most mo-
mentous principle embodied by the Law of Acknowledgment).
My disconnection from modern music leaves me unable to trust

it, in a way. For instance, I find it difficult to determine my enjoy-
ment levels and actually assess its value if I am lacking a full grasp
of the context in which it exists, including how it sits along with
its contemporaries and differs or... mimics. It’s not unlike when
I see someone with a new sort of fashion accessory or make-
up trick I’ve never seen before. I’ve learned by now to shut my
mouth and not hand out complements because once I started
seeing it around me I know that I’ll likely see it a hundred times
more, and so I would only be complimenting someone who like-
ly got the idea from their neighbor who got the idea from their
neighbor and that just makes me feel embarrassed to have not re-
alized that beforehand. So there’s just this sense of distrust when
I hear new music—modern music—for the reason that I can’t
map it against anything but whatever was around decades earlier

and it’s very frustrating for me; not pleasurable at all. So I guess
it can be said that I find it difficult, or at least frustrating, to take
something in and form an opinion if I can not assess the way in
which it compares to the whole. On the other hand, I am very
well familiarized with the various musical trends and scenes ex-
isting prior to 2008 and I can easily assess the quality and origi-
nality of a work in line with that understanding.
I am recalling this time when I was in kindergarten or first grade,

and we went into the class with all the third grade students and
we had to accept the candy given to us by one of the them. Each
third grader had a different piece of candy to offer. And then
they were kind of our sponsor, or partner, or something silly like
that. I was only five at the time, but I remember accepting one
kid’s candy, and then I switched to another kid a few minutes lat-
er because I liked his candy better, and it sounds funny, but those
are the kind of things I look back on in my life like... was that
morally sound? Hahaha. Like, did I screw over or otherwise hurt
or inconvenience that kid for leaving him for the other kid on
the basis of a candy flavor? It was so long ago that the memory
feels more like a dream, but I tell you, these are the things that
play in my mind while I’m lying here dying and analyzing my life
and wondering if I could have done better, or wonder how there
ever existed a time when I wasn’t as considerate of the feelings
of others. And there is ever this sadness in me that I didn’t re-
ally get to make extensive use of my emotional intelligence and
whatnot in the sociosphere, as in within the context of interper-
sonal relationships as opposed to distant psychosocial specula-
tions, but at the same time I don’t really think it could have hap-
pened another way. This society would eat me alive as it stands.
It would abrade and devastate me to stand for one moment too

long among this lizard exhibit of a society.
We grow in accordance with that which we are fed—or that is

the commonest pattern. And even though this may be consid-
ered an oversimplification, it makes it out to seem all the more
tragic that we can’t practice kindness towards others. It makes it
oh so painful to see the unwillingness of the collective to really
do its part in caring for one another. I get so sad when I listen to
my field recordings from a couple years back and I can hear how
there is an exponential growth in my confidence and an improve-
ment in my manner of speaking and quickness of responses after
just a few months of being out in public, and I just wonder what
I could have been otherwise. I think I’ve done wonderfully well
for someone in my position, or for any position for that matter
(in the way of personal development, that is), but I also think
that I could have achieved even more within a more healthy en-
vironment. I think that the Tendon that everyone saw, even with
all of my developmental victories: this is my basement floor, in
a sense. This is what I am when my life is at its worst. And that
is a huge deal, because the guy you hear in these audio clips and
see being level headed and loving... this is someone who is amid
his worst tribulations and on the verge of death, and I still man-
age to practice kindness and care and patience and all things to
which I rationally subscribe. Yes, there were times when I strug-
gled with cynicism begotten of my hurt and betrayal, although
I’ve never tried to pass it off as objectivity. I just wonder what I
would have looked like amid circumstances that were actually fa-
vorable, and among folks who were actually kind. supportive and
loving. I think about it a lot, and there is a sadness in me when
I imagine that in different circumstances I might have been able
to become an even better person. I don’t know what that would

look like, since I’m already achieving the best that I can manage.
This mostly applies to behavioral matters, since I do not think
that my circumstances have prevented me from (and have even
helped me in) arriving at an understanding of existence and the
importance of life, humanity and empathy; but matters like my
confidence are fractured to hell and it shows itself in my behav-
ior, as much as I attempt to mask it. I would just love to catch
the sight of myself in a place that loved me, and in a place that I
loved, where my words were respected and where I spoke freely
and compassionately and joyously with all who I met. I would
love to see the kind of man I might have grown to become in
such a setting.
I’ve been giving a lot of thought to my listening habits and my re-

ceptivity in general and how it is affected by the degree to which
we desire to appreciate or understand a given work. For example,
I won’t normally dedicate all that much time and attention to
seeking out new music, and when I put on an album for the first
time I will typically jump around a bit, barely giving anything a
chance to grow on me before I start skipping tracks in the search
for something that wows me. How does anything make it past
that initial wall of disinterest and lack of dedication? Well, there
are certain albums that I am prone to giving more of my atten-
tion, such as albums that were recommended by people I respect
or albums affiliated with projects that have already won my favor.
That’s when the element of desire enters into the equation, and
there is ‘the desire to want to enjoy or understand something’
and that wish to enjoy and understand a given artist or album
has me opening myself up to actually enjoy and understand it. I
don’t know... I just think it’s interesting, even as it is such a sim-
ple and unprofound idea, and I’m sure it relates in some man-
ner to the modern reliance on review websites and why so many
opt to choose the same ten or twenty albums as their favorites,
so that you have everyone selecting from the same small pool
even though there are literally millions of albums in existence.
It ain’t necessarily because they’re the best albums/artists, and it
may not even be entirely accurate to chock their acclaim up to
peer pressure and hive-mindedness as much as it can be chocked
up to the fact that we, as a society, have shown ourselves more
willing to actually approach these albums or films with an open
mind, having come into the listening/viewing experience with
a preconceived desire to enjoy and understand what we were
about to hear/view. So that brings me to wonder: how can we
get more people to open themselves up to certain albums and ex-
periences? I mean, it’s kind of the nature of popularity itself and
I guess that’s what review sites have been doing all along. But it
just makes me wonder how people will be approaching my own
music. I wonder if the deeply intricate and personal backstory as-
sociated with my work will affect people’s willingness to appre-
ciate my music before going into it. Yea, I do think that back-
stories work much like reviews in that sense, because if people
can identify with you as a person then there is a desire in them:
a hope to find in you a friend or an idol. There is a hope that
your music will resonate with their lives, and they may be more
willing to force that fit if they really want to. If someone tells me
about some isolated weirdo whose life story resembles mine own,
I am going to become very excited and I’m going to hope that
his work resonates with my expectations and I will make a sort
of abstract place for those works in my mind, regardless of how
I ultimately end up feeling about said works. Oh, I’m just think-
ing out-loud here. I guess my conclusion is that by sharing our
backstories and making ourselves more personable and vulnera-
ble before others we also affect the willingness of others to pay

our work more mind. Of course, even if all of this is true, none
of this has really seemed to work in my favor yet, as I haven’t seen
anything at this point in the way of listeners who really seem to
get what I’m all about, and I retain this sense that most people
simply listen to Countertorch and don’t really care to know any-
thing about my personal life or motivation or even the rest of my
massive body of work. I just have to hope that it will pay off some
day, even if I won’t be around to experience that relief and satis-
faction I so deeply crave.
Now, I wont normally browse the internet on medical topics,

as it has never brought me any answers and only increases my
dread, so I gave all of that up over a decade ago and will mostly
limit my searches to home remedies for inflammation and other
things I can do from home to boost my immunity. It can be very
odd to look up medical photos in my condition, considering my
appearance and how it contrasts with the severity of my suffer-
ing. Notwithstanding the severity of my condition, it is simply
not a very visual problem—not externally, anyhow. For instance,
if you search through images of ‘hernias’ online you will come
up with the most grotesque sights: football-sized lumps protrud-
ing from the abdomen of individuals; and then these individu-
als seem to live relatively normal lives, suffering mostly from dis-
comfort and embarrassment. So it’s very odd for someone like
me, whose herniations (or the specific configurations thereof )
not only hamper my ability to walk in the absence extreme pain,
but also press against my diaphragm and cause me to suffocate,
and it is a nightmare of an experience for me, drastically limiting
what I can do and what I can enjoy, and yet it is so minor on the
surface exterior, especially in comparison to some of these pho-
tos I’ve seen. Sure, the right half of my abdomen is noticeably in-
flamed which makes my chest and belly crooked, at least from
my own perspective when looking down at my body from above,
but it’s nothing that would be considered crazy on a Google im-
age search, and I’m not even sure most people would notice if
they were to look at me. And it is an unfortunate fact that we, as
a physical species, make judgments based on the physical appear-
ance of a condition. Even I am not immune to making such judg-
ments, which has as much to do with expectations, so it would
be easy to conclude that those photos with monstrous deformi-
ties are worse than swelling from which I suffer... but it isn’t so
simple... and it’s not only been hard to get it through my own
head, to wrap my own head around the fact that I am suffering
so badly, so inhumanly, in ways that are not seen in the people
in my environment or even in the stories I’ve heard, but... good
luck having anyone else regard the exigency and severity of my
experience. Truly a strange experience in life... as bizarre as it was
miserable. It’s left me in this weird position where, while I don’t
doubt the degree of my suffering or the severity of my condition,
the lack of understanding regarding what is actually taking place
within my body has removed some of my... I don’t know how to
put it... almost as if it isn’t my right to be so bothered and off-
set by my condition. As if I am a fool to let it affect me so much
when I am clearly not bleeding from my orifices? If a doctor were
to come by and give his fat fucking stamp of cancerous approval
and tell me I had two months left to live then my world would
be a very different place, or I like to think so. The people in my
environment would interact with me differently (or not). And
while I don’t think that I would manage myself any differently, I
think that it would affect my perspective on some level, even if
that is in simply feeling myself that much more justified. And as
it stands, I don’t always feel justified. My emotions, my suffering,
my fears, my accomplishments have all been invalidated by those

who disrespect the abstract. And maybe it’s done me some good
to be without that justification, that acknowledgment of who I
am and what I must endure, as it has kept me constantly work-
ing, not seeing anything as an excuse to stop, and fighting to tell
my story until my very last breath. I sometimes think about the
things I would like to do before I die, things which I can’t af-
ford or manage on my own and would thus require the help of
others, such as my father, and it makes me sad knowing that if
I told my father “I’m dying soon and would like to do this be-
fore I die, can you please help me make that happen?” He would
think me foolish and ridiculous and do nothing to accommo-
date me. He is more likely to insult me. Yet when I do end up
dying in the near future he will regret such negligence, for noth-
ing will then seem to him as an outrageous or unnecessary re-
quest in light of events. So it is very surreal and emotionally tax-
ing to be on this side of this wall and know that there’s nothing
that I can really do about it. Today I am worth nothing at all,
whereas tomorrow I am worth the world, and I won’t be around
to benefit from that transformed opinion, as that change neces-
sarily depends upon my absence. It’s just how it works. It’s like
telling people you’re suicidal. It’s not really something that any-
one will care about until after it’s already done, at which point
they will sit around wishing they had listened or that they had
known, and I want to spare them of the pain, along with sparing
myself of this unnecessary turmoil, yet they won’t listen. There-
fore, as it stands, I do not open up to people about it or make any
special pleas. I don’t request any favors within the context of my
condition. I will be told off if I ask for anything more than what-
ever is required to survive... oatmeal and water and kale. That is
the extent of my request.
I am confronted with my limitations in every minute of every

day, so it’s not like I spend my days like a cripple in a corner chair
resigned to a life of inability. I’m constantly pushing up against
the ceiling in my attempts to do the most that I can in any given
moment, so I am constantly, and I mean constantly, interacting
with my limitations. It’s like a mad dance which defines my life.
Every day I wake up and consider what I can do within my lim-
its and I work tirelessly until those limits are breached or nearly
so, after which I must often allow for a cool down period, as it
were, while allowing the attrition to subside, and then I return
with immediacy to my labor. In fact, even during the so-called
cool down period I will normally just switch to another task that
may be less taxing on whatever be the attrited aspect (unless in
cases of exceptional risk to my mortality where I must essentially
go into mannequin mode). For example, if I type so much that
my neck grows tight and I begin to choke, I might take a break
from typing for the rest of the day (though I will usually resort
to working at a slower, more sporadic pace and rarely ever resign
completely) then I’ll switch to a more mental task or something
that doesn’t require me to sit down and write these walls of text...
so it might be editing existing texts, which isn’t quite as taxing as
I am writing less and at a slower pace. And so there are usually be-
tween five and six times in any given week wherein I fear I took
it too far or am otherwise required to take a brief respite from
working simply because my body is revolting against my move-
ments. There will typically be between three and seven instances
within a given week that I come up against death and fully an-
ticipate that I may finally be at my end and I will have to make
sure that all of mt work is backed up and accessible by the public.
This process will often take around thirty minutes. I devote be-
tween ten and thirty minutes each day to making sure that all of
my work is backed up and current in the case of death, so that the
current version is available to the public. It’s quite annoying to

have to do it so frequently (and so often when I am on the verge
of passing out and choking on the floor).
Emotion as a concept is not at all like we think it to be, although

there isn’t any simple way to describe what I mean without analo-
gizing. Emotion is more than the attitudes that we take. We’re
interacting with something... something we can’t sense. It’s ar-
guable that we don’t actually possess anything at all, and every-
thing that we know and experience and seemingly ‘wield’ comes
via interactions. It’s all interactions.
Even where I am able to accept the flatness of the people within

my environment and the complete lack of sweetness, spice and
magic that they bring to this dish that is existence, it is just as
unlikely that they will accept my intensity, and ultimately I find
that it is not worth it.
I can’t tell you how difficult it has been to continue on my path

toward my vision of an honest life for all these years while facing
only opposition and scorn from others in my environment,
whether due to my willingness to grieve my trauma or confront
the uncomfortable truths within and without myself. I’ve carried
on all these years without any sort of indication that I wasn’t
alone in what I was doing. I simply held to the belief that, if I
exist, then that should imply that there exists others of a similar
nature undertaking similar processes (probability equals preva-
lence or something something something). This was the formula
by which I pacified my anxieties in life. To get over my fear that
man can not live virtuously I had to embody virtue, proving that
it could be done. To prove to myself that everyone wasn’t a liar
who cheated and pissed themselves when no one was watching,
so to speak, I had to embody my ideals of what a good person
is and should be. I wouldn’t consider myself a perfect person
by any means, since estimations of quality generally entail more
than someone’s intention, and certain elements like my trauma,
anxiety and other inabilities are pretty front and center when it
comes to any assessment of my lifetime, although if we are mea-
suring goodness by the likes of purity of intention, as well as in-
tegrity, or the consistency with which one sides with what they
know to be right rather than making concessions for the likes of
pleasure or popularity or sheer laziness, I would say that I have
a hard time imagining any way in which I can improve, though
I don’t imagine that the semantics of what I’m arguing for won’t
be... well, argued, especially by those who look at my messy ex-
terior/circumstances and forthrightness and have been so condi-
tioned by society as to what is good and virtuous that they just
have no capacity to see the virtue in any individual that does not
resemble suppressed, stilted and saintly choirboy.
As I lay expiring in a cold and fusty basement, I often wish I had

shown more love and affection to the people in my surround-
ings; and it’s a great thought when it exists merely as an abstract
wish, in which I am more or less funneling more love into the
world, giving indiscriminate embraces, but then when you get
out into the world the people just aren’t... embraceable. It’s as I’ve
said before: love is not a one-way operation. Not everyone is able
to be loved, and that has all to do with the degree to which they
have or haven’t set themselves up to be loved. Most of the people
that you pass by in your day to day life... they haven’t set them-
selves up to be loved. They haven’t revealed and vulnerated their

souls to the necessary extent whereto that prospect of love be-
comes a viable possibility. Claims as these are sure to be refut-
ed by any hippie who wills to believe otherwise, but it is worth
adding that love is not the be-all, end-all that we think it is. There
are other forms of respect, intimacy and cooperation which are
equally as worthy, and while it is understandable that we seek
after love due to a long history of positive associations having
formed around that word, I believe that we have grossly overes-
timated its commonality. I proffer that the masses take to this
concept due to what it implies about security—the real object af-
ter which all are seeking—since if they otherwise understood the
worth of this concept and all that it entailed then surely it would
be reflected in their actions, and it is self-evident in the attitudes
of most that an understanding of love is absent; and therefore
it is not possible that they can truly desire it. At the end of the
day, it is not that element of dedication and responsibility that
attracts them, but the guarantee of a secure and nurturing bond.
The experience of love and bonding as it occurs among the

greater paradigms is a fascinating idea to me, where the experi-
ence is not like two disparate points of view coming together in
agreement, but like a plate of fruit shared between two, who are
eating from the self-same fruit, partaking in an objective truth.
This isn’t to say that we are without our own emotional experi-
ences which are unique to our person, but they tie themselves
to an objective, unchanging point of reference. It’s like to say
“My experience of her is as her experience of me,” seeing as it is
based on the objectivity of Meaning rather than the subjectivi-
ty of Representation. Once you come to understand this concept
and all of its entailments, it becomes really hard to see anything

else as love.
You’ll just have to pardon any semblance of defensiveness or pas-

sive aggression in my approach, as the religists in my world have
demonstrated a complete inability, what with their ever-distend-
ing persecution fetish, to look at any counter arguments, such as
those presented in my text, and be able to say “Well, if that’s his
authentic point of view on religion then I can totally see why he
would be opposed to it.” Instead I expect to be met with the likes
of “They’re all just out to get us and can’t stand the sight of light
and truth and righteousness,” and other rejoinders of that nature
should we attempt to tackle the topic of religion and spirituality
from an honest and objective place.
I am willing to regard theism as the most destructive set of
beliefs within our midst and greatest downfall, as it has perpetu-
ated erroneous ideas which have prevented us from being able to
have a collective discussion and assessment of what it truly means
to Existence and what truly defines, hinders and encourages our
ability to know a fulfilling life outside of causeless superstitions.
Idea for a book which came to me amid a spell of hypnagogia:

it’s night time in an icky city. A short man with half a face walks
around and gets up close to car windows as they pass by and
scares the people and then writes the responses that he gets in
his book. This would honestly be a neat idea for a book, where
the whole book is made up of all the reactions that he receives
for his face when frightening the drivers and passengers. I’m sure
there must be some weird psychological motivations behind all
of this, but my hallucination didn’t go into any of those and I
don’t know if that’s necessary to the book. Maybe it’s better to

just remain unsure of his motivations.
I’ve never heard a single person apart from my partner tell me

“I’m here for you if you ever need me. Call on me any time,” or
something of that sort. Any time I speak openly about any one of
my struggles, whether health, loneliness or an abusive family, the
response is always essentially the equivalent of: “Ah, that sucks
man, but let’s change the topic to something more lighthearted,”
(of course they don’t say it so bluntly but it’s in their tone). Most
of the time people can’t even pretend to console me. There’s been
no attempt at consolation whatsoever and nothing in my person-
ality or demeanor merits such arrant neglect. Actually, I do re-
member one guy back when I was around sixteen... I think he’s a
youth pastor now. He always tried to be there for his friends and
he swore that if he was ever needed, he would drop what he was
doing, day or night, and come on out. And he totally meant it,
too. I remember one time he came over and we went for a long
walk around my neighborhood at Midnight or later simply be-
cause I was upset about something. I think we also went to Wal-
mart and screwed around for a while, having ourselves a fun ol’
time. I think that a photo or two from my photographs folder
originates from that night (as in the one where I am posing in the
dairy aisle with a box over my head). The two of us didn’t end up
keeping in touch as the years went on but I don’t want to com-
pletely overlook the fact that that once happened.
Even as I lie here desolate and deprived, I relish in my depriva-

tion on some deeper, spiritual level. That is not to say that there is
any joy, any pleasure, in this suffering that I must endure, though
I don’t think that another path would have allowed me to devel-

op so rapidly or so meaningfully. I see what confidence and lee-
way does to people, and how it causes them to act in selfish and
arrogant ways to others and I am glad that I am not in a posi-
tion where I am so blinded by my ostensible rights that I cannot
see the emotional needs and fulgent humanity of those around
me. I am glad for my lowly position as it has made me so atten-
tive, so accommodating, and I don’t care what they have to say
about such behaviors in teen magazines. I don’t care about any-
thing apart from being the best person that I can be.
Of course I do not expect to be on this ‘earth’ much longer at this

point, and I am long, long past the point where I know the lux-
ury of actually entertaining ideas of a future, as in “Where will
I be ten years from now? What do I wish to do?” I haven’t been
in the position to dream such dreams since my teenage years
for Christ’s sake. I’ve been living between the teeth of Leviathan
for all this time and haven’t the means to concern myself with
anything more than making it through the hour without dying.
However, it merits to be said: how might I answer such a ques-
tion? It’s a fun hypothetical. Given what I know now, how would
I wish to dedicate my time going forward? Well, I often feel as
though the last few years have been focused on wrapping up and
tying up loose ends of the story I started long ago, and the chap-
ter is almost concluded. Technically it’s never really concluded,
not so cleanly, but if I got to start a new story or chapter where
would I take it? I think that 2018 and 2019 gave us a look at
where I would be going—the social, the entrepreneurial, the po-
litical. It showed a significant departure from ‘boy-drooling-in-
basement’ and all that Ni-Fi on which I focused most of my life
switched over to Te-Se and it was simultaneously anxiety-induc-
ing and exhilarating. There was a ton of adrenaline involved, and

if it weren’t for my wizened health I could really get off on that at
this point. It’s all about gathering up all I have learned through-
out my life and seeking to apply it on a large scale, so its not a
new life as much as it is the application of all I’ve built so far.
I want people to be aware of their options. I want to trounce

the nihilistic, cynical and sociopathic narratives that pervade the
sphere, having been put in place by those seeking to justify their
depression, suffering and failure via retro-necessitation. It helps
them to think that there was no other way about it, but they have
done great damage in their resignation so daft, for has it not been
said that the normalization of suffering is the one true evil?
The concept of increasing consciousness and awareness is so in-

credibly abstract. These words don’t paint much of a picture in
peoples’ minds as we simply aren’t able to comprehend some-
thing greater than what we are accustomed to working with, un-
less in the case of these stereotypical drugged-up states which,
while certainly acting on consciousness, are not at all what I
think of when I think of truly expanding our awareness.
If you want to increase awareness, apart from all I’ve said
about humility and ignorance in other texts, as in the so-called
Ritual of Nullity, I would recommend that you go and initiate
a confrontation with that which brings you discomfort. That’s
a decent place to start. And this might not necessarily include
your greatest fears. That’s not only impractical but also potential-
ly dangerous. Besides, it’s much more potent to go and confront
the uncomfortable reality about your shortcomings and vulner-
abilities and traumas and really just sit with it. Stew in it. And
don’t be all pessimistic and fatalistic about how it’s too large for
you. Approach it with the mindset that it’s necessary, and not
just under the pretense of becoming stronger, which only paints
these matters up as some arduous trial, but in knowing that this
shall connect you to your Volens or disposition. This should im-
prove the tone of these conversations, as it becomes about under-
standing and acceptance, rather than battling.
Oh, I spent years of my youth looking at trippy pictures and
trying to convince myself of my own mental capacity before ac-
tually experiencing significant shifts in consciousness which were
completely unrelated to all of the standard things we assume
about this... it ain’t meditation and marijuana that really bring
this revitalizing effect to your psyche. When you integrate your
‘negative’ or ‘darker’ constituents you see the world differently
and yourself differently. That doesn’t mean to embrace your ani-
mal, but to tame your animal, so to speak.
When some negative event occurs, do not base your emo-
tional reaction thereto on the supposed commonality or accept-
ability of such events: Some people can look at the death and
suffering which transpires all around us and ‘reason’ with them-
selves by repeating that “Oh, tis a part of life. People die every
day.” I mean, that’s not a lie, but at the same time, it would not be
reasonable to stifle our emotions in such a way and I discourage
this approach with all that I am, believing that you must totally
experience your reaction in full and work through those feelings.
Face down the uncomfortable truths. Let me tell you, they
don’t remain a cause of discomfort indefinitely. Hell, even the
more generic concepts of confrontation and failure do not retain
their aura of formidability indefinitely. For someone like me...
I’ve been at this so long, exploring my heart and mind without
regard for what society says is correct, without regard for what
is comfortable (or rather placing my comfort secondary to that
of the truth, which I see as providing greater health to my spirit

than some comfortable lie ever can). I’ve been at it for so long
that I don’t even really remember what it’s like to experience anx-
iety in the face of such. And I wonder if people will wonder
about that... if they will wonder how I experience my own mind
and dealings, as I’ve been more proactive about such things than
the majority of humanity would ever allow itself to be. I previ-
ously stated (while writing Clyssus of Man) that it does take a
toll on one to constantly be placing themselves in positions to
expose themselves to the darkest matters and considerations of
our species which we will often ignore for reason of our own sur-
vival, but there are very few things that actually leave me feel-
ing threatened in a primitive way at this point. The things that
stayed with me the longest, in terms of those things which have
taken a toll on me and have even gained in formidability over
time rather than seeing it lessened... hmmm... the failure of my
parents continued to bother me until the end of my life, or just
about, even though I accepted it logically a very long time ago,
philosophically and emotionally it lingered, along with the be-
trayal and failures of my sister and the helplessness that I feel in
regards to that situation. I’ve also noted elsewhere that I am not
at all threatened by my own shortcomings because I have always
approached with a growth mindset, connoting the consciously-
maintained belief that all things can be changed through will
and effort. There has never been an aspect of my nature that I re-
ally felt was beyond my control, so I’m not sure what sort of ad-
vice I would give to those who don’t approach it naturally with
that mindset. I did struggle immensely with my physical body,
not just in terms of health but in the mind-body relationship, al-
though this was before I understood the concept of Volens and
that has been a game-changer for me.
Speaking of the Volens, I also wish to say—albeit somewhat

controversially, I imagine—that I also don’t think that every ap-
pearance and manifestation of anxiety is to be overcome. Some
things are purposed to remain enduringly difficult, not just be-
cause it is a part of the code of Existence, but because of the
aforementioned Volens, or disposition to which all individuals
claim. I’d sure like it to be the case that I could face down every
situation, every environment, every act with total physical sto-
lidity, no worry whatsoever, yet you have to consider that there
are natural enemies and learned enemies, the former whereto we
should not lose our senses. Fire will always be weak against water.
It does not make fire weak. It is an innate weakness which forms
part of its constitution—physical and metaphysical. It ain’t al-
ways easy though to determine which struggles relate to the
Volens and which have come about over time, via neurotic and
continued coddling/dis-ease. For me, I’ve reached a point from
where it can be deduced that all of my remaining struggles are in-
nate and neither self-awareness nor paradigmatic alterations will
rid me of their sting. What then is my course of action? Respect
them, study them, know that they tell my story as well as my
most intentful acts. Respect that there are certain aspects relating
to my conflicts with society, humanity, family, as philosophies
that make up an innate part of my Volens. But again, it’s super
tricky to really be able to determine which anxieties are innate
and which are learned. And so my recommendation is that you
keep this concept in mind without really taking it upon yourself
to decide what is what. Just live your life with the utmost inten-
tion, seeking after your growth, and if something oppresses you,
you must always remain ardent in attempting to quash it, not us-
ing this whole idea of the Volens as an excuse to give up prema-
turely. Some rocks are just difficult to crush, but they can, and
should, be crushed.
[Douglas] I wish I had seen his moralistic failures as actual

moralistic failures rather than opting to view them through a ro-
mantic lens. Yet instead of seeing his actions as clear indications
of the fact that he doesn’t care about others, I opted to think that
it was instead the shape that his love had taken. Goddamn, I am
still so daft. It is not that I lack the appropriate intelligence and
discernment to see through it all, but a surplus of hope leaves me
prone to viewing things through such a lens, along with my ten-
dency to assume that others are fundamentally like myself.
Many people take the attitude of “Why care what happens to

my legacy after I am gone? It won’t affect me any and I’ll never
know.” Without commenting on spiritual matters of Existence
and the so-called afterlife, I will simply say that this attitude
highlights a massive issue within the way that we are living our
lives. For me it was never about fame but wishing to create some-
thing that can be utilized by the people, for which reason I’ve of-
fered such personal explorations of my own humanity for public
consumption. So it doesn’t matter to me if I, personally, am not
around to benefit from my reception. What matters to me is the
same thing that always mattered to me: that the people are given
something they can use. This is not just a desire. It is a responsi-
bility that I accepted when I became a conscious individual; an
explorer; a seeker. I am responsible for sharing my findings with
the world, whatever they may be. And those who respond with
apathy in their attitude are really just providing us all with a win-
dow into their askew priorities. I don’t see rationalism. I see self-
ishness, pure and plain.
*I don’t imagine that my audience will readily apprehend, let

alone anticipate, the scope of my strategic considerations, and
that I am the type of guy to insert errors and seemingly low-ef-
fort rambles backed by significant intention. These empires I’ve
built, while riddled with holes, are served just as well by their
holes, and often I have worked to set things up so that these
things are impervious to sinking, being uplifted and benefiting
as much by detractors and negative attention as by the positive
support. If people were to become aware of my level of intent
and just how much of a handle I have on all mine acts, including
my most fatal foibles, I don’t know that they would be surprised,
though I think that my lifetime would suddenly take on a level of
complexity that they did not consider on the first read-through.
To really grasp what I mean you must understand the bond that
I share with Steulugalnemraiant and the Child.
As you may have noticed, a lot of what has been released under
my name was never meant to be released to the public in the
first place and comprises demos and clips of my setting up and
preparing for projects that never came to fruition (regularly ow-
ing to physical illness). As sad as I am to have never gotten the
chance to really tap into my full ability and resources, I do feel
like I leave behind a body of work which achieves precisely all
that I l set out to achieve as an artist and creature, for my goal was
never to impress anyone or to achieve fame for myself. Rather, I
wanted to see the extent to which I could vulnerate myself in life,
knowing vulnerability as a prerequisite of intimacy. And in the
end I could say that I knew intimacy with life itself.
Sometimes, when speaking with old friends after, say, 2014, there
was this sense that I was boring or unrelatable to them due to
the fact that my interests excluded so much of what is considered
standard and acceptable as hobbies, e.g., video games, movies,
food and alcohol. Whenever my friends came over for a visit or
a sleepover, they would always be wanting to play video games
and I would be trying to get them to record videos and songs
with me. Sure, I often gave in to their wishes as I didn’t have too
much of a reason not to at that point, as in I lacked the firmness
of philosophy that I have today and the refusal to squander away
my time (although I can agree that a lot of things that would
waste my time as an individual can be seen as a worthwhile way
to spend time when among a group within a social setting, like a
movie, so I’m not quite as hard on it in that case, although I’m
still proposing that there are so, so many more valuable ways of
spending our time, both individually and collectively). But I still
always tried to get a creative project out of every friend and vis-
it and whatnot, and it’s funny to look back and realize that that
hasn’t really changed.
I had some line charts drawn up to show the trends of my health,

morale, productivity and socialization between 2007 and 2019.
I thought they might be useful, but there’s something off about
them, I find. It is so difficult to measure such seemingly simple
concepts in my condition. After a while, as one’s mortality gets
so shaken up and the suffering becomes a constant, such as
morale, happiness, sadness and all of that begin to blend into one
another.
As a teenager I often joked about becoming a supervillain and

forming a spurious pop group with ‘the devious aim of desexual-
izing the pop industry’.
I want to contribute to the incentivization of goodness in hu-

manity. I want to rewrite the rules to favor our health—psycho-
logical, emotional, spiritual, physical. I want to add weight to the
abstract within the modern world which finds ‘batting average’
to be overall more credible and celebratable than one’s emotion-
al intelligence. I want to see emotional intelligence being treated
with the importance that it deserves.
I don’t feel like it’s necessary to double down on the material sci-
ence when Atheism is already doing that and it’s... it’s got its lim-
its in terms of who it will reach. It’s like to say that I am not the
type of vegan that throws paint on your fur coat but the type
who would take you to a fashion show or clothing outlet and let
you see your options and that they don’t all involve or necessitate
cruelty. Options alone would loosen the grip of religious dog-
ma on this sphere, I’m convinced, and it’s why the ignoblest of
theocrats are often so antagonistic toward public education (and
knowledge in general).
It upsets me that I was never able to conduct any public speeches

or lectures. I am aware that the idea of public speaking is the
cause of anxiety for a lot of people, although for me it is some-
thing that I always wanted to do (provided that I was able to
speak on a topic with which I am well-acquainted and that is
dear to my heart) and to have never gotten that chance is sorely
upsetting to me. As was explained elsewhere, there was a time

during adolescence that I had every intention of becoming a pas-
tor, if only because I felt that it suited my innate nature and tem-
perament. I think that my words would be far—far—better re-
ceived if I was vocalizing them. Text is so cold and impersonal
and it takes me thirty minutes to say via text what is better said
in two minutes of speech. And overall I’m just a more likable in-
dividual in such a setting where you can not only see my passion
on display, but also my boyish lack of pretension (which I’m not
sure is evident via my texts, where my diction may be a bit tough
to follow at times and might therefore feel stuffy to some—al-
though, like I’ve said, my style of speaking really owes itself to
the fact that I never really read any modern works, growing up
on the Bible and Tolkien-type books). Even while dealing with
these darker topics I can be so smiley, wide-eyed and enthusias-
tic, and the fact that the world won’t get to see that part of me
leaves a huge hole in my self-portrayal. I’ve previously stated that
it is one of my greatest regrets in life that I didn’t do a video chan-
nel while I still had my vocal capabilities, and I think about it of-
ten.
It is clear that I misjudged the interests of the population, or that

which it would find ‘interesting’. For example, I always thought
that my identity experiments would cause others to think of me
as ‘fun’ and fascinating, saying “Oh, this guy is a different person
every time he leaves his house...!” Yet in a world so paranoid and
distrusting these activities sooner bring disdain, and I am treat-
ed like some questionable entity rather, and it is so strange to me
that people will sooner label me volatile than adventurous.
How do I feel about homeschooling at this point? I would not

stoop to calling homeschooling a problematic institution, per se,
since I am sure that it has its uses, though it is a responsibility
for which many of its adherents are not properly equipped. Yes,
everyone who I know that has been homeschooled was extri-
cated from schooling by parents who did so only because they
wished to withhold education, e.g., evolutionary science, sexual
education, and... science as a whole, really, and it is in that way
that homeschool has come to be seen as the vehicle of indoc-
trination and neglect. My parents were not qualified to home-
school as their motives were wrongful, having naught to do with
my actual well-being, and their dedication was minimal. They re-
moved me from the system for religious reasons and without ac-
tually seeking to do it better.
Education involves more than the memorization of text-
books. The duty of the teacher is not simply to read aloud what
is written or even to oversee the process. Their duty, as far as I am
concerned, is to demonstrate the relevancy of these written prin-
ciples to our lives of flesh and blood. Only once a sense of rel-
evance has been established—one which cannot be faked—will
the necessary learning take place (and if you’re thinking that this
doesn’t sound one bit like our teachers then you would be right...
as many so-called teachers do fail at accomplishing that much).
Had my parents been more involved in my schooling, and
had they made sure to keep me socially active, then the outcome
would be very different. That was a momentous fucking fuck-
up. There were a handful of instances, while living in New Jersey,
during which they took me to little activities in the name of so-
cialization. This was mostly in the early years of homeschool-
ing—say, around 1996-1997. And all that that entailed was
quarterly visits to a local skating rink. My only regular social in-
teractions throughout much of my youth and adolescence came
by way of Sunday school on the weekend. I didn’t really start go-

ing over people’s houses or having sleepovers until I was a teenag-
er, barring a handful of rare and early exceptions.
There was no talk of direction or what I wanted to be or
what I was going to do with my life. My parents didn’t have any-
thing to say about college or career whatsoever. Overlooking the
fact that I have opted against a college education for personal
reasons while putting my ignorance to good use, their attitudes
were negligent. At the same time I think it was a fuck up on their
part, since it was not the product of deliberation or thoughtful-
ness or consideration for my person but outright negligence. I
think about it a lot... since a lot of my individuality would have
almost assuredly been done away with in the school system, but
a lot of my health problems and social flaws are unlikely to have
ever come about. But who’s to say. My innately sensitive nature
could have forced me to become a high school suicide. It’s just so
difficult to extricate nature and nurture and to say, with any cer-
tainty, who I am in the absence of all of such scenarios. This is a
large part of working with the Volens—volential differentiation.
Again, I do not demonize homeschooling as an institution.
And when I consider what I would want for my own proverbial
children, I have to imagine that I would probably opt for some
sort of hybrid that involves bits of homeschooling and public ser-
vices and with much emphasis being placed on the social facet so
as to ensure that they were developing properly. I even think that
homeschooling might work well in mind of Aseitism, and I don’t
mean any sort of indoctrination, but I have expressed lots of is-
sues with a complete lack of emotional intelligence and other
such topics in our curriculum, and instead of waiting on our gov-
ernment to do its job and actually look after the people I think
parents should seriously consider making up for these holes.
**I get so angry when I think back to all the times when I was
told that I had behavioral problems and grew up thinking some-
thing was wrong with me, when so many of my social problems
and educational problems encountered in my youth had more to
say of my parents failure to teach me than they had to do with
my actual nature. Of course I’m going to be running around act-
ing like a doofus and being immature for my age when you com-
pletely fucking fail to teach me anything about physical reality.
Of course I’m going to spend the first twenty years of my life as
an immature and undeveloped individual playing catch-up and
thinking he is defective simply because certain building blocks
weren’t put in place. And thanks to all of the shit-eating godshills
that made me feel like the failure was mine. And then you’ve got
my sister who didn’t step inside a school until she was like fifteen
and at that point she apparently lacks all ability to differentiate
between reality and the Disney channel and completely demol-
ishes her life right out of the gate because she cares more about
checking off her “As seen on TV High School Drama checklist”
than actually getting good grades and finding good friends and
people who genuinely have her best interest, becoming some dra-
ma-seeking missile lacking all self-restraint and direction. Two
weeks into high school and she’s bringing around these fatherless
juggalos who can’t go five seconds without karate chopping the
air.
They conflate the extent of their strength and skill with the size
of their safety net while defining themselves by their spouses,
children and careers, though what is that truly saying? And from
where did they get the gavel?
It strike me that the most ‘likable’ people are standardly the most
simplistic and undiscerning—subtle and amorphous and smil-
ing like dogs (although let it be noted that I speak not of celebri-
ty icons, in whom we typically desire audacity, but the sorts of in-
dividuals that are found among locality, in schools and the like).
And we praise them as if they have achieved something. While
this saddens me for all of the people who put in effort, it also
forces me to give up on that idea of being beloved by the people.
The people want pets. The people want a flat, empty surface on
which they can eat their dinner.
What I’ve noticed over time is that people simply do not care
to take in the context of one another. Most aren’t interested in
where you come from—physically, spiritually, emotionally. And
it seems so strange to me that something as necessary to un-
derstanding as context could be entirely discounted from inter-
actions, relationships, but I think it really highlights the fact
that, in most cases, the context of a given individual is also the
context of their society, for which reason this dimension may
simply seem irrelevant to most individuals. Yea, they may have
their own experiences in life, but all is like water—an amorphous
and plentiful thing, being forced into these trays in our freezer.
Their context has been rewritten, contained and frozen by their
circumstances and environment, where I work in the opposite
manner, with my context determining the weight of my circum-
stances and environment.
Our concept of humility, or agnosticism, is viewed as a myria-

choronic paragon of the first cause/catalysis.
Seeing as Gnosis and Agnosis represents the first dichotomy,

it is likely that male and female sexes are in some way representa-
tive thereof (Gnosis comes out of Agnosis). Not only would this
line up with many a myth—including the many cultural and uni-
versal beliefs since the beginning of time which have attributed
gender to inanimate things, including consciousness and uncon-
sciousness—but it could explain the general attitudes and inter-
action styles which have come to be associated with the sexes, es-
pecially toward one another.
Man is not more powerful than woman and woman is not
more powerful than man. It is the most even dynamic to ever ex-
ist, as both are technically the same in some regard. Although
the tendency of our errant society to highlight certain strengths
and not others has left us in what seems like a strained dynamic,
incapable of grasping the sheer profundity of our perfect equali-
ty. And while Existence, itself, is not commensurate with Gnosis,
being built as much from Gnosis as Agnosis, there is the fact that
Gnosis is what is conscious and therefore it is the active princi-
ple which tends to steer and dictate the awareness of Existence
more so than its unconscious counterpart, and therefore Exis-
tence has come to be associated more with Gnosis, which is the
masculine principle, myriachoronically and symbolically speak-
ing, since even though Gnosis and Agnosis are both in Existence,
the nature of Gnosis is that it is conscious, which gives Existence
more of a conscious masculine quality overall even though it is
better compared to an androgyne. It’s conjectural, but I sense
something meaningful in these ideas.
I believe that sexual intercourse can also be viewed as a sort
of schematic, along with many other everyday rituals and activi-
ties, for the process by which we are to create ourselves. I think
so much of the surrounding world is a schematic... not that Exis-
tence left it all around us with intention, but via Innaemulation.
Consider something as simple as trying to think of how to de-

scribe something properly or put it into words before speaking
out or acting upon it... our environment as we know it is practi-
cally built from these attempts to find the perfect representation
of what it thinks of itself and its needs, so to speak.
It seems so commonly accepted that as people age and take on

more and more experiences and interactions that they misplace
or altogether forget those experiences and interactions of yester-
year, and I find it both strange and sad to think that most of
the people that I knew in my youth would likely no longer re-
call our interactions, or at least no longer give them any sort of
precedence within their mind as compared to the gaggle of mod-
ern relations on their mind. It is especially sad, for me, since my
mind doesn’t quite work in the same way that I see of my peers;
my affinities and relationships don’t really seem to go through
the same process and I am very much the type of person who
will pick up with you as if no time has passed, even after damn
decades. I recall everyone, and I do mean everyone. And I recall
everything about each relationship. I recall all my childhood
friends and neighbors and people seen on the regular in New Jer-
sey. I recall all of the churchgoers alongside whom I grew up. I re-
call all of the online friends that I maintained via AIM through-
out my teen years. My bandmates, my crushes, dezinezinet. If
you have spoken to me even once, whether twenty years ago or
two years ago, you can count on me to remember not just your
name and face but the crux of our past interactions. I don’t for-
get these things. It doesn’t seem natural for me to forget. And I
would feel energized to see any one of them... well, perhaps not
enthusiastically so, but my brain would be energized by the en-
counter. Maybe it is the importance placed on human connec-
tion within my life. And I just don’t see this same level of attach-
ment when looking out into society, in which the masses speak
loosely of ‘moving on with their lives’ as if that is any reason to
empty the soul of its bonds and histories. I am glad I didn’t know
more people in life if the consequence of that is devaluing those
who came before.
I will sometimes feel saddened to imagine the reaction my father

will have to my death and also my biography. I’ve thought about
it a bit, since ultimately I am not saying all of this to spite anyone
or destroy anyone but to substantiate my own self. The distinc-
tion is significant. However, then I have to really ask myself...
wait, why have I lived my life in a cellar unable to speak to him of
my l daily suffering? And why do I shake when I receive an email
or call from him? It’s amazing how easily our minds are able to
overlook a world of patterns in their willingness to accept a smile
and a happy birthday as a sign of love (which is just an analogy,
considering that he forgot my last birthday despite living with
me... so one wished me happy birthday that day).
I feel so much empathy for those trapped in such patterns...
where they are so hurt and deformed that they are willing to take
every smile as a sign of hope. I wish that I could be a friend to
them. And I tried. I really tried. Though the unfortunate thing
is that so many of those who suffered so horribly in life go on to
perpetrate the same behaviors, and in my willingness to befriend
the downtrodden I only ended up abused by the abused. My mu-
sic, my writings, my workmanship is the best that I can offer you,
then, even if it is hardly any better than kissing through a win-
dow.
And then when I acknowledge my weakness, the tendency is to

respond with “Damn, you better work on that.” It’s not some-
thing to be ‘worked’ on—no more than a table without legs is
something to be ‘accepted’. I am not sick. I am deprived of an es-
sential quality of my life and no amount of therapy will or should
assert to change that. I shudder to imagine what others think
therapy is meant to actually accomplish in these situations, if not
desensitizing you and creating for these phantoms in your life. I
don’t want to sit here and convince myself that I’m okay when
I’m not. I refuse to pervert and undermine humanity in that way.
If I am okay, then let me be okay. If I am deprived, then let me
remain uncomfortable in my deprivation, for deprivation should
entail a certain discomfort, like starvation should entail hunger.
That is its function: to drive us toward a food source. Discomfort
is not just an inconvenience. It is a motivation. It must motivate
us to examine our lives and our circumstances, and we should
not convince ourselves that it is just something to grow out of or
get over. If my body starves from deprivation, I want to feel only
the reality of death. To give into this... this is where you get mil-
lions of people taking refuge in anesthesia, in ‘not giving a fuck’.
This is not strength, this is a perversion of nature. It doesn’t mean
you’re strong. It means you can never be set straight if you con-
vince yourself that there is no longer a reason to continue search-
ing for that which you need.
So... what’s up with all these amblyopic hookers...
As it is known, I have documented myself obsessively since child-

hood, beginning when I got my first tape recorder, and I haven’t
stopped since. I don’t think a day has gone by in the absence of
such documentation. I imagine that the tendency is to look upon

it as creative impulse, and that may be a contributing factor, but
I think that it is also my response to loneliness. Each one of my
creations, in spite of its personal nature, speaks to an audience
as wide as the world. I went through much of my life without
socializing, and there seemed like such a big difference between
singing to myself and singing to a recorder. And by releasing it to
the world, it somehow seems to substantiate the idea that I was
never alone, if that makes sense. It’s as though I’m giving myself
that audience retroactively. If at any point during or after my life-
time an audience can share in these creations then I feel it can
justify the loneliness that I endured, which will no longer seem
as loneliness at that point, retroactively coloring my life with in-
tention.
The great thing about the voice recorder is that it’s not some
tacky device like a camera which must necessarily force everyone
into this self-conscious and facetious mode of behavior and
awareness. I would tuck the recorder into my upper pocket and
regularly forget about it, so it never became a part of the scene
or dictated the flow of events and interactions, and I loved that
about it. The interactions captured via my voice recorder and re-
leased to the public are as natural as any interactions taking place
in the absence of recording. Unfortunately, because it was kept
within my pocket on most occasions, you will frequently hear
the rustling of fabric (or a muffling of sound) when it runs up
against my shirt or pants. Yet at the same time, that forms an el-
ement to which I am highly partial: the walking, the coughing,
the rustling, the stretches of silence to remind you that this is re-
al, and that I am a person who lived a life beyond my creative
works, washing my hands in the bathroom sink and asking for
extra condiments like anyone else. I’ve posted clips which range
from the boring to the comical to the semi-profound: dinners
at the local diner; clothes shopping; long, late-night car rides. I
never intended to release these clips to the public and it was on-
ly in my final months that I even opted to go back and listen to
them for the very first time since recording, which I avoided for
many years due to the stressful circumstances surrounding these
recordings and the period from which they come. After so much
time spent feeling upset over the notion that I hadn’t been prop-
erly represented to the public due to a dearth of videos and au-
dio recordings depicting me in my natural habitat, carrying out
natural interactions, I can be satisfied with the audio acquired via
these means, feeling as if they show my humanness well enough,
along with all of the things I normally struggle to get across in
my writing, such as my humor, my agreeableness and general
lack of aggression (despite holding firmly to my beliefs). I am
proud of the fact that I still come across as relatable despite not
consuming much media or regular human activities, as well as
the fact that you don’t hear me judging others for things that I
wouldn’t do myself (you can hear me having conversations about
sex and non-vegetarian foods in which there is no hint that these
are things which I’m not into). I don’t know... that’s just always
been important to me, and I feel like I’ve achieved some solace
in releasing these clips.
As I’ve said time and time again, nearly all of the work that I have
released to the public in the past several years, with the exception
of certain texts, was created at earlier points in my life and I never
had any intention of releasing it to the public. This gives it a cer-
tain mystique, I think, in that it is not something that was disin-
genuously manufactured to sit on the internet and gather up the
acclaim of the people, but something that I worked on in the pri-

vacy of my home and in the privacy of my heart and, at the end of
my life, sought to organize and release to the public. The last sev-
eral years have been more about curation than creation, for me,
in that regard, although the process of having it all organized is
still highly creative in places. That being said, each work that I re-
lease to the public feels like a significant spiritual achievement...
not like a photo shoot with my cute new summer outfits on an
Instagram account or whatever people share of themselves these
days thinking it constitutes a look into their actual life and per-
son. It is a spiritual achievement in the sense that each thing I re-
lease to the public is another aspect of my life that I am accept-
ing, without shame, as an integral part of my person and myth,
and therefore there is an integrative aspect to it that is highly im-
portant. It’s such a complex concept, although it may not readily
appear as so on the surface. And in the end, I am so, so, so much
better for it. The reason it works so well for me is not because I’m
just sitting here showing off all this art of which I am proud, but
because I am slowly beginning to take pride in these creations
of which I was not originally so proud—all the little ways that I
spent my time on this earth and not just the most impressive dis-
plays; all of the random thoughts in my head and not merely the
profound. It is in that sense that I am holistic... holotropic... mov-
ing toward wholeness. And when I speak, as I do so often, of the
benefits of really organizing my lifetime in this manner and cre-
ating these vaults, you must know that a significant part of what
I am doing involves coming to terms with, overcoming and in-
tegrating parts of myself that may not have previously seemed as
polished or important (or simply those parts with which I fit not
previously identify). And as I’ve already mentioned elsewhere,
it forms a sequence, coming together like a puzzle or a series of
locks in that integrating one aspect of myself allows me to in-
tegrate another aspect. For example, once I know that I’ve re-
vealed to the world a video or sample of who I am as an adult,
currently, in which I am speaking with poise and maturity, I be-
come less hesitant to show off the slurry, immature individual
that I was ten or twenty years ago since I know that my ‘better
self ’ is properly represented. After feeling I have shown off my
rational capabilities and intelligence I am no longer so hesitant
to show off my more “out there” magical nonsense or even my
drunken stupor. Then, with each aspect that I accept as being a
part of my whole, it opens up the door to accepting more. If I
can share art that I drew as a child then why not share x and y
unfinished sketches? Why does it have to be polished or even
completed for it to count as real... for it to count as good... be-
cause, as I see it, whether it was good or bad, completed or in-
complete, it represents how I spent my time, and within a life in
which all are given limited time, that is a pretty big deal to me,
and I say that not egoistically, but in the fullness of my apprecia-
tion. Individuals everywhere are willing to immortalize their tro-
phies, holding them high upon the wall, while all the memories
of trial, error and endless practice slip into the cracks with all of
the failed manuscripts as meaningless means to an end; and for
me, the process is just as much, or more, of a trophy. As I’ve said
before, if one so wishes to create a legacy vault of their own—as
in an attempt to organize and catalog their life—it is not neces-
sary to exhibit it to the public as I have; but since, for me, it is
less about art than it is about integrating all parts into the whole,
and because this involves overcoming shame, indifference and/
or simply the feeling that something I’ve created is not worthy
of representing me, it makes a huge difference in my case to be
showing it off to the world, because putting it out in public view
is a huge step toward accepting and integrating those aspects into
myself in the absence of shame. For me, the publication of my
vaults has been integral to my process for those reasons and relat-
ed reasons (although I don’t feel I am explaining myself properly
in this case, so I must hope that you can see what I am getting
it). Then again, I am in a very rare position where I am able to do
all this with relatively little blowback, given that I am so unfet-
tered, as well as lying on the doorstep of death (which definite-
ly gave me that much-needed push and resolve), and I wouldn’t
fault anyone for refusing to go this route themselves. We live in
a very cruel and manipulative world and one must strongly con-
sider what they are after before taking such a step, and if the po-
tential benefits outweigh the potential malefits in their mind.
I imagine that others will look at my style of writing and wonder

how I can put together such coherent sentences as someone who
asserts to be so unread—reading not books or articles or any-
thing at all. And I’ve gotta say... I often don’t know the answer
to that myself. I mean, it’s not like I’m some roach living in a log
that I can’t formulate sentences, and one can get a decent sense
of language simply through listening to people speak, though I
still experience a sense of awe (and very frequently, at that) while
writing as I see myself laying down all these sentences, one af-
ter another, that seem to be coming from nowhere at all. And
it’s funny to me, because I know that my readers will only see
the exterior of what I’m producing and so to them I will seem
like some scholarly and stern individual, yet meanwhile I’m to-
tally just gushing over each and every word thinking “Where is
this coming from?!” the entire way and feeling not like some in-
tellectual or philosopher but an awed child. I don’t know if that
adds or detracts from how people will view my writing, and I
realize that creators wouldn’t normally talk about that sort of
thing... but why not, I say. I think what people won’t realize
about the whole hyperautodidactism thing is that as they’re won-

dering how I learned all that I know or how I come up with these
things, I’m honestly over here wondering the same damn thing.
Let me tell you, it sure adds to the richness of the experience.
It adds so much—and perpetually so. This is a daily wonder, for
me. Sort of an unexpected perquisite of my autodidactism. My
pride and satisfaction in life are surpassed only by my humility
before it all.
So I continue to speak, and I do so at the risk of looking like
a fool, because I am aware of the uniqueness of my position, be-
ing myself one who speaks not in quotations but from a place so
personal. It is a very strange way to live, as I have previously ac-
knowledged, since I am just as ignorant to my own profundity as
I am to my own ignorance, and so I am left in this peculiar lit-
tle limbo beyond confidence, beyond diffidence. And I wouldn’t
have it any other way! Yet it is very odd to be reminded that this
is not the standard, and sometimes I become cynical or tend to
generalize when I look at others who, in my mind, are little more
than well-fed parrots. It’s just a difficult concept for me to wrap
my head around, from a puristic perspective, since what we call
intelligence and belief is something else entirely. It is some vis-
cous, barely-recognizable regurgitation. I would feel so insecure
to live like that. There is a genuine excitement that comes over
me when I make a point that I interpret as profound, or view as
coming into being from nowhere at all. The excitement is perpet-
ual, coming as often as I write, and from my typing comes all of
these lines and ideas that seem to arise from beyond my means,
beyond my experiences. It is truly exhilarating. It’s really too bad
that, in order to get to this point, I had to make such a large
commitment and at such a young age, and an impractical com-
mitment at that, limiting the possibility that there will be many
more like myself at any given time. That saddens me, as I would
so like to share with others this world between the walls, aban-
doned by confidence and diffidence alike. There is only love... a
love for what I am doing, and a love for what I want from it all.
I won’t act like I am immune to a tumescent ego, though it has
certainly become less in time, as I am, by now, so familiar with
how the waves ebb and flow, and wherever there is pride and sat-
isfaction, the reminder of mine own folly isn’t so far off.
All in all, when I think about it, I wonder to what extent
this has shaped and colored my experience of speaking, of think-
ing—all of which fills me with unspeakable pleasure. It is not like
some lotto machine tumbling about with the same prerecorded
answers, feeling more like an oracular event. And I notice that
others do not reap such joy from speaking and thinking. It isn’t
an adventure for them. Yet for me it is ever like one of those old
chocolate Wonderballs from the 90’s... and I’m just eating the
chocolate of language and then wee-wah-woo it’s Pocahontas!
I always try to be careful when it comes to speaking negatively of

certain projects or works since I know how it feels when a musi-
cian that I follow speaks negatively of a particular track or album
(which they created) that I enjoy, and even if it doesn’t manage
to influence my ability to enjoy the album from there on out,
their comment shall remain forever associated in my mind with
that work. Then again, it’s not like I am really holding anything
back, since I don’t really have anything negative to say anyway. I
love my work. I love it all. I typically do what I want to do, when
I want to do it. And certain things, like writing, can be frustrat-
ing, as I will force myself to do it even when I would rather be
doing something else, but hey, it’s the choice that I have made. I
haven’t been particularly joyous over my final writings... Clyssus
of Man, and the Aseitism overview. They came with greater re-
sponsibility and pressure than I am accustomed to, and if I had

my way, and didn’t have such time constraints, I would honestly
prefer to be working on something lighthearted and uncompli-
cated like my dream journals or something related to my music.
That’s just a lot more calming for me. So there’s been this con-
flict in my final phase of life, since I am now in this position that
many would kill to be in, including my younger self, where it
feels like some superpower that I am capable of accessing the an-
swer to any sort of question I could ever think up, and so I feel
like I must really milk my mind and its insights for all its worth,
but it is tiring... I’m not a superhuman. I’m just... I’m just tired.
I’ve been at this for so long. I’ve been at this forever. And the
labor would be enough on its own to wear a goat out, but then
you’ve got to factor in the intense emotional strain. I want to lay
back and sleep in the arms of my lover. I would like that very
much. And it’s not that I don’t already get to do that, but I think
that it will be a different experience when the work is over, or this
leg of it, and I can just lean back into her and know that there
will be no reason to get back up.
For decades I have imagined that there would come the day,
presumably in the end of my days, where I would be able to sit
back and smile at all that I had accomplished and just take it all
in and experience true relaxation and contentment for the very
first time, but here I am in my final days and I just don’t see how
that’s possible. I’ll be laboring with such intensity until my last
breath, putting every last minute that I am allotted into my var-
ious projects. I’m not complaining. It is a choice I have made. I
just wonder what it would be like to be able to do as I had once
anticipated: to sit back, relax, and take it all in with sheer, nonur-
gent appreciation.
The process of writing my late-life texts was very unpleasant for

me, especially since I could not write while imagining the faces
of those who will benefit from my words, but of those who will
disagree. It is a very unpleasant process when you can only hear
the words of the cynics, the skeptics, the assholes. Yet, for the
most part, it is all I have known. And it made every single para-
graph a Hell to endure. Admittedly, it was somewhat exhilarat-
ing in the beginning, despite problems caused by my physical
body, though it grew worse and worse as the process went on
and by the end it was just an absolute nightmare, and ultimate-
ly there is part of me that wishes I had never attempted to write
such texts at all and either left this all behind sooner or spent that
time more focused on what, or rather who, I love most.
Imagine that, while typing out a summary of the insights for

which you have slaved and sacrificed your lifetime, that you must
contend with an overwhelming sense of embarrassment with
every word you type—not because you are ashamed of the infor-
mation but because you can’t help but see it from the perceptions
of others and know, without a doubt, that it won’t be seen for
what it is. And that these efforts done in love will leave me hat-
ed. Just as these songs sung with all the humanity within me have
left me being treated as some inhuman creature.
As seen in the Law of Denial, the negative component, also

called a Denier within in this context (and it doesn’t have to be
negative by our standards, however, all things must be balanced,
and the thing which is created in response to the first seed will
always be the ‘greater’ of the two... or so it seems) gives way to the
positive more commonly than the other way around, if not con-
sistently so. The lowest of the equation typically comes out first.
Power, as a concept, came about through Weakness. Gnosis and
Knowledge came about through Agnosis. Oh this seems too dif-
ficult to convey, even for me. I’m so tired. What does it matter?
I’ve got all the lights of Heaven zooming through my braincase
and yet I can hardly lift a finger.
“Expatriates of Eden”—now that’s a powerful but understated

song on a collection of powerful but understated songs. If I really
sit and think about the lyrics while I listen along it just gets me
bawling. The lyrics sing about being forced out of the world that
you know, the world in which you were grown; forced out of
paradise and shelter, as is exemplified by the song title, only to
stumble upon something truly wonderful, magical and nurtur-
ing which forces you to realize that the shelter within which you
were raised was a prison. Some of us won’t end up finding our
true homes because we’re convinced we already have, and it real-
ly takes us being forced out to really know that it was never ours
to begin with. The imagery almost has a classic Narnia feel in my
mind, dredging up the imagery of a young boy who is bleeding
and running out into the wilderness only to discover some sort
of clearing or utopia hidden away therein. To me it also makes
me think of EOL-FIRMAMENTAL, without being so specif-
ic, simply because that is the image I maintain in my mind of
some comfortable and paradisiacal land that will welcome me,
celebrate my growth and mourn my suffering. “Baby Sacs”, also,
feels like EOL for me.
I no longer experience my creative output as an achievement as

much as a liability, since that is how this fragile society looks up-
on all that I accomplished through great courage and effort. I

hope to reclaim my proudness some day, but that may not come
until I have finally left this earth... this heinous mass...
It truly leaves me dismayed to look out into the world, as I live

my life, dedicating my every waking hour to exploring large-scale
problems and questions relating to how to truly heal and uplift
both the species and Existence, and after years and years of con-
stantly toiling over such things I will come up through the man-
hole to catch my breath, only to look around and see that a com-
pletely different set of problems pervade the minds of the above-
grounders. Suddenly the concern is whether or not someone is
lying, or trustworthy, or you have men trying to rule over oth-
ers and prove their power, and obsessions with sex and authority
and greed and money, and it is so bizarre to me to see how we
can become so distracted by our own insecurity and smothered
dispositions. Obsessed with winning and all such things that put
others down. No man wins until all have won. And yet I am the
immature or unrealistic one while everyone around me is beating
their chests and finger painting and barking. Maybe this is really
the difference between the lesser and greater paradigms that I’m
observing, in that the masses have no means to see beyond their
own dispositions to the perspective of an objective Existence.
And it’s weird to think that I was once just like them. Yet I can
hardly recall anything about that life of mine, even if it was not
so long ago by the world’s measurement. I can read through old
writings and know that I used to be more selfish and less com-
passionate as an individual... but I can’t really access that memo-
ry... and it exists only in my records... perhaps having dissolved in
Agnosis along with all memory of its happening.
I have rarely seen my father since 2019. That is due, in part, to

the entailments of my final astragon, which has left me phasing
in and out of a trancelike state and barely in touch with that real-
ity. Moreover, I am not willing to stand within the same room as
him at any given point because he is a fool who insists on denying
or at least downplaying the ongoing pandemic and has refused
to take any precautions whatsoever around the house, including
vaccination. I never complained about all of the extra steps and
stress that was pushed off onto me due to his selfish inconsider-
ation and foolishness, yet he still scoffs at me when he sees me
taking precautions: basic precautions such as wearing a mask and
cleaning surfaces—the likes of which I often did anyway. I be-
gan wearing a masks as early as 2018, and by the end of 2019 I
was wearing a mask daily around the house, although I have con-
sistently worn a mask within mine own home since the start of
the pandemic as a means to prevent any sort of transient illness-
es, including the common cold which could ravish me in my cur-
rent condition (to the point where he hasn’t seen my actual face
even a single time since 2019). He even caught COVID, possibly
twice, and did not notify me until after the fact since he “didn’t
think I should be alarmed.” After half a decade spent sitting on
his ass playing video games and never wanting to go out, all of
the news broadcasts telling people to stay inside left him feeling
unreasonably antsy, triggering his inner contrarian and he decid-
ed that 2020 was going to be his year for change and began go-
ing out every single night, deciding it was time he started dat-
ing again and also attending church. He didn’t attend church for
much of the decade and suddenly began going to two services
weekly along with home group. If I wasn’t taking my own precau-
tions then his negligence could have spelled my end. And even as
I go to these lengths to keep myself from developing additional
illnesses before I have completed my life’s work, there is no part
of him that feels any sense of personal responsibility in all of this.

Because as dearly as I await my death, I would not want for my
death to come by way of negligence and abuse from my enemies
but by my own hand, and only after I have managed to complete
my work—and I am now so close to that point. After many years
of allowing the house to fall apart, he has also decided to reno-
vate: new floor, new furniture, new appliances. Could his timing
be any worse?
I do not generally think of my life as a happy one, having never

really had a respite from the hardship—not since 2008. While
everyone endures some hardships, the suffering that I experi-
enced on a daily basis was of the sort that was constantly pushing
and exceeding the limits of what I felt I could handle, to where
I never really contained any semblance of mortal security. So it
was never as simple as “Damn, what an awful day!” and almost
always “Will this be what does me in?” Not since I was around
seventeen years old did I sleep at night assured that I would wake
up on the following morning. And each one of the nights since
then... it’s not just a statistic... those were real nights... every one
of them... that I laid in bed struggling for my life in a variety of
ways... and then when I awoke on the next morning I could nev-
er decide if I was relieved or upset to be returned again to this
warzone of a body.
Though when I look out at the lives of others, I think that
my life was a lot better than it would have otherwise been, all
things considered. Everything seems to balance itself out, and
the positives are always equal to the negatives, even if the posi-
tives and negatives don’t always manifest in a way that is readily
perceivable. For instance, when we hear the term ‘positivity’ we
equate it with happiness and material riches, although ‘positivi-
ty’ could likewise refer to talent, ability, knowledge, wisdom and

other attributes or happenings which you neither sense nor see
unless you are exercising that specific set of muscles. And per-
haps this relates to the bond between Gnosis and Agnosis. If
one considers that all suffering occurs as the outcome of the in-
teraction between Gnosis and Agnosis (sometimes explained as
“ignorance of our knowledge and knowledge of our ignorance”)
and if all things are established upon consciousness and con-
structs that we would standardly consider ‘mental’ or ‘gnostic’,
I wonder how my actual efforts to grow and learn have con-
tributed to my suffering. It’s something I always pushed out of
my mind throughout my life as I didn’t want to support the tired
notion that those who are intelligent and/or aware are fated to
end up depressed and ill, though there may be something to this
(something less obvious, nonetheless).
But as I’ve said before: these people who don’t have much
negativity in their life also generally don’t have much positivity.
So to compare my lifetime to that of the average individual is not
to compare someone with an easy life to someone with a diffi-
cult life, but someone with minor wins and minor losses against
someone with life-affirming wins and death-dealing losses.
My greatest crime and offense in life is that I insisted on not

questioning the self-estimations of those with whom I interact-
ed, along with the fact that all the abuse and neglect that I ex-
perienced made me overly vulnerable to promises and positive
feedback, in which case I showed myself as too willing (wanting)
to trust that this was something unlike all that I had experienced
before—referring to how I continued to fall for the same trap
again and again despite my experiences.
As deeply as it has hurt me to labor all my days and then receive

an utter absence of feedback or acknowledgment, I do quite like
the idea of having created my body of work in the absence of
such incentive, knowing that so little of what stands in our midst
was created for the sake of itself, whereas the art and philoso-
phies which so enrich our lives were often just hobbyism at their
base. It may be a bit of a puristic point to take, but I don’t doubt
that it counts for something.
In my youth I was told by my parents that flossing [my teeth] was

dangerous and therefore they did not allow it of me. It pisses me
off in retrospect that I never really questioned or challenged that
notion and basically just lived my life neglecting my oral hygiene
for no real reason whatsoever. Meanwhile, my mother’s teeth are
literally rotting from her mouth and she can’t stop showing off
her huge black gaping molar holes to everyone who will look.
Human interaction is no longer as it once was. There are some

benefits to be had and experienced from communication, yes,
but it feels like a waltz through a minefield, and the more com-
fortable I become the more I endanger us all. I proceed with
the understanding that if I should take one wrong step and utter
one wrong syllable then it will all be over, and that mine in the
ground doesn’t give a damn about who I am and what I want or
the color of my intentions. When you’re seeing things in these
terms, it’s difficult to derive any joy from socialization, and the
closer you find yourself getting to someone, and the more you
want them in your life, the worse it feels to me, because the
precedent has shown me that time and closeness are of no mat-
ter in the end. This is undoubtedly colored by my trauma, but it
would not be right to act like it is all perceptual, when that trau-
ma first came about via the conditionality of this unconscionable
sphere. I don’t believe that this view of things has ever actually af-
fected my actions in the sense that I have not been known to pull
away out of fear, always wishing that this will be the time that the
pattern is broken, but it repeats again and again and it seems that
nothing I do can change that.
It’s just sad to me, because I was dealt a crappy hand from the
very outset, and while that is not at all uncommon, nor is it suf-
ficient as an excuse to lead a lazy or ignoble life, very few will re-
cover from such conditions and go on to live a life of fulfillment.
Then the illness added on top of that made it so much more dif-
ficult for me to really come up for air, but by some sheer force I
managed it, and I really seemed to be on the road to recovery and
fully believe that I could have reclaimed my life and led a com-
fortable existence were it not for stupid things like the health-
care industry in the USA being a complete fucking joke and my
inability to form relationships. It is truly a shame. I could have
been one of the ones that got out. I had all the means, I had the
will, the dedication, and I certainly put in the effort, but one can
only do so much on their own strength, and by the time that I
reached the surface I was promptly swatted back down by those
who thought me an animal; an alien belonging to the depths.
Having had even a single, emotionally-mature individual in my
life would have changed my world. Sadly, they are not as com-
mon as one may think, and those who we regularly opt to regard
as grounded are simply those who are adept at avoiding every lit-
tle thing that causes them discomfort, as opposed to being those
who are actually capable of withstanding the discomfort. What
bothers me mostly is that I am left feeling as though I failed, and
I dare say by no fault of my own—like an ailing homeless per-

son who worked many years to obtain a decent position against
all odds only to get fired due to budget cuts and for no reason
relating to their performance. The company simply went under
and it took them with it and it didn’t matter how they fought.
It may not have been a total failure on my part, yet how can I
not feel like a failure? And it’s so goddamn disorienting, because
this was not supposed to be the problem; this was not supposed
to be my tribulation. This was supposed to be the easy part. In
2014/2015, after making it back out into the open air, I breathed
the longest fucking sigh of relief, knowing that I already fought
and overcame the elements. I already fought and overcame the
devil. I already won, as far as I was concerned. I killed the bull.
Yet now I’m locked forever in the maze because I can’t pay the
toll. It’s so disorienting. I beat death. I conquered myself. I ex-
tinguished the flames. And now I’m stopped by a bored, anxious
and nihilistic public not for any reason but because it has no in-
vestment in seeing me succeed. I had to teach myself to speak, to
think, to act when no one else would do it for me (whereas my
parents sought to disguise their negligence and ineptitude as a
valid option under the guise of homeschooling). Maybe I could
have done it without any helping hands, but I surely can’t do it in
the face of active opposition from the people in my life and the
masses of society who seek to stifle and undermine my progress
if only to assuage their own insecurities.
It is so strange to me that, in a world populated by nearly eight

billion people, our modern network is such that those eight bil-
lion people are all watching the same six television programs or
listening to the same twenty pop albums. Whole countries, con-
tinents are moving with the same mannerisms, gestures, despite
a relatively unlimited range of human expression, although such

a highly limited range is considered appropriate, and should you
fall even slightly out of the range of their pre-established propri-
ety you will be classified as an outsider and ousted straightaway
like the devil that you are—not because you are wrong, but be-
cause you don’t play their strange games that they consider law;
that they consider normalcy. Be nice, but not too nice; be inter-
ested, but not eager; dezinezinet. For god’s sake, look at how I
am able to express myself in my texts, and then look back at some
of my texts from 2011 and 2012. I was an absolute mess. I had
to overcome that. I had to learn to speak without perfectionism
and whatever else was keeping me paralyzed. Look at all the la-
cunae resulting from my dumb fucking rhythmic thinking pat-
terns (actually, I might have done away with a lot of them before
posting my works, but there should still be some visible patches
in certain documents, like my 2012 diaries).
Some will opt to say of my life that it was own fault that I suf-
fered as I did, opening myself up to so much vility, since I know-
ingly vulnerated myself to the world. But to me that’s like saying
that one is at fault who is honest when it is more convenient to
lie. I may not have understood the stakes coming into it, but I
understand them now, and let it be said that I have never once
been tempted by the idea of going back on what I know to be
this wholliness.
I don’t feel like people can really dissever the cause and effect and
their reasons. It’s like “I punish him because he’s screaming/fight-
ing,” Yet, in reality, I am only screaming because I am locked in
a torture contraption. Yet the torturers and even some onlookers
will still think my torture is justified on the basis of my scream-

ing and wailing. It doesn’t make sense. It’s a logical disconnect on
their end, like where retaliative measures are used as a justifica-
tion for why someone attacked in the first place, and that’s just
not a valid argument, despite being often given, and I feel like
I’ve dealt with this so much within in my life: where your strik-
ing back ends up being held up as a justification for why they
initiated a strike. God, I hate this society. Is there a name for
this? There fucking should be, as it’s a very vicious fallacy. Re-
taliator Fallacy? Slapback Fallacy? You see this so often with law
enforcement, where some cop is being a jackass and finding fault
where there is none, and then when the person expresses out-
rage they get punished and the cop can blame the person’s reac-
tion as being the cause for all of this... ignoring the real inciting
agent. Where seeing how one reacts to their abuse. Admonishes
the guilt of the abuser or otherwise serves to act as a retroactive
justification for the abuse, thereby overlooking the fact that the
reaction was just that; a reaction to an instance of abuse. I’ve seen
similar acts used as a tool by sociopaths, but that’s not the same
as what I’m talking about, which is not deliberately or even con-
sciously enacted.
Sometimes I think back to the sense of humor that my mother

and I shared. Notwithstanding my negative feelings towards her,
we still interacted a lot and it wasn’t always chaos, or not the neg-
ative kind of chaos. Often when taking a break from my work I
would saunter on up to her computer room on the second floor
(third floor if counting the basement) and she would show off
some video or song or some such. We would sometimes watch
music videos only to mock the performers. I remember we would
play the video of Sweet’s “Kiss You All Over” on a semi-frequent
basis—not the main music video, but the TopPop version that
you will find on some video streaming services—and we would
just laugh hysterically while mocking the performers and how
‘the only normal one was the guitarist’ since the lead singer is ro-
mancing himself bizarrely for the entirety of the song while all
of the other guys just have these zombified, dead-eyed expres-
sions as if they’re all caught in their own little k-holes. That was
our style of humor. It doesn’t sound all that sophisticated, and it
wasn’t, but it was funny for us. And we would just sit there and
laugh. My sister and father didn’t have that same sense of humor.
They were never as connected to their emotions and they weren’t
as willing to poke fun at their environment.
*In my final years around these parts I’ve definitely taken a hard
turn toward antitheism and I would align myself with atheistic
beliefs despite finding agnostics to be a more tolerable crowd
overall. It may seem a bit strange, especially due to the elaborate
spiritual philosophies I’ve put forward, but I don’t see that there
is any contradiction in what I am saying, since Aseitism is totally
nontheistic (as in having nothing to say of a deity or deities and
being more or less compatible with individuals all over the spec-
trum). I aim to behave with respect toward all individuals re-
gardless of their beliefs, though I’ve certainly ceased viewing re-
ligion as a victimless crime; and while the psychomythologian
in me still holds to the position that religion has the potential to
bring with it certain positive effects upon the minds of men, I
strongly feel that when all is taken into account, the cons vastly
outweigh the pros, and that human society would be in a far
healthier place were it to move on from ideas regarding deities
like as a child moves on from training wheels, prepared to accept
that there is no evidence of a god or gods within our reality.
I view such faiths as I do the Chinese practice of footbinding

where, on the outside, one may look and think them good and
saintly, saying “Aw! Look at the little feet, they’re like the feet of
a doll!” Yet when you look under the hood they are not precious
or delicate but broken and grossly deformed, and the society
which surrounds them, the society that encourages such actions,
is so grossly misled, so grossly misinformed, having the sickest of
priorities to encourage such an ideal which is not possible within
our world. And I simply can’t stomach the ways in which we are
breaking ourselves, deforming ourselves, to meet a standard of
being that is not only at odds with our inherent make-up, but is
acting on a stilted view of ‘holiness’ which I would call false and
even antithetical to actual holiness, surely as holiness should im-
ply wholeness, while modern definitions carry out only the most
divisive practices which call us to compartmentalize and discrim-
inate and confabulate and suppress that which we are, becoming
dulled, delusional and fragmented. And I want to scream out in
pain and anguish at the sight of our precious species as it wars
against itself and squanders the only chance at life it has been
given under some sick pretense that causes them to lie and hate
and dissociate.
Part of the reason explaining why I didn’t take to such a
stance sooner (or at least vocalize my feelings) really comes down
to the fact that I just wasn’t sure what would take the place of re-
ligious myth within our world. I’m all for science and nature and
whatnot, yet unlike many individuals I’ve just never been able to
see these as suitable replacements for the rich mythological in-
frastructure that often comes into our lives by way of the reli-
gious traditions of the world. That isn’t to say anything against
the quality or competence of science and nature in illuminating
our lives; they simply fall into completely different categories,
serving entirely different purposes to our species, as far as I am
concerned, and to get rid of religion and expect science to take

its place is like removing fruits and vegetables from our life and
expecting us to be content with a blender or juicer (although
maybe that’s not the best analogy). And note that when I refer to
nature in this instance I am not so much referring to what is nat-
ural, since Aseitism can surely be considered natural as it draws
from nothing more than Existence, but naturalism as material-
istic earth-worship, hippy stuff, tree appreciation, haha. As so, I
was and am justifiably concerned by the inevitable lean toward
materialism/mundanism and nihilism that would come about in
the case that religion died out, both of which I clearly oppose
as I believe that they would harm our society all the same. I am
not the type to believe in some bullshit about how mankind de-
pends upon a god or gods for its morals, so I really don’t believe
that any sort of moral chaos would ensue. What worries me is
motivation. What worries me is the ignorance which leads us to
conclude that, because we were lied to once, then nothing must
be true. I am worried about where we are at in the modern age
when it comes to nihilism and mental illness. And while the re-
ligious response seems to be just to deny that you’re struggling
with meaning and ignore your depression and anxiety and hope
to pray it away, the atheistic and nihilistic response seems to of-
ten be just denying that meaning even exists (which is no better)
and content yourself with an unfulfilling existence.
***The population can be difficult to deal with for a wide variety

of reasons. Some individuals may be considered difficult due to
being hostile assholes. Some are immature, senseless. And then
there are those like myself who simply didn’t always understand.
I was never a jerk, an asshole. I was never mean, although I could
sometimes be controlling—not ruthlessly so, but merely in my
attempts to provide order and direction to the situation, like as a

conductor more than a boss. Though I that think people some-
times got impatient with me for the simple fact that I come from
a different world and didn’t readily grasp the customs. I think
that’s what they would say: “He was a good guy that just didn’t
understand how the world works.” It’s quite funny, ain’t it? And
it bothered them to be around someone who didn’t see the need
to work as a slave or to kiss all the same asses. If I am to hear “This
is how the world works,” from one more individual I’m gonna
snap their neck, because look around you: the world DOESN’T
work. It subsists, and BARELY, as it is reaching out desperately
for a remedy, a change. So while you sit around with your plas-
tic cups endlessly removing the water from this sinking ship, you
have the gall to mock us as useless as we leave the safety of the
boat to swim around beneath the surface, sacrificing all comforts
while in search for an actual remedy... something with which to
seal and repair the ship in the long term so that we can LIVE
and THRIVE instead of just EXIST. Makes me think of that
Maslow hierarchy which... admittedly... I’ve given a middle fin-
ger to in my own life... attempting to start from the top... but still,
I dream of a world where all needs are satisfied and where we
can live a life of CREATION rather than just REPARATION.
That’s my idea of paradise, and how beautiful it is...
Where I speak of the myriachoron, it may seem that I have made

it out to sound like we are limited to singular analogies, like
to say that the mind is an analogue of Existence and nothing
else. That isn’t the case. I have found that there can be innu-
merable representations per every meaning. Continuing with the
previously used example involving the mind, which is regularly
compared to Existence, this is considered a ‘myriachoronic
paragon’—the best known example of an analogue/Represen-

tation per a given Meaning. I take various factors into account
when making that statement. Universality of representation
(“everyone knows what a mind/consciousness is, making this a
top tier analogy”), simplicity of analogy (“not requiring any huge
leaps or ridiculous convolution to make the point”), and the ap-
propriateness of the comparison (“as in being an indisputable
myriachoronic analogue which I consider to be a purposeful rep-
resentation of Existence and not just some literary metaphor I
cooked up to illustrate my point”) to name a few. Our concept of
humility and agnosticism is seen as a representation of the first
cause/catalysis.
As I noted, I’m not going to be a jerk to anyone for holding dif-

fering points of view. There is also the fact that a ninetieth per-
centile of so-called friends, family and acquaintances in life have
been Christian (non-Christians are somewhat of a rarity in my
hometown of Lynchburg, VA, especially when living down the
street from Liberty University). I aim to behave respectfully in
the company of all, and not just for my own sake but because I
believe firmly in the power of kindness as someone who has been
so long deprived and disturbed by its absence, but I find it in-
creasingly difficult to stomach the ideals and the lies and the pol-
itics of mainstream religion (which, in my country, is definitely
going to lean heavily toward Christianity). I certainly wouldn’t
want religious persons to see me as some hateful and angry in-
dividual who opposes them, even if I don’t agree with every as-
pect of what they believe, and I don’t wish for my views to pre-
vent anyone who identifies as Christian or some such from re-
ally being able to enjoy my works and what I have to say (espe-
cially when I was technically still identifying as religious when
I recorded my music project, if quietly and questioningly). You

also have the fact that Aseitism is perfectly compatible with nu-
merous religious world-views and I don’t want that detail to get
lost in the shuffle and have it seem as if religion itself is the prob-
lem when ultimately what I take issue with is dogmatic theism
and what it means for our development as a species. I often think
about the individual that I was, and all of the inner trials that I
had to overcome in my quest to find the truth beyond biases and
bubbles, and I had no one to really answer my questions or to be
with me non-judgmentally through the process and I had to go it
alone, as many do (and I had no online community or anything
of that sort to even tell me that I wasn’t alone in my questions).
So that is one of the gauges which guides my actions: would my
attitude or my actions prevent a fifteen-year-old me from think-
ing highly of me or even listening to what I have to say? That be-
ing said, I sadly doubt that young Korneli would have been able
to hear my words or develop any respect for me if I was hard-
hearted and prone to lumping all religious persons together un-
der one big broken umbrella, and for him I opt to stay soft. Then
let it be said: I shall dedicate my respect to every living creature,
regardless of creed, if their beliefs should not conflict with their
ability to be honest with themselves. And I’ll let you come to
your own conclusion on exactly what that means.
It’s not just like “I had a bad experience so I am going to
take it out on religion and then force my antipathy on everyone
else.” I’m looking around me, seeing it take place, and I want to
scream at what we have allowed to become of us all. I am wholly
convinced that religion is directly responsible for nearly all evil
within our midst, and I’ve offered a definition for what consti-
tutes evil, as in the normalization of suffering, and indeed re-
ligion has done that more than any other institution or event
(although these neo-feudal ‘capitalistic’ conditions are certainly
not far beyond it). It has changed our way of thinking, from sim-
ple things such as the ease with which salvation and forgiveness
can be achieved, to what such concepts actually mean, to distort-
ing not only what we think we want but what we think we de-
serve.
*Distorting and outright curtailing our estimations of our
own potentiality. Distorting our views on the worth of this
world, this species, this existence. Perpetuating harmful gender
roles which have kept females subjugated far longer than we can
justify with our modern knowledge. Religion has been politics
all along; a harmful concatenation of control achieved through
fear. But unlike politics which occurs consciously, religion differs
by being equally, if not more so powered by the unconscious
processes of mankind and therefore we can blame something else
for the words that spew from our mouth, like drunkards who
shit where they please and then blame it all on their drink.
We’ve been working with atheism and agnosticism for a
while at this point, both of which effectively argue the inaccu-
racies and fallacies of theism from a logical point of view. Still,
theistic religions have withstood all such attacks, not because the
arguments are not logically sound, but because they do not fill
the hole left by religion and therefore do not appear like a valid
alternative to the people of society who seek security above all
else. Aseitism, however, differs, being that it is capable of satisfy-
ing that void left by religion, therefore beating theism at its own
game by presenting an alternative which contains nearly all of
the same pros while lacking many of the cons (although I hesi-
tate to frame it in such terms, since my purpose for sharing all of
this is not in an effort ‘to beat theism at its own game’ and assert
my view as superior, but an honest search undertaken over the
course of my life to uncover the facts of our reality, and I don’t
think it is presumptuous to be excited about what this could
mean for the species if we were to hold firm and develop upon
these principles. The people may argue that there are no claims
to Existence loving us, while there are claims that God loves us...
but do I really need to shine a light on “God’s love”?
Even though I hail from a family of Christian fundamentalists,

I would consider them somewhat atypical in their focus and at-
titude. You often hear of people coming from a Christian fam-
ily that are highly bigoted and loathe homosexuals and, well,
sexuality in general, and similarly social topics, while my family
didn’t ever make those issues their focus, being predominantly
concerned with the topics of heresy, end times/tribulatory mat-
ters and secular media. Those were the hot button issues, at
least when it came to parenting. They were especially opposed
to Catholicism, Pentecostals and other Christian denominations
which were treated with all the danger of a Satanic cult. That be-
ing said, their bigotry and audacity did increase to a significant
degree in recent years as their Christianity has been swapped out
for Trumpism and the Book of Murdoch.
**And as for sex, that wasn’t really something that they ever
spoke about (and I know that I mentioned this at some point
within my texts so as to confirm that my asexuality and sex re-
pulsion didn’t actually take any influence from my religious up-
bringing or my upbringing in general, unless the mere fact that I
learned about sexuality so late into my teen years could be seen
as having any power over my innate biological urges, although I
somewhat doubt that).
Whereas “Glitch Doctor” started off the (Theion Water Pourer)

album, “Chloroformula” (later to be called “Crypta”) was the
closer as it used a similar melody to allude to the opening of

“Glitch Doctor”, since the latter was about my trusting the dae-
mon, whereas “Chloroformula” was about my not being allowed
admittance into Heaven due to my so-called “demonic interests”
and drug use—like a somber ballad mirroring the tone of “Glitch
Doctor.” I never got to record it as I wished but it was a really
powerful allusion, what with the way that the songs fit together.
*I don’t claim to fully comprehend the effect that my manner of

writing will have on my reputation. I exist within a vacuum at
this point, as you should know, lacking all sense of society and
its standards. As so, I am sort of just writing mindlessly but al-
so passionately in an attempt to do as much as I can before the
flames take me in, and I can jump from discussing complex onto-
logical postulates to whining about social media and loneliness
in the next paragraph without any sort of guilt or sense that what
I am doing is nonstandard. I’m really not sure how this will re-
flect upon me or if it will have any effect on the ability of oth-
ers to take my more philosophical and spiritual work seriously,
since I am so open and willing to expose the fact that I am not
some stilted wall mount of a philosopher but a feeling, fallible
individual. I do ponder the question periodically, although nev-
er so much that I am willing to stop what I am doing and alter
my approach or reign in my honesty and candor. The masses are
still identifying and coming to terms with what it means to be
human. We’re still adapting to the fact that the internet has giv-
en every person a platform from which they may interact with
persons across the globe. And all of the scandals that make up
the headlines day after day after day: are they truly scandalous?
Or are we merely adapting to a reality that differed from our
ignorantly-maintained expectations? That being said, I can’t say
for certain how I’ll be portrayed, seeing as I’ve shared essentially

every part of myself with the world via my lifetime of multidisci-
plinary journaling, and I wonder what the takeaway will be. Your
instinct may be to say that I am far less respectable as an individ-
ual than others in my field. I recall reading an online summary
of the occult philosopher Manly P. Hall and it saying something
about how he and his friends went to great lengths to keep the
details of his personal life from the media lest his image be tar-
nished; and it's strange to me, since he does, indeed, have this
cool, mysterious and refined image which remains intact even af-
ter you consider that he may have had something to hide. Hon-
estly, I’ve never read any of his works and know very little about
him, although I still tend to think of him as one of the more re-
spectable occultists simply based off of what I know, and also be-
cause I really don’t like the typical LaVeys and Crowleys who get
all of the limelight despite being charlatans who built their em-
pires upon justifying their instincts and lusts. I guess I just won-
der: how would everyone really measure up in a world in which
all facts regarding our hearts and minds were public knowledge?
I may seem a lot less respectable than some physician or occultist
who maintains a prim academic image, but if all the cards were
really laid out, would I really be so unrespectable in comparison?
Is this all a unicorn poll? Still, I anticipate a lack of respect and I
don’t know that there’s anything I can do about that, and I don’t
really care to correct it. I just... I just think about these things a
lot. I try not to overthink the things that I am saying when it
comes to writing my diaries. I don’t do much thinking as I put
these words to paper. It’s like one need not exert the energy to
actually lift and tilt and pour out a cup if the cup has become so
full that it will overflow and pour out on its own. Thats l sort of
what I am doing in this case... the blood has risen so high it just
pushes itself out naturally at this point.
Will my willingness to speak out about my emotional suffer-

ing detract from the ability of others to take seriously my meth-
ods on account of the fact that these methods couldn’t prevent
all suffering within my life? After all, this is often the gauge (how
senseless it is) by which we decide whether something is effective
or not, and that is truly strange if you think about it and only
goes to show that we value security above truth as well as being
paradigm locked into a lack of understanding of suffering. And
those people who do end up using this information against me:
do they think that Darwin and DaVinci and Luther and whoev-
er the hell they’re always quoting... do they not understand that
these people went through emotional pain as well and just be-
cause it’s not visible... does that mean there are no consequences?
I think that there is still this stigma against emotional suffering,
at least relative to physical suffering, since whereas the latter is
accepted and often not held against us and our character, one
who has endured emotional suffering is often characterized by
that suffering, as if it denotes weakness or the willingness to en-
tertain such dark and desperate thoughts. And it’s so strange that
it should be that way when so much of the population has expe-
rienced grief and should understand the nature of inner anguish.
Yet there is still something so undignified about it, in terms of
how it is viewed and portrayed. I don’t expect that to remain the
case for long. Society is clearly undergoing some notable changes
in how it tends to and understands mental health as the older
generations are dying off and being replaced with a youth that
isn’t so unwilling to open up about their problems (although the
reasons may not always be so... kosher).
It is popularly said of The Velvet Underground that they were

relatively unknown during their heyday, though everyone who
bought their albums ended up forming a band, and this created

for a disproportionate sense of their influence. I like to think
that, while very few people may have heard what I have to say,
that those who listen in will go on to live consciously, coura-
geously, passionately, humbly and actively in a way that is rarely
seen in our society, creating the greatest impact. It sounds like a
big thing to wish for, but that’s what wishes are for.
I have also maintained a diary of sorts since 2019, called The

Dissolving Path. It’s not quite a structured diary as much as it
is a dumping ground in which is contained all of the loose ram-
blings and thoughts that I write down throughout the day. The
tone of this work is exceptionally dark, as it largely comprises
the distressing and traumatizing thoughts which interfere with
my thought process as I am working, and I write them out in an
attempt to work through them (or at least lessen their hold on
me). It’s not something I would openly recommend to others,
although I do feel that it captures my mindset and Volens in a
way that no other work to my name has managed to achieve and
therefore I have opted to release it to the public in all of its raw,
disorganized disturbation.
Each day that I survived used to feel like an achievement. It’s

been a very long time since I felt that way. It is now more com-
mon that I will begin each day with a feeling of disappointment,
wondering how and why I am still here. All of those who abused,
neglected and ignored me when I sought help and friendship are
now just left feeling that I exaggerated my condition if I’m still
alive. I don’t feel like I’m winning. I feel like my loss increases
with each day I remain.
We like to think that if we point out the faults of those who

offend us that they’ll apologize or at least come to realize their
fault, though it is more commonly the case—at least in my ex-
perience—that they attempt to counter our complaints like it is
a battle to be won. Those who have hurt me, once being made
aware of their error, will even be content to alter their opinion
about me (even when it requires them to believe in lies of their
own creation) simply as a means of protecting themselves from
the shame caused by what they have done. In other words, by
minimizing the worth of the opinions held by those who have
brought their flaws to their attention, they minimize the hurt
caused by the reality of their solutes. I expect something similar
to occur in all the cases where I have spoken ill of individuals
within my biographical texts. I don’t think they’ll feel apologetic.
I think they’ll convince themselves I was less decent or at least
less credible than they actually believe(d) simply to spare them-
selves of having to feel the sting of what they’ve done, and that’s
quite unfortunate, because all of this is entirely unnecessary. I on-
ly wanted my grievances redressed, if discussed, and for them to
spin it into an attack, a competition, is absolutely uncalled for.
I most despise those who claimed to care, to see me, to under-

stand me, for it is them who took from me my will to fight by
showing me that the care offered by the world is not worth living
for, being only nominally set apart from unconcern.
I think that the lack of sympathy and support that I was shown
by my parents and others when in distress resulted in the various
behaviors that I exhibited in 2009 which, though not quite what

I would call competitive, could easily be mistaken for as much.
I was highly sensitive in that time regarding my struggle and in
some way it seems that I needed people to know. A desire for af-
firmation, especially when combined with a begrudging attitude,
can certainly mimic competitive behaviors.
One of the things that put me off from society, or from the spe-
cific individuals with whom I interacted during my lifetime, is
that it never felt like anything stuck, or accumulated. I am heavi-
ly into storylines and narratives, as should be readily evident, and
this applies to my daily life. As so, I expect today’s deeds to stack
and combine with tomorrow’s deeds to create a structure that
will support all the days that follow. Yet with every social interac-
tion it’s like I am being asked “...and who are you, again?” or hear-
ing them say “I don’t care if we’ve been friends and you’ve been
a good, honest guy for four years. I’m just going to snap or aban-
don you as soon as you slip up or say a single thing that I don’t
like.” It’s like society has amnesia and I am unable to build up my
worth and reputation in their eyes. The masses will just as easily
betray me after a decade as they will after a day. It’s like the film
Groundhog Day, and nothing that I do is actually building rela-
tionships or kingdoms or whatever. It’s maddening, and I can on-
ly take so much of it before my integrity and idealism just puts in
the padlock and I stop my attempts to interact. It pulls me out of
my train of thought. See, in my world—my cramped little under-
ground rat kingdom—actions stack, and all has a continuation,
and yesterday’s questions leads me on to today’s answers, and that
which is nurtured and maintained is healthy and secure and can
be relied upon to not give out at the slightest fucking brush of a
butt hair.
The churches, the workforce, the entertainment industry, the

schools—all hollow and empty. The masses will worship any
wild leaf that offers them the slightest experience of pleasure
and attempt to equate it with meaning (which I find interesting,
since a better measure of meaningfulness is not “how good it
makes one feel” but rather “the extent to which it allows one to
endure unpleasant circumstances”). And I’ve made it out of the
trap, but I don’t know how to help others that are still caught
within its clutches—especially when they see the loneliness and
ostracism that came to me as a result of my dissenting and how
it led to serious illness and trauma on my part. How can that
possibly seem like a positive thing to them when they equate
victory with pleasure? How will they look upon anything that
I’ve achieved and see it as meaningful when I am yet so bloated
with pain and suffering. I often struggle to explain this idea and
I have attempted it at several points within my texts. I’ll try
again, because that is what my fixation requires of me: let’s imag-
ine that the majority of individuals live within this horrible, sar-
cophagous city. We must escape to the wilderness outlying the
city. Yet we must do so together, or else those who escape to safe-
ty won’t really experience that safety, since the modern wilder-
ness is devoid of certain resources and, well, people, that even
those who end up doing as they should in this case will end up
living miserably, unable to really populate and clean up and civ-
ilize the wilderness. That’s probably not such a great metaphor,
but it ultimately means to say that no man is truly free until we
are all free. It ultimately did me little good that I was able to es-
cape the slavery which enslaves the masses. That is how it often
feels, anyway, although I won’t deny that I have gained so much
from the process, and never in a million years would I trade my
realizations and my outcome for a comfy life as a hostage to one’s

own fear and inability.
I did not allow bitterness or entitlement to overtake me. I did

not seek to burden those around me with misery or guilt over
what was not actually their fault. So I kept at it and I did so
with poise. I kept working, fifteen hours a day. I kept working de-
spite the constant sacrifice that it required of my physical body
(particularly my throat and my hands) which required me to
come up with all sorts of workarounds just to be able to continue
creating and communicating. The able-bodied individual cannot
fathom working with the hours and psycho-emotional intensity
that I have worked for decades. I created and published new
work every single day for the better of a decade. And yet it seems
I’ve actually declined in my reach over time, having fewer peo-
ple following along with my words now than in 2017. I feel
that I’ve wasted years concerned with making things more or-
ganized, more accessible so as to improve convenience for those
who don’t actually care anyhow, when I would have much rather
been working on new material. I wasted years trying to find a
failsafe to guarantee my work wouldn’t vanish when I died when
all of this could have been solved by a single willing individ-
ual promising to look over my work and make sure it didn’t get
deleted if and when something happened to me.
How did the concepts of power and comparison develop in a

world in which Existence is the sole force? Through need. The
need, via its multifarious entailments, ends up perceived as in-
ability and weakness. That’s all that our ‘power’ really is. We
think of it in very stupid terms: this guy has money and muscles
and influences. But it’s about satisfying the needs of the day. So
many of these things which we are dealing with in our species,
such as religion and power, have evolved out of Existence’s in-
ability to grasp or satisfy its own need, or at least its state of need-
iness. It’s not the simplest of concepts to describe, unfortunately.
Many will turn to those experiencing hardship and make false

promises about how ‘things will get better’. I think that, in my
case, rather than telling others that “It gets better,” when I know
that it very well may only continue to get worse and worse de-
spite your sincerest efforts, I would say to stop counting on and
waiting for it to get better and to find something that makes the
nightmare worthwhile. I am lucky to have things that I can con-
tinue to laugh at even when knowing that laughter will cause my
throat to tighten. I still laugh daily, and seemingly far more than
most adults. The shiftiness of my life gave way to a rare good-
ness in quality that can’t be denied. True suffering produces true
appreciation, true empathy, true wisdom, and I experienced true
joy in experiencing these things. Such a weird life and circum-
stance, and it might not always translate well when I’m seen de-
tailing the horrors and suffering that I must contend with on
a daily basis, but then it should be taken into account that the
mere fact that I have remained in this place for so long speaks
well enough for itself.
Gnosis refers to objective knowledge, whereas Agnosis refers to

objective ignorance. And by ‘objective’ I mean only to say that it
occurs on the level of Existence itself, with Existence being the
observer, so to speak. This is how and why certain elements sur-
vive while others ‘perish’. I can’t tell if I’ve made this clear enough
in my texts, what with the way that gnosis and agnosis are pre-
sented in a way that is simultaneously complex and oversimpli-
fied. We [Essence] can not ‘possess’ Gnosis or Agnosis much as
we cannot possess Existence or anything else existing on the ob-
jective, greater paradigms, although we can partake therein.
A delirious, experiment-driven eighteen year old with his blood-

shot eyes and dehydrated, dayglo urine.
**My opinion of religion has oscillated over the years. I have ex-
pressed my disapproval of certain religions and their customs, or
their follower base, although I have also taken the stance that re-
ligion provides a necessary stimulus unto the human mind and
its functioning, even if the specifics are what I would consider
lies and foolishness. Even as late as 2018 I had a very ‘chaote’ ap-
proach to it all, thinking that ‘as long as it nets positive results for
the individual and doesn’t harm anyone then how can it be a bad
thing’. However, since my trial and my integrating a greater para-
digm, I can no longer hold such a neutral, inoffensive stance. I do
not wish to make of myself some aggressive, ‘Bible-bashing’ war-
lord, but the ickiness that I feel when I hear worship music and
similar nowadays is off the charts. It seems like the most uncon-
scionable thing to me. When stepping outside of its commonali-
ty... stepping outside of the principles and all of the common ar-
guments... I am looking at it less from the angle of the rightness
or wrongness of its practices, and more at how it developed and
how something so destructive has managed to sustain itself. It is
a testament to the sheer horrid potential of the human species,
and it should horrify us to behold. The mere idea that some peo-
ple got together and elected some man, some myth, to save us,
and that it would last for millennia and billions and billions and
billions of people would give up their lives and their need for evi-
dence to this arts and crafts project—the only good of which has
been to confuse people on the nature of morality and to placate
people in their lives with some false understanding my of death.
These are human lives that lived and died in vain, and if that is
not tragic then nothing is. There lies more tragedy in a Christian
hymn than in all three-thousand songs of my public discography.
And these fables have a hook in us, in that they contain bare-
ly enough reality for us to consider the whole lot worthy. It is a
nightmare, absolutely, and I am horrified to see it through these
eyes, although I don’t know what to say or if I should really be
saying anything. After all, I don’t really expect to sway anyone, so
I’m just anticipating making myself a target and that sure as hell
ain’t fun.
I have previously explained that Gnosis and Agnosis differ from

our concepts of knowledge and ignorance by being essentially
the knowledge and ignorance which exist on the objective scale,
experienced by Existence itself. Another way to put it is by saying
that Gnosis and Agnosis are the knowledge and ignorance in-
herent to the mind (Existence) whereas knowledge and igno-
rance of a lower, more subjective and incidental character, tend
to be associated with the specific thoughts that we think up in
the day. For example... I’m thinking about quantum mechanics.
There is a certain knowledge inherent to that idea even if some
of us lack the ability to grasp at it. Many ideas are associated with
higher knowledge requirements. It is simply a fact. While think-
ing about a cheese wheel or a colorful bird, those concepts don’t
have such high requirements. Figuring out how to make a cheese
wheel from scratch, on the other hand, is a different matter en-
tirely and requires greater knowledge. And it’s sort of an inter-

esting thought to ponder... this idea that knowledge and igno-
rance, or Gnosis and Agnosis, are inherent to Essence and not
subjective experiences at all. Of course what I’m saying is nei-
ther particularly organized nor compelling. I’m just quickly try-
ing to pen down my thoughts on the matter so that I can build
upon it later. I wonder how this relates to the knowledge pos-
sessed by individuals: a dimension which we swear is innately de-
cided. If Essence—which we equate with humanity, the environ-
ment and everything before us—comprises not more than cog-
nitive processes, like inquiries being carried out, like thoughts
within a mind, code sequences in a computer, then perhaps the
intelligence of an individual merely comes down to such strange
factors, as in the complexity of a particular process. A computer
program only comes with and exerts as much RAM as is required
for its tasks, and I certainly don’t believe that anyone is really at a
disadvantage in life in the sense that everyone has equal access to
Existence—not necessarily because of some ideal of ‘fairness’ but
due to the very nature of our supposed origins, which ultimate-
ly has me thinking that each ‘person’ is ultimately no less and
no more than what is required to fulfill a process, a duty. This is
not entirely coherent, but surely there is something to take away
from all of this rambling on my part. But again, I’m just getting
my thoughts out. Just like Existence is not something that is pos-
sessed by us, but something in which we partake, I’ve come to be-
lieve the same thing about intelligence, and that the level of in-
telligence attributed to an individual is really just sort of like the
ram (or Gnosis) that a given Essentia is using up, or being shown
by Existence. The intelligent folks, as we’ve labeled them, may
simply be carrying out more complex processes, although that is
not to say that they are in any way superior, just as a huge pro-
gram that crashes your computer isn’t necessarily any better than
the lesser programs which are not only a lot more convenient to
use but more universal due to their lack of requirements.
There has been a bit of talk on the matter of antibody-antigen

relationships and complexes and such matters as the dissociation
constant (which measures the affinity of a given antibody and
its ability to dissociate from the decided target). I was initially
working with a totally mental model of Essence, seeing as my
background is in psychology and ontology, although along the
way I was able to speak with an associate of mine who specializes
more in biological and anatomical systems and is therefore more
apt to view it through such a lens and this has given me plenty
to think about. There are places where we disagree, although the
disagreements aren’t so significant as to cause me to really take
back anything I’ve said. As long as my readers can remember that
‘the book is not the revelation’ then there shouldn't be a prob-
lem.
...and by adhering to the Model of Uncoverment, rather than

to the Model of Unfoldment, it would seem that Existence is
plumbing the depths of Agnosis like the depths of the ocean,
casting queries into the void from which it came. That’s some-
thing important to note: what we call creation isn’t really cre-
ation in the artistic sense, but like archaeology. All that we know
and understand of the world, consciousness and the self have
been plucked from Agnosis. There could be anything ‘in’ Agno-
sis, but the very nature thereof is that it evades the awareness of
Existence, much as ignorance represents that which is unknown
by Essence, and one cannot account for their ignorance and fac-
tor it into any equation. Therefore I would assert that the rela-
tionship between Existence and Agnosis is very much like our

human relationship with the unconscious mind.
**I worry that people can readily grasp, let alone appreciate, the
difficulty of really sitting down and attempting to translate in-
sights of such metaphysical breadth and magnitude. It’s not as if
I have had all the secrets of the universe handed over to me on a
charcuterie board. I’m having to sit here endlessly dissecting and
siphoning and transliterating these things into something that
can potentially be understood. But then the public will be mer-
ciless and unforgiving when it comes to how they take to these
insights... and any imperfection in my delivery will reflect poor-
ly upon what I have been shown. But it’s a sort of map is not
the territory thing, only it can be better said in this case as “The
book is not the revelation.” Indeed, my words are representations
of something that is not composed of words. As much as I am
in awe of my position and what I have witnessed in so short a
time, the pressure does get to me (and it certainly ain’t mixing
well with my illness).
As for free will, and how we develop ‘independently’ of Exis-

tence’s influence: consider it as a thought within your mind.
We follow our thoughts more than we actually steer them. One
thought leads naturally into another and we follow along; and as
we are considering what that means, new thoughts and implica-
tions crop up which lead us on to yet another. The act of think-
ing is therefore not as deliberate and controlled as we might be
inclined to imagine; but when you really stop and, well, think
about it, it seems so much more like you’re a spectator to your
thoughts rather than any sort of conductor or controller. That
isn’t to say that we haven’t any real means to steer the course of
our thoughts, but it requires great and consistent efforts to do so
and ultimately it may be assumed that we will spend the majority
of our lives merely beholding some play as it unfolds in response
to the little cues and actions carried out by ourselves and those
around us. That’s all that I have to say on the matter. I don’t be-
lieve in any sort of deliberate, intentful interference on the part
of Existence, although our being is ultimately still moving along
on a sort of existential track.
This ‘faith’ is a horrible concept, as if we were purposed, for

whatever reason, to exist in this world with doubts as to the ex-
istence and nature of something greater—and to do so by de-
sign. It’s a very strange idea that we’ve accepted... all this wonder-
ing. Yet we are foolish to wonder. It was never supposed to be
that way: only when we concocted something greater and more
abstract than anything that actually, truly exists in reality did
we cause separation from ourselves and our Existence which en-
velops us all.
We hold to these faulty views about how progress is achieved,

equating the adaptation of ideas with their entertainment value.
Many of the works in which we see worth at this time will not
be remembered in a hundred years: why? Since there is a distinc-
tion between what sticks and what doesn’t and it has naught to
do with entertainment, even though there may be a metaphys-
ical overlap. These progressive elements have a quality of rele-
vance—consciousness—to them that most elements lack.
***The domus has been a large consideration in my decision to

delay my departure, as it were, following the completion of my
goals, if for a little while, seeing as I have not yet divested from
my Volens in its entirety, despite drawing upon mine own Inten-
sion in ways that would be considered uncommon even among
the inspired. As so, the ambit of my domus has not yet set, or so
I have gathered, and I have opted to let things play out a little
longer in an effort to see what becomes of it. As much as I really
don’t want to be here, the gambler in me is going wild over the
opportunity.
There may come those who look to me, hearing my claims and
my spiritual spiels, and then ask “How can he be heeded when
he cannot even spare himself ? Why should he be heeded if he
can not achieve x?” First of all, if we are to overlook the ideas
of Volens, as well as the fact that trauma represents a fissure be-
tween Expectation and Reality, and that I must necessarily con-
tinue to hype up the potential in my endeavors—inflating my
expectations—if simply to be able to push past the depression
and futility that I feel, thus making it so that the cycle will never
end...
I don’t think people will realize that for several years, and
misguidedly so, my goal was not even to be healthy, but to be
sick, more or less. I didn’t fail due to a lack of power. I failed
due to having power before I lacked the wisdom and maturity
to know how to use it. Eighteen-year-old Tendon didn’t want to
be some empathetic humanitarian. He wanted to be a maniac set
apart from the others in whatever ways he could manage. You
can understand why I don’t iterate it overmuch. It is upsetting.
**As I’ve said in times before: the vast majority of individuals are
working with faulty estimations of their own strength and abil-
ity, which they conflate with their social and familial networks
of support. Someone such as I never had anyone there to tell
me “Don’t worry about this, I’ll protect you,” or “Don’t listen
to them, they’re wrong.” As so, so I didn’t have any artificial di-
minishment of my worries in life, nor an artificial inflation of my
perceived security and strength. So whereas some may peruse my
writings, thinking me obsessive or strange to be fixating on cer-
tain ideas to the point of illness, I see this as a very natural mode
of cogitation which is not interrupted and assuaged by extrinsic
hopes and promises of protection. My thoughts and estimations
are reflections of my actual abilities in the absence of any external
support and security. And does that make it a valuable insight?
I think so. I think I represent something more natural and hon-
est, even if I am not representative of what is common upon this
earth. I also don’t think that the propensity for misestimation in-
herent in such a position really undermines that worth, especial-
ly when one should consider the nature of synaphation as com-
pared to basic logic.
I think that irony, or irony to the extent that we are seeing with
modern online culture, extends beyond fad and preference, be-
ing a pathological manifestation akin to dissociation: a defense
mechanism; a means to protect oneself and evade harm done to
the psyche. It is a means to interact with life while keeping the
dimensions of meaning and relevance at bay. By allowing noth-
ing to mean anything to us, we can’t really get hurt. It’s a simpli-
fication of a complicated and oft-unconscious process, no doubt,
but I believe that it is a defense mechanism beginning with mod-
ern social systems which really strip us of our defenses and our
rights thereto. I think that humankind is more overwhelmed by

the increase in socialization and connectedness than it admits to
itself and it copes by taking part in this mass ironicisation. Soci-
ety will refer to persons like myself as ‘sensitive’ when what they
really mean to say is that I have not been desensitized—literally
‘deprived of sensation’.
The line between trend and defect has become nearly impos-
sible to disentangle within our modern world. Has that always
been the case? I don’t know. I’m just a poor poor pool toy.
I don’t think that I would have gotten nearly as far in my devel-

opment if I was a more competitive person, because although a
sense of competition can motivate us to action and bring about
an industrious working ethic, which is seen as good, it does also
determine the path that our efforts will take and will inadver-
tently prevent us from really branching out beyond what is im-
mediately qualifiable. For instance, if I saw myself as competing
with other authors of the era, within or without a specific genre,
I would commit to being bound to a particular game and its
rules, e.g., the rules of modern pop par literature, and that’s just
not compatible with the realm of exploration or actual spiritu-
al growth, amounting to not more than some rather superficial
gains in demonstrable talents, abilities and achievements which
are so often ends in themselves. That is really not a great exam-
ple, but my point still stands. I say this to discourage competi-
tive focus in those who desire authentic spiritual growth. It may
seem to help with motivation, though its limits and restrictions
vastly outweigh its allowances and advantages. Early on in our
lives it may seem to us that all motivators are created equal, but
they take us to different places, surely. Also, take care to note that
competitiveness is not tantamount with the ambition to suc-
ceed, for one can be focused on achievement without also being

driven to beating out all others who are putting forth efforts to
do the same. For me the focus is simply on bringing this world
something useful, something as such that it has never seen be-
fore. Those aspiring for the same are not my antagonists but my
brothers and sisters who I wish to know.
If asked to describe the agonography like as any other literary

genre, I would say that it is a subset of nonfiction which, because
it is inwardly and symbolically focused, will naturally resemble
what we know as fiction and mythology. Yet it is a symbolic and
cerebral style of autobiography which looks to explore the in-
ner landscape and abstract personal connections, especially with-
in the context of an astragon, which entails a focused effort
at actually experiencing one’s individual psycho-symbolic land-
scape through forced interactions and measured via synaphation.
Therefore, an agonography does not simply see an author sitting
down and deciding on some plot. The agonographer starts by
amassing a catalogue of relevant symbols and then allows them
to represent themselves in full and to work off of one another,
disregarding the will of the author in favor of answering to their
inbuilt contexts. The story is not written, per se, but guided
by an actual effort, an actual undertaking, an actual conflict.
Without that undertaking (the astragon) one is essentially writ-
ing an allegory or psychedelic biography, whereas agonographies
are said to “write themselves” in the same manner that dream
journals may be said to write themselves, or basic travel logs.
One may also think to compare it to a sort of divinatory means,
like a ouija board or automatic writing, as the focus isn’t on
controlling, crafting or guiding but on being led, being guided
through our own landscape, and the outcome may not be readily
comprehended even by the person who has experienced it. I’ve

continued to study my own agonographies all my days, treating
them like sources and references to which I continually turn
when trying to make sense of certain symbolic connections (not
unlike the aforementioned dream journals) since the agonogra-
phy should speak to something natural, something instinctual,
rather than to a some carefully orchestrated literary effort which
upholds our egoic needs. That isn’t to say that it must be a
mess—not at all. My agonographies were often poetic and well-
edited so as to be easily readable, yet I was cautious to avoid
changing the specifics.
I am naturally right-handed, but a boxer's fracture in 2013 led

me to favor my left hand, which I’ve used dominantly through-
out my latter years.
My biography will be outsold by fiction. My music will be out-

classed by whatever is danceable. My mind will be disregarded by
anyone who fails to understand what I have to say. I don’t mean
to sound so joyless, but it is true that I would rather move on
from this sphere than continue to build my monolith within a
world with such low, low ceilings.
Why does Essence—an emanation of Existence—fall into a state

of ignorance as it ‘splits off ’, failing to retain access to the full
scope of Existence’s objective understanding (Gnosis)? Apart
from the fact that a single thought cannot contain the fullness of
a mind, despite being connected, through relationships, to oth-
er thoughts within the mind, the meaning behind this problem
is explained thusly: Gnosis cannot comprehend Agnosis, much

like knowledge cannot comprehend ignorance (which, in this
case, may be better framed as “Knowledge cannot comprehend
where knowledge is absent”) and I have to expect that the point
that I am herein making will evade most of my readers, so please
take your time when it comes to absorbing this thought. This
is why Essence has been separated from the objective, so-called
‘greater’ paradigmata and returned to a state of Agnosis, for only
the agnostic Essence can truly venture out into the void of Ag-
nosis and bring life to the unknown territories which lie beyond
the frame of Gnosis. It is Agnosticism which invites Gnosis, like
it is humility which invites knowledge.
Mankind is not prepotent. Consciousness exists in the animals,

too—at least. I think that there are some evolution-adjacent
ideas at play here. In any case, animals are not inferior to
mankind, being a product of the self-same process: attempts by
Existence to resolve its needs. Despite what has been put into
our minds by religion, mankind was not made to resemble Exis-
tence any more than any other thing, although that isn’t to say
that we don’t exist in different roles. Existence is formless while
containing all forms within itself and shares as much commonal-
ity with the flora and fauna, for all are its varied emanations. The
distinction between us is not as master and slave, but as hammer,
wrench and screwdriver. We are all generated in mind of the dif-
ferent needs we are to serve.
That’s what is so strange about the perspective seen in The Dis-

solving Path, and explains the unique sense of desperation and
why it is so disturbing: all that I have to say is coming from the
position that I am someone who has taken every opportunity to

do what he believes is right and he has accomplished all he could
have dreamed of accomplishing. Most people crying out... we
would think of them as lost, because they lack a hold on them-
selves, yet I am not lost. The sorrow beheld in this text there-
fore relates most often to the sorrow of doing the right thing in a
world in which that isn’t respected... or living among people who
don’t sufficiently value humanity and themselves, let alone exis-
tence. The sorrow that I experience comes from having gone as
far as I can on my own strength. The sorrow comes from waiting
for years and years with my hand outstretched.
There are consequences to come of truth and honesty, and I find

that fact strangely attractive, as encapsulated by one of my com-
moner sayings: “If this is the sum of an honest existence then
this, too, is true.” There are a lot of cases in life where it would
seem that my openness and honesty have led me to experience
suffering that would otherwise be avoidable, and it is supposed
that this has had a role to my play in my failure to get by in the so-
cial sphere—not because I am some blunt prick who speaks crit-
icism and censure when it is not asked of him and then hides be-
hind the excuse of “I’m just being open/honest,” but because I’ve
not hidden any part of my heart, mind and history from pub-
lic view, and the very thought seems to unnerve a lot of people
(along with leading to more misunderstandings than it has ever
resolved). Yet if this is the natural reaction received by my being
open and honest, then I never merited any more to begin with,
and to be given more in life only by the grace of the ignorance
of the other party does not sit well with me. It’s no easy task to
live my life in this manner—especially when it really seems like
I am the only one holding myself to such a degree of account-
ability while everyone else bends and contorts the truth to their
whim and figures they are in the right to show off and conceal
as they wish, saying “Everyone does it!” and “Masks are necessi-
tated by society; by life!” Yet my attraction to this concept is not
diminished by the pain that it brings, and instead of seeing my-
self as being ruined and my privileges removed, *I prefer to see it
as reality exposing itself to me, and I am able to have an honest
look at my real possessions, my real friends, my real abilities, be-
cause if they can not withstand exposure to the truth of my per-
son, whatever that should entail, then they were never mine at all
except under false pretenses and ignorant reception. People may
assume from my social situation that I’ve done something wrong
along the way. “Perhaps it is in my attitude.” Or I’ll be thought
of as sad and maladaptive for my inability to find a family and
friendships when that was clearly something that I desired from
this life; but the truth is more philosophical, and let that not im-
ply that I am over here causing my own problems. What differ-
entiates me from the majority is simply that I refused to accept
something that wasn’t deemed real, or true, for the sake of my
own security and pacification. It is so dangerous to accept such
things, but it is the standard, and once people make concessions
and accept a lesser truth, they see their definitions being altered,
inch by inch, until nothing remains of verity in their lives (or the
desire for it). It is in this way that the Volens is lost utterly to de-
sensitizing practices.
I sometimes think about the picture of Judas Iscariot run-
ning through a field and simply being eviscerated... imploding...
exploding... I love that image. And it sounds like such a strange
and disturbed fantasy to entertain, but when I get to talking
about truth and passion like so, I feel that evisceration... that im-
age... and it feels to me like a positive thing... to just burst. To
me it seems romantic. I don’t expect that what I am saying will
make any sense to my readers, though, and I am only describing

an abstract sensation within myself: of being so full with passion
and care and love and desperation that I could burst, and that
I would welcome it... a rapturous and violent bursting. Immo-
lation conjures up a similarly romantic feeling within my mind.
To burn with my love, my immutable fervor; to feel myself over-
whelmed in my final moments of this embodiment in a heat
so frenzical wherein all love, despisal and desperation come to-
gether and scream out before becoming ash. My ‘preoccupation’
with immolation has amounted to some conflicts with my part-
ner and I, while she seeks to convince me that there are better
ways to divest which need not bring any added suffering to a
life which has already know so much suffering, though she fails
to understand how it would appeal to me (or she pretends to).
Within my altar, at which I routinely conduct my meditations, is
stored a diverse collection of accelerants in the hopes that, upon
my divestment, the Manus Dei will drop from my hand and al-
low me to know both outcomes.
A lot of those tracks labeled as ‘outtakes’ or ‘first takes’ are poor

in their performance and very often humorous, at least in my
opinion, though more than being some silly outtake or insight
into the process, I also think that they provide insight into where
these songs might be taken if they were to be re-recorded and
made longer, or played live. For example, I could definitely see
combining the outtakes of “Romeo and Oubliette” with the al-
bum version if I wanted to perform some extended version live,
and the same goes for several others. Though, like I said, it also
gives insight into my process, and how it frequently entailed just
having a manic fit and throwing a bunch of things at the recorder
and then slowly cleaning it up to reveal a semi-clean and com-
plementary composition neath the mess. On a delayed note, I

was just listening to the first take of “The Auger” (which honest-
ly gets me grooving more than the version that appears on Abra-
cadammit) and I was thinking of how cool it would be if, during
shows, the song moved seamlessly and powerfully into “Lamaze.”
It’s little ideas like that that get me excited.
Even if the performances are poor, not only does it bring me
joy to listen to these clips, but it does add more melodies to my
repertoire, which is more important to me than looking like a
hunk. And like what I had to say about my music being compa-
rable to empathetic and psychological sigils, I also see it as leav-
ing my audience with additional ingredients with which to work.
It’s a far cry from the stance that I once took, when I would have
hired a lawyer if someone so much as looked at my albums the
wrong way, hahaha, but I would really love to see the music be-
ing treated like valid sigils, or paints with which to construct new
works.
In an earlier file, in which I attempted to describe my sense of

humor, I struggled to think of an example of what I deem ‘fun-
ny’. Well, I recently came across my old Space Ghost, Brak and
Strongbad CD’s that I listened to a ton in my youth, and I can
confidently point to those as an apt representation of what gets
me laughing—perhaps not the CDs in themselves, but Cartoon
Planet (1995-1997) and Strongbad’s emails. It also brings back
great memories of when I used to spend hours each day brows-
ing the Best Buy and Amazon website around 2000-2005 only to
listen to :30 sound samples playing over RealAudio Player. That
was the only way I could really hear the music before I went out
and paid full price for a CD (unless I wanted to go through Nap-
ster or KaZaA or something similar, which my parents mostly
forbade and only used on occasion for their own purposes—not

mentioning the fact that it often took an hour to download a sin-
gle track).
We become so locked in a groove, a way of thinking, and society

itself is like some endless groove. I won’t try and act like I don’t
have my own grooves—surely I do—but I also feel that I am in a
position to speak to the people of society on certain matters such
as these, being an outsider who perceives all the strangeness that
is normally overlooked due to overaccustomization and desensi-
tization. Our affiliations, our accumulations, they do not always
serve us, and sometimes it takes an individual beyond the grasp
of common propriety to break down the door.
I think that the fact that I was able to make something of my re-
ligious upbringing spares me of a lot of the negative feelings that
might have built up otherwise. My lifestyle didn’t really change
after leaving the church—in the sense that my pursuits retained
their spiritual and moralistic nature all the same—so there never
existed this incredible conflict between ‘the old me’ and ‘the new
me’ and the associated goals apart from the whole theistic matter
which was quite difficult to ditch, but I’ve faced so many chal-
lenges in my life that I don’t really bat an eye at such as this.
I think negatively of the church and the faith in which I was
raised, but I can’t say that it was a waste, as it really gave me the
platform on which to establish my search for the truth, and I
therefore consider it indispensable to what I would become, and
by considering it necessary I can’t quite consider it a regret (al-
though I wouldn’t want my words to be taken out of context
and used to uplift the heinousness of the church in which I was
raised, as my ability to heal should not cause us to overlook the

danger inherent in the acts, the world, that I endured, which I
view as a cancer regardless of whether or not I, personally, man-
aged to kick it). Leaving the church was a difficult process on
some level, but I still considered myself a Christian at the time of
my departure, so it wasn’t some jarring door slam of a transition
as much as it was this slow crossfade occurring over a decade of
time, in which I resolved my doubts one by one via deep reflec-
tion (and not simply by acting out of emotion or arbitrary crite-
ria). I’ve noted previously that I didn’t really allow my personal
experience in the church to overwhelm my understanding of re-
ligion itself, and I feel like my process is a testament to that fact:
a testament to the care and objectivity with which I faced the is-
sue. When one believes their very soul to be at stake, it is no place
for grudges and emotions. And the long, slow process really al-
lowed me to work through any remnant anger and doubts so that
I am left with no conflicts in the end, feeling satisfied with where
I am and my understanding without any sort of dissonance. In
my latter years I’ve become more of an antitheist, and to some
that may be indicative of anger of some sort, however, even if
there happens to be anger or emotion involved in my stance, it
is not of a personal nature. It is not a vengeful emotion, but the
emotion that I experience while watching as millions of people
live and die in tragedy: the tragedy that, in our desperation to
survive, we are only rushing headlong toward our destruction.
The tragedy that, in our attempts to make sense of it all, we have
settled for blatant lies.
I recall a time when I was around fifteen or sixteen and I was

shopping with my mother in. Walmart. We were in the frozen
food section. Now, I had been wearing makeup for well over a
year at that point, so it really wasn’t anything unordinary, as I

wore it daily, even when having no social obligations. It wasn’t
even something that my parents ever opposed, being that they
were big into glam in the 80’s and my uncle is still sort of per-
petually stuck in a Hollywood rock star mindset and wore make
up until... relatively recently. That being said, I must have been
wearing it awfully thick on this day, or perhaps my mother was
just in a testy mood. And I don’t know if we had gotten into a
spat or what, but while standing in the frozen food aisle she got
really loud and angry and told me that I “looked like a fucking
clown.” That was a really strange moment, since it was my first
time hearing that word coming from my mother or any one in
my household (or anyone not on television, for that matter, con-
sidering how secluded I was in my youth). And it was such a big
deal at that time that I couldn’t get any media with f-words in it
and it always caused trouble in the house because it was so off-
limits and reviled. So this was just one of those weird moments
within my formative years as I slowly came to recognize the hu-
manness and, ultimately, the hypocrisy of my parents. Of course
her cursing became more and more common over the upcoming
years and I was having to hear it during every outburst; but that
first such occasion will always stand out in my mind.
The pressure is becoming too great and I want to weep. I have

labored as diligently as I have and for all these decades without
pause to bring into being these profound and original works and
statements, and yet somehow I still feel myself to be in a place
where a single misstatement can have my entire body of work
thrown out and disregarded, with no exceptions being made and
no considerations being given. It doesn’t matter that I am strug-
gling against death as I write, simultaneously suffering the symp-
toms of fever, vertigo and low oxygen which have plagued the
writing process, but I am so cut off from the feedback of soci-
ety and forced to rely on my partner who, if I’m being honest,
doesn’t even seem all that enthusiastic about my attempts to en-
capsulate my spiritual understanding and bring them before the
masses (although, if I’m being transparent, that seems to be less
about what I am attempting and more to do with her worry-
ing over my health and the degree to which I am frustrating my-
self ). The agony is simply too much to bear, and I am not always
willing or able to admit that, since the fact is that my entire life
has been inundated by feelings of desperation and overwhelm,
and so, while that isn’t to say that it doesn’t affect me, it is, in
many ways, all that I know, and I have to think that I have adapt-
ed in some way, like an extremophile, to this psychological ter-
rain that would cause a ninety-ninth percentile of persons to slit
their wrists after a mere ten seconds spent in the presence of this
horrible, heinous admixture of death and heartache and abuse
and choking and fever and isolation and every other knife in the
drawer. Of all my achievements in life, there may be no greater
marvel than the fact that I have remained so sensible through it
all, although I’m sure that that, too, will be taken away from me
as with all other credits. And not due to some misstep acted out
in absent-mindedness, but because of my humanity which has
been put on display, and with that evidence of my humanity will
they beat my blue corpse.
With the cause of suffering being given as the interaction be-

tween Gnosis and Agnosis, or ‘knowledge of our ignorance and
ignorance of our knowledge,’ one could hypothesize the one who
entertains multiple paradigms simultaneously would experience
an exponential increase in what we understand to be suffering.
After decades of working tirelessly to improve myself and to be-

come someone venerable, I have to worry about making mistakes
out of ignorance or otherwise making statements that may seem
reprehensible a hundred years down the line but are very much
commonplace and seemingly innocuous at present. I think this
issue has really taken center stage in society over the past few
years, and it is certainly something that I wonder about—not ex-
cessively, but it does annoy me to think that I could behave prop-
erly by today’s standards and still become some retroactive de-
mon. Overall, I’m not really worried since I don’t follow soci-
ety’s rules anyhow, but my internal compass, and overall I believe
that to be more reliable. I think a lot of my upbringing was se-
riously ignorant due to the negligence of my parents. I was so
woefully unprepared for all that I would encounter in the world,
from drugs, to autonomy, to opposition in any form. Consider
the event from which I took the name Tendon. The likes of op-
position, bullying or harassment of any sort were never discussed
when growing up and, since I went so long without having to
deal with it, it often went unrecognized even when it did crop
up. I specifically recall an instance in which my father took my
sister and I to a local wooden playground sometime in the mid
90’s, and, as per usual, I would typically run off and find some
other kid to play with. There was a boy perhaps a little older than
myself who wasn’t particularly kind. I would make a silly com-
ments and he would just stare at me as if I was diseased. He called
me a retard, and I laughed thinking that he was talking about
candy (‘sweet tarts’) and that only worsened his attitude toward
me. It wasn’t like some bad instance of bullying and there was no
violence or anything to actually be concerned about, but when
my father overheard the way that the boy was interacting with
me he took us all back home and we never ended up going to
that park again. I was probably around the age of seven or there-
abouts.
In any case, I still find myself getting upset at how poorly of
a job my parent’s did when it came to instructing and preparing
me. As I once put it, they spent so much time teaching me about
Hell that they had no time to teach me about Earth. I think that
so many of the foibles that I made early on—foibles that would
cost me my ability to lead a healthy, functional life—could have
been easily averted had I been educated properly. I wasn’t really a
rebellious or troubled kid, after all, despite how the evangelicals
from my youth may try to paint me. I think so many of my errors
simply come back to a basic ignorance. Therefore it wasn’t like
I knew that what I was doing was wrong but opted to go for it
anyway ‘because I just couldn’t help myself ’. No. That wasn’t it,
and I dare say that life doesn’t fucking work that way, despite
ample and consolatory protests from parents everywhere. It was
usually just that I lacked a proper sense of my options and the
consequences. There were things like how I left the church to
explore spirituality by my own terms, but even that I wouldn’t
term to be an act of rebellion, and I do not take kindly to all
the religious folk who are so quick to label one who questions
as some sort of wicked individual. I had questions about the na-
ture of God and the universe that couldn’t be answered by cages
and cages of parrots and parakeets all chirping out what they had
overheard. Terms like ‘occult’ may be thrown around an awful
lot in retrospect to describe the practice in which I got caught
up as an adolescent, but do not give in to the sensationalism and
think that that means something more complicated than it does.
I wasn’t some vile individual burning bibles and worshiping Sa-
tan. I was, in reality, naught more than an inquisitive boy ly-
ing in bed while exploring his inner landscapes and curiosities.
Even then, it was only because my parents were always locking
me away in my room with nothing to do and I was set on putting

my time to good use. And as far as I am concerned I did exact-
ly that. That period of confinement amounted to my grandest
genesis: the music, the symbols, the practices that would lay the
foundation for a modern myth that cost me everything.
Not long ago I suffered from extreme nerve pain in my gums

which left me unable to sleep for days on end and forced to de-
pend on dozens of micro sleeps garnered along the way. While
phasing in and out of delirium on what was the most difficult
night of that experience, I suddenly recalled to mind certain
memories from the infamous near-death experience of 2007, or
from the minutes and hours immediately preceding it, that le-
gitimately haven’t crossed my mind even a single time since they
happened all those years ago, and it was extremely surreal to the
point of freaking me out. It feels very icky and strange. So it
was Patrick’s birthday, and as I recall there was this new family
from our church who had come over for dinner. It was just a very
strange situation from the outset, since his father had arranged
it and Patrick didn’t know these people at all and had no actual
desire to spend any time around them while the three of us
(Patrick, myself and a mutual friend) were essentially waiting to
dose up and do our thing. At one point his father asked us all to
come upstairs and sit with them and eat for a while and it was
just so surreal and odd, like a scene straight out of The Burbs.
What made the situation even stranger was the fact that these
people had moved into the house behind mine right before I
moved away in February of that year, so I immediately recog-
nized them, having seen them out in their yard a couple times
a while back, and it was just this weird feeling. There was this
strange, judgmental atmosphere, in which everyone was looking
at us with these huge plastic smiles and unblinking eyes while

asking us about our interests and beliefs and the like. It’s difficult
to differentiate between what was really happening and what
was drug-fueled paranoia, but damn, what a weird event. Shortly
thereafter we excused ourselves and left on a walk to the gas
station at which Patrick scored the infamous bottles of triple-
strength dextromethorphan spray with which I overdosed and
nearly died. The overdose was just so intense that it did away
with all these memories and everything else for so long. The fact
that they resurfaced at all—and on this particular occasion, no
less—is still so strange to me. This was also the event that cost us
our friendship, seeing as his dad went and sent him off to a boys
home.
I’m feeling like perhaps I should start up a separate document for

the purpose of writing out random experiences and memories
from childhood and adolescence that might not fit into my stan-
dard biographical writings—simply for the sake of writing it out.
I just enjoy thinking back on some of the events of my youth.
As a child I used to spend a lot of time sitting on the heating

vent, or otherwise lying in front of it to receive a nice breath of
warm air in my face. I would probably spend hours every day
on that vent, usually while doing other activities such as school-
work, writing in my journal or playing my keyboard. It was most-
ly used for heat, since we had a separate unit for air condition-
ing (which I would also sit in front of frequently, my face pressed
up tight against it so that I could breathe in that heavenly cool
air with its distinctive smell). I would start each day off by ly-
ing on the vent as the blue light of early morning shone through
the window above me, giving rise to what I called ‘the damp feel-
ing’ (drawing from the dew of early morning and the dim light-
ing which so characterizes the gloaming), which I have often re-
ferred to as my favorite part of the day, or even my life on the
whole. And above that vent where I laid there was a baseboard
whereon I had written all the names of the girls that I had crush-
es on, half of whom were cartoons.
I still think back fondly on the weekly shopping routine when

living in New Jersey. We bought our food from ShopRite most
of the time. There was also a chain that existed back then called
Super G, although I don’t know if it survived the decade, and
that was where we would end up going during our night-time
shopping excursions with the whole family, which was less com-
mon and most often did not entail a full shopping. I often think
back to all of the scoopy snack aisles in Super G with a certain
awe. Those were always my favorite. Across the street from the
ShopRite there was a West Coast Video from which we rented
our movies and video games. I recall all of the jellybean bins that
would come out around Easter and I would then spend forev-
er picking out a fun variety with my mother, sister and grandma
(it was the four of us who went food shopping most days, since
my father was at work, and my grandfather actually worked at
the Shop Rite where we shopped, so we ran into him a lot and
that was always funny for some reason). Vividly I recall the joy
of getting toys out of the bulk vending machines. My favorites
were the slimy toys, like the sticky hands (gummy hands attached
to a long gummy rope) that would invariably end up filthy with
hair and crumbs and whatnot within the first ten-to-fifteen min-
utes (and if not then it would probably end up confiscated after
I failed to resist the urge to slap my sister with it).
It is truly very strange to experience all that I’ve experienced and

to then realize that I am not envious of any other. I’ve noted this
before in my writings: I do not look upon others with any sort of
envy, jealousy or sadness and the only person I would ever wish
to be is mine own self. Of course there is the part of me that
wishes that my ingredients, my elements, could have amounted
to a more propitious life on earth, but these elements and their
outcome comprise the reality of my person, and it is brilliant
even as it burns and charrs. And so I speak in repetition: if this is
the sum of an honest existence then this too is true.
My best friend back around the ages of 14-15 was a kid named
Alex. He and I would go on long walks around Forest and
Lynchburg. Once we picked up a large cake from Kroger, which
I believe was pink and strawberry flavor, and we ate it while we
walked along the roadside. After eating about half of it, Alex
spiked the cake, hitting it from below, and it soared through the
air. That was just a fun and memorable experience, simple as it
was, since it was the time period in which little things like being
able to eat candy and drink soda without my parents permission
was becoming a thing, so the idea of two kids just walking into
a store and buying a cake with their own money and then eating
it as they walked along the highway was just so much fun. We
would also take off our shirts as we walked around in the sum-
mer, and while that doesn’t sound like a big deal, it sure seemed
like a huge deal for us, as we never did it anywhere else (I was
notoriously weird when it came to removing my shirt in public
and even in private, leading to all of those infamous stories about
how I attended pool parties with a large wrench and would sit by
the side of the pool claiming I couldn’t get in because I was a ro-
bot and would rust). And when he got a car? Oh man, that was
a game changer. I was with Alex and his family when they picked
it out. Looking back, it makes me uncomfortable to think of the
volume at which he was willing to play music while driving, ha-
ha, but at the time it was wonderful. The two of us also got our
ears pierced together in the mall, hahaha. I wonder about him
from time to time. My dreams still feature him somewhat regu-
larly, although I haven’t seen him since 2008 (like with most peo-
ple I once knew). We had a ton of fun together in those years, but
as I started growing into more of a mystical headcase he became
increasingly judgmental and we grew apart as a result. In addi-
tion to feeling myself judged for my behavior, he was known to
completely forget about all of his male friends whenever he got
a girlfriend and that just sort of caused our friendship to taper
off. I don’t experience any hard feelings toward him, though. It
was fun while it lasted and I can’t blame him for responding as
he did when our views diverged. He actually lived within walk-
ing distance of my house at the time, which was just absolute-
ly perfect at that age—an ideal. It would take me about twenty
minutes of walking to reach his house but I did it quite a lot and
the walking route between our houses has remained oh so vivid
within my mind. In recent years I would sometimes ask my fa-
ther to drive me down that route—for old times’ sake. Summers
were great back then. I can still smell the Baquacil. We would just
spend the days swimming in his pool and then come in and eat
the undepletable trail mix that was always on his counter while
either going on to play music or watching flash animations on
his computer. Also, his parents had a bunch of large Komondor
dogs (and one rambunctious Puli), which I believe they used to
enter into competitions or something, and it was like an ever pre-
sent earthquake of these large, moppy dogs chasing us around
everywhere we went. I can still remember the atmosphere as we
would come into the house drenched in pool water and go off
to play our instruments and he would just be spastic behind his
drum kit. At the age of fifteen, as I was writing the Divinity of the
Idem score, I had actually intended to perform that score in our
little prog band together (which I was calling Vampire Empire
at the time) with him on drums and that is so bizarre to think
back upon now, since these songs seem like holy, mystical relics
to me at this point as if from some alien planet, so hardly does it
make any sense to imagine two boys in pool shorts rocking out
to “Hide My Wrench in Umbilical Valves.” It’s so funny. I can’t
help but wonder how people like him and others that I grew up
with will feel when my story circulates. I doubt he’ll be too sur-
prised. It was probably pretty obvious that I would eventually
end up looking like an unlockable character from some fighting
game who goes by a name like Trash Wizard... Monk Punk... In-
tensive Care Eunuch. All in all, I hope that he is doing well for
himself.
As Alex and I began meeting up less and less, I became closer
to Isaac (although the three of us often hung out together, as
well), and I considered Isaac my best friend until Patrick came
on the scene when I was around age 17-18. I haven’t seen any of
them since 2008.
I often consider my erstwhile friendship with Patrick among
the closest, if not the closest, of my lifetime, simply because our
friendship had this creative and synergistic element to it and we
were super explorative, what with drugs, philosophy, music and
a lot of things that didn’t really have a place within my other
friendships, which revolved more around shared interests and...
well, just being teenage guys. Still, Isaac and Alex are looked at as
representing a more innocent and pleasant age of my life which
more so involved eating pizza, swimming in pools and playing
games. A very simple time. I see the three of us as being the classic
trio, in a way.
I had other friendships as a teenager, although I don’t think that

they would be considered ‘friendship’ by my modern standards,
as in I now require more from my relationships than ‘good times’
and like to make every effort and conversation a conscious one.
However, I don’t want to retroactively piss on what were genuine
friendships at the time and my changing needs shouldn’t change
what was. The most innocent and arguably the most pleasant pe-
riod was when it was just me, Isaac and Alex, and our lives cen-
tered around going to Best Buy once a week after church and
spending sometimes three or four hours simply looking at all the
CD cases and making up funny games to play with the album
names. Then, at the end, we would get one or two albums each
before buying either cheeseburgers or a five dollar pizza and we
would then sit in the car and listen to the albums and gorge our-
selves on food and music. They were both older than me, though
not by much—Alex was approximately half a year older and Isaac
was a year and a half older. However, we were all a part of the
same youth group. Isaac lived forty or so minutes away in Bed-
ford, so it wasn’t easy to arrange a get together outside of our
after-church hang-outs, although Alex was only a couple streets
down the road from where I lived and I could be there after
twenty minutes of walking which gave me enough time to listen
to music and pick up a soda on the way.
I vividly remember when we started cursing. It was such a
big deal. And you didn’t just start with the ‘big ones’. You had to
work your way up, starting with ‘damn’ and ‘ass’. And it’s just hi-
larious... looking back on it all now, how significant the idea of
cursing seemed at that age. It was like a significant part of our
lives, whether we did it or not, simply because it constituted this

ever present option. “Do we give in? And when do we drop the
bomb?” It sounds hilarious to put it in these terms, but I’m sure
I’m not alone in this. I would stay the night at Isaac’s sometimes,
and he had this random astronaut figurine which, to me, was
just the funniest thing in the world since he didn’t own many
toys or even any other figurines from what I recall, but upon his
shelf sat some singular generic astronaut which wasn’t even part
of some franchise. And he never understood why I found that
so hilarious, but it came to be called “Ass” and we would just
treat it like a person—“our little guy from the sky.” Alex didn’t
curse, though. So Isaac and I had to learn to compartmental-
ize. Us two, along with Sam, would curse, but no one else from
the youth group could know, so it was always a riot when some-
one let something slip in front of others, considering most of our
friends were church people, and it therefore seemed like such a
big deal if and when we let an expletive escape. I won’t ever for-
get the time when, while driving to church camp in Isaac’s car,
we were stopped by a sudden red light and Isaac let out the loud-
est, most drawn-out “FUUUCK!” before immediately remem-
bering that two others that were not a part of our normal group
were in the backseat. The one thing that was off-limits to us was
‘goddamn’, due to us seeing that as “taking God’s name in vain.”
We even discussed it, saying that we would never pass that line.
So I remember the time that I first let a ‘goddamn’ slip out in
front of Isaac. It would have been 2007 since it was this same
house, and he was parked outside of my house in the street drop-
ping me off. I think it had to do with my ex girlfriend and there
was a lot of stress in that moment for me, but I remember saying
it loud as I was exiting the car, and he didn’t say anything, but it
was obvious that that was a weird moment, like the crossing of
a line we had said we wouldn’t cross. Not that it came with any
other ramifications, and we never talked about it. It’s just a mo-
ment I recall.
There are certain things that leave me disappointed regard-
ing our erstwhile relationships, like how none of us really fought
to stay in one another’s lives and all investment in each other
sort of just departed with time as people got married, got careers
and standard stuff like that, and obviously I deconstructed from
Christianity which was in many ways the floor on which our
friendship was built, yet when I think back to those guys and
all of those experiences I don’t really have any negative feelings
and remember only the pleasant experiences. My life has pretty
much been nothing but unpleasant since 2007 so I think fondly
of the brief period that preceded it since I would never really be
given another taste of normalcy. My social circle shifted a bit in
2005-2006 and I began spending a lot of time in the nearby town
of Bedford, having formed a lot of friends through Isaac—peo-
ple that went to his highschool—and they would end up being
the ones with whom I formed my discocore band. So 2006 really
revolved around that group of Isaac, Matt, Ryan, Bryant and my-
self (and then of course I dated one of their sisters for a year).
2006 was an enjoyable year for me, though. As I said, I spent
a lot of time in Bedford and ended up attending a lot of their
school functions, such as prom and talent shows. Then, at some
point along the way, I met Will through my girlfriend, who al-
so belonged to that crowd, and I played in a metal band with
Will for a few months after my discocore band dissolved before
the two of us went off and started a psychedelic prog group with
Patrick, since Will seemed really into my four song acoustic de-
mo (Unison, The Menoroth, Cradle and All, Tremolando) and
so we would perform those songs.
A funny event coming to mind is the seventeenth birthday party

of a childhood friend, although any recall of that event must be-
gin with the events leading up to it. Isaac and I had gone out
beforehand, and I was approached by some punk in the Target
parking lot who was delivering a message on behalf of his friend,
saying that he was going to beat my ass if I continued to hang out
with his girlfriend. Apart from being considered a funny story to
tell due to the way that I handled myself in that event, it is dou-
bly funny for what came afterwards, as we received a call from
said girlfriend needing to be picked up to go to a birthday par-
ty, so we did just that. The highlight of the night was her cutting
my hair, while everyone else sat around watching and laughing
at the surreality of what was taking place. It was such a weird at-
mosphere. We were only sixteen at the time. After that I went in-
to the bathroom and my friend helped me pierce my lip by heat-
ing up the needle. His parents were not at all amused the next
morning when I walked out with a new hair style and piercings
that were clearly not there previously. They were ultra conserv-
ative—even in comparison to my own parents—and to them I
probably seemed like the devil, what with my eye makeup and
death metal t-shirts. All of us used to get together and blow up
fireworks, since a couple of those guys had a huge collection of
black cats and would lay down on the road and light fireworks
off of their stomachs. I was never quite gutsy (or stupid) enough
to do so myself, so I would simply light and toss, or I would stand
back and watch. Then again, I’m also the moron who infamous-
ly dropped a sparkler into his pants, so I really don’t have much
room to be thinking others stupid in this case.
I vividly recall an event occurring at church camp in 2004. This

would have been a year before the more infamous ‘orange mask/
bonfire’ experience which has become central to my myth. There

was a talent show held every year and Tyler and I wanted to enter
this time around, so one of the other guys in our group l had the
new album by this Christian metalcore band, and we wanted to
do a lip sync/interpretive dance for one of the tracks. Tyler and
I practiced each day around the boys dorm while others watched
and it was an absolute spectacle. We would go crazy. In the be-
ginning he would mime the clean vocals while standing still, tak-
ing a dramatic pose, and then when the growling would start
up I would drop in while tantruming and climbing on things
and flipping shit. It was unhinged. Then when the chorus came
on the two of us would sort of come together in this Titan-
ic-like pose with our arms out and it was hilariously dramatic.
Well, everything that was to go in the talent show had to be pre-
screened by the judges and so we performed it before a panel of
saggy traditionalists and ended up getting denied entry on the
grounds that it “wasn’t spiritual enough,” with one of the judges
adding “At least you got a good workout.” The two of us, along
with several other guys, sat in the back row during the talent
show chanting “Not spiritual!” and holding up signs after any act
that we did not deem to be sufficiently spiritual, and this includ-
ed a good portion of acts. It was really just an excuse we were
given because they didn’t like the loud music. Still, I think back
fondly on that event despite harboring negative feelings toward
the individuals involved for reasons explained elsewhere.
It is commonly the case that as people become overwhelmed by

questions of meaning and significance they eventually succeed
in convincing themselves that the difficulty of the process im-
plies an inherent futility, thence concluding that nothing mat-
ters and moving on to act as if they’ve reached some grand
epiphany—the result of self-conditioning and ‘psyching oneself

up’. All they’ve reached is the end of their patience, and they’ve
allowed ignorance and depression to dictate their understanding
of an Existence which defies our innate comprehension. I pity
them as victims, but so do I despise them as terrorists; especially
when they go on to devote their lives to convincing others to
essentially “stop giving a fuck” or whatever the trendy turn of
phrase within which they encapsulate their celebrated failure.
And the impatient, unconfident and overwhelmed society in
which we live will eat that message up like sweetest candy.
In some ways I am like an anti-stoic, not in the sense that I op-

pose equanimity and endurance: I am as firm an adherent to
these concepts as the stiffest standing stoics; so when I refer to
stoicism herein (which may not be an accurate reflection of sto-
icism at all) I refer to those who attempt to actually divorce
themselves from and repress their emotions, treating them like
agents of weakness and embarrassment. Our unique emotional
subset is inherently bound to our individual dispositions and
acts as the primary means by which we understand our connec-
tion (and, by some definitions, our purpose) to Existence. To sti-
fle these things is spiritual death. It will be hard, if not impossi-
ble, to convince the masses of such a stance, especially when its
benefit to our lives is not readily evident through all the suffer-
ing that it seems to encourage (although it’s not quite accurate to
conflate confrontation with encouragement, even if the two may
appear similar in the eyes of the timorous masses of modern so-
ciety).
It is not widely recognized how, in many cases, it is more ‘danger-

ous’ to ask for help than to continue silently, enduring the most
hideous of suffering. There are a lot of facets of suffering that the
world hasn’t yet explored in full, and our current attitude and
exploitation of agony and suicide is only going to worsen that
study.
I am essentially the result of someone who was always being pun-

ished and rejected without being given a proper reason for such
consequences, as well as never being allowed to question or voice
my perspective (as well as my hurt). All these things create for a
state of dissociation in which I am left struggling to understand
why I am being punished and why no one will hear what I have
to say, and there’s no communication and there’s no sympathy
and there’s no humanity anywhere that I look and I’m stuck in
a hamster wheel of desperate analysis which is carried out au-
tomatically like a biological process seeking to cool me off and
lighten my load but only ends up causing me to overheat. This
is what it looks like to have no one on your side. So do not un-
derestimate the value of having even one person who will hear
you out, for though it may seem to you as a low number, it still
settles and confirms the very basic principle that you are worth
heeding and that you make sense and that you are real. But to
not even have that... to not even have that affirmation from any-
where at all that your words are understood or that your suffer-
ing is undeserved or that your heart is earnest or that your tal-
ent is great or that your dezinezinet. And no amount of peti-
tioning changes anything. No amount of screaming changes any-
thing. Thirty years in The Muting Closet. And I continue to in-
vite change and growth through my actions, and yet nothing
takes.
I often wonder if my developmental progress is being properly

represented to the public or if everything that I’ve ever been runs
together on some weird timeline in an indistinct blur. For in-
stance, I know there to be a significant difference between who I
am now and who I was ten years ago. The differences are as many
as the similarities, it seems. I was a lot more egotistical and less
logical, less skeoejspejrifjeoenspa. Though I often have to won-
der if my audience will get a proper understanding of how I pro-
gressed? Like, will they look at a violent or haughty song lyric
and think that it represents who I am today? It’s part of the rea-
son why I haven’t uploaded more audio clips from the period of
2012-2014... because although I do have many a good “sermon
and spiel” from this period, a lot of the views that I held are out-
dated and I don’t think most people really change and grow to
such a significant degree over a short period of time as I do since
it’s such my main focus, and the result is that people don’t expect
it, and therefore they don’t acknowledge it when it happens. I
could even say the same about who I was one year ago, two years
ago, albeit to a slightly lesser degree. It’s unbearably frustrating.
To me it’s a night and day difference. Though to others it may
all get lumped together under the big black umbrella of “Ten-
don.” And that’s the weird thing of just indiscriminately show-
ing off everything that I do and think, as I am not your standard
entertainer who provides a very well-manicured, well-controlled
portrait and can make basic assumptions as to what a poten-
tial biopic will look like... whereas a biography about me could
opt for any of a hundred different paths. One must be attentive
to note the delineations, the timelines, the outdated views... oh
it’s so frustrating. I often wonder how that would look, actually,
since thirty different people could choose to document my life
and no two versions would focus on the same details. That’s kind
of exhilarating to think about, even though I also like to be in

control of the narrative.
As someone who perceived stories involving madness and inner

demons through somewhat of a romantic lens, especially when
it involved reformation, I couldn’t help but view myself as a sort
of heroic figure when I had returned to the world after my long,
dark night. So when I put my work into the public eye it was all
just a very rude awakening when I was being looked at as some-
one to avoid, since it hardly occurred to me that people might
be viewing these matters differently and through a less roman-
tic, and that was just... such an unbearable disappointment. They
weren’t seeing my victory, or even the process as a whole. They
simply glimpsed blood and did not care to learn any more about
it: not caring to learn if it ever healed, not caring to learn who
was at fault or whatever became of it all. We expect too much of
others when we expect them to be led by anything more than a
visceral reaction to the first thing that they see. There was a time
when I held even my darkest hours up in esteem. Yet so much of
that esteem has since turned to shame as I’ve been forced to view
myself and my achievements through the eyes of the blind. And
the strangest part of it all is that there is nothing within my sto-
ry that is, or should be, alien to the population at large, yet we
are so alienated from ourselves at this point that any confronta-
tion with our interiors is viewed as some act so disagreeable, so
unconscionable and beyond the merits of sympathy.
[The following was written after waking in the middle of the

night within a confusional arousal, or some such trance-like
state]
I can tell the very point at which the sadness, the grieving, the
trauma, the illness starts, and I swore I wouldn’t say anything of it...
I swore I wouldn’t ever acknowledge it—for my own sake. But in
the night during parasomnias it is there... and so clear. And through
Myriachoron this point overlaps with a very simple...
There are two points.
One feels more heartfelt and one feels more mental.
They are NOT GOOD.
They are overlapping with the cause of my suffering.
All events and substances are fundamentally mental, at least by

our terms, being constructed from pure knowledge. It’s all very
mathematical, at its base, like code that builds upon itself. Even-
tually you’ve enough code in place to actually generate a front
end structure. The same occurs in the case of knowledge, for
as knowledge accumulates and interacts with itself it naturally
forms new structures and strikes new conclusions which give way
to realization: to understand/to make real. This can happen via
natural accumulation, or in the case of the so-called First Cause,
by stropha, or paradox. With all events and substances being
mental on the elemental level, one may say that the mind it-
self is a model of timeless existence. I explained it elsewhere, but
one must simply consider that any moment and any bit of in-
formation from our lives is accessible to us in any instant via ba-
sic cogitation and memory. It’s not like everything is co-occur-
ring, but co-accessible. We’re so used to this idea that it may not
seem remarkable to us; and then there’s also the fact that quality
of memory and cogitation varies from person to person and the
inspired population will have a far richer and overall more ad-
vanced ability to recall, trace and extrapolate than the uninspired
population which lacks awareness of their own Existence and the
gravity thereof. It ain’t some random superpower being tacked

on to sweeten the deal but for no legitimate (see functional) rea-
son. It has all to do with Gnosis and Agnosis. And it makes me
wonder if Intension, also, has a role to play in memory. If Inten-
sion relates to Gnosis, then it would make sense that we naturally
recall all things carried out in such a state and it could very well
provide some explanation for why my memory would appear so
crystalline, as I have lived my life so wholly focused on Existence
and therefore my dealings have not been lost in the void of igno-
rance beyond the gnostic ambit.
This may run counter to popular opinion, but I am of the belief

that true vulnerability is something that is rare and lacking in
music, which thinks itself vulnerable on the basis that it speaks
of vulnerability within its lyrics, whereas the music conveys
something else: something practiced and polished. Overall, I
haven’t heard many performances that I would consider to be
truly vulnerable in all aspects.
Sometimes we get so used to the stories we tell about our past,

and one specific way of framing it, and it’s amazing how easily
and naturally distortions form and perpetuate themselves. I re-
cently found some notes in an old box and I’ve been thinking
back to early months of 2008–a period that is generally viewed
through a hazy, mythological lens. I often paint the story in a
very clean-cut way, claiming that I broke up with my girlfriend
in early 2007 and then began dating again later in the summer.
I paint the latter as a devoted relationship which carried me
through until the concert in 2008 which, as many will know,
brought devastation. That’s not an untrue depiction of events,
though I definitely had a couple flings going on in the winter

of that period which offer up a more complex look at where my
mind and heart were at. You must know that I was not officially
in a relationship at that time so I didn’t break any promises and
I think I would have been happy to be in a committed relation-
ship, but at the same time, it really goes to show that I wasn’t re-
ally, truly ‘in love’ with anyone. Also, ai was not able to see that
one girl at all between September and February due to distance,
and even though I wanted it to work, I wasn’t totally convinced
that it would. I had my chemical crushes, but naught more, and
I felt them strongly within my heart as any teenager, though my
actions hinted at discontentment nonetheless. I don’t want my
readers to then review an event like the notorious Valentine’s
Day concert and think that I wasn’t as hurt by all of that as I
claimed to be, since I did very much place a lot of stock in that
relationship and in that event, but at the same time, it wouldn’t
be right for people to look at all of that and think that I cared so
much for that girl that she, herself, triggered my breakdown. The
context was far greater than that and had much more to do with
my relationship with myself, or my relationship with the world,
than with one girl who didn’t even treat me all that well in the
first place. So this ain’t a case of love driving one mad. I surely
had a couple girls sneaking in and out of my room that winter.
And I still remember the awkwardness of how it all went down
when they showed up in the springtime, post-Anita, because I
am very serious when I say that I stopped all physical contact and
pursued no romantic interactions following my famed encounter
with Anita. I vividly recall one such girl showing up at my house
and coming into my bedroom and expecting some degree of in-
timacy and warmth and instead received silence and standoffish-
ness as such that she wasn’t expecting, when I rejected all of their
advances without offering any sort of explanation. They couldn’t
understand my sudden distance and this ultimately squelched

our friendship. On one hand I wish that I would have been more
sensitive to their feelings and offered at least some sort of expla-
nation, though I don’t think that they would have understood
and may have even attempted to undermine my experiences, feel-
ings and beliefs regarding Anita in an attempt to convince me to
keep to give it up and that could have been problematic.
In my years of solitude, I innocently failed to understand the ex-

tent to which the surrounding world was actually sick, also. I was
so focused on and embarrassed by my own faults and insufficien-
cies, eager to ‘catch up to where the rest of the world was at’.
My sheltered and ignorant upbringing surely played into this be-
lief. And while I was going about my way, there was no part of
me that thought that I could actually be one of the healthy ones
(particularly in the sense that I endeavored to confront the faults
within and without myself instead of going with the popular
choice, which is to simply to deny their existence until they even-
tually blow up in my face and the face of everyone around me).
I want to say that I was proud to discover as much about myself,
but it’s more accurate to say that it has made me resentful. How
does an abused, ignorant idiot from the fringes achieve control
over himself and develop empathy for his fellow man while the
majority is still making these excuses for why they can’t? I don’t
allow myself to behave any differently toward them, but there
is definitely an inner resentment. I resent those who think that
failure can be justified when growth and maturity are within the
reach of us all. Spirituality is not restricted to the laws of physi-
cality, and while there may be many reasons for why we can’t suc-
ceed in the physical world, I don’t see the same as applying to the
psychospiritual.
I am not confident that the modern public can differentiate

between vulnerability and self-exploitation (or other attention-
seeking behaviors). I won’t deny the likelihood of superficial
overlaps in certain cases, though the former is typically acted out
in an attempt at growth and is considered mature, while the lat-
ter is decidedly neurotic.
As I stated, ‘death’ as such that our bodies will inevitably un-

dergo is not the mark of a created being. Think of it like how
we die in our dreams only to then awaken into a disparate para-
digm shortly thereafter. The death was experienced as authentic
at the time, sometimes excruciatingly so, coming with all sorts
of symptoms that we experience within the dream itself, and yet
we awaken once again to normal living conditions. Why does in-
dream death typically result in awakening from the dream state
to ‘reality’? Some might innocently equate it to the body’s fear
response or some such effect, but I posit that this is demonstra-
tive of assignations at work, and once that assignation/identifi-
cation with a body, any body, is broken, the paradigm reverts or
cancels altogether. In other words, a certain degree of suffering
can bring us to cease identifying with the form with which our
Volens currently identifies. I believe this to have a lot to say for
our experience of death. We will experience it as it is happen-
ing, although in only moments thereafter there will come upon
us that sense of relief, as if to say “Oh thank goodness, it was just
a dream.”
Whereas Thummim addresses the gnostic aspect of Steulugal-

nemraiant, Parashurna—as I have previously confirmed—is now
understood as referring to the agnostic inverse of the entity.
YODHAATHMA as a term has fallen out of use and now
only appears within the context of my early practice, where it
refers to my early grasp on Steulugalnemraiant, and while being
technically synonymous with Steulugalnemraiant, I had not yet
come to understand its multipartite complexity and therefore I
saw it not as one entity but as a coalition of two entities (the two
“entities” which I now call Thummim and Parashurna). My us-
age of this name most frequently occurs in reference to the dis-
embodied voice appearing exclusively within dreamless sleep be-
tween the years 2004 and 2006 (with “dreamless sleep” now be-
ing viewed in retrospect as a deep agnostic state).
One noteworthy distinction to be made between the writings I

release to the public and those that you will find within a book-
store is the fact that the writings found in this text may not rep-
resent my firmly held opinions, being more so the thoughts that
pass in and out of my head throughout the day. The majority of
text contained within this diary has not been paid more than a
moment’s consideration, and I almost never revisit what I have
written in The Dissolving Path due to the sheer volume of it
all—and so it has not been boiled down and perfected and edit-
ed to make for a pretty quote. I am writing only what’s on my
mind, and my thoughts and logic may contain inaccuracies. Even
if that is not the case, I may simply experience a change of mind
and opt for a separate approach after writing. Sometimes I will
wince as I skim through these writings for that reason. So I sim-
ply want people to understand that the process in which all of
these things are written is not more formal than notes scribbled
on a night table as I phase in and out of sleep. I am not looking

to lay any groundwork or make any points. I’m only attempting
to give a voice to my thoughts so that I, myself, may make sense
of them, or so that others may be granted a more intimate look
into my thought processes.
I am thankful that time has made me more and more of a com-

passionate individual. After all, it is not a given, especially when
one has lived such an unpleasant existence in the absence of
kindness or support from others—something known to create
monsters from men. I’ve noted at times that there was a period in
my early twenties when it did seem that I was at a crossroad, very
much tempted to dismiss all wisdom to become a bitter, destruc-
tive individual who used his knowledge and experience toward
selfish and vengeful ends. I had written out a quote on my door’s
frame in that time which was one of those quotes along the lines
of “It is typically the tortured who grow to torture others,” and
I took that as a challenge. I may experience my share of misery
in Iife, but when I see the man that I’ve become... I don’t think
I ever would have imagined that I would one day become so for-
titudinous, so articulate, so resolute, so empathetic. These things
may not bellow from every word that I speak—and that is espe-
cially the case within these diaries in which I am less concerned
with sharing my beliefs than I am with exorcising the darkest,
most obsessive thoughts from my person—although let not the
evidence of my growth be denied or overlooked.
I love you. I do. And this love is breaking my heart. I may be

painted as a devil by the powers that be, and I despise that, dearly
I do, but I can no longer allow such worry to prevent me from
saying what I feel I must say. And if my words, my life, can bring
the population one millimeter closer to abandoning its defenses
and delusions, laying down its shield, and feeling the wind and
the rain and the joy of Existence in them in all its unknown and
uncontrolled splendor, then I will have labored and suffered with
purpose.
It is the pain of thinking that I was releasing all my diaries and

creations to the world and making myself the most approach-
able, sympathetic person of all, and the result was just the oppo-
site. It hurts me to think of what that says of the population and
the incentive for others to be honest and live openly and in a way
that is healthy. I am less saddened by my own lack of success than
I am saddened to think that those in my position cannot attain
success—not with any amount of effort.
Many have made it their goal to capture their psychological or

inner processes within their compositions, but whereas most
simply write about it, singing about the state that they’re in over
a four chord song, I sought to express my psychology with vocals
and instruments and every aspect of my performance, and I be-
lieve that what I achieved in the process ranks among my finest
achievements. I’m just sad to think that others aren’t as likely to
view it as an artistic achievement as they are to view it as an ex-
pression of an unstable creature who ought to be avoided, as if
forgetting the fact that, despite its sincerity, I am not just a ra-
bid creature in the woods caught on camera against his will but
someone who took the time to not only put all of this down on
record but to then finalize it and publicize it and provide copi-
ous amounts of resources explaining the meaning behind it all.
Yet somehow when I show it to people the reaction that I receive

is not typical of the reactions that art or music will receive, seem-
ing more like reactions to a rumor or a security cam video. Eh, I
don’t know. I just dearly hate thinking that everything backfired
on me. It’s like the difference between viewing a horror movie
and snuff film: they may present the audience with similar im-
agery, but the authenticity of the latter has a neurological effect
on us which reaches us despite the similitude of contents, and I
wonder if people won’t like the effect that my music has on them
if that is the case. I wonder if it’s so ‘real’ that it not only ceases to
be entertainment but also makes them anxious. Or maybe none
of this is a meaningful analysis at all and my head is just stuck
in an endless loop as it tries to justify and analyze my failure to
reach the people around me with the words and the world into
which I poured all my soul and all my love. It runs in my brain
like a background process at all times, with my mind attempt-
ing to arrive at increasingly novel conclusions to answer why I
couldn’t find true friendship and family in life.
In August of 2015 I created the first demos for the Specularii

project. The lyrical themes mostly dealt with dreams and ro-
mance. The song titles were all in Italian (in association with
Dean) and the cover artwork for each album came from a still
frame from one of the original Godzilla movies. I was so looking
forward to fleshing out this project further, but it was then that
I first began experiencing muscular problems which meant that
my throat was tightening whenever I used my fingers in a certain
way, and so playing the guitar or keyboard or whatever would
strangulate me. I usually speak of this as if it only cropped up in
the spring of 2017, but that was simply when it became unman-
ageable. I had already dealt with it a bit in 2016 when I tried to

play the acoustic guitar for my partner but couldn’t manage.
I had all these weird mythologies as a kid. I dreamt of this Opera

House, which to me was a very ominous concept. There were
two levels. The top floor, the balcony, was overseen by Polla,
some freaky lamassu-type creature, and on the lower level was its
inverse in Pallo, or The Basement Teeth. Then there was all this
stuff about men dying and their corpses being turned into instru-
ments that were played by Pallo, and the name Apollo came in-
to play here, which explains the sparse allusions to Apollo with-
in Divinity of the Idem, as well as the name Pallo With Thee,
in which case I have compared Pallo to the devil. This all comes
from very early on, perhaps 1997 or 1998. They resurfaced later
on, along with Saghabraze, the ancient moon serpent in my story
written around the same time. I thought that the idea of drawing
upon childhood evils and mythologies was a potent thing to be
used in my magick, because they embody very visceral ideas. You
can hear some of these brought up within my music, e.g., “Off to
Basement.”
Though I tend to refer to my playing style as ‘misanthrofunk’

in retrospect, making it seem like I deliberately set out to create
funk music, that was not my mindset at the time. I wasn’t even
aware that funk was a defined genre before late 2009, before
which everything was either dance or disco (perhaps it will not
seem like such a significant distinction, though it does to me).
My intention, in these decidedly funkier tracks of my discog-
raphy, was to encapsulate the nightside of life. Those who at-
tempted to depict the dark and the occultic often portrayed it
as some somber, scowling thing and I thought it more appropri-

ate to portray it like some strange party or casino. I was still call-
ing my style ‘evening songs’ for all the years that I was recording
although that seems neither exciting nor sufficiently descriptive
by my current standards. Another obscure inspiration for this
style was one of the tracks (and the associated level) from the
Bomberman 64: The Second Attack OST, called “Game Plan-
et Starlight” (although it bares only the vaguest resemblance to
anything that I ever created in those years—with “Martyr-Go-
Round” being perhaps the nearest I ever came).
I have experienced suffering beyond what is fathomable by most;

and yet it merits to be said that I have managed to overcome or
altogether evade the prevalent strains of suffering with which the
population is afflicted, and knowing what I now know, I would
surely rather choke and bleed for ten years straight than to live
like my neighbor whose time amounts to nothing.
It leaves me deeply upset that most talk of capitalism centers

around economics, which may seem sensible, given that it is an
economic system, after all, though I would argue that its most
significant effects are felt within the psychological and spiritual
health of the population, and if the masses truly understood how
such a system worked to derail our focus, distort our understand-
ing, devalue our humanity and confine us to a most horrific par-
adigm lock then only the most blatantly misanthropic of villains
would remain in support of a capitalist economy.
My drum machine was very old, worn-out and moderately defec-

tive in the latter years of my recording project, with multiple but-
tons sticking and being very difficult to press (and often trilling
at random). That ain’t to say that my finger drumming was per-
fect, since it certainly wasn’t, though a lot of the problems heard
on record were not by fault of my ability and more to do with
the sensitivity and integrity of the pads.
I have never littered. I have never stolen anything from a store

(if we’re not counting that time at the age of seven that I put a
pack of colorful sticky notes inside a school binder so as to slip
it past my mother, not realizing the cashier would miss it also),
I have never argued with or insulted anyone on the internet. I
have never struck or inflicted physical harm on anyone (if we’re
not counting all of the pinches and ‘Indian burns’ that children
will give one another). When looking back on the things that I
got wrong, it was mostly things like getting distracted while peo-
ple were speaking to me and leaving them feeling unimportant
or accidentally insulting someone and being too embarrassed by
my error to actually apologize. The worst thing that I probably
ever did was date a friend’s ex-girlfriend (albeit only for a sin-
gle week) without realizing that this was a sort of social taboo
and would end up leading to a temporary bout of friction in our
friendship. My parents, unfortunately, had not really laid a solid
social foundation for me and so I didn’t have the best common
sense when it came to relationships, and it’s on occasions like this
where my social naïveté really bit me. It’s like I said before, most
of the people who have a problem with me, if there are any at all,
would normally base that more on my beliefs, such as my being
an antitheistic apostate, rather than on any sort of actions that
I’ve committed. Then you’ve got all of the sociopathic pieces of
shit with whom I was forced to mingle a couple years back, such
as my sister’s husband, whose opinion of me is liable to be based
less on my character than on the fact that I present myself as a
threat to his shallow empire of dishonesty and manipulation.
I think back on the so-called friendships that I maintained in

childhood and adolescence. There wasn’t a lot of conflict, as in it
wasn’t all that common to get into arguments or disagreements
with said friends, although when conflict did arise (which, in all
honesty, was pretty shallow in nature, having less to do with hurt
and more to do with annoyance) our way of handling it was al-
ways very dismissive. We were teenage boys, after all—not exact-
ly known for sensitivity or affection (though I’ve always been a
bit more sensitive than my peers, even if I never really felt myself
able to express that openly). So we would typically avoid apol-
ogizing and sort of just pout for a little while until we decided
that it wasn’t as fun as what we could be doing instead and then
we would just resume our regular activities. I suppose you can say
that this is typical of kids and adolescents, who aren’t known for
their empathy or even their rationality, but it’s hard not to look
back with my current mindset and take issue with the fact that
no one ever really confronted the things that bothered them, and
no one really cared to apologize or console one another. And
this is not just my saying that I wish people had been more con-
siderate of my feelings. I am more so embarrassed to know that
I wasn’t as invested in theirs. I’ve become far more empathetic
and affectionate in time and I just know that such shallow, in-
direct interactions would never cut it nowadays. Unfortunately,
these types of interactions would appear to constitute the stan-
dard, even into adulthood, and while I don’t feel that it was so
out of line for teenagers to behave in such an oblivious manner,
I do look back with certain frustration to know that I didn’t fol-

low along with a higher standard, and a lot of that frustration
stems from the fact that I have been unable to form real relation-
ships as an adult despite having grown into an individual who is
far more empathetic, compassionate and respectful than I ever
was back when I actually had active relations in my life, and it
has me taking out my frustration on my younger self as so. For
instance, I was a pretty average boyfriend to my girlfriend at age
seventeen, and she totally adored me and thought I was the best
ever even though I feel like I could have done so much for her
but never really went out of my way to do anything beyond the
norm of what was expected of me, whereas I was a pretty sol-
id and, in my opinion, perfect partner to my girlfriend in 2016
and she just treated me like I was the lowest scum in the world
because of my health-based restrictions (like my inability to jog
or hike) and seemed ashamed of me because I was unorthodox
compared to mainstream society. This, in turn, causes me to be-
come unnecessarily angry at my younger self for having not given
more to the relationship in which I was genuinely cared for and
appreciated. I would say it’s a natural response. I can’t consider it
a regret since I genuinely did the most with the knowledge that I
had at the time, but I suppose I wish that I had given more while
I had the floor. I don’t know that it would have changed the out-
come of any such friendships, and I’m not sure that I would even
want the outcomes to change, but I wish I could have recognized
the gravity of friendship, seeing it more as a responsibility and
less as a given or something that was owed to me. We don’t get
a lot of genuine support in this life. The luckiest of us will get a
family and a community that cheers for our feats. But even then,
there aren’t many people providing us with a sort of safety net
within this world of flux and uncertainty and I just wish that I
was in the position to really contribute to someone’s security and
motivation in a way that actually left them feeling free and un-
afraid to say how they feel or take risks with their path and choic-
es or other things that don’t come easy to those lacking solid rela-
tions. While most people can claim to having some sort of family
or friendships in their life, it would seem that very few of us are
able to imagine the healing and developmental potential which
is made possible through interpersonal relationships, and in their
inability to imagine all that relationships can allow us to accom-
plish I don’t think they have the ability to see the appeal in those
who offer something deeper and more intentful than timepass,
and therefore I will seem superfluous when there are millions of
others with whom they can eat pizza and play video games. I re-
gret that this should come across as arrogant, as if I am somehow
claiming to be superior in comparison to others, when I speak
only of the fact that I have put in a conscious, intentful effort to
improve my person in certain ways and if others cannot see the
worth in doing so and how that effort should merit greater re-
spect than the negligence and inconsideration seen so common-
ly within our sphere then I don’t know what more to tell you.
The problem is clearer, the solutions less effective. It’s a damning

combination. Imagine suddenly becoming aware of every fire
blazing in the world—houses and forests and cities on flame with
r... Our human, dispositive reaction is simply to worry about the
situational, the immediate and contextual, and in that way we
may see water as a solution. Yet a hose is no preventive in this
case. The problem is greater than our standard methods can fix. I
spent my final year weeping among the garden. In the beginning
I swore that I wouldn’t fall silent, which is the most common
course of action enacted by those in a similar position. I swore
that I would become louder, more proactive, and use my insights
to speak to the masses; but I realize now that I was a fool, speak-
ing from the grip of my lesser, volential paradigm. It was like say-
ing “I shall single-handedly take my hose to a billion fires!” Yet a
hose simply isn’t going to change the world. The change needs to
come from consciousness, which is the cause, and not from the
world of reaction which displays us the effects of consciousness,
and therefore all changes need to be made within, in quiet con-
templation. Shrouding is essentially that; what may appear like
a trance from the outside is really just a communion with Exis-
tence that seeks to block out the frustrations liable to be caused
by drawing overmuch from the lesser, dispositive paradigms.
If you don’t go through the correct, socially-acceptable channels

then they deride you and turn you away after making you feel
stupid—after making sure you know that there is an order to
things and you’re just another speck on this planet. Then if you
go through the correct channels, you’re denied on the basis of
some impersonal, soulless qualification or because eifjspwjeosjsj.
Look at all of the college graduates who just put in four, eight,
however many years and hours to graduate with a degree in their
field only to fall flat on their face when shown to a world with no
room for them and then they’re back in the kitchen with a plas-
tic spatula. So in the end there is really only one takeaway: it’s all
about connections. Not a great conclusion, really, but everything
seems to come down to who you know. I can’t bear listening to
people trying to act as if ideas and hard work are what got them
to where they are, when nine out of ten times it seems to come
from connections, pure and plain. I wish I realized this earlier
on. I wonder what it would have changed about my approach.
Maybe I would have gone a different route. Maybe I would have
put in less effort. Though the likeliest conclusion is that I would
have done it all the same and broken my neck crashing into this
wall at high speeds as I have, because I am a stubborn, self-con-
vinced fool like that. Don’t take my words as scripture. Don’t
even take them as a totally accurate representation of what I be-
lieve. I’m just unloading a bunch of hurt feelings. That’s pretty
much all that this diary is. If you’re looking for a polished phi-
losophy then look elsewhere, because this is only about captur-
ing my innate tendencies and knee-jerk responses. This is a man
wrestling with his emotions, and goddammit can I wrestle.
The music was essential for keeping me locked within my own

myth. It kept reality charged with emotion. I don’t know how
much my life might have changed if I had a lesser relationship
to music, though I would definitely consider it an indispensable
part of my mystical practice and my development (and just my
life on the whole). Try watching a movie without a score. It
doesn’t feel alive. It feels dull. And though I enjoyed many artists
along the way, I speak primarily of my own project in this case:
the ability to write my own score.
Goddamn am I glad to be done with the task of having to upload

my discography to a seemingly endless selection of channels.
First I had to post all 70 + albums on Bandcamp and then do
it all again for Discogs, MusicBrainz, RYM, and my distribu-
tor (which distributed to streaming services), dezinezinet. This
is not some copy-paste job. This is not something that can be
achieved at flyswat speed. I’ve spent entire weeks, months of my
life dedicated to meticulously filling out the information into
forms and uploading all of the same information for the same
seventy albums to all the varying places where they are to be up-
loaded. I’m not complaining; I’ve accepted it all as a necessary

part of the process and I’ll turn on some music and just spend fif-
teen hours at a time typing out song titles without hesitation. I
just don’t think that people will acknowledge, let alone appreci-
ate these types of efforts. It wasn’t just that I sang songs ten years
ago and then stopped. No. Tendon Levey didn’t end there. It’s
taken me that decade to get everything together and organized
and shared. I don’t stop—ever.
Music, for me, was not like a hobby or an interest, but like
scenery, or infrastructure, being the stage and conditions upon
which all thoughts collected and all emotions were experienced.
The mystic or philosopher who does not value music as the fore-
most tool of transformation is a dunce without a defense.
One would think that I would at least end up bringing in some

traffic by dint of basic search queries, seeing as with so many
songs there’s gotta be people stumbling upon me often, yet it
doesn’t seem to have made a difference in my case. I still only get
around 80 listeners per month on Spotify if I’m lucky. In fact
I only just surpassed 100 for the first time two weeks ago, and
that’s years and years after putting everything up. Even so, 50%
or more of that is made up of South Americans who only listen
to my poorly performed cover of “Qué Bonito Es Un Entierro”
and then dip out after the first track. I just don’t think anybody
could ever imagine how much time, effort and patience I’ve in-
vested into all of this, and in the end, all I really got from it was a
tight throat. Now, obviously I’ve benefited from it in a variety of
developmental/spiritual ways, but most days, at least nowadays,
it can be hard to keep that in focus. The only way to stave off the
misery of how little my efforts have yielded is to continue work-

ing, but what I end up doing is making everything worse... and
it’s a cruel, Sisyphean recursion.
It’s so creepy to step out into society. The patterns, the mirroring.
It’s like there is no question of what is right and wrong. You just
have the spiteful and the aroused dishing out what they were giv-
en. You hurt me? I hurt you. You give me six candies? I’ll give
you six boogies. I don’t know. These are dumb examples. But the
phenomenon is chilling. It’s like we’re all locked in this chain
which determines our reactions to everyone and how we func-
tion and nothing is being based on a deeper, more meaningful
standard to dictate our acts. And it’s so creepy to see people’s ac-
tions... no, their very fate... being at the behest of whatever befalls
them. Who will they be one year from now, as a person? Well,
that all depends on a whole confluence of factors: the media that
they imbibe, the state of their marriage, their employment sta-
tus, dezinezinet. How will they carry themselves in an interac-
tion? Well, that depends by and large upon the other party. This
is the sort of stuff that is so strange for me to behold as an out-
sider who has lived and died in this subterranean bubble of mili-
tant authenticity and idealism.
Even though the idea of Existence as put forward via Aseitism

tends to blur the lines between Creationism and Evolution, I
subscribe more so to a process in line with natural selection. I
have previously explained the uniqueness of the scenario which
I refer to as containing meaning in the absence of intention, re-
ferring to the notion that all progress taking place is said to be a
meaningful emanation of the purposeful process in which Exis-
tence is engaged, and that is by no means a random process, al-

though the emanations themselves, as it were, are not intelligent-
ly executed to the degree that we would regularly associate with
a creator deity. In fact, many of the ideas put forward by modern
science seem to fall well in line with my beliefs, such as the Big
Bang and natural selection and, to a degree, evolution (I believe
in evolutionary processes taking place, albeit not quite in the sort
of evolution that is dictated by time and is carried out over long
stretches but something more idealistic overall). I wouldn’t say
that my reasoning is a hundred percent in line with the reasons
given by science, but I am quite confident, based on what ‘sci-
ence’ is describing, that it is nonetheless describing the same phe-
nomenon at which I am looking while perhaps viewing it either
from a different angle or working with a different set of facts. It’s
like listening to a person describe the back of someone’s jacket,
and I can readily tell that they are describing the same person
that I’m looking at from a frontal angle, even though we’re draw-
ing different conclusions and explanations due to that difference
in angle. I don’t know that my words are enough to convince
anyone, but that’s where I stand. I only hope that my words are
properly considered by those may be less prone to idealistic and
metaphysical thinking, surely as I have posited some very, very
worthful ideas and propositions regarding our origins, as well as
our nature, which will hopefully reignite the debate of idealism
versus materialism which as long been taken for granted by the
modern mythless manikin.
The fever and fatigue are growing worse all the time. I don’t un-
derstand how that is possible. I can barely raise my head, my arm,
my anemone. I have so much more to say, but the ability is leav-
ing me and it doesn’t seem worth it to stick around hoping that
my ability will return to me in spurts when it is more appealing

to leave. And yet I remain ever amazed at how my actual con-
sciousness and sensibility are not fluctuating with my physical
symptoms. I expect that this has all to do with my understand-
ing and less to do with any sort of luck or strength. Fever and
weariness will normally distort our focus, although my focus is so
firmly bonded now with Existence that nothing is affecting my
sensibility and understanding. The result is very peculiar, like the
experience of drunkenness and fever in the absence of psycholog-
ical distortions. It doesn’t feel like I am supposed to know such
clarity in a state so maddening. I think I would even hate it if I
wasn’t so overly fascinated by the perceived uncommonality of
such a state, allowing me to really relish it... not like a lover rel-
ishes flesh, but like an inspector relishes a case.
[Cut from Introduction to Aseitism] This matter, especially, hits

home for me, as end times prophecy was a huge topic of interest
within my family, what with my parents operating an eschato-
logical ministry for the first two decades of my life which made
its focus the rapture of the church and the great tribulation. It
was all essentially one big doomy “The end is nigh” sort of af-
fair which monitored the signs of the times and cataloged all of
the ongoing events and figures and other matters which were to
be taken as a fulfillment of prophecy. My entire childhood and
adolescence revolved around these ideas, particularly that of the
rapture, or harpazo, which suggests that on some unknown date
and time, Christ will return for the church and all Christians
worldwide will vanish, being caught up and brought into Heav-
en. Countless individuals throughout history have attempted to
predict the date of the event, which I suppose is more of a prob-
lem to do with the church than the actual scriptures, as it clearly
claims that no man knows the date or the hour, but it becomes
very sad to grow up within such an environment and to be con-
stantly surrounded by people getting ready for the ball to drop...
and for the ball to then never drop... because there is no ball. I
recall hearing stories during my youth of cases in which people
put their pets to sleep in anticipation of this so-called rapture.
There are enough people arguing the reality of such occurrences,
and while I, personally, find it a ridiculous and deceptive matter,
I am much more interested in the question of: “Why is this even
necessary?” Well, you see, there is also the fact that the rapture,
like the devil and Hell, is yet another late addition to canon, be-
ing absent from historic Christianity and developing out of ever-
evolving interpretations.
**The hardest part for me was all of the fake friendships that
were built around shared religious beliefs which totally dissolved
once I began to deviate, even negligibly, from their way of life,
and I don’t doubt that that has fed into a lot of the hurt and
social trauma that has plagued me all my life, being an early in-
stance of my being confronted with the conditionality of hu-
man relationships. I had quite a few people at the time who I
considered to be my close friends. Like, in my teenage years, I
totally wasn’t this loner dork who couldn’t get friends. I had a
youth group. I had dozens of people who I could just call upon
at any moment; and it all went away in an instant; and that isn’t
to say that they pulled away from me in each instance. I would
say that I was the one to initiate the withdrawal in many, if not
the majority of cases, as I wasn’t willing to continue being judged
or treated condescendingly (as was becoming increasingly com-
mon). Their tone changed. Their faces changed. And it was for
the silliest of reasons. I hadn’t even left the church at that point.
Not all of them were so judgmental, although pulling away from

religion did unfortunately eliminate any enduring commonali-
ty between us and it just caused the few lingering friendships to
fall apart automatically. This was the case with Isaac, I guess. He
never behaved like a judgmental prick to me. Although our lives
went in separate directions and he’s now living a pretty normal
existence with a wife and a job and children and conversation
seems forced. I was also offended by his lack of interest in read-
ing my story which I had written specifically to explain to people
like him what had happened to me during and after my depar-
ture from public view. He seemed interested at first, saying that
he had always been curious, but then he just didn’t seem interest-
ed in receiving the second chapter and this was in 2016 or there-
abouts while dealing with an abusive relationship and I couldn’t
handle any more disinterest and rejection. It’s not like I can’t un-
derstand why it wouldn’t be his cup of tea, but the ability to
share my story was one of the things that motivates me to endure
all those years of suffering and uncertainty, and to find out that
there was something wrong with all those motivations after the
fact leaves me feeling like I fought for no good reason. I deleted
my Facebook around that time and made no attempts to contact
him since. I have no reason to, and it no longer seems valid to
use ‘fond memories’ as a justification to engage what is merely an
amassed present. There’s nowhere to go when they pity me and
I pity them. That’s kind of where I’m at with society in general:
the general population looks at me and sees physical decay and
social failure. I look at the population and see spiritual deadness
and psycho-emotional primitivity. It’s a gridlock and I’ve had to
give it up in the interest of maintaining my own progress.
It’s unfortunate that it often works in such a way where, as we

are mistreated, demonized or neglected by others we will begin
to give less and less of ourselves to the public as a measure of
protection; however, what ends up happening is that by putting
less and less of ourselves into what we do, we end up making the
initial problem even worse for ourselves, amounting to greater
neglect. I imagine this being common of artistic types who put
their all into a work and then, as it garners insufficient attention,
begin putting out low-effort pieces as a means to preserve their
mental health and self-worth and, of course, the pieces end up
garnering even less attention as their lack of soul is obvious unto
all. A similar problem that I’ve experienced in my own life is
how, when struggling with my outsider status and the belief that
others view me as some weirdo or vile creature, I would start
wearing outlandish accessories and doing other things, mostly
related to my physical appearance and behavior, that might gen-
erally just put people off from wanting to associate with me in an
effort to lighten the burden on my mind and to be able to feel
like the treatment I receive is justified or like I’m giving myself a
red herring to help forestall the emotional pain of rejection. I re-
call in 2017 I frequently applied rigid collodion to my face when
going out and it gave me these hyper realistic scars around my
mouth area resembling the well-known Glasgow smile. Then, if
people seemed to avoid me in public I wouldn’t get my feelings
hurt, or not to the same extent, being that I was able to blame
it on my appearance; but the problem with that is that it ended
up killing my prospects further, and I do think that the scars
actually put people off from holding conversation with me on
several instances, despite my behaving with kindness, and so the
cycle continues deeper and deeper with my having to do more
and more to justify the treatment I receive from others but being
treated with greater negligence and intolerance as a result of my
strange, roundabout attempts to absolve myself of the agony that

is ‘unfairness’. Dean, or his metalhead get-up, essentially began as
this, but people seemed to like Dean... more than they ever liked
me—Tendon.
I’m sure there are other ways in which this sort of defense
manifests itself, becoming a recursive nightmare. The poor get
poorer, ay. To escape such a cycle, people often become willing
to compromise on certain facets of their selfness. I previously
gave an example involving artists. To continue that example, it
wouldn’t surprise me to learn that a lot of artists in such a situa-
tion eventually make compromises in the realm of their self-ex-
pression. And I’m not saying that it isn’t justified. Why wouldn’t
someone want to keep their mental health...? Besides, it’s not like
they’re being forced to give up their art entirely; however, their
expression may suffer significantly and it may take a while for
them to realize that what they are doing is no longer having a
cathartic, purging effect, and that is because they have opted for
something safe which conforms to popular standards of accept-
ability. After all... look at me. Some people may respect me for
the fact that I never compromised my vision, although I suspect
that even more people will use me as an example of a worst case
scenario and what to avoid since... I just find it hard to think that
the appeal of my output will ever outweigh the pain with which
it has so clearly come to be associated.
As I go about my day, I often keep track of my illness, scoring it

on a scale from one to ten to convey its severity. This is typical-
ly done for Mora, who will periodically ask me where I am at,
numerically speaking, in order to hold me to some degree of ac-
countability, as I’ve the tendency to neglect my health while la-
boring over my various projects and will only stop when I feel my
mortality is actively in danger.
As it reaches 9.5 my focus switches from ‘productivity’ to
‘mortality’ and I enter survival mode, wherein I am forced to set
all projects aside and prioritize breathing, at which point I will
prostrate myself on the floor for hours or days until my condi-
tion falls back below the 9. Once I am nearing 10, I’m at a point
where I am fearing to move even a muscle and have to evalu-
ate and often avoid certain common activities, such as drinking
water and showering. It is relatively rare (though becoming in-
creasingly commonplace since 2021) that I hit a ‘high ten’ since
I have done so well to switch into ‘safe mode’ before getting to
that point, but when I hit those upper limits I’m beating my head
with a water jug or pulling my neck veins/muscles in despera-
tion, and when I get too overwhelmed and my oxygen is so low I
will enter a sad phase of near-serene surreality where I take Mo-
ra’s hand and invariably end up slumping over, not knowing if I’ll
wake back up.
I have the craziest arsenal for combatting such ‘standard’
things as coughs, hiccups and nausea so that I can eradicate them
before they pose a serious threat.
I rarely let it just subside enough that my daily projects are
no longer endangering my condition. It is not basic impatience
on my part which causes me to act in this way but a lack of faith
in the fact that it will ever get any better, the same mentality that
resulted in the end of my music career, would take a respite if I
knew that it would actually help, but there’s no guarantee it will,
and I can’t confront wasted days.
Since 2019, I have consistently been above 8, moving be-
tween ‘upper 8’ and 10 without exception. “Low 9” means to
slow down the work and relax, while “Upper 9” is getting dan-
gerous and in that case I should stop working altogether. 10 is
where I’m on the floor blacking out, fearing for my life, asphyx-
iating. A significant problem that I encounter is that as soon as
I get myself back down to 9 again, after being stuck at 10, and
my ability returns to me, I’ll hop right back into my work with
certain glee—only to exacerbate it and, like clockwork, I’ll soon
be back at 10. This cycles on and on, again and again. I work as
soon as I can, but can’t really work long before my condition de-
teriorates through use of my hands (typing exacerbates my throat
condition). I never take any holidays since I’m so afraid of wast-
ed time, and if, in the end, my condition doesn’t improve as a re-
sult of my break then I’ll feel terrible. I’m just totally unwilling
to try. I’ll be at 10 almost dead, but then when it gets to 9 I’ll get
back to work as usual, and since I didn’t wait it won’t be long be-
fore I’m back at 10 again. Only time I ever waited
There are reasons to interact: to set a respectable example unto

others and to place oneself in the midst of respectable examples.
Interaction, in my case, is meant only to facilitate growth, be
it physical, emotional, intellectual and/or spiritual, and where
these things are unlikely, interaction becomes a detriment. Sadly,
I also do not see how any of this is possible for me at this point, as
I’ve not encountered sufficient maturity, self-awareness and em-
pathy within my environment. And as for setting a respectable
example: I’ve put myself in a position—through my art and
openness—that leaves me vulnerable to forever being scapegoat-
ed as the fool or the heretic and I do not expect to be seen as
someone with value or wisdom to impart. I expect nothing pos-
itive, based on what I’ve seen and what I have experienced, and
when the odds are so slim the game is no longer worth playing.
Tendon has left the building.
I would say that I’ve successfully avoided—or rather, over-

come—the sense of entitlement that plagues many creatives (de-
spite my endless analyses which, to many, may be indicating the
opposite, if only due to the strange concomitance of confidence
and disappointment which pervades my speech). However, even
as I do not believe that my abilities and achievements entitle me
to any especial outcome or favor, per se, there does exist that cer-
tain expectation within me that others will be impressed by what
I have accomplished—an expectation based not on empty fumes
but on what I understand of the world and its interests—and
when that expectation is not met, it can leave me disappointed
and prone to dissociation in some form or another. This, too,
has lessened over the years as I have acclimated to the realiza-
tion that my efforts are not valued and even reviled by the pop-
ulation at large, although that is merely to say that I have been
flung into a perpetual state of dissociation wherein I lack hope
as well as expectation in any form. As much as I would like to
overcome or move past this funk, I am also not sure that that
is the right course of action, given what that entails on the per-
sonal and spiritual level, despite being seen as the solution by the
world at large, as I would be dulling myself to my passions and
cares and emotions all to spare myself of the pain of disappoint-
ment and to me it is not worth the trade-off. Pain implies sen-
sation; mental agony implies care and attachment. And I am of
the sort that ascribes positive things to attachment as such. As
so, I would rather experience the pain that comes from care and
investment than the satisfaction that comes from an innate apa-
thy. That is why I still seem to suffer in so many ways despite my
fervid attempts at self-growth: not all suffering should be done
away with. Where I suffer now: over society, over relationships,
over integrity—I suffer without cowering, without evasion, for
suffering, in these forms, is linked to my disposition and is not
but some folly or fault. Then do not be so quick to infer from my

circumstances that I contain insufficient strength and maturity
within myself to overcome my demons, for I have spared these
demons willingly, allowing them to feast on my carcass when and
where it is deemed to be the honest outcome.*
It is interesting to me that we so often associate artistic, bohemi-

an types with depression, anxiety and tragedy withal. This has
led us to associate darkness with art and with the personalities
that contrive it, as if such ‘darkness’ naturally begets art, although
it seems to me like a chicken and egg type scenario, and I tend
to think that it’s more to do with the fact that people don’t treat
you as well when you are expressive of your individuality or of
anything that goes against the established standard. So it acts as
a self-fulfilling prophecy. I think the clothes I wear and my fa-
cial hair and other stylistic matters definitely kept people at arms
length and, in turn, left me without a clan, and that clanless-
ness begat the inner darkness, as it were, and not the other way
around. It seems like such an obvious conclusion, but do does it
seem like many are still in the habit of writing off such individ-
uals as “Oh, those artistic types,” like they were just born with a
grimace.
Some observations I have noted when transcribing my lyrics: I

tend to alternate between first and third person quite erratically
within the Tendon Levey project, which could possibly be
viewed as a sign of dissociation and should not immediately be
written off as an artistic decision, seeing as my works were found-
ed on improvisation. There is also the fact that humans are of-
ten addressed as ‘that’ while objects are ‘who’ and that is clearly
backwards. Again, none of these were the result of stylistic choic-

es and are telling of my natural inclinations, which is why I find
them so fascinating to examine.
When we invest our time, labor and care into certain subjects
and activities we naturally expect it to become a part of our inter-
actions, our conversations, our worth. I’ve undertaken a wide va-
riety of activities and pursued a similarly wide variety of passions
over the course of my life and yet none of these ever have had any
part to play in my communications with others. It’s surreal to me.
It’s just a total nonfactor—my interests and achievements alike.
All nonfactors in my falsely so-called relationships. They play no
role in drawing people in, they play no role in keeping people
interested and they play no role in putting them off of me. The
conversations in which I am engaged with others are no different
than those that can be had with any other pizza pal with whom
they meet on the weekends, and it’s... so surreal to me. It puts me
in something of a minor identity crisis or dissociative spell when-
ever I’m out in public and I can’t stand it one bit. I grow disori-
ented. A million things I would love to talk about and all they
want to talk about is the scenery and the day at the job they de-
spise or the bubbles in their beer. And then I should feel guilty
or like some arrogant prick if I am unwilling to think of this as
genuine friendship? I’m not fucking looking to be praised. This
is just what I bring to the table and I want to contribute and I
want to collaborate and see my efforts and interests connecting
like a puzzle to the world around me. I want to see growth, im-
provement, application, and where these things are not found, I
am not around.
Thoughts that disturb me: The idea that at some point along the
way a group of people got together and designated some guy or
character as our savior and that humanity has spent thousands
upon thousands of years sacrificing and wasting its grandest op-
portunity for a lie. It’s so horrific when you look at it in the con-
text of how a single well-worded business pitch or comfortable
lie can have such far-reaching ramifications for our species and
what we believe about ourselves, about our purpose, about life it-
self.
The idea that there exists those who lack empathy and are de-
ciding their actions not based on what they feel, and especially
not upon what they feel is right, but whatever they think will get
them through life, getting them what they want, and they will
say whatever they can to fool those around them. It is so disturb-
ing to me to consider that there exists such individuals and in
such large volume.
Thoughts that make me happy: hmm, this one is not as ob-
vious to me, since I don’t use that word all that frequently and
my thoughts and feelings are rather complex in the sense that I
don’t feel I will ever know true satisfaction until all the world
can know satisfaction. I have bonded my fate so firmly to the fate
of the population—whether does it seem reasonable to others or
not—and so I no longer have any means to anticipate rest, satis-
faction, happiness. I’ve given up on the idea that I will ever know
such states, and I’m okay with that, having surrendered such de-
sires and expectations not in the spirit of reluctant pessimism but
in dedication to my ideals of growth and progress which I wish
to see made my eternal focus. I simply don’t know how to an-
swer the question of what would make me happy since all things
cast a shadow—all things but light and fire. On the personal lev-
el, I can say that singing brings me joy and happiness, as does
music itself. My partner brings me joy. I’m not actually difficult
to please, despite what may seem like a small pool of largely ‘in-
tellectual’ and ‘artistic’ interests that I maintain. I could dance
barefoot in a field with a herd of young goats and a pocket full
of candy and be forever content, hahaha. When one experiences
so much pain in life, their definition of pleasure tends to shift
to encompass anything that isn’t excruciatingly painful, so my
standards are probably lower than those of most. Though I think
the thoughts that I want to experience more than anything... the
thoughts that would make me truly happy... is the assurance that
Existence is growing, progressing, thriving, and mankind there-
with. And I believe that that is actually the case, even where it is
difficult to track and measure. But it’s like when you’re cleaning
up a messy house: you can clean for hours and hours, but as long
as there is still dirt and disorder, you can’t really convince your-
self that you’re satisfied. A mess is still a mess. I’m just wondering
if there will come a point at which the progress is palpable...
Thoughts that arouse me:

Mora covered in bees
I’m kidding
I know you’re
reading over my shoulder
Yeaaaaa
Yes
That was yesterday and you missed it because you’re
In my years as a mystic I have interacted with those who are for-

mulaic and mathematical out the ass and, while they may have
some interesting ideas in their arsenal, all of it lacks the human
element, and the thing is this: you will get nowhere in under-
standing the secrets of the universe, as it were, until you have

come to associate that challenge with the challenge of grasping
humanity. Otherwise it is like building a ladder that leads to
nowhere—height for the sake of itself. One must push the lad-
der up against the highest potentiality of the human species, the
self, if they are to make any progress in what we call the occult
and metaphysics and mysticism. Wholliness!
I view limuviation as being a natural demand of the myria-

choron. Think of it not like a paradox, but like a mirror, and that
if we mean to walk left we must walk right. Maybe it’s far-fetched
to think of this as a myriachoronic analogue of the idea that each
hemisphere controls the opposite side of the body, right to left
and left to right, but it does present an interesting, if alternate
take on this problematic phenomenon. It is an extremely delicate
matter and difficult to master and should be avoided by most.
**Fathom Omen Om is significantly less self-focused and really

carries the tone of the multi-paradigmatic individual while
mourning the state of the ‘world’. I would say that it reads like
a book about a man who sees a vicious lion or bear struggling
in a trap. And it sees how defenseless it is and unable to save it-
self. And I want to help, even though I’ll probably end up getting
torn apart for coming too close. It is just a very, very dark bunch
of writings based on the idea of empathy for the world and for
our species and not really knowing what to do with those feel-
ings of urgency and desperation. As much as I have worked on it,
I have decided to keep it to myself—at least for now.
If you are familiar with the seeds of a pomegranate, which

are encased within a sort of gelatinous sarcotesta... each channel
punctuated with the words “I think I’ll be going now.”
These works were created from within an everduring thicket of

fever, vertigo, nausea, suffocation, strangulation, malaise, anxi-
ety, depression and endless love and inspiration. What fascinates
me so is that I haven’t suffered at all in the sharpness of my
awareness and the conviction of my spirit. The fight, the goal,
is more influential to my being at this point than any other as-
pect of my person, including fear and stamina. It’s strange, be-
cause I may not generally come across as some powerhouse due
to my flippant and childly nature, and therefore I have to ex-
pect that others will completely fail to estimate or so much as
acknowledge the strength on display, but I really can’t imagine
another person containing the sort of strength and tenacity that
has been required and then delivered by me, and consistently so,
over a decade of darkest conditions, which requires a degree of
fortitude (and an observation of meaning) so unknown to the
modern world. Of course that isn’t to say that they can’t exist,
since my own existence obviously proves the possibility of such
strength, which inclines me to believe that there must also be
others, but I have never actually seen anyone who I believe, based
on their abilities, that they would survive that which I have sur-
vived, and I don’t quite know how to feel about that. It’s not a
matter of pride or even satisfaction for me, and I don’t know why.
I think I’m just confused—so disoriented at this point at every-
thing going on. Disoriented by living such a life and for so long
that is so utterly demanding of my every molecule and then to
not see this all-consuming war reflected in my surroundings. I
can’t help but wonder how I would measure up on some cosmic
flipboard, if simply to satisfy my curiosity and to actually give

me some sort of yardstick, though I guess it will be called point-
less, and the world does love to belittle all such abstractions, es-
pecially when they would seem so arrantly self-serving, although
all that I am really asking for is to know exactly how I measure
up to the standard. No one ever seemed to regard me as strong,
though I would really love to see it spelled out plainly or given
some sort of numerical value, even if it changes nothing.
Then there is the pain in my sternum caused by a muscular tear

which is constantly re-tearing as I struggle for breath. Then there
is the swelling in my stomach caused by a dancing injury which
I sustained many years ago, coupled with low oxygen, which
are creating for frequent digestive issues where my food simply
isn’t digesting properly. My gums are often tight, and I hate it so
much, but I’ve never seen anyone talk about something similar
and so I can’t really study it without knowing what’s going on. It’s
pulling on my gums and causing rapid recession among the lower
teeth which, in turn, is worsening my throat condition (brush-
ing those teeth or poking around in that area causes throat prob-
lems so there is definitely some weird link that I can’t identify
due to a lack of scanning equipment). Seems to be some bizarre
enervation/compression deal likely originating with my larynx
and traveling up through my palate and gums. I have submerged
my hands in a basin of scalding water on and off throughout the
past three years, often while saying “I love you, I love you, I love
you,” repeatedly (in my head, of course, since I can’t speak, al-
though, like I said before, after spending so many years mute I
can no longer really differentiate between my inner ‘head’ voice
and my laryngeal voice and I do feel like I am speaking constant-
ly), as a way of acclimating to heat and fire, at least within my
mind, since although I expect it to ravish my body I would like

to be able to handle such pain with a clear head or somewhat so.
And while I have purposely spoken little of depression and the
like since my trial, as if wanting to give off the impression that I
no longer struggle with sorrow in any form, I cannot say that it
has departed from my life, and I do not intend to deceive my au-
dience. It has simply changed shape, while its intensity remains
much the same. Like I used to say how the problems I have—re-
ferring particularly to the depression and anguish—it isn’t just “I
no like it, therefore I’m sad.” I was torn up over existential and
philosophical matters which bred feelings of hopelessness and
entrapment, and I think that that existential element has only in-
creased since my trial, which makes sense as I am now drawing
from the greater paradigms. As I suffer and die and mourn the
state of things I do not see myself but Existence and all of the
people struggling, failing and destroying themselves and one an-
other in this opportunity so grand. This is what it means to love.
As often as I have spoken of suicide within my works, I only

want my readership to understand this one thing: if, when I fi-
nally leave this world, it is by my own hand, the choice that I
have made was not the choice between living and dying, but the
choice between dying via my chosen means and dying in a ran-
dom and potentially worse manner. My circumstances are evi-
dently complex, and I know I’ve expressed my share of despair
over the years, all of it justified, but I hope that my tenacity is
seen for what it is and not obscured by my woeful vocalizations.
Then may it be said of me that I continued to choose life until
life was no longer an option. If, after all I’ve lived through, that is
even debated, then I must wonder what book you’re reading.
The change, for me, was sudden and remarkable: more remark-
able than any change to date. Most remarkable was the fact that
I had not aspired toward any of these changes. I wasn’t actively
seeking to become more humble, empathetic or ‘selfless’. I was
merely a puzzler attempting to crack the code of this existence
and going where I believed the puzzle led me; and so the fact
that it took me to such a place has remained a point of marvel
for me (especially since I long fought against some of these very
elements, if as a result of ignorant misconstruction).
All this isolation, mixed with the events of Clyssus of Man,
simply doesn’t sound like a recipe for sanity and stability. I really
took a left turn at the end, however. surprising even myself. I
sometimes compare it to those individuals who claim to drink
themselves sober (although I’m fairly certain that that is a myth).
I’ve been known for my complex and experimental approach in-
volving identity experimentation and consciousness exploration,
and from where I now stand, a lot of my old methods seem
laughable to me, although I hesitate to suggest that they are silly,
let alone useless. They were useful to me, as are any tools, but I
have arrived at a place where I no longer require tools, having
been left with a beautiful and well-functioning machine. Yet at
the end of the day, I no longer observe many of the processes up-
on which my legacy was built. Things have been simplified to an
enormous degree since the events of my final trial, like working
down from a 700 piece puzzle to only a single piece. I spent my
years dressing up in costumes, pushing on the outside of my eyes,
exploiting hypnagogic hallucinations—whatever dumbass thing
I could do to convince myself that I was accessing opening myself
up to new conclusions. I was constantly exploring, experiment-
ing, see-sawing between philosophical contortion and mystical
elation. But I no longer have any need for that, and I can’t help
but laugh when I reflect back upon some of the stones I needed
step on in order to get me to this seemingly obvious conclusion.

My magical thinking has died out and I feel grounded in the re-
ality before me, even if others may wish to suggest otherwise due
to my beliefs being unlike those of the masses. For a long time,
I wanted my final days to be spent in a state of insanity, spiritu-
al ecstasy. I wanted to leave this earth in a state of such confu-
sion that I didn’t even realize I was leaving the earth. Maybe I
wouldn’t have said all that, but that was what I felt within myself,
and for me that was a veritable ideal. Part romanticism, part...
who knows what. When I began the writing for Dirgha Svapna,
which later developed into Clyssus of Man, I half expected this to
destabilize me once and for all. So the idea of becoming rational
minded and grounded in my final days would have sounded like
a waste; unamusing; an attack on my selfness, my liveliness—be-
cause authentic self-expression should always resemble insanity
to the onlooker, I thought. And maybe all these things that I’m
saying still resemble insanity to those who listen in, but the fact
is, I’ve never felt so stable and grounded, and now that I’ve ex-
perienced it in this way, and now that I know that this is how I
will be spending my final days on earth, I quite like how every-
thing turned out. The man I’ve become is not the man that any-
one would have expected; not the man I was bred to become. It
would have made too much sense for me to die miserable, hate-
ful, alone and insane, not unlike how my Dissolving Path jour-
nals from 2019 depict me, what with all my unremitting inner
turbulence and trauma which manifested in this constant push
and pull between absolute misanthropy and reluctant altruism.
No one is more amazed by this outcome than I, myself, given
that I have intimate knowledge of the ins and outs of my per-
son and understand that there is no self-deception involved in
my self-estimation. I’m not claiming that all is perfect. I am not
claiming to be free of suffering. I don’t even believe that such per-
fection is possible. Yet the balance in which I am now existing,

this particular ratio of the personal and the universal, this partic-
ular ratio of suffering and ecstasy, this particular ratio of vulner-
ability and strength: this particular ratio I call Existence. How
miraculous it is!
It was not some act of self-abnegation, conscious or uncon-
scious. I have not given myself up, only my sense of self has co-
alesced with the reality of Existence, which spans all life, and
I find it suddenly impossible to separate my well-being from
that of those around me. It's funny, sounding like a spiritualistic
cliché as such that I would standardly despise, but even more
astounding is the experience itself. I wasn’t always like this. For
much of my life I was the opposite of this—opposed to this.
The story which I crafted over thirty years is over. My exis-
tence continues on, but as Clyssus of Man came to a close, so did
a biography which I held close to my heart (and still do).
The fear, the animosity, the sense of separation has left me.
The only worry that I feel at this point is for the population, and
oftentimes I will exploit and instigate that sense of urgent worry
so as to improve the productivity and intensity of my work.
The hatred, misanthropy and fear that once characterized my
person—and willfully so—has been replaced by understanding.
And that’s the thing: it’s not peace, which is often a synonym for
dissociation in today’s world, but basic understanding, and you
would be a fool to underestimate just how much is changed by a
proper contextual grasp of a situation and its meaning, its value
and its purpose.
I do not feel led to force these beliefs and philosophies on
others. I believe my outlook to be worthy and true, and I would
sooner give up my lungs and limbs than renounce this under-
standing I have acquired, but I also believe that where health
flourishes, the worth of Existence will be self-evident. As so, I be-
lieve that the best way for me—and for all of us—to aid this Ex-
istence is not to capitalize on some silly little philosophical pack-
age but to work our damnedest in seeing to it that the ignorance,
trauma and illness within our world subsides.
These claims see their confirmation in the fact that I have
spent comparatively little time working on my Aseitism write-
up when compared to my more recent social-based works which
have been given my main priority. Again, this isn’t meant as some
thorough and airtight argument. I am frankly embarrassed by
the presentation, since I feel they are cliché and I would like
to spend more time to give something a bit more nuanced. My
friends, I am tired and I must soon be on my way! Yet in my last
years I am unafraid, and I am full of life in a way that I could
have never imagined possible. I wonder how many people will
use the details of my past to argue against my conclusions. For
instance, I have built my empire upon trauma, angst and misan-
thropy, and I wonder how many of them will fail to realize how
much I’ve changed even in the final months of my life. I wonder
if they will be willing to accept that the man who constructed
Aseitism and Comprachicos was not the same as he who penned
The Dissolving Path, Traumaturgy and any other dismal work to
my name which saw me in a turbulent, transitional state of mind
and spirit and fighting for my life and sanity. I imagine it will
be weaponized against me by some, and that bothers me if in
the case that these misconstructions will limit the reach and ef-
fectiveness of what I have to say, but I won’t silence my word or
censor my works to cater to misapprehension, believing that my
works will inevitably be received by those individuals for whom
they were meant.
Sometimes I’ll look around and think of how amazing it is that

I’ve lived a thousand lives and been a thousand people and expe-
rienced a thousand places without ever leaving this cellar. I’ll be
the last one to comprehend how that is possible. I’ll be the last
one to concede to the restrictions and laws which sought to den-
igrate my life, my mind.
I sort of wish that I could take some time to focus more on these
changes of cognition that have come over me since my trial, since
I don’t feel I’ve elaborated on it quite enough, and my book
seems to emphasize the metaphysical aspects of that transforma-
tion over the attitudinal which, to me, are somehow even more
remarkable. I guess that the works created in my final year of
life will have to speak for themselves. My friend Wyatt can also
vouch for my personality and attitude, which is wonderful. Our
conversations are very humorous and playful and I’ve been able
to carry on like a normal human in his company. He can also
vouch for my work ethic, as he’s forced to deal with me messag-
ing him every two hours over the course of six months with news
of another epiphany or invention I’ve come up with, along with
my constantly obsessing over the political landscape and the state
of the world and how to spare us all of this mess.
A lot of people, once leaving religion, enter into a period of per-

ceived loss and emptiness. I never underwent such a period, since
for me, leaving the church did not mean leaving spirituality or
any of the goals that I had pursued in my two decades as a Chris-
tian. All of those same goals and values on which I had been
raised continued on, and I left the church not because I stopped
agreeing with those pursuits, but because the church revealed
itself to be the greatest obstacle of all to the achievement of a

healthy, evolving spirituality. So I essentially continued believ-
ing, refining and exploring my childhood beliefs, working with
them like playdough, and I kept that in my heart until I found
something greater, more fulfilling, more honest, more freeing,
more true. Therefore I never really experienced any loss or re-
morse for leaving the church. I’ve never not been a spiritual per-
son (although there was a time when I would have argued se-
mantics). I would consider myself vastly more spiritual than my
family and even the church itself, which is made up predomi-
nantly of traditionalists who, in every other area of their lives,
lack respect for the abstract and thereby expose their hand and
prove that their continued ‘faith’ has little, if anything, to do
with legitimate spirituality and everything to do with commu-
nity participation and childhood indoctrination: script recital.
The Christians in my life are also some of the most lost and emp-
ty people I’ve known, and it is no wonder that that is the case,
when their lives have been built around providing a justification
for that emptiness. That being said, I’ve never ever felt ‘lost’. I
simply don’t know what that’s like. I’ve always felt deeply attuned
to the abstract, the spiritual, and even when I lacked all the an-
swers, I was okay with that. My personality is such that I’m in-
nately comfortable in the presence of the unknown. I’m innately
comfortable with the fact that I don’t have all the answers. Al-
though I am also driven to explore and to uncover them. My de-
sire for knowledge has never been motivated by fearful desper-
ation, nor by some biased attempt to prove the weight of some
existing beliefs. For me it is a romantic quest which is not driven
by fear but by passion, wonder and, in some cases, identity. These
traits have always been a part of me and I consider myself lucky
that I contained such a disposition, since I know that not every-
one sees life in such a way. I was set up to become as I am.
The writing of this book [Clyssus of Man] may often lack my

idiosyncratic tone and pace which reeks of ‘breathless excite-
ment’ and ‘apocalyptic desperation’. My partner has sort of had
her way with the edit. I don’t mind. I’m simply explaining why.
She’s also written maybe a quarter of it down, while I dictate the
words.
If I am seen standing it is that my arms are held up by these two

who have never left my company, changing only their faces in a
gesture to the sun of awareness. We have looked on as sufferment
stakes its claim in the world of man.
I am every aspect of this and that, held up by a poem in store.
In all my years and in all my talks of death, they did not grasp a
word of it, they did not taste a sip of it, they did not derive joy
in its name, and its name was lost to the shame of that dedica-
tion. This paradigm so limited will soon release me, like all that I
have given to be displayed, and I will be here chanting, “I wish to
breathe as easily as I have loved.”
The Serpent-bearer who sends me awaits your word. Know
this, Existence, for it is what I am: I am the child and the
guardian, as I am called to be. And between the child and the
guardian, our duality, a function, which is called Existence, that
formed when I took on the responsibility of clearest sight, caus-
ing me to shake.
I don’t want to act like this is all the fault of the older gener-
ations, although—and not to sound morbid—I do believe that
the landscape will soon begin to shift as these generations begin
to die off over the decades that follow, and I can only wonder
what sort of changes that will bring with it. Media tries to paint
a lot of these matters of basic health and well-being as partisan
issues, yet I reject that narrative with all that I am. I believe that
awareness is on the rise and I think that the younger generations,
despite coming equipped with their own faults and neuroses, are
working with more information—not that the same information
isn’t available to older generations, but it is an unfortunate fact
of our system (though I’m not willing to say ‘of our humanness’)
that we tend to close ourselves off more and more to new infor-
mation as we age. We may still have our little bubbles in which
we choose to congregate, though it is not at all like the isolated
bubbles in which we worked previously before the internet age,
in which we could so easily be convinced that our actions weren’t
affecting those around us. We now see the disenfranchised with
our own eyes. We now see the massacres carried out by our own
leaders and can no longer accept the versions of the story which
they’ve told us. And even we aren’t so cruel as to be capable of
overlooking those effects in their entirety. I wouldn’t describe
this as a shift toward ‘leftism’, per se—a notion which wrongly
seeks to politicize the concepts of knowledge, awareness and em-
pathy. This is a shift toward awareness and accountability—val-
ues which benefit each and every one of us without exception,
despite being given the respect of only a limited number of us
(especially as the result of propaganda campaigns—the influence
of which can and must be both thwarted and reversed with care-
ful, conscious efforts). Values aren’t dying out, as the seething
reactionaries love to tell themselves. Values are evolving in line
with a more holistic view of the world which rationally encom-
passes more than our little group of friends and the echo cham-
bers we’ve created in our ignorance and superstition. We ain’t
out of the dark ages yet, as far as I am concerned, but as people
come to an awareness of their needs, you can guarantee that the

tides will slowly shift in accordance therewith. I won’t be sticking
around to watch it all unfold, but I do wish this species all the
best in its healing and maturation and I hope that in fifty years
from now we are looking at a very different world which looks
upon our modern day with as much disbelief as we, ourselves, are
wont to look upon the Middle Ages.
Comprachicos is about the long game, as we know that stomping

our feet and/or throwing money at the problem is not going to
fix the issues at play any more than a bandage is going to heal
heart disease. This is structural. This is radical. And while it may
be beyond us to heal the landscape of today, our actions of to-
day undoubtedly feed into tomorrow. In attempting to tackle all
things at the root we need to be prepared to dedicate years and
years to the set-up. This ain’t no one-night protest which pro-
vides instant gratification but accomplishes nothing.
Our world would change if we would only prioritize emotional

intelligence. I’m not talking a hippy-dippy love fest: love your
neighbor, lick your leader. The modern popular conception of
love is a poor surrogate for what can be achieved with basic un-
derstanding and respect for life. I cannot even imagine the sorts
of relationships and systems that would be possible in a world in
which all individuals contained a basic degree of emotional in-
telligence. And do not let them tell you that you are either born
with it or you aren’t. It is something that is fostered as any abil-
ity. Most people, I reckon, couldn’t even tell you what the term
emotional intelligence properly encompasses at this point.
In combating all of the trauma that we suffer as a species—the

trauma which lends itself to drug addiction, mental illness, ex-
tremist views and more—we are going to need to normalize
emotional intelligence as a priority of our species. Without it, we
are lacking even the most basic requisite for functioning discern-
ment, which is an acknowledgment and understanding of that
which harms us and that which heals.
I go on and on about this matter of ‘normalizing emotional in-

telligence’ and self-awareness, especially through our education
system, but what would that entail? How can it be normalized?
What practices can be implemented to achieve this? The solu-
tions are numerous and will require a grasp on the context of the
day and age—something that I won’t be able to do for you.
We are so fixated on cleaning off the rotten rind when the infec-
tion has penetrated the core. Money ain’t going to change any-
thing. Trauma is at the root. It must be fixed on the level of the
family, which must be tended to on the level of humanity, which
is most reliably, though not exclusively, attacked via the educa-
tion system. The education system is the most reliable avenue by
which to effect the necessary changes.
Human society is not geared toward raising us to be better hu-

mans, but better laborers. The education system and the work-
force do not exist to foster the emotional intelligence or self-
awareness of its people. It does not care about our mental and
spiritual health.
We shouldn’t be crawling like wounded soldiers from elec-
tion to election desperately hoping that our world survives in the
meantime, and your godawful punk and hardcore songs are do-
ing fuck-all to change our fate. As much as we like to act like our
whole species is just some experiment doomed to fail, none of
this needs to be.
We must do away with the association between age and wisdom

which is simply untrue, since age equates only to opportunity,
and opportunities so often go squandered. Experience and un-
derstanding are not synonymous as concepts. Similar can be said
for suffering in the sense that suffering does not necessarily make
for a stronger, more resilient individual. I’ve said this many times
before: suffering grants us an opportunity—and what a golden
opportunity it is—but if we then opt to spend all of that oppor-
tunity kicking and screaming and cursing we have no right to
then stand up and declare ourselves some warrior.
The end toward which we are working is not as simple and one-
dimensional as a society that is more in touch with its emo-
tions. The problem of self-ignorance is so entangled in all that
we do that simply fixing this one issue could bear an effect on
every aspect of life and society. This is the means to curtail child
abuse, domestic abuse, sexual abuse and animal cruelty. This is
the means to curtail anxiety, depression and psychosis in the
population, and in lessening the prevalence of mental illness we
will see a lessening in the prevalence of physical illness caused
by stress and an increase in quality of life. This is the means to
preserve and nourish our natural environment. This is the means

to curtail poverty. This is the means to mend the political land-
scape and establish a more sensible economy which works for
everyone. This is the means to curtail war and extremism. This is
the means to curtail substance abuse. This is the means to curtail
homelessness and hunger. This is the means to curtail prejudice
and oppression, be it racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia,
ableism or other. The ignorant and malevolent acts which so reg-
ularly occur within our world almost invariably occur not due
to an informed preference held by self-aware individuals but acts
committed out of desperation, depression, miseducation, indoc-
trination and a host of other major systemic issues which can
be resolved if only we would commit ourselves to paying proper
attention to the psychological and emotional well-being of our
species.
Also, we should always consider Hanlon’s razor, which is more

or less to say “Never attribute to malice that which is adequately
explained by stupidity.” I won’t deny the existence of malice and
‘evil’ within our world, but I am no longer laboring under the be-
lief that it is dispositional and is caused entirely by nurture or a
lack thereof.
And once this is all done... we aren’t finished, no. We’ll just be
done playing catch-up. Our species may finally find itself in a
place where it can actually create enterprises based not on a fear
of death and distraction but in honor of life, and our businesses
and our recesses and our pastimes will change as a result to reflect
a healthier and more exploratory state of mind. Do not write me
off as another empty utopian whose dreams reflect a dearth of
sensibility, for all of this is within our means, not just as a species,
but as a generation.
Some will hear the term ‘emotional intelligence’ and think
that it relates to basic emotionality. Perhaps it will dredge up im-
ages of weeping millennials crying holes in their cotton candy
cardigans. This is not emotional intelligence but the tragedy
brought by its absence. And it’s true that we are still guilty of as-
sociating emotion with weakness and hysteria on a grand scale,
and it should alarm us that this misconception has lasted so long
in the self-styled age of information, though it is not at all un-
common that the misuse of something comes to characterize the
act or product on the whole. All of this is societal, if by cause
of society’s failures. All of these are remnants from earlier times
in which we lacked the resources to say that we knew better. Yet
times have changed in regards to what we understand about how
certain actions affect our bodies and others. And anybody who
insists on normalizing the sickness that we face as a society are
sick themselves and shall not be heeded but honored through
our most earnest disregard.
A lot of people also equate emotion, as a whole, with emo-
tional expression, especially in its so-called negative aspects (as in
crying or angry outbursts), when emotion encompasses a wider
body of interactions, the majority of which are not consciously
experienced but work in directing our actions nonetheless, and
this variously includes our associations, our impulses and the
very sensibility whereof we are in possession (or not).
And seeing as people hold differing views on what constitutes

trauma (and there could be some nitpicking in cases where the
concept is not clearly defined) I will go ahead and clarify that my
own definition speaks more to the effect that an event has on our
expectations than on our feelings. Throughout our lives we de-

velop a complex outlook on the world comprising various defi-
nitions, expectations and ways of approaching and resolving the
issues we may encounter. From the moment we come into this
life we work to establish a sense of what is safe and what is dan-
gerous; what is expected and what is unexpected; what is worth-
while and what is a waste of our time, and to think that these
things are not foundational to all that we are, supporting all our
acts, is ignorant at best and malignant at worst.
It’s not just the superficial slight of someone’s ‘feelings’ or
even a memorable brush with fear but something which goes
against their expectations so as to leave our paradigm—our out-
look on life and the complexity of our approach thereto—in a
state of disarray and unable to be trusted. This results in a mode
of being characterized by fear and doubt, since our working map
has proven false or incomplete and no longer can we trust the ac-
curacy of our own understanding. You can sit back and tell them
to ‘get over it’ all you want, but what trauma does is it causes dis-
order on the very level of the symbol and the definition and the
expectation, and, depending on the severity and nature of a trau-
ma, this can have extreme consequences going forward which
must be dealt with if we are to allow for healthy definitions and
expectations of the world in which they live.
Perversion of this sort does not heal in the absence of intent.
You can not simply expect to get into a relationship with a
healthy individual and have your definitions magically unscram-
bled by their presence; yet a lot of people seem to think that
that’s how it works, as if requiring no more than to put ourselves
in the situation to know the love and respect and investment
that we were denied so long; but it’s going to require far more
than positive circumstances and necessitates great intent and
self-awareness.
I have been incredibly vocal in my experience with trauma,

providing what is perhaps one of the most detailed accounts of
the effects of trauma on the mind as has ever been recorded. You
can rate and review my personal circumstances all you want, but
the point is, the actions of those in whom I placed my trust con-
tributed, directly or indirectly, to shifts in my expectations and
my understanding of what is and isn’t possible and the conse-
quences, in many cases, were disastrous (and some would even
say fatal, as they cut short both my life and my desire to live). You
can see, in that case, the origins of my interest in these topics. I
am not a stuffy academic just trying to type up this paper to meet
a deadline and earn his credits. I am a young man whose life was
poisoned before it even started, and with no one to provide me
with the love and support that I so required, my body withered
away in spite of all my best attempts to change my fate—a fate
decided for me by ignorant, uncaring abusers. Every word writ-
ten unto a faceless mass on this day is written with the intent
of seeing to it that no one else has to go through what I went
through. I don’t expect that it will come about with such imme-
diacy but I do know that the earlier we take these ideas to heart,
and the harder we go at chipping away, chip by chip, at the faulty
systems in place, the sooner we will reclaim our rights to thrive
as we’ve never known it before.
What constitutes a safe environment in which to grow? We
don’t need Mister Rogers rocking us to sleep. All that we require
of society is the knowledge to grasp the commoner needs of the
individual. Yet society, as it stands, is uneducated in these things
and is therefore wont to deny and disrespect the value and ne-
cessity of inner exploration and confronting our grief and ques-
tioning that which is in our best interest even when our nomi-
nal guides and authorities are trying to override our perceptions
with their own views on who we should be and how we should
feel. Again, what we are seeing in the modern day, while possibly
a step in the right direction, is not the architecture of emotional
intelligence but the tragedy of its absence. Still, the people are at-
tempting to rebuild, and they are carrying out these attempts in
an absence of direction and among a landscape of indifference,
discouragement and infecundity in which they are forced to rely
on false promises, with this so often being the best we can afford
from a society so broken. Thus we eat up every flagrise, hashtag
and social media blackout in our will to think ourselves safe and
heard; but these are not safe environments. They are marketing
ploys and bids for relevancy by corporations that don’t care one
bit about our welfare.
If you’ve read through my philosophical works you will see
that I attribute a lot of power to humility—where by humility
I am referring more to what we think of as ‘agnosticism’, as in
an acknowledgment of our limitations, than to any sort of self-
abasement so unnecessary. I relate humility to the genesis of all
knowledge and awareness, as seen in relation to the so-called
‘first cause’ as posited by Aseitism in which knowledge comes in-
to being from ignorance through the paradoxical acknowledg-
ment of that ignorance. As so, this humbling act tends to repli-
cate itself, and naturally so, all throughout the natural world,
with nature seeking after its own growth, and I have noticed the
pattern in every place that I look. Where some may look out
upon our modern world and see a population that is only be-
coming weaker in its self-estimation, I am hopeful that what we
are actually seeing is a generation that is subconsciously seeking
to invoke strength through an acknowledgement of their own
helplessness—a strange but valid replication of the very means
by which Existence, as we know it, came to be (called Innaem-
ulation). Whether or not it proves successful is yet to be deter-
mined, *and there are multiple factors which seem to be inter-
fering with the processes underway, as in our current economic

model which is incentivized to trample the health and education
of the populace; although I remain hopeful that all is working
toward gnosigenesis so worthy. Yet we must each do our part in
seeing that the process is not interrupted by malevolent interfer-
ences and self-consolatory ideologies which lead us to settle for
and embrace unfulfillment.
As it currently stands, we are living within a society wherein
most forms of exploration are either discouraged outright or
kept in check by a host of wrongful associations and punishing
actions designed to prevent us from stepping out from beneath
the tarp of an unchallenged tyranny. Exploration is a dangerous
act in its own right even when it doesn’t also involve our poten-
tially being anathematized by friends, family and a society condi-
tioned to revile the unknown while teaching us to be excited by
and content with endless variations on the same damn thing(s).
This, I would say, is one of the aims that we are ultimately aspir-
ing toward with our attempts to heal the population: a society
in which exploration can be encouraged and taken on without
any added societal risk, and in which we have the support of the
collective behind us as we venture out into the void in honoring
the name of us all. This may be a ways off from where we stand
currently, although it hasn’t halted the courageous and daring
individuals peppered throughout history from giving up their
health, reputation and security in their attempts to bring fire to
mankind, and all veritable progress that occurs in such dark ages
deserves the commendation of us all. May we not lose sight of
these explorers and what it cost them. And may we not be so
caught up in the sleekness of our new cars or the improved capa-
bilities of our new smartphones that we lose the ability to distin-
guish the pioneer from the oinking opportunist.
In Kindergarten, as we are teaching kids to write their names

and recite any amount of nationalistic nonsense, let us give each
child one of those colorful wheels on which you see written out
hundreds of varied emotional states—if simplified so as to be
age-appropriate. I don’t see why we shouldn’t familiarize them
with these things at the earliest possible age as it incurs no risk or
controversy. After all, all of these emotions are already available
to the kids. Also bear in mind that only four or five years down
the line they will begin learning about (and potentially even en-
gaging in) sexual acts and surely they should already have a firm
hold on their emotional needs and the associated responsibilities
by then.
Each day have them identify their state of mind, or highlight
a different emotion each day within the classroom and explore
that state through through personal anecdotes. There is no rea-
son for why we cannot make this happen. It sounds silly, but this
is how the practice is normalized within a developing mind. And
imagine what it would be like if the youth got it in their heads at
an early age to consult their emotions, expectations and needs on
a regular basis. This doesn’t require some huge effort or modifi-
cation to our working models. So what is stopping any individual
schoolteacher who may read and agrees with what I have to say
from implementing these ideas (and more) into their daily class-
es—something that can be done without upsetting anyone.
Emotional guidance has come to be associated with the sick and

misbehaving—how negligently so. It is neglectful to a degree
that I would call criminal, and until we opt for a more preventa-
tive approach which normalizes prevention over reaction we will
see the same outcome again and again. Upping the quality of our
hospitals and prisons and therapy offices will have absolutely no
effect on our population if we can not improve the quality of our

schools.
Again, emotional intelligence is about far more than simply
being in touch with our emotions. So all of this stuff about emo-
tion wheels and whatnot... that obviously ain’t the final outcome
of our efforts but a catalyst to start us off on our collective jour-
ney to awareness. We’re really just preheating the oven at this
point.
When one hears me speak of developing emotional intelli-
gence they are likely to think of someone suddenly ‘putting their
foot down’ more often or ‘not being afraid to cry in front of oth-
ers’, and I can understand if that doesn’t sound all that effective
or even like something we would want to be around, let alone be-
come, but that’s not what I think of when I speak of these things.
I think of people who know when to stop. I think of people who
are able to choose the healthy alternatives and not harm them-
selves and others. I think of people whose precious time in life is
not dictated by chemicals driving them in the direction of any-
thing that offers security and pleasure. I think of a people who
have graduated beyond their shielded existences to where life no
longer seems to be about defense and offense but creation and
growth. Oh to grow! Not sidewards but up and up and up!
Even as my thoughts flow freely, it has become ever more diffi-

cult for me to speak since my trial, which is not to suggest that
my articulation has suffered, but the process of communicating
across paradigms is unbearably strenuous and exhausting and I
am having to be so careful when delivering my points and analo-
gies, and it merits to be said that I am not someone known for
his precision, his accuracy, but a shameless scatter-shooter who
naturally sees more value in being sincere than in being correct.
It is therefore sufficient to say that I am exhausted, craving the

ability to speak once more without worrying how it is being in-
terpreted. As honest as I have been with my work, there is some-
thing fundamentally dishonest about the process of speaking in
an attempt to be understood which requires one to adapt their
knowledge and language in compliance with the less informed.
Fathom Omen Om, for me, was a release to step beyond that need
to be understood, but the result was something that I would pre-
fer to keep to myself. In my final age of life, especially in this
strange limboic state since my trial, I’ve been met with much
frustration in the form of paradigm locks. And some of that is
the problem of language in general, surely as it is known that
language is not even among our better communicatory means.
There are all sorts of little things that go along with it, like I’ve
had to be more conscious of acting ‘upset’ or ‘disturbed’ since my
trial and it leaves me feeling like I can’t be honest about what
I am experiencing. I don’t do it to present the impression that
all problems are resolved within my life. My last years were the
darkest I have known, in some aspects, and the joy of victory
could not quell the agony of living in a senseless world among a
sea of mammals that are systematically destroying themselves in
the pursuit of pleasure and security—an irony whereof we rarely
have any perspective, being so utterly accustomed to the tragedy
that is humanity. There are a great many aspects of humanity that
our species itself is not yet ready to comprehend, and for that
reason I must soften my words at times, rounding them up to
the nearest palatable prose. It’s not to mislead, but because we
must sometimes speak inaccuracies to direct the mind toward
the essential truth. And thus I am sometimes forced to offer up
twisted representations of life so as to bring you closer to liv-
ing than any direct explanation of truth that I can concoct, al-
though even that explanation may mislead, for I have perpetu-
ated no falsities in my exhibition and I would not say that my

work is inaccurate or misleading in any way. This is referred to as
limiviation, or epistemological rounding, and such is the nature
of the myriachoron and metaphor/analogy in general. The only
reason it is sometimes required is because of some fundamental
rift occurring between the lesser and greater paradigms, between
the objectivity of Existence and the disposivity (subjectivity) of
Essence. The essential truth (and value) of reality is not deliver-
able via such mechanisms as language—not any language known
hereto. In any case, as previously stated, I have decided to keep
these works to myself, lest these words present the sun with so
much accuracy that they shall blind and disfigure all those who
look on without the sufficient capabilities and defenses.
I wouldn’t say that I was innately empathetic. Actually, I don’t

believe that there is such a thing as an ‘innately empathic in-
dividual’ in that empathy must always be developed and main-
tained with great care over time; although in this world wherein
a lack of self-others distinction, coupled with other self-abasing
behaviors acted out in the desire of harmony and security have
come to be equated with virtuous deed (similar to how we will
often confuse silence with peace) we are met with certain con-
fusion regarding the parameters of this thing we call empathy. I
fight for the notion that empathy, as a term, should come to refer
to ‘applied emotional intelligence’ in the same way that wisdom
refers to ‘applied intelligence’. I give further reasons for this in
a separate document, explaining how this definition incentivizes
growth (the development and application of healthy emotional
habits) while it disincentivizes abuse (utilizing the vague concept
of ‘empathy’ as an excuse or as a badge of honor as has become so
commonplace in modern times).
I was never so out of touch with mine own emotional center

that I lacked the ability to grasp what I was feeling, and the
idea that one might experience any difficulty in identifying their
emotions is honestly alien to me to where I can’t even imagine
what it must be like. I never saw my emotions as something to
be suppressed or denied. I’ve always been very attuned to that
aspect of myself, or that aspect of life; but actual empathy, as in
the sort of empathy that motivates me to write this text, arrived
a bit later on and only after many years of self-analysis carried
out to suit my own self-interest. This is not something that I was
taught. In many ways, it wasn’t even what I was pursuing—not
directly so. I pursued my own maturity and excellence—what-
ever that would entail, and I feel that the emotional intelligence
that was gained as a result of my ongoing commitment to self-
improvement was among the most meaningful developments to
come about.
Another simple yet highly effective thing that you can be doing
on the small scale: when you see someone making strides to im-
prove themselves and their circumstances, whether is it by speak-
ing difficult truths, by confronting their dark inner thoughts and
memories, or by other means along these lines, offer them your
praise. Cheer for them as we so cheer for those who purchase
a new car or crap out a baby and all of those other things that
don’t actually bear any reflection whatsoever on a person’s char-
acter. Stop taking the efforts of others as a threat to yourself. Stop
deciding for them the necessariness of their toils, and surely do
not tell them they’re fucking ‘overthinking’ or belittle their ef-
forts to pay consideration to that which so often goes uncon-
sidered. This isn’t helpful in the slightest and most often reveals
your ignorance and inhumanity. Sometimes it is more helpful
that we affirm the significance and severity of a problem in our

lives or in the lives of others than seek to minimize it. And keep
in mind that those attempting to improve themselves are high-
ly likely to lose a significant amount of their social and familial
circle in the process of self-improvement, resulting in loneliness
and despondency to a degree that not everyone is able to cope
with. They’re in for enough of a struggle without having to wor-
ry about the loss of those on whom they rely for support, so do
whatever you can to live up to be the person who acknowledges
the effort when no one else will. Never be too proud or too shy
to commend someone on their efforts to improve themselves. If
everyone practiced such basic consideration, if only within their
intimate circle, then our collective attitude would soonly shift as
that radius expands in size by natural matter of course and one
day perhaps we will find ourselves living in a society which re-
spects and values emotional maturity as much as the masses of
today respect and value luxury mansions and six-pack abs and
other superficial developments having nothing to contribute to
the social landscape. We need to understand that no act is so
small that it is not worth carrying out (and the obverse is also
true in the case of malevolent acts in that no act is so insignifi-
cant that it is not worth stifling). I’m not asking you to walk up
to random people in the streets and put yourself in the sort of
situation that could be awkward for you and them both. For not
only is our society currently in a place wherein such friendliness
between strangers is discouraged by a whole slew of learned bi-
ases and associations, but that would be asking of you something
with which I myself would be uncomfortable and it ain’t my style
to be so unfair and expect of others only that which can be prac-
ticed in my own life. Instead, practice this consideration among
your own friends and family. If they are truly your intimates then
there should be no hesitation to interact in this way. After all,
your friends aren’t just extra seat fillers and open ears when you
want company. We each have a limited amount of intimates in
life. If you aren’t the one that is encouraging their growth and
resilience and passion then no one else is going to. Too many
people out here playing the claim game and it shows; it shows
itself in the fact that we aren’t willing to put up with anything
that makes us uncomfortable or even bored. Do not let the op-
portunity pass to water a still-growing sapling. One day, should
the sapling become a tree, it will require less water from others
in that it derives its nutritionist naturally from the earth and ids
processes, but young trees must be given extra attention and pro-
tection from empathetic hearts and delicate hands. It may come
across as stupid or inane, but the way to create an impact over a
large surface is by normalizing the smallest efforts. Take your role
among society seriously instead of viewing it simply as some te-
dious game to be played in order to get back to what you really
love. Provide your loved ones with something more this holiday
season with the all new fragrance by Leviyey.
*One day, when this tragedy is long and far behind us, may
we all be able to look back and laugh at the fact that our leaders
were so utterly corrupt and uncaring that it took a solipsistic her-
mit devoid of family, friends and education to point us back to
the roadway. It sounds farcical, yet as all of our trained soldiers
and politicians have betrayed themselves and everyone around
them in their forgetfulness of our aims, our vanguard must be
taken up by jokers and jackasses if we ought to have any offense
at all against the forever-encroaching threat of nihilism, apathy
and dissociation (it is no wonder that my desktop wallpaper, for
these past ten years, has been Stańczyk the jester as depicted by
painter Jan Matejko). And when such ideals do crop up among
our population they are coupled with the passive, petulant atti-
tudes of the hippies.
I am still at an age where, were it not for my ill health, I could

have taken the necessary steps to enter into the realm of politics;
and I can envision it despite my aversion to the political sphere
as it currently stands. I do not necessarily refer to a president or a
mayor or a governor. There is more to the sphere of politics than
standing oneself at the fore. Do these offices have psychological
advisors? How interesting would it be to see a board of psycholo-
gists operating in a manner similar to that of the Supreme Court
which provides the political offices with an impartial, nonpar-
tisan insight into the immediate and long-term ramifications of
their action and inaction on the health of the population which
compromises not tools and laborers but starved children with
little option but to trust the liars born above them. A board
as such would be most effective, if even their only duty was to
remind our elected leaders that today’s needs and cries are the
natural consequence of yesterday’s neglect, much as tomorrow's
cries will be in response to how we answer the cries of today. As
long as nationalism and corporatism stand above humanism on
our list of priorities, we are losing.
After assembling my list of top albums, I got to thinking about

how not all albums are liable to appear within a ‘top albums list’,
and it goes beyond quality, I think. Even among my own discog-
raphy, there are many that I would never expect to see in such
a list; and that got me wondering about which of my releases I
would expect to really resonate with people, so I came up with
the following ten. Of course this is all just a guess and I am doing
it primarily for my own amusement. It’s not exactly homogenous
with my personal favorites but I’ll admit that it is very close.
1. Ear to the Oven (March 2008)
2. Northern Thorns ( July 2009)

3. Countertorch (May 2011)
4. The Rifles in Mind Recoil (December 2009)
5. All Pepper Blown Away (August 2010)
6. Winter Owner (October 2010)
7. Bot of Big God, Bomb of His Whirs (December 2009)
8. The Room of Burglaryable Spirit (September 2010)
9. Man Made Clavos (September 2009)
10. Heart is Debt ( July 2009)
The biggest surprise may be my putting Ear to the Oven in
the top spot (as well as the absence of Stock Bird Stork, which is
one of my favorites, although I don’t consider it among my most
accessible, and the parts about it that make it so great may not be
readily obvious to the casual listener unless they fully grasp the
timeline). Ear to the Oven might not seem so remarkable when
pitted against many of my later releases, being quite understated,
but this album is in many ways to be viewed as the genesis of the
man that I am today, introducing the themes of hermitry (Off
to the Basement) and Anita/The Golden Room (Guess Where
I’m Going into the equation, along with marking the appear-
ance of the first hells and hehs (Make Me First in Mine Heart).
The album, despite its variation, still seems somehow consistent
and cohesive with thanks to the quality of innocence that is tru-
ly comforting to me. When you add that up with all else that I
was undergoing from a psychological and metaphysical perspec-
tive, it make for a very unique album which sounds nothing like
anything that I made before it or after it. It is often said that the
Tendon Levey discography, on the whole, tells the story of a boy
adapting to unexpected changes and to the realization that a nor-
mal life would never be his, and in few places is that felt more
apparently then at the surreal juncture that is this album. It isn’t
perfect, having some songs which seem slightly out of place, but
I wouldn’t change it at all. The first few tracks are my favorite,

but goddamn there is something in me that becomes so emotion-
al when “Everybody Knows My Sabbath Hurts” comes in at the
halfway point, making for a worthy and vulnerable the crest.
Countertorch, All Pepper Blown Away, Winter Owner and
The Room of Burglaryable Spirit are often considered perfor-
mance highlights. These are some of my personal highlights from
the latter parts of my discography, showcasing performance abil-
ity as well as songwriting ability, whereas the performances in
my earlier discography were often more focused on capturing my
emotional state than... actually being good, haha. However, al-
bums like Northern Thorns, The Rifles in Mind Recoil, Man Made
Clavos and Bot of Big God, while very dark and disturbing and
lacking a lot of the cohesion of later albums, carry a sound that I
expect will probably be more memorable and defining of my out-
put, regardless of how I feel about that, as it is not only a sound
that I would say is uniquely mine, but it is very befitting of the
actual events of my life: an exemplification of my mythos.
As some know, I’m quite obsessed with Northern Thorns,
which I view as so mesmerizingly disturbing (a similar thing can
be said of Rifles and Bot, but those swap out the psychotic air of
Northern Thorns for a more sullen suicidality). A suitable anal-
ogy for Northern Thorns would be demonic possession. More
accurately, I was in the grip of an emotional episode stemming
from attempts to recalibrate my expectations of life and over-
come the disappointment resulting from past setbacks. If there
exists an album in all of existence which better encapsulates in-
sanity, then... well it would have to be another album by me, ha-
haha, like Demon Daycare. Medieval, slimy, fungal—those are
the words that it brings to mind. The whole album simply oozes
in this really unsettling way, like the dying body of an incapaci-
tated knight whose festering wounds pour out continuously. The
album title alludes to the crown of thorns as a metaphor for peak

psychological agony.
Bot of Big God... if I could go back I would make a couple
subtractions (and possibly additions) to the track listing since I
do view three or so of its tracks as breaking up the atmosphere
and that might be seen as a detraction in some minds. But its
imperfections don’t detract from how I see it, and that is partly
because it was recorded to be my last album as I was on the
verge of suicide (The Rifles in Mind Recoil and Fountain of Euth
were recorded within the same period and manage to depict an
even greater sense of hopelessness and madness, although they
are composed of unreleased songs that I would not compile until
much later on).
Man Made Clavos isn’t one I mention an awful lot even
though I’ve always rated it very highly. To me it is just so... I
wouldn’t change a thing about that one. It carries with it that
very specific anxiety of September as the cold weather is coming
in (at least where I live) and there is a depression and anxiety and
desperation taking over which suggests that I missed my chance
to escape and all of the other opportunities that summer (sup-
posedly) brought with it. My memories of this time are so vivid
that I often experience a somatic coldness when this album plays
and find myself having to put on a jacket. This was also the last al-
bum created before everything would change for me forever and
my throat ailments overtook my world.
*I have attempted to analyze the matter of mental health in light

of my understanding of the Volens, and it seems to me like there
is a spectrum, and you must keep the needle centered at all times,
yet that needle will often drift to the extremes. On one extreme
there is one who is out of touch with Volens which is depressed
and nihilistic. On the other end there is the psychotic who is in

the grip of their Volens. I’m not sure I can get it to align with our
definitions perfectly just because often you’ll find that our def-
initions have been tampered with by psychiatry or simply bas-
tardized and aren’t reflective of legitimate science. So we may be
working with weird definitions of what constitutes depression or
psychosis. But I would say that these form two poles. What can
be said then in cases of bipolar and other decidedly alternative
conditions? Well my first instinct is to say that it’s not as bipo-
lar as we’re thinking but just misunderstood by us, since I don’t
actually think it’s cycling in the way we think but being different
shades of a same element. On the other hand, I could be wrong
and it could represent an anomaly. Now you must understand
that I am anti-psychiatry and disagree with a lot of modern diag-
nostics, as well as with what is considered the paragon of health
and normalcy. I have been known to cycle rapidly between great
highs and great lows, though I am not willing to blame that on
factors beyond the mere fact that life sometimes works out that
way and must be examined within its proper context. I play with
extremes willingly so it’s not surprising that I get these extreme
reactions out of myself and I think it is horrible that we attempt
to pathologize strong displays of human emotion. Now, despite
my confidence in what I have to say, I caution my audience to
exercise their discernment and don’t go doing anything drastic.
Don’t go jumping off the cliff just because someone seeks to con-
vince you it’s water. Look at the symptoms of the average schiz-
ophreniac, who is often very childlike and youthful, along with
thinking and perceiving in a way that is commonly considered
creative, if because it differs from the standard. It is an abun-
dance of Volens, although it is uncontrolled, and I have to won-
der why that is. Their world is flooded with the disorganized
symbols of their myths, and because they don’t understand their
placement or purpose it turns out to be an overwhelming expe-

rience, and the interactions caused thereby, between them and
their myths, as well as between them and a society who doesn’t
understand, creates paranoia. I think someone could have defi-
nitely looked at myself in certain periods and made the case for
mania or schizophrenia, but I got my Volens, my child, under
control, and I achieved stability as such that I never knew before.
This also fits with what I’ve previously had to say in my com-
parisons of the madman to the magician... these are archetypes
working with the self-same set of elements, although they are
principally differentiated by the level of control that they con-
tain. In the schizophrenic, the symbols overtake the individual.
In the magician, the shaman, the individual has dominion over
the symbols. It is like that Campbell quote that I quote from
time to time. And who’s fault is it that this is happening? I would
blame it more so on society than the individual. Don’t teach a
girl about her periods and when puberty comes it’s going to be a
hellish freak out. But with guidance it comes to be accepted that
this is all just a sign that things are moving along as they should.
Depressives, on the other hand, are in a completely different
category. And I don’t mean to characterize people by such diag-
noses. I honestly believe more than ever that these are not these
forever illnesses but things that could come and go in hourly
bursts. Even in my life depression comes and goes and that’s usu-
ally enough for one to be considered a depressive, but there are
extended periods in the interim where it’s not there... why is it
gone? There’s no real answer. People just say it comes and goes,
but act as if it’s always there. In other words, when it’s there you
will feel it: when it’s not there you won’t feel it. Unfortunately in
this world we come to believe that it is there waiting for us even
when we don’t feel it just because it’s what we expect and it cre-
ates a downward spiral.
Curious is the fact that I’ve very rarely suffered from de-
pression in my final decade of life despite the horrors of my
condition and the hopelessness of my circumstances. I’ve gone
through periods of the most stark debilitation imaginable and
I don’t want to undercut the severity of those periods but my
methods and beliefs always managed to extricate me from the
black Opposite psychosis. Depression can be seen as detachment
from Volens, which isn’t to say divestment. It’s like an eclipse... a
rotating moon. Our lives aren’t reflecting the sun that is Volens.
So these things will require very different approaches. Again
it may not align perfectly with our psychiatric definitions. I’m
just working with very common definitions here and may go
into more detail later. I might even make up a guide in working
through them, depending on where you’re at.
Do I think it’s chemical? I don’t. I think that our concept
of chemicals is simply a mirror or analogue of another more ab-
stract concept and I believe that the physical yields to the ab-
stract, the ideal to the material. So for all of the people who want
to argue chemical depression and the like... I just don’t believe it
works that way. Once we become “depressed” via a failure to re-
flect our Volens, our disposition, our child, our observable chem-
icals and processes may come to reflect that state in one of many
ways, but they are not to be considered the cause of that state. An
analogy I would make is that depressives are blindfolded while
psychotics are staring at the sun. And I like the sun analogy, be-
cause while we require the sun to live our lives and to navigate
and experience our surroundings, we don’t have to stare direct-
ly at it to get its benefits, and we’re even supposed to avoid do-
ing so. We take in the sun by simply accepting that it is there
and allowing it to enlighten our environment. But to stare direct-
ly at it... some would think that that is one way to intake even
greater light and enlightenment... but on the contrary, it leads to
the darkness that is blindness and other visual aberrations (like,

say, hallucinations).
While these are both very different states and dealing from
very different causes, they can both more or less be remedied
with a similar approach, which is the acknowledgment of what
we are working with. I’m sure that if I got to sit with this for
longer, like over months and years, as opposed to fifteen minutes,
that I would come up with more complex ideas in how to actual
work with it, but unfortunately I’m working with such a haste
at this time and don’t have the opportunity to really flesh every-
thing out. I can only hope the concepts are taken up in my wake
by those who contain a similar inspiration and not just those try-
ing to handle my claims scientifically and whatnot... not that my
claims go against science, but I’m not deriving my claims from
science but from an inspiration, and if we want to build upon the
heights of these statements and ideals, we’re going to need more
inspired individuals who are coming at it from my same angle
and see what it am seeing. Otherwise we end up with some stu-
pid hypothetical cold laboratory mess which, while it may pull
out the occasional truth, is working off of a completely different
measurement which is not as likely to produce great epiphanies
and is extremely limited by what is already known to us, whereas
I am not limited to your paradigms at this point.
I still don’t know how to answer the question of mixed states,
and whether they should be taken as veritable mixed states or a
wrongful classification of unipolar states. For example, is manic
depression really mania and depression in light of what I am say-
ing, which is a bipolar state, or is it really just to be counted as a
specific form of psychosis which is unipolar. I only wonder this
because it determines how I see what it requires in terms of the
Volens and I’m just having a difficult time factoring in a mixed
state, unless it is someone who’s just ping-ponging and prone to

doing so.
There is also the fact that a lot of people diagnosed as suf-
fering from mental illness only have a single episode and never
come to re-experience it although their diagnosis lingers, leading
them to accept the relevance of the diagnosis to their every hour
even when it is no longer pertinent.
I noted that there was a period in my life when my behavior
might have been diagnosed as psychotic by others. Now, it’s a bit
of a murky issue, since I did bring a lot of that onto myself via my
weird experiments (and even my personal aspirations, misguided
though they were) and so my circumstances do not at all resem-
ble the psychotic fits of some homeless man on the street who
lacks a romantic, artistic and exploratory penchant. For many
years, I looked to madness as my trade. Nonetheless, what I find
so interesting about that period is the fact that from the start of
2008 until early 2012, which is often considered the most unsta-
ble period of my life from a neurotic perspective, is that that was
the period of time during which I had cut myself off from Thum-
mim, and if you understand what Thummim represents to me,
you will see that it is like to say that I had cut myself off from Ex-
istence.
As far as ‘near-death experiences’ and ‘brushes with death’ go, it

is so difficult for me to convey these weighty and extreme sit-
uations to a world which lies, exaggerates and saps all meaning
out of language, in that I realize that the most intense and dire
circumstances of my life will seem to the masses like nothing at
all. And that makes it so difficult for me to not only talk, but
to even continue existing. I am existing in a mode of being that
is arguably beyond being believed, understood or valued. And
when you understand this, it can really take the color out of life.
It doesn’t mean anything to say that there are usually between
one and three occasions within any given week that I am on the
verge of suffocation and wholly expecting I may die, to where my
temples are tingling and my extremities are cold and my bow-
els are relaxing. I will lay on my floor and hug the side of my
bed and pull on my neck muscles and carry out eager acts to
keep from suffocating. I will beat my head with a water bottle in
the hopes that it will do something, anything, to alter my bod-
ily processes just enough to spare me of such a fate. As my con-
sciousness cuts in and out I will take up a massage tool which is
then used on my neck and erogenous zones in an attempt to al-
ter my chemical balance, introducing even the slightest sensation
of pleasure or comfort which might affect the inflammation in
my body and allow for me to take on a satisfying breath of oxy-
gen. This is not a rare occurrence. This occurs on any day that I
cough or move my tongue overmuch when trying to get the bits
of oatmeal and antacid out of the sublingual zone of my mouth.
My most ambitious works in life were written and uploaded to
the internet as I lay on the floor as so, fearing that I would not
complete the task before my body gives out. Yet I can’t imagine it
will mean anything to anyone for it to be said that I nearly died
on hundreds of occasions in my final years alone. And perhaps
this is a reflection of the treatment that I’ve received in my life
from those who so callously identify as my family and friends,
although it is also a reflection of that which I see when I look
out into society, which is a loss of meaning (and general com-
passion) stemming from the overuse and perversion of language.
It’s not that the people deliberately sought to pervert and de-
stroy our means of communication, nor is it always due to delib-
erate acts of manipulation, but when certain concepts tend to be
prized or at least seem to hold more weight in that they are able
to command more attention than others, such as love, suffering

and death, then you can be sure that the population will be using
them liberally and where they don’t apply. Everyone wants to be-
lieve that they have experienced this precious thing called love,
and that desire that exists within them to feel so privileged, or
even to feel normal, will cause them to manipulate this word un-
til it takes the shape of our lived experiences, rather than seeing
that it is shaped in accordance with our objective understanding.
Concepts of pain and suffering suffer from something similar, al-
though most would point out that it is a sliding scale. Eh, I’m
only rambling at this point. In fact, I’m sitting bedside upon the
floor as we speak, wondering how I’m going to get through the
night. I don’t want an award for that which I’ve endured, and I
am not at all in the game of trying to put others down and mak-
ing them feel silly for what constitutes very real suffering in their
minds. It comes back to context, and the likes of suffering and
sacrifice form the contextual backbone of my output and life on
the whole—unfortunately so—and so if the masses lack under-
standing of the circumstances which I endured to bring to them
these works, then it is not possible for them to understand these
works in themselves. That is my stance, being that I tend to view
context as integral to a work as any other physical aspect thereof.
For years I have spoken up on my belief in the idea that we must

eventually move toward a post-monetary society for the good of
our own well-being—as individuals and as a collective. My rea-
soning is this: I believe that when a secondary system of value is
imposed upon a population, it necessarily disrupts its relation-
ship with the primary system of value, which is to say the value
and meaning inherent in beingness itself (and refers in this case
to all value inherent in Existence, humanity and nature—all of
which are invariably smothered by our current monetized system

in which time, focus and blood are traded away for paper and
coins).
Capitalist ideologies have dealt a major blow to our ability
to properly assess what is meaningful, valuable and ultimately
successful to where any suggestion of abandoning or otherwise
renovating this economic system is met with outrage, as if it is
fundamentally implying that we abandon value altogether, along
with all notion of success, and the fact that these terms have be-
come synonymous in the minds of most is truly, truly horrific.
Income and career are not the sole qualifiers of our success in
life, and I fear for the hearts and minds of those who argue oth-
erwise. There are plenty of other ways to ‘get ahead’, or ‘set our-
selves apart’, or whatever be the aim, and I abhor how these eco-
nomic systems neglect all of the multi-dimensionality of human-
ity and its multitudinous offerings. Such is the nature of propa-
ganda, which seeks to eliminate all consciousness of the alterna-
tive.
Another reason for why this change is so important is be-
cause manmade systems are inherently manipulable by those
men, who can manipulate the cost of resources and capital to
suit their own needs. It is arbitrary, it is inconsistent, and incon-
sistency invariably gives way to uneven—unfair—dynamics. The
innate value in humanity, nature and existence, however, can not
be manipulated. At best they may be ignored, but ignorance does
not eradicate our need. It only leads to us becoming dissociated
when we persist in telling ourselves that these things don’t mat-
ter like they do.
Having said that, these ideals fundamentally require us to
accept the premise that this life and those who inhabit it are
innately worthy and meaningful in ways that go beyond that
which they are able to do for their employers or their govern-
ment. Yet we’re not asking you to accept some pointed ontolog-
ical statement, but to simply acknowledge that there is a value
which exists independently of whatever we, ourselves give or ‘al-
low’.
So we must arrive at a means to restore the worth to innately
human qualities, and this won’t be wholly achievable until the
auxiliary system of value is done away with or weakened signif-
icantly; however, since we do not know how long that will take
to enact, there are many things that we can be doing to ease our-
selves toward it in the meantime by working to, as I said, restore
worth to innate human qualities (not physical, but spiritual and
mental-emotional).
Society, as we now know it, is motivated primarily by the
fear, insecurity and desperation to come of need, so it is no won-
der that we’ve landed ourselves where we have. Yet we now pos-
sess the scientific understanding to know that not all which en-
dangers us is as obvious as fire, knives and blood. We are now
capable of understanding the nuances of health and harm, and
with that knowledge we must seek to craft a society which func-
tions no longer on negative incentives but on positive ones of un-
derstanding, awareness and empathy.
As self-awareness, emotional intelligence and critical think-
ing skills become the priority of our government and society,
as opposed to a secondary consideration, we—the popula-
tion—will naturally become more and more capable; trustwor-
thy; self-governable.
And those who doubt the viability of such an outcome need
only look to those among us who, through basic discipline and
sufficient self-reflection, have left behind the selfishness which is
instilled in us not naturally, but as a product of fear and insecuri-
ty.
The incentive would simply shift from negative motivation

to positive motivation—something which many of us can hardly
fathom for the simple reason that our current understanding of
motivation is so firmly entangled in insecurity and desperation
that it only augments our pain and cognitive dissonance to think
that we could not only be without such cosmic insecurity, but
that we would achieve more as a result. The difference it makes
is the difference between the current standard of blackmail and
bribery—“Turn this crank if you want to live”—to “Anyone who
understands the importance and preciousness of life and exis-
tence is going to wish to do all they can to support this life and
existence for themselves and others,” and this will create better
workers in the long run, who work not begrudgingly but know-
ingly.
It sounds positively naïve within our current paradigm-
locked sphere, in which the masses are neither particularly com-
passionate, knowledgeable, nor self-aware, wherefore many will
doubt the feasibility of such an outcome as I am putting forward,
but all doubt, I argue, is instilled by paradigm lock. The compas-
sionlessness of modern society is not a symptom, but a function
of our system which celebrates greed through endless acceptance
and exceptions.
For a personal example, let us look back to the spring of 2008,

when it is believed that Anita came for me as I was about to dis-
sociate from my Volens and helped to restore its hold on me,
hence why I was thrust into a notably childlike state for months
and months. It wasn’t a rebirth, it was a renewal or renaissance
of the Volens and therefore allowed me to grasp my life with a
firmer grip, not drifting off into Agnosis due to my attempts to
forfeit my life. Knowing this, the springtime of 2008 comes to be
seen as more than simply surreal and childlike, but utterly myth-
ical. It is hypothesized that many forms of what we call ‘men-
tal illness’ are actually an attempt by ourselves to reestablish our
grip on the Volens, lending itself to notably regressive behaviors
that can be called childish or childlike. It may even be posited
that the simplicity seen in old folks entails one final attempt to
maintain this grip on the Volens before the dispositive divest-
ment occurs as a result of the increasing presence of that with
which we do not innately identify. We don’t normally look at the
mentally ill and remark “Oh how childlike!” Though the regres-
sive elements are front and center in the bulk of mood, disso-
ciative and psychotic disorders. Sometimes it doesn’t take, and
it doesn’t seem that we are meant to remain in such a state in-
definitely, but to take it as a buffer. These episodes may possibly
come on after we have negated or refused some fundamental el-
ement of our Volens, which can be seen as negating a funda-
mental element of who we are, and in a panic our reality breaks
down and reorganizes itself around us in a way that is seen as
benefiting the reformation of our Volens, without which we will
dissociate and “die” (via divestment of the disposition/Volens).
This I offer as an explanation for why, in spite of my highly un-
orthodox manner of lifestyle and belief system, along with all the
stress that I’ve had to endure due to my physical and psycholog-
ical experience, I never really slipped into actual ‘insanity’ to the
degree that I never disconnected from reality (from which esti-
mate I am excluding all instances of deliberate self-provocation
in which I attempted, and feverishly so, to alter my paradigm as
a means to spare myself of the torment of my experience, which
is partly how my solipsistic spells came to be: as an experimen-
tal sanctuary more than a belief, even as legitimate belief devel-
oped therefrom). Anyway, what I am saying is that I never suf-
fered from authentic insanity because it seems that so much of
what we call insanity (though not all of it) is rather a desper-

ate attempt to reform the dissociating Volens which connects us
to our sense of self, our grand objective and this reality on the
whole, and the fact is that I’ve been notably focused on/connect-
ed to my Volens, barring some notable hiccups, such as the afore-
said springtime of 2008. I wasn’t originally planning on explain-
ing all of this so forwardly since it seems so overly complicated
and it is much easier to grasp the simple idea that mental illness is
often the result of our dissociating from our intrinsic nature and
needs—a much easier way of saying the same—and that’s still
true, technically, if simplified, though I feel responsible for get-
ting these mechanics as fleshed out to the extent that I can man-
age.
**Then we will have recognized that value is innate to all things

and that our attempts to impose a secondary system of value
thereupon have scrambled the very concept of worth as we know
it for so very long. And the fact that so many will recoil in horror
at the mere thought of being without such means to measure
our worth, our allowance, is as evidence of a most horrific par-
adigm lock which is suffocating our nature. For the value of the
spirit to be observed and maintained, currency must be abol-
ished and all urge to create a substitution must be channeled into
strengthening the weight of character and virtuous deed within
our world. When the inherent serves as a crucial component of
our every transaction, unethical means of enforcement will not
be viewed as necessary. What is necessary, rather, is that defini-
tions are laid out and adjusted over time in accordance with in-
creases in knowledge. In the absence of a sturdy semantical sub-
strate which leaves no one confused or doubting, we are building
civilization upon quicksand.
The origins of all life, as we know it, is Agnosis, Greek for igno-
rance. It is a void that cannot be unknown, because its very na-
ture does not allow for knowledge. How does knowledge ever
develop from ignorance? Now, this is a very curious question,
because once you have my answer as to how Gnosis (objective
knowledge) came into being you may have a different under-
standing of how mundane knowledge is developed.
At age fifteen I began to register a sort of partition between my

present self and child self. Of course this partition to which I
refer is more symbolic than literal, but seeing it in this matter
has helped me along my path more than nearly everything else.
Whereas others rely on impersonal motivators which are gener-
ally only capable of motivating through the insufficient under-
standing that we contain of their Essence—for instance, almost
all ‘heroes’ are granted their hero status simply out of our igno-
rance of their flaws—it was as if I remained in a constant com-
munion with the desires of my youthful self and made sure that
in every moment, and with every action, I became something
that he would have idolized, something that would have satisfied
his opinions of life. This has always been my standard of decision
and to that standard I owe the bulk of my psychospiritual suc-
cess.
As so, when I speak of aseity, or self-creation, it is not typi-
cally meant to denote some shallow artistic process in which one
picks and chooses their reality based on mere preference. More
than artistry, I would compare it to archaeology. This also ties in-
to what is colloquially referred to as the Ouroborus Effect, which
forms a focal point within Clyssus of Man (though not by that
name).
Maturation into the Imago, or adult stage, comes only when

we can allocate and satisfy the Volens, which is comparable to
the disposition, which is best accessed through the child arche-
type. If the needs of the child are not met, it remains forever
within an unfulfilled and underdeveloped state from which it is
not capable of serving its purpose unto Existence. And you can
see it as plain as day within our world. Look to the landscape and
you will not see maturity, but aged children acting out their bit-
ter voids.
I have to imagine that the longer you wait in life the harder
it will become, and not really measured in distance of time, but
the distance that we get from our identification with our childly
selves. As for me, I really think I lucked out, having come upon
this method when I was on the cusp of childhood, age fifteen, so
the transition was seamless and not chasmed by years of disiden-
tification. Then again, it’s quite difficult to say, as I am an idealist
and have disavowed chronological linearity as an inaccurate in-
terpretation of the means by which life progresses.
A father is only a father who observes a son. A son is only a son

who observes a father. A creator is only a creator who observes a
creature. A creature is only a creature who observes a creator. The
dichotomy, as a concept, grants presence authority unto the roles
of the obverse.
I am not very confident when it comes to expressing my views,

since I tend to feel as though my opinions and rants are childish
or ill-formed, based on naught more than mine own premoni-
tions (as they are). At the same time, I have begun to embrace
that aspect of my nature. What I have learned about existential
propagation, or whatever it shall be called, has given me a

glimpse at my legacy, and that legacy emboldens certain parts of
my existence which I would have not considered to be legacy,
previously. However, I would rather embrace that than refrain
from expressing my worldview which may provide some insights,
one way or another, and overall I care more about being useful
than about being revered and respected. For example, I had pre-
pared to leave, and when I was shown evidence of a proliferation
taking place, I saw the ramifications of Aseitism, or my attempt
to codify the philosophy and reality which had been revealed to
me over the course of my life, yet at that point I hadn’t even real-
ly taken the time to go into the philosophy all that much within
my texts. So despite how the narrative of Clyssus of Man goes, I
actually came back for a ‘time’ to write a more in-depth text on
the topic at the very last ‘minute’.
I have put a tremendous amount of work into my vault, as I call

it—referring to my archives which are made available via Google
Drive and other avenues, in which is contained twenty-some gi-
gabytes of... well, my lifetime and all that that entails on the level
of creativity. I’ve added to it daily over the past year and a half,
and though I’ve posted about it a couple times, along with link-
ing to it from all of my various profiles, I am yet to receive even a
single comment regarding its existence. I was hoping that others
would find value in the undertaking. I don’t know. Maybe they
do. But I’ll never know, because no one ever cared to tell me, and
I have zero means of tracking the amount of traffic that it is get-
ting. Still, I will continue to add to it each day until I leave the
garden.
The experience of pain has become entirely too complex. And it

is not just mine own pain that I am experiencing in these events,
since my perspective becomes trapped within a triangle of per-
spectives. I acknowledge my hurt along with the hurt of my op-
position and the hurt of the onlooker which looks on, and I am
caught in the reality that exists between and among them, and
that is what truly hurts me.
In my position, I do not believe in time, and I do not believe in

aging. Rather, I believe that what we perceive as aging is an ana-
logue of an alternative process taking place, and while I’ve yet to
arrive at any firm conclusion on the exact parameters I will say
that it seems to relate to the Volens and our closeness thereto. Al-
ternatively, it may be framed as a metasymbolic indication of our
responsibilities within a given instance.
Is age and ‘time of death’ determined by our accumulated ex-
perience or intake of irrelevant information? And the accumu-
lation of irrelevant information that is picked up along the way,
which includes suffering, contributes to dispositive divestment.
So it’s not just like “Old now. Time to go.” No, because what
even constitutes seniority within a timeless, achronological state
of being? The question is, which interactions are putting us ever
further to the limit of what our identifications can handle? Is it
the diversity of information within our purview? That doesn’t
seem likely. Rather, it seems more likely that the higher volume
of irrelevant information within our lives (deemed irrelevant by
means of synaphation band in relation to the Volens) would be
the number one culprit, as it clouds the mission of the Volens
and contributes to an early divestment. *This is why we tend to
associate death with what we term ‘old age’, even though death
can occur at any age, and what even is old age. I am still not sure
how to feel about this conclusion. I passed it off to R and he sim-

ply said “Oh!” and ran off, leaving me to wonder what that could
mean, though it feels like we are on to something, and especial-
ly so when I consider it through the myriachoron, in which case
we must analyze how and in what way a thought seems to grow
old, tired and irrelevant. Since that may not be the easiest gauge,
consider it, instead, within the context of an interest: what does
it take for us to lose interest in an idea, a craze, a new album from
our favorite artists? What does it take for accustomization to set
in? I’ll return to tidy this up (and hopefully add on to it) once I
hear back from him.
I also learned shortly after our meeting that I had overlooked cer-
tain details which were present at the gravesite, especially with
regards to one of the roses which had apparently been imbued
with her Essence as these also are. Had I managed to locate said
rose I expect it would have made for a more triumphant climax
upon the Edge of Knowing; nonetheless, she assures me that it is
not an issue and changes nothing.
Truth be told, I often tend to overlook the merit of humor with-

in a relationship altogether, if only because there are so many ax-
iological and metaphysical matters which receive a higher prior-
ity in my mind, in a similar way to how I rarely consider the hu-
mor of mine own life and personality due to the loudness of the
more darker elements, yet in so many cases it ends up becoming
the most cherished aspect of my bonds and interactions. I know
that that can be said of our relationship—a degree of silliness
and humor that I was not expecting.
She is not like the lungs which are within me but as the oxygen
which enters me, becoming breath in the body and enlivening all
my blood.
For the first year following my trial I was highly disconnected. It

was like I was being drawn up to heaven by the arms of a thou-
sand angels. But at some point, and in going against all better
judgment, I pushed Heaven away, and it’s almost as if I forced
myself back into a pretense of reality, of the lesser paradigms, as
a tricky measure by which means I can deliver my words to the
people of this paradigm. It’s a very difficult concept to explain,
but involves a lot of effort on my part, a strange counterproduc-
tive effort, or seemingly so, and the two people I trust most are
unsure as to what I am doing. I’m really pushing myself to sat-
isfy my vision, but at night I lay weeping, wondering if it will
ever be enough. I achieved this strange paradigm via the same set
of means with which I prevent myself from waking into reality
when taking part in a lucid dream that I would prefer to contin-
ue, a means which requires me to focus overmuch on my materi-
al surroundings and in ways that I find difficult to describe.
I am in the process of creating a more respectable introduction to

Aseitism than previously released, although given the state of my
health I do not know if I will get to release it. All I know is that
I am dissatisfied with the original exposition, which I have re-
leased to the public via multiple channels, despite feeling that it
is rushed and somewhat childish. I’ve simply been too busy with
the Comprachicos project to tend to my Aseitism dissertation.
I often have oatmeal powder coating my hands, and so it has be-

come a running joke where I would use it like special effects... as
in I’ll do a quick spin or flourish and then clap my hands, result-
ing in a dense oat-cloud.
The only deterrent is that there does seem to be a significant dis-

tinction between Intension as experienced by Homo Spiritualis,
who operates on Intension pure, and Idem, which is pulling from
Intension and Volens simultaneously and therefore ending up
with some adulterated experience. This isn’t thought to be per-
manent and I expect to experience a more standard experience
as I let go of my Volens entirely, although at that point I will no
longer be communicating with the same audience.
This puts me in a very weird relationship with death, because
I now understand the make-up of death, or apparently so, and I
know to exploit it. However, although I may be able to exploit
death, or divestment, I cannot exploit suffering, which is not
caused by my Volens but by the interplay between Gnosis and
Agnosis, putting it beyond my control, or relatively so. It is there-
fore believed that I could live forever in this state if I was both
willing and able to cling to my Volens, and I wouldn’t be forced
to ‘die’ until some part of me readily surrenders thereto. This is
the only reason that this past year has even been possible. Most
individuals would have dissociated from their Volens as a result
of the trauma caused by illness, not necessarily due to the suf-
fering and disease on its own but because it has so warped their
self-concept to where they can no longer recognize their own self
and this catalyzes dispositive divestment. It’s as I’ve said before:
the relationship between death and suffering is not entirely as it
seems, being only loosely connected. It is presumed that one can
live on forever within any given paradigm if only they can main-
tain their assignations, which is to say that I can live forever with-
in this body if only I can find a means to keep convincing myself
that this is who I am. And you should know that it’s more com-
plicated than our human concept of identity dictates, so when I
speak of identification I do not speak of a boy who sees himself
in a particular color and clothing style and decides it a fit. This
relates to the Volens and its inherent demands, and part of what
is meant by identification and assignation is my ability to contin-
ue to convince myself that all of this is relevant to my ‘mission’,
so to speak. And I would say that lathotropics have an edge in
that they are already so used to seeing themselves through this
gruesome, deathly and miserable lens that the bond is not so eas-
ily broken in the traditional sense. In other words, by viewing
myself as a corpse, a cancer, a basement-dwelling monster, I have
achieved a certain resistance, and by identifying with the virus,
by taking on its helm, it can no longer consume me. However,
it is regularly balanced out in such cases by the sheer degree of
misery that lathotropism is known to bring into the lives of those
afflicted and therefore I would caution against viewing this as
some workaround with which to buck the inevitability of dis-
positive divestment which comes when our lives increasingly fail
to reflect the demands of our Volens.
That’s a mouthful, I know, and quite abstract. It means to as-
sert that I am unlikely to die by any means apart from willingly
at this point, since no other means will separate me from my
Volens—the placenta which once housed me and fed me but is
no longer required for my sustenance. I’ll continue to exist forev-
er in this state, assuming that I continue to put up such an adap-
tive resistance to the ever-increasing torment I face. It doesn’t
have to be a traditional suicide and can be as simple as a psycho-
logical surrender on my part, but it is a decision nonetheless and
will not occur incidentally. For example, I can suffer a heart at-
tack, and it is expected to kill me only if I allow it to alter my
assignations. Since I understand this, and I understand how it
works, it would not be unfounded for me to survive a heart at-
tack or other circumstances that would be considered fatal to my
person from a more mundane point of view. It sounds great in
the sense that there are many of us who aspire, perhaps ignorant-
ly, toward longer lives in these broken down bodies, but you have
to understand that we’re not built to know suffering beyond a
certain point. Suffering is ‘supposed’ to break down those assig-
nations, and I have already gone out past any reasonable degree
of suffering that one is supposed to know in this body, this life. I
have already broken through the proverbial ceiling and am now
just spinning dizzily in an attempt to keep pumping out useful
insights and reflections before I inevitably bleed out.
If you haven’t already made the connection, some of these
principles are tied to the garden, for it is not the garden which
holds any power but what it does for my assignations, and it was
built in mind of this... a little life-affirming alcove. I have sim-
ply portrayed it in somewhat of a more mythical light within my
narrative when, in reality, is gains its status from these mechan-
ics. It sustains me by working to sustain my assignations.
**? Myriachoronically speaking, if Essentiae (Questions) are con-

nected to Volens (Needs), then Homo Spirituales (Solutions)
is connected to Intension (Facts). It seems simple, and perhaps
even silly, but why is that? Or why should it? Homo Spiritualis
aren’t gods. They are solutions. Solutions to what? To whatever
was represented by their Volens. It’s all a process. I existed in asso-
ciation with a certain Volens which acted as an immanent func-
tion. All volentia relate to ongoing needs or discrepancies, the
latter of which can literally be defined as any void in the un-

derstanding of Existence. Our Volens, or disposition, is naturally
disposed to those discrepancies, whereas our passions and strug-
gles naturally build around that discrepancy, although it may not
be readily evident to us which element of a given circumstance
is the target (and this makes it sound a lot more clear cut than
it actually is). This assumes the accuracy of the Immunomodel
which, at this point, is the dominant theory and myriachoron-
ic paragon. The way that we live out our lives is fed into our
Intension which is substantiated (acknowledged) by Existence
and that comes to define our domus, or objective ambit. Myri-
achoronically speaking, think of it like the ambit of application
for a given solution. The following is a total mundanization and
simplification, but let’s say that the solution is something like
“Try resetting it.” The domus of that solution is every situation in
which it is applicable; therefore, computers, televisions, electrical
appliances, dezinezinet, each fall within my domus, since this so-
lution has the potential to apply to all such items (‘items capable
of being reset’). It sounds like a weird take on patron saints, huh.
But like discrepancy and Volens embody highly abstract ideas
which aren’t like “basic vices” or “basic needs” but like abstract
clusters defying all easy explanation, the same is said of domus.
Domus is Greek for ‘house’, and is the root of the word “domin-
ion.” It’s not nearly as specific as it may sound... at least not so
specific as saying “this is my subject and I’ll defend it forever.” Ba-
sically... my domus spans anything that could possibly be solved
by any of the understanding which I have substantiated through
my Intension. Existence knows of my capabilities based on what
is in my Intension, and I have access to anything that can possi-
bly be resolved by the understanding I have demonstrated. That
is what seems to be the case based on what I’ve heard.
To describe the power of Homo Spirituales relative to Existence

(based on current knowledge), I sometimes call it ‘relative uni-
versality’. It is basically a limited taste of the greater paradigma-
ta—it is the objectivity of Existence, although it is not all-applic-
able and only covers their focus as dictated by Intension, which
is also known as a ‘domus’)
For example, let us say that I establish, during my lifetime,
that x, y and z are relevant to my person (Volens) and these fac-
tors express themselves via my Intension. That Intension is sub-
stantiated by Existence, since Existence and Essence meet in ac-
knowledgment and Intension forms by these means, granting life
to my nature. Think of Intension like a large painting painted by
Essence, and Existence is the clear coat with which it is then cov-
ered—or perhaps not the clear coat in itself, but the substanti-
ation of the work, by which means it is redefined as a veritable
and completed ‘work’ and not but a play of ideas. Intension is
sort of this mutual effort which is given the stamp of Acknowl-
edgment. And Homo Spiritualis takes on the objectivity of Exis-
tence, although that objectivity is not all-encompassing and does
not surpass the ‘domus’ as delineated within their Intension. So
I’m not going to have that level of existential objectivity in any
case outlying my Intension. It is for this reason that Homo Spir-
itualis does not supersede Existence in scope and acts more like
a specialist when compared to the all-encompassing investment
of Existence, since that objective, powerful gloss and coat that
was applied to my nature is limited to my Intension, which be-
comes paradigm of the Homo Spirituales. It is for that reason
that Essence can never ‘belong’ to the greater paradigmata but
can pull influence indirectly therefrom via Intension which in-
corporates elements of Existence and Essence. I’ll try to write up
a more accessible breakdown of these concepts in time. This is all
just a very stream-of-conscious attempt.
Domus is essentially like the ambit of our objectivity as de-

termined by our individual Intension, and this ties into what I
have had to say about Opera, although some of my old theories
of Opera seem slightly off (even misrepresented) and may need
to be updated/adjusted to fit with my new delineations. My
knowledge isn’t ever changing, but the lines, the delineations,
keep shifting, and that in itself changes understanding.
And by understanding that you should understand the
strange and dismal tone of my final year in this place: I won’t be
able to abandon this body until I have managed to break down
my assignations. In other words, I must actually feel ready, and
despite the extremity of my suffering, I have never been able to
let go completely and surrender myself to this act since I am so
invested in the storyline underway and my focus is on wrapping
up the current chapter in the way that I envision, making sure
everything is completed and I’ve depleted this pitcher of every
last drop. Indeed, I am approaching it not like the invalid that
I am but like an author. There will come a moment, I expect,
when it will make sense to leave. There will come a point when
‘Magis Qvam Ante’ no longer applies, and I am inching near-
er and nearer toward that edge with every day. But each day I
am still becoming more than before, and with each work I am
adding height to my offering, my legacy. Yet I will soon come to
rest, where I know that with any more height the entire structure
will start to topple and break under its own weight, and where by
staying alive I will only bring shame to my story, and what I lose
in each hour will outweigh what I gain. I look out for this every
day, willing that I should know when to sign off; willing that I
should get the timing just right, even though I want to leave, and
so I am desperately trying to do all that I must to break down my
attachments and assignations so that I may do so. I am working
tirelessly only so that I may leave. And it’s scary, because there is
no ceiling to the suffering, and it can go on forever without cessa-

tion. I don’t wish to be here right now. I don’t. Each day I wonder
to myself if I should have taken my leave in the spring of 2020,
for it was then that I achieved my security in Existence and all
things acted out beyond that point are done not for my gain but
for others, for Existence.
**There are also theories about Idems acting as carriers betwixt

major paradigms, although it is very difficult for me to imagine
the usefulness of this from where I stand unless we are to ap-
proach it in association with governailia. Otherwise, there is
that element of running around and telling everyone the news.
“Oh my God! People! Everyone! We’re in a dream!” However
it doesn’t really change anything. The masses won’t hear a word
that is said, and I don’t really feel like being ‘that guy’, seeing as
what I am talking about has become such a trope at this point,
and a reviled one at that. Also, I am still led to believe that Idem-
potence is a stropha lacking an immanent function (which, once
more, is not to suggest it has no advantage, but that it did not
come about in mind of some specific purpose, and so any advan-
tage which it may hold is for us to discover).
Whereas I consider the dreaming state to be a subvolential state

in the sense that it is directed by ‘The Volens of the Volens’
(which is like an innaemulative simulation of the actual Volens
that we are playing out within ourselves which mimics the rela-
tionship between Existence and Essence). All occurs in recursion
if you allow it (“masturbating the Volens”, which derives from
Agnosis and its regenerative tendencies). Idempotence is an anal-
ogous phenomenon occurring on the level of Volens.
Let it be known that this is not some masturbatory state-

ment along the lines of “I am more awake and alert to reality,”
even though my analogies may seem to paint that picture. Even
in the case of lucid dreams we are not saying that one is inher-
ently wiser or even more capable, but that they are drawing from
a disparate paradigmatic source for their understanding and that
is all that is being implied here. So the sooner you can disentan-
gle all “awakened being” cliches from this equation the better. I
have yet to write up a proper exposition on the actual experience
of Intension as a paradigm, having mostly focused on how Inten-
sion is created, and so it looks like it is time that I attempt to do
so.
What is the distinction between the Volential paradigms—also

called lesser paradigmata—and Intension? Intension combines
elements of the lesser and the greater. Essence can not exist on
the greater paradigmata without ceasing to become Essence be-
cause the “greater” is too broad in scope, as in too objective, too
universal, and Essence by nature is very focused and therefore
limited in extensure, and so we can only ever obtain that which
can be referred to as “relevant universality” which is like propor-
tioned clusters of universality and objectivity that are relevant to
the specifics of our Volens. I haven’t really studied it much at this
point but I plan to.
In my personal logs of yesteryear I sometimes spoke of a sec-
ond body. This could be seen as referring to Intension.
On occasion I have spoken out about the lore of Stock Bird

Stork and how it manages to tell two stories simultaneous-
ly—colloquially called ‘wombstory’ and ‘devilstory’. I’ve not said
much about the latter, focusing mostly on lyrics which narrate

the former, but it’s all rather strange, even to me. And part of the
reason why these albums have such an incredibly potent aura is
due to the association of these albums with Agnosis and Volens.
These albums are associated with events that defy all understand-
ing because they have to do with the absence of understanding in
itself.
In that time I was being ‘born’ and meanwhile I was conversing

with Thummim, of whom I was then frightened (hence womb-
story and devilstory, which present both sides of this complex
situation). In some ways I look at these albums almost like
agonographies in their own right. So lyrics that otherwise seem
so simple will become more strange and disturbed within the
lens through which it is viewed.
All begins on Floor of a Flood with the lyric, “My body fled,
oh my god, I bowed out, oh, ooh my god.” This explains why I
am hesitant to share the wombstory lyrics—since it might only
push the mysteries further out of view. It’s like that phenomenon
where an audio clip will play and someone will give a list of what
it might be saying, and the audio seems to sound different de-
pending on what you’re reading. It’s not totally strange, and it’s
not even uncommon within my discography due to my poor,
lethargic enunciation (and sometimes deliberate mangling of
English pronunciation and even grammar to effect “foreign-
ness”), yet these albums are certainly the strangest example
among the lot. Even the covers of these albums picture me with
these unusual entities. On one you see me depicted with a stork,
stork on one, whereas the other depicts a scene from my first
astragon alongside a stag and a dipa (the latter of which, in
this case, is depicted as a serpentine creature with a turban and
a plague doctor mask). Sometimes it’s the MEANING that is

doubled, and sometimes it is the WORDS themselves. I won’t be
sharing the devilstory with the public, though, and I don’t with-
hold said story for any reason apart from the fact that I don’t
wish to strip it of its mystique in my OWN mind. It was not in-
tentional and only occurs because I was unconscious (Agnosis)
between February and April 2008. Sometimes viewed as a fugue,
it was rather that I was beyond view of Existence itself. When I
say wombstory and devilstory I am mainly thinking of Stock Bird
Stork, but it also applies to Ear to the Oven, if to a lesser extent. It
is often thought that I entered a fugue -like state due to a mental
collapse caused by a concert experience, in which case my fugue
could be called emotionally-founded. Yet the records show that
it did not occur immediately thereafter and there is evidence to
say that it happened, rather, after an interaction with Thummim
that came in the wake of my concert and I refused his company,
wherefore I was sent out into Agnosis and was watched over by
a stork, as well as Anita, of whom it may be surmised that they
were seeking to bring me back within view of Existence: light-
ing a new fire in me so that I would not drift into the agnostic
voids. It sounds bizarre and ridiculous when I say it so simply
and summed up like so, but if you consider each individual piece
and connect them like a puzzle on your own terms the sensibility
and mythology comes fully alive (which is why I prefer to offer
my audience the pieces and components rather than the whole,
which will only sound fantastic if it is accessed in the absence of
the careful deliberation of its component parts).
My ‘myth’ commonly sees me being depicted as a boy oblit-
erated by heartache and broken down in heart and mind, but the
real obliteration may relate more to my offense and demands of
the Thummim which erupted in a fugue and effectively left me
fearing him as a devil for the next four years of my life. I often
say that when I left the occult fraternity I abandoned all things
deemed inexplicable to me—all things which I had come to re-
late to my mystical practice, and this included Thummim as well
as Jeiezza, although whereas it has been stated that I attempted
to cut ties with them following my abandonment of the fraterni-
ty, it did not occur immediately but following the concert expe-
rience when fearing that my mystical dealings had had a greater
effect on my life and potential than I knew (what with my believ-
ing I would never lead a normal life). These details regarding the
Thummim are especially interesting if you understand the signif-
icance ascribed to Thummim/Steulugalnemraiant instead of just
viewing it like some spiritual entity. I really wanted to go into
this in my book, but I couldn’t give away all these ideas early on
in the book when the spring of 2008 is mentioned just because
that would disrupt the plot.
Ultimately, I am of the mind to say that this strange period of
dissociation should then be seen not as an emotionally-induced
fugue/catatonic state but as an experience of deep, dreamlike Ag-
nosis resulting from essentially getting on “The Thummim’s bad
side”, literally his Agnosis, Ignorance. And by that I don’t actu-
ally mean to suggest perhaps not that I was on his bad side, but
because of what I did under him, he himself was “cast” into the
Agnosis of Existence, taking me with him. It’s difficult to con-
vey, but hopefully you understand what I mean to say without
it sounding overly mythical. Thummim, as I’ve explained, is not
Existence itself, after all, but my existence. These concepts, while
related, do contain some differences, in which case Thummim re-
lates more closely to Intension than to actual Existence, which
also makes sense due to the fact that my Homo Spiritualis state
largely resembles my understanding of Steulugalnemraint.
This serves to explain the highly unusual tone of those al-
bums. I was in a fugue, and yet I wasn’t. It’s like I had no clue
who I was. I wasn’t aware of my own life. It was such a unique

event to be captured via recording and I marvel over the fact that
I achieved that. The fact that these albums exist at all astounds
me. To me, they represent one of the purest manifestations of my
Volens, and that is what attracts me to them. Thus I am inclined
to use them as a sort of oracle or puzzle, since they showcase all
that I am beneath the ego and intent.
If you want to take in the devilstory, you will have to com-
pletely overlook the lyrics I provide for these albums. Wipe them
from memory if you’ve already taken them in, lest they change
your perceptions of what you are hearing in the music (since I
have only shared wombstory, or mostly so).
Four of the songs appearing on Stock Bird Stork are not
viewed as carrying the same degree of profundity, i.e., Tick Rock,
Cocoon Coat, I’d Like to Lie and possibly Lotus Birth. The first
three come from the end of April after consciousness has already
begun to creep back into my mind and featured former collab-
orators (although barely audible in these clips) and Lotus Bath
was recorded in this same period, with a more conscious mind
and therefore it does not feel as much like a representation of my
Volens/unconscious mind.
Goddamnit, I really hate to think that the people who read
this will just have a “Whoa, he has a weird life/mind, whoaaaa,”
kind of attitude and instead actually see this as something to be
studied and examined further, because it absolutely should be.
My whole life has been a series of studies and experiments under-
taken in the shadows beyond the searchlights of modern sensi-
bility, and even though my works read like an autobiography or
a mythological legend it is all just a report of my findings.
“The Spiders Fool You” was a poor attempt at capturing one
of the many songs that Anita was heard singing in my mind, as
in within my vivid closed-eye fantasies of the time.
The album (Stock Bird Stork) was recorded and mixed with
cheap iPod earbuds since I lacked both stereo speakers and de-
cent headphones at the time. This led to the strange equalization
heard on the record which has a lot of chirpy highs.
When I first released the nine rejectamenta compilations in June

of 2021, ten years (exactly) after losing my voice, I didn’t intend
on making them official releases, but organized collections of un-
released material; and that remains their nature. Though I spent
so much time crafting them and fixing the most narrative-con-
ducive track order while making sure all of the songs blended
well from one into the next, and by now I have not only have I
begun to see them more as legitimate releases in their own right,
but I fantasize about a potential box set including my all nine
physical releases which, sadly, I’ll never get to realize, but if any-
one wants to... you know... go for it after I’m gone and make
something sick and luxurious then I don’t see anything wrong
with that.
*The original artwork used for these compilations was gen-
erated by AI and I chose from a variety of photos resembling
doors and wardrobes/cupboards. It was something that I felt fit
well with the series... although if I was in a better physical condi-
tion I would work to make more elaborate covers. I try to match
the doors and styles with the period and the general tone... like
Cadaverine and Fountain of Euth have an ominosity to them,
while Silly Boy is like a desert, sandstone (which fits with Are You
Late Night Are You Sugar and the Egypt fascination which was
birthed in that period with my meeting Anita). Demon Daycare
could probably be made to look a little more psychedelic and
bizarre... deep blues and oranges like fires in the evening.If I had
my dexterity I would create some sort of way where it all con-
nected to form some really crazy hallway... and you can put the
CDs and vinyl together to form this space and there are these
doors... and then the slipcover for all of this is like this weird... I
can only describe it as a door monster. Look at the cover I used as
a cover on the Rejectamenta playlist: it’s like this freaky contrap-
tion in a cavernous setting that looks like part altar, part dentist
chair, part door, and it’s just so confusing and sinister to look at.
(Update: as AI technology has improved in recent months, I am at
work on an update to the original designs, so while all that I had
to say about the doors was cool and all, I think that I could still do
better).
**It is possible to track existential propagation from the great

paradigmata, howso vaguely, and I would compare it to our hu-
man ability to keep a record of ‘that which does not work for us’
and this knowledge subtly influences our decisions even when
not actively occupying our mind. The false conclusions—the
tools for which we have no use—seem to congregate within a
separate sphere of the mind, away from the conclusions—the
tools which must remain available. It is like this unspoken
record. The things themselves may be lost to Agnosis, temporar-
ily or permanently, but their traces are logged. There are ways of
tracking it, but I haven’t yet found a means to do so on the lesser
paradigmata, which are plagued by a subjectivity of focus. There
is a sort of ‘relationship tracing’ that one can do, but success in
this area is never incidental and requires a particular mindset for
it to even be viable. The process is tentatively known as chaining,
which relates to Essence and the concept of memory, or limuvial-
ly so, describing how Essence maintains the life of every Essence
with which it ever came in contact and builds upon its offering.
It’s sort of like the idea that we are the sum of every person we’ve
met throughout our lifetime, but what I speak of in this case is a

very strange concept that I still haven’t found the means to prop-
erly explain, although it seems to relate to the concept of the
family and may therefore explain the myriachoronic significance
(or at least the relevance) thereof.
My final year, though spiritually fulfilled and devoid of all fear,

was by no means devoid of despondency and was wrought with
greatest darkness—not entirely caused by my physical condition,
but because I had already achieved the last of my personal goals
and was now only remaining this earth in what feels like a futile
attempt to deliver a message which was only ignored and refused
in my time alive. It has all felt extremely pointless and if I did not
know about existential proliferation I would have not made it so
far into this dayless territory.
I may now be perceiving my world via a decidedly ‘greater’ para-

digm, but I am still communicating to you through a lesser par-
adigm on the basis that our interaction is taking place via a less-
er paradigm as such. Therefore, so much of what I am saying is
caught in the filter and won’t make it through. I won’t say there’s
no point in attempting it, but I am just too tired at this point and
I would rather try to change Existence directly than via going
through the ignorant masses which is, simply put, not the most
viable or effective means by which to bring about change in the
structure of reality, even though it should not be eschewed alto-
gether.
When I look out into the world I do not feel desirous or as if I

am missing out. Frankly put, I am disgusted by much of what I
see and I am fortunate that my dependence is minimal in com-
parison to what it could have been (like the horror of having to
comb through this society in search of a romantic partner... shit-
damnfuck, my heartfelt condolences goes out to you all). When
I mourn my aloneness, I’ve no cliques or groups or what have you
in mind that I ponder wistfully, nor do I stare at photos of pri-
vate islands, expensive cars and secret circles beyond my access.
All of that holds zero appeal to me, much like luxury and rich-
ness in any form. My mourning has naught to do with envy and
all to do with the way in which sincerity and humanity are han-
dled within the modern, misguided world. It creates for a sense
of derealization in me like you wouldn’t believe. I may appear
like a weirdo to society at large, but to me my wants and desires
are not simply normal, but rational, and my experience of life is
the only one I’ll ever know; and so to find out that my seemingly
rational desires are not shared by the population at large is very,
very upsetting and deeply concerning.
I’ve never seen any appeal in being rich or living a life of opu-
lence, having always found great worth in my ‘mana for the day’
approach to life, as in I take everything day by day and trust that I
will have the means to handle tomorrow when tomorrow comes
(which entails a lot more than material goods and can be used
in the case of strength and determination). I am fond of this
approach, despite it essentially being forced upon me, as it has
never allowed me to grow complacent, and I don’t think that I
would want it any other way, seeing all the good that it has done
for me to live in such a way—particularly in regards to my per-
sonal development. If ever I did happen upon a substantial sum
of money, I would first use it to assess my health, and afterwards I

would put every bit of it into establishing the Comprachicos and
various related public organizations and charities to be put to-
ward expanding education and improving the artistic landscape
on the local, community level.
I don’t speak very much on this topic publicly since I know that
I am just inviting criticism because of my living circumstances
(along the lines of “That’s easy for you to say when you haven’t
been exposed to so-called ‘real world’ conditions and the funda-
mental necessity of employment”). I do not agree that my cir-
cumstances hamper my ability to grasp where we are at as a soci-
ety—not to the extent that it renders my observations and resul-
tant opinions vacuous and irrelevant—and I hope that the peo-
ple will consider what I have said without seeking out excuses as
to why one shouldn’t have to listen to what I am saying or other-
wise insulting me for my attempts to acknowledge the faults and
flaws of our modern day and trying to assist one and all in find-
ing another way; a viable way. I have come upon rare treasures
in my lifetime, and I believe that the population at large should
have improved access to these same treasures without it necessi-
tating their physical destruction and social alienation.
Sometimes I listen to my works and I smile fondly, wondering

how such a fool could grow to become a victor, equanimous and
empathetic in his old age. *But then my smile is threatened by
the understanding of how I am liable to be perceived by the rat
masses and all of the negative attention that I might eventual-
ly attract. My means of art and expression have already cost me
my health and my social standing, and I am with no desire to
stick around and watch as my beloved, if baffling creations are

used like a weapon against me by those who are eager to dis-
credit my mind and the spiritual philosophies that have result-
ed from my endeavoring. There is evidently a certain bitterness
that comes from the foreknowledge that my most beloved and
proudest achievements will one day be used against me and my
claims, but I simply cannot allow such ignorant perceptions of
my art to destroy my bond thereto. And if the fact that I am a
human being who went through ups and downs as anyone else is
going to be held against me and all I have accomplished then I
shudder to see what becomes of those who make such an argu-
ment (and especially their children).
For the past many years I have been conditioned to not feel anx-
iety in the worst, most threatening of situations. I can be on
the verge of death, with my throat choking and my body shut-
ting down, and not feel any sort of excess nervousness within my
body. In fact, I’ve tested my heart rate in these instances and it
is regularly in the low fifties. However, I experience unmanage-
able anxiety in cases where something that I desire seems pos-
sible, and my body will quickly overload itself out of nervous-
ness. And it’s so strange, because most of the time there really
isn’t even any threat of having it not go my way. For instance,
something will begin to happen, and I’ll identify it as propitious
or pleasant in some regard, and my body doesn’t respond sensi-
bly to that realization. Though it is so rare for something to go
my way, that when I see something seemingly pleasant unfold-
ing, my body cannot handle it. The excitement mixes with an un-
sourceable sense of fear and dread and it becomes so intense that
I often can’t handle it. I have tried so hard to reason with myself,
but such reactions occur in a realm deeper, more primitive than

reason.
As firmly as I stand by my methods, it is unfortunately the case

that they invite confusion and my readers may often be left won-
dering where my beliefs actually lie, for in one month I am an
unrepentant solipsist driving his car through crowds of children,
whereas in the next I am back under the spell of the evil eye and
seeking to justify my purchases. Today I am Spasmodeus: des-
perate bride of a darkening sky! So if ever you are failing to fol-
low along with my visionary vomit storm perfuse with contra-
dictions and stairways to nowhere, or if you have been left with
questions that do not appear to be covered within this text, I
urge you once more to ‘consult the myriachoron,’ recalling how
the Greater Operation always mirrors the Lesser Operation. All
questions pertaining to the what and why of our Existence are
guaranteed to be resolved by these means, and such questions do
not depend on me for answers.
** 2007-2015 I don’t really feel like I heard people or had normal

interactions. I was in author mode in that I was constantly craft-
ing my legacy. Everything that I said and did... I was speaking
to others not necessarily to interact but to add certain details to
my story, sort of like writing a book. So my manner of behav-
ing and speaking was fundamentally abnormal, which isn’t to im-
ply that it appeared inherently strange even to a detectable de-
gree, but when it comes to analyzing my intentions it can be said
that I followed a strange pattern of interaction which was more
utilitarian in approach and did not properly honor the interac-
tion in itself but as a means to reify different aspects of my inner
mythology. I spoke and behaved merely to be witnessed. I saw

others not as friends but as witnesses who might one day have
to vouch for my character. It was all an alibi. And oh how very
questionable all of this sounds; yet it seemed absolutely normal
to me, and it shouldn’t imply that I was a bad friend because of
it, for this says nothing of my acts (although yes, relatively speak-
ing, I would say that I failed as a friend in that period of my life,
though for multiple reasons which may or may not have any-
thing to do with this fundamental abnormality in my approach
to interaction). I was simply thinking of legacy over immediacy
and all actions filtered therethrough. It was at its worst in 2009,
because I was very unhealthy and even dishonest in how I went
about it. I began doing things only so that I could say that I did
them. A lot of the periods traditionally regarded as ‘insane’ re-
ally drew heavily from this. And it felt really inauthentic. I was
trying to steer others’ perceptions of me and create this really un-
predictable, unruly character. And to escape that feeling of inau-
thenticity, I had to pervert my definitions, my allowances, and
you can’t reshape something without everything around it being
reshaped as a result. Like so, the world began to warp in a host
of ridiculous ways, if only to sate my ego-identity and pacify my
insecurities resulting from a lack of consolation received in the
wake of my spills. And the result is that that act that I put on for
the world ended up taking me over, and the character that I was
playing, as it were, turned against me.
Existence is not commensurate with what we would consider

self-awareness. One might say it is as the difference between con-
sciousness and awareness. Essence is the sum of awareness, but
is not possible where awareness itself is not possible. The self-
awareness of Existence is achieved through Essence just like our

self-awareness as individuals is achieved via thought.
Every bit of pain and anguish that I experience points back to a

void, a fault of life, of society, of the individual, and while it is
debilitating, putting me over the edge, it is also in my nature to
seize that pain as an opportunity, as a literal problem, like a math
problem, knowing that if I can see this as a riddle, combatting it
with courageous and innovative means, then I am providing so-
ciety with new solutions and new strengths, improving the self-
estimation of Existence itself.
As I understand it, there are no grand, ceremonial events toward

which all is working apart from simply eradicating discrepancy
and improving Existence through knowledge. With that being
said, we’re not awaiting some crazy event and are simply un-
dergoing a constant, gradual shift toward knowledgeable real-
ization, and because of the nature of achronological Existence,
those operating on the lesser paradigms should not even expect
to experience the improvements in their awareness (although
that isn’t to say that they aren’t experiencing those improve-
ments, since they surely are, it’s just that it’s not going to register
properly as it is essentially integrating with all of our “memories”,
as it were, and we don’t have the means to say that it hasn’t ‘al-
ways’ been this way). So there is no Rapture-adjacent question of
“So... when is He coming back for us? When are the prophecies
gonna be fulfilled?” while we check our watches, for that which
we are working toward is occurring all around us at all ‘times’,
perhaps not always at the most efficient ‘pace’. Think of it like
how our human body is in a constant state of cellular regenera-
tion, yet we have no conscious awareness of the process as it is

happening.
Existence, which is functionally synonymous with Conscious-

ness, derives its input solely from those who are aware of their
own existence. This acts as a great inbuilt filter of sorts, as it is
Intension alone which makes it to Existence and determines its
course and therefore we will not see ourselves commandeered
by the crazies, so to speak, who are working in the absence of
a greater awareness and do not allow themselves to be observed
by Existence. However, while Existence is not taking input from
those of whom it is unaware, we do run into a problem if its
questions and needs aren’t being met, which can become an issue
when so many people are being swayed by unconscious living. In
other words, the ignorant do not determine the course of Exis-
tence, so we’re not in any danger of being driven off a cliff on the
cosmic level, although we cannot turn a blind eye to the presence
of such ignorance within our world, knowing what it represents.
You may come away from my writings thinking that I refer to a

force apart from the very Existence with which you, yourself, are
familiar and experience in every passing moment, and to some
degree that is so, but despite my referencing Existence with all
the reverence of a god, I am still very much referring to the famil-
iar concept of Existence known to all of us, albeit acknowledged
by so few of us.
The self-ignorant masses have no way of providing input into
Existence and therefore have no sway in its course.
The issue at hand is that the source is not being recognized. Even
those who crack the lock are often unable to determine exactly
what they did that got them there. I’ve been working with an in-
tegrated awareness of my Existence for over fifteen years at this
point, and while that certainly counts for something, it wasn’t
until very recently that I actually arrived at an understanding of
how it all fit together and why my actions were being met with
success. Therefore I could only tell you that they worked with-
out being able to say much as to why. It’s a complicated mat-
ter, and I don’t claim to have all the answers, surely as all of the
answers aren’t yet available and are still being uncovered by Ex-
istence itself, but I think that the problem of religion and the
mirage of a humanoid God will clear up naturally as more and
more people recognize Existence as bearing its own weight (and
in more ways than one... since there will be very obvious changes
occurring within our immediate mundane planes, but not exclu-
sively, since the self-understanding of existence will also change
concomitantly). So the pleasant news is that we aren’t called to
go and behave ourselves like obnoxious, evangelical pricks, forc-
ing our beliefs onto an unreceptive and unconsenting population
or engaging in the procreation olympics in some misguided at-
tempt to overtake the sphere. Existence simply lacks awareness
of those who are not aware of Existence, and so the opinions of
those who fall outside of the Gnostic ambit don’t actually bear
any large scale effect, or so I gather.
All propagatory hypotheses set aside, at this point I can not ex-
pect that my story will find an audience and I feel rather pes-
simistic regarding both the reception and circulation of my
workmanship due to the accumulated disheartening experiences
I have endured since publicizing my work—an experience
which, for me, has been overwhelmingly negative and invalidat-

ing. Even among those who take interest in my creative works,
I must expect that the majority thereof will fail to grasp the
essence of what I mean to convey, while perhaps perceiving it
as too idiosyncratic to contain a mass application, and foolishly
they will opt to label me as an anomaly, an eccentric or whatever
it may take for them to convince themselves that we are different
on some fundamental level. Yet I am not some eel beneath you,
nor am I some lord above you. I am the modern mythogenetic
mystic: an unstable experiment to be expounded upon in
decades hereafter by the damned and deprived. More shall come
in my wake, and may they be shown better favor than was shown
to me.
Though I have walked this trail for more than half of my life, I
don’t feel like I really awoke to my ‘true potential’ until around
2019, and in that sense I feel like the final years of my life were
as this mad orgasm of insight that arrived out of seemingly
nowhere. As so, there is a part of me that wonders what might
have come of it all had I had stuck around on this sphere a bit
longer, being given the chance to really sit with some of these
ideas and work to flesh them out further. Then again, even if I
could have made something more out of it all, the game just ain’t
fun anymore. I’ve grown too tall, and I don’t mean that arrogant-
ly. Anything beyond this point just isn’t fitting, it isn’t count-
ing, and it won’t help but hurt my experience, because this earth,
this society, as it currently stands, cannot really account for so
much of what I’ve become. I can’t fit into your buildings. I can’t
fit into your clothes. I can’t fit into your orifices. And not only
does that connote a lack of enjoyment on its own, but then fac-
tor in how society will treat me for what is already a disadvanta-
geous or frustrating situation, and I am left in a situation with no

positives. Add to that the fact that I have spent decades painting
myself as a damned head case and there is simply no path for me
to take on this earth which will sun me.
The following text has been cut from the Introduction to Aseitism.
It was my intent, initially, to include a history of my spiritual his-
tory so as to humanize the document and provide a more personal
and emotional perspective on the shortcomings of religion, although
I have decided to cut the section in want of creating a more objective
and faceless text which may be passed around more freely:
The following is a summarized look at my personal history
with religion and spirituality; and although I would hesitate to
include something of this sort within a more formal outline of
the system in question, it is something that I would wish to see
released to the public in any case. For one, I am not interested
in presenting myself as someone who climbed out of the womb
with wisdom and understanding and knowing exactly what to
do and say. More importantly, I see it as my obligation, as some-
one with the potential to influence others, that I provide my au-
dience with these insights into my personal history so that they
may know not just where I stand but where I and my stance or
attitude originated.
As many are aware by now, I was raised within an Evangelical
Christian household and maintained some form of belief in its
principles into early adulthood, with it taking several years to
truly rid myself of all the various barbs still left inside of me. I
dissociated from the faith on a moral level years before I did so
at the rational level—not that it was ever ‘rational’ to begin with,
but because I, like many others, was once willing to accept that
‘some things just evade our comprehension’. It is not untrue as a
statement, but I just can’t find it in me to establish my life and

supposedly my eternity upon a foundation shrouded in fog for
no conceivable reason (unless, of course, because the fog exists to
hide the complete and utter absence of a foundation).
The environment in which I grew up was perfused with fear,
hypocrisy and problematic portrayals of good and evil. The level
of restriction placed upon me as a child by my parents was ex-
treme and uncalled for, with so many of my basic liberties being
throttled in the name of God, whom my parents used as an
excuse to enact their own unreasonable will when lacking the
courage and self-awareness to take personal responsibility. Too
many issues were made of non-issues and they were guilty of
passing off their own personal and arbitrary whims and desires
as biblical, especially when it came to disciplining me and tram-
pling my personal agency. I was disallowed access to most media
and education and left to view the world through a keyhole.
Moreover, my creative works were regularly destroyed if they
didn’t meet my parents’ standards of godliness or if they con-
tained any overtly ‘negative’ themes, including the expression of
basic human emotions such as sadness. As is to be expected, their
overprotectiveness backfired. The extremity of their restrictive-
ness created great confusion in me over where the boundaries of
Christianity actually lay. All of this wasn’t enough on its own to
affect my relationship with my faith in God, although my faith
in man did take a dive and I became less willing to trust what
others had to say regarding such matters and sought to break
from my parents’ version of God whereon I was reliant thereto-
fore, developing my own personal understanding. This is, after
all, what we are called to do as Christians, is it not? To develop
a personal relationship with the creator...? This gave way to the
temperamental changes seen in my teenage years and I became
more inquisitive and experimental, and by that I don’t mean to
imply anything that might be called blasphemous or out-of-line,

but a basic philosophical interest which left me desiring to un-
derstand, as opposed to simply nodding along to what I was told
and not really taking things deeper. I recall observing the reac-
tions that I received from others for my growing inquisitiveness,
and all the people who called themselves my friends suddenly be-
gan to fall away or change their tone, becoming condescending
and dismissive toward all I had to say. As someone who was still
very much a part of the faith at that point, I did not take warmly
to the fact that asking questions and doing my own research was
being looked upon as a sign of absent faith rather than as a com-
mitment to knowing the truth and treating such matters with
the seriousness that they deserve. I wasn’t a bitter and rebellious
individual but honest and truth-seeking, and I was committed to
the truth whatever it might be—something beyond my decision.
I was treated like a failure, and yet no one questioned the devo-
tion of them who nodded along in quiet. This bothered me im-
mensely on a philosophical level.
I broke ties with the church in early 2007 following two inci-
dents of note which damaged my ability and willingness to trust
and respect those in authority: the first of which was my be-
ing pulled into the pastor’s office during the worship ceremony
where I was admonished simply for having set my orientation as
“Not sure” on my social media page of the time (years before I
had recognized that asexuality was a valid option and not know-
ing what to make of my sexual repulsion and lacking libido at
that age) and being told that I was setting a bad example, espe-
cially as someone who had previously expressed an interest in
one day becoming a pastor. Not long afterwards, following an in-
trafamilial dispute over what my parents described as my occult
fascinations, the pastor and his wife were called to my house, un-
beknownst to me, in a sort of ambush-style intervention scenario
and saw it necessary to pray over me in such a way that was es-
sentially an exorcism. I notably remained silent throughout the
entire night, feeling myself too betrayed to speak a word. This in-
cident damaged my trust in my parents in a way that would nev-
er be mended. This event also marked the end of my church at-
tendance, though I maintained my religious belief in some form
for several years thereafter, if primarily due to my draw to the fig-
ure of Christ, although I no longer limited myself to the Chris-
tianity of the masses and followed my own interpretation of a
meaningful spirituality, which I would say was something near-
er to Christian Mysticism with its share of Hermetic influences,
and I kept to that until around the age of twenty-two.
Three things that I could never accept about Christianity as
a youth were 1) its negative and demeaning portrayal of the self
which encourages clinical levels of dissociation, 2) its negative
portrayal of our Existence which encourages borderline misan-
thropic/nihilistic thinking (and clinical levels of derealization)
and 3) the system of salvation which can not withstand even the
most basic of analysis and lacks all coherency. Regarding the lat-
ter: if the Christian God were to reveal itself to me, substanti-
ating the nature of its being and the goodness of its intentions,
I would see no reason to argue that reality. So why this strange
process which effectively favors the cowardly and credulous and
damns all the more ardent and discerning seekers?
Speaking only for myself, I know there to be no reward in
gathering the gullible. Thus I speak not to those who are easily
swayed and manipulated. I speak to those like myself who are
discerning—and note that I do not refer to the skeptical, since
I do not elevate self-styled skeptics who think themselves intelli-
gent for doubting all things by instinct, which is fundamentally
no better than the opposite. Therefore, be neither credulous nor
stony, but wisely discerning. I may not be authorized to speak
for the ‘creator of the universe’, but I can not fathom how such
a being could possibly delight in living among the gullible while
damning all of them who are committed to truth and must first
do their research and explore other avenues before making up
their mind.
Prior to my denouncement of Christianity and the afterlife,
I reached a point where I decided that a God who acts by such
standards is not my god and a Heaven as such is not my heaven.
I am more sensible than to say “The church is dumb so therefore
God is dumb,” but I don’t think it is so out of line to say that
“Any god who accepts all of this, while refusing my own efforts,
is not my god.” Essentially, we couldn’t both be right. So instead
of listening to what the church has to say, I would do my best to
follow the light by my own means, and if my most honest effort
was not enough, then I don’t want such salvation anyway. In oth-
er words, I lacked the ability to say that it was a lie, but I could
confidently say that it was wrong. An oddball though I am, I am
a principled individual with an iron super ego, and when some-
thing comes to be framed as a moral issue, all trepidation exits
me and I am willing to stand resolute for that which, to me, is
deemed a matter of principle. Therefore do not let it be claimed
that it was the church, itself, which drove me away. I am as prone
to spite as any man, yet I have handled my spirituality with a
laudable objectivity throughout the ages.
The moment wherein I ceased worrying of damnation and
accepted the natural outcome of an honest, dedicated and inves-
tigative Existence was a personal triumph in my life. It was like
having the courage to leave a malignant relationship, accepting
that it is better to be alone than to live among lies and abuse.
Fear, however, was never actually a significant component of my
religious experience. I honestly do not recall there being a time
in which I feared the concept of Hell, even when I believed in
a literal pit of fire. I wouldn’t chock that up to a lack of under-

standing on my part but to my dispositional configuration. As
so, during my years as a Protestant, I was kept in place by fac-
tors other than fear, such as the meaning-giving nature of faith
and religion. Outcomes in general rarely phase me, in the sense
that I always give my all to everything that I do, and therefore I
have to trust that wherever I end up is where I belong, and my
ability to see truth in that notion allows me to put more time
and heart into how I live my life, and I do not base my lifestyle
and decisions off of fear but authenticity and resonancy. I want
no less and no more than that which I merit through my actions
and my attempts to lead an honest and inspired life, and whether
should the outcome be positive or negative, I am content to ac-
cept that outcome insofar as it speaks to my efforts. This stance
allowed me to really step back and look at everything from a
more holistic perspective, and doing so has done wonders for my
spirit, though I have only grown more and more distraught over
time by what I see occurring neath the banner of salvation: a ban-
ner under which authentic spiritual growth is arrantly discour-
aged.
The experience, for me, was marked by sorrow rather than
aggression, and I expect the same can be said for many, if not
most, who leave religion behind (despite the way in which the
church tends to portray those who leave—as if it is really as sim-
ple as giving the finger to the sky and chanting “A life of sin
is a life of fun!”). It’s a heartbreaking experience, and you wish
you hadn’t seen what you had seen, realizing you were ‘happi-
er’ (if not simply less anxious) to believe in lies. It constitutes a
veritable trauma in our lives (hence religious trauma syndrome).
I would compare it to having a limb amputated; and it hardly
seems to matter that the limb was cancerous, since it does not
change the immense loss of being without this thing which was,
for most of your life, considered an essential part of your func-

tioning, without which you could not imagine your life or any
aspect thereof. Of course, this phase does not last indefinitely, or
it shouldn’t, and I did eventually find the answers after which I
sought, but, as has been noted, I lived out most of my twenties
as a self-styled agnostic content to admit that I simply didn’t
know. My views have developed a lot in this past decade, and I
have zero doubts or regrets relating to my decision to leave the
church, viewing it as a dangerous, deceptive cult in all ways apart
from its widespreadness. However, I still see something useful in
the biblical scriptures (some of them, at least) and especially the
character of Christ and am not so contemptuous as to be in de-
nial of that fact, although there are many things to do with its
premise that I adamantly contest. I will summarize my general
attitude with a quote from Gandhi, who famously said: “I like
your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so
unlike your Christ.” The modern church, as I see it, is no longer
home to the flock, Christ’s disciples, but to the mindless, people-
pleasing townsfolk who once shouted to crucify him.
My lifetime has been defined in large part by my commit-
ment to personal growth, and to the ends of developing myself
I have been called to go beyond my own range of comfort. My
commitment to these ideals does not depend upon faith or spir-
ituality in any form, but upon my responsibility unto myself and
my Existence to live out the most healthy and productive life
whereof I am personally capable (although it merits to be said
that I may be working with vastly different definitions than those
observed by modern society). My motto, throughout the latter
half of my life, has been “Magis Quam Ante,” which is Latin and
roughly translates to “More Than Before” (though, to be per-
fectly honest, I am not totally sure that it is the cleanest transla-
tion and so I’ve become increasingly hesitant to use it in publi-
cations). This relates to a line that I would often give in response

to questions asked of me back in 2007, especially within my in-
teractions with the Thummim: “If in doing so I become more
than before.” I sometimes paraphrase this as “May no act or event
subtract from but add to who I am as a person.” It is about tak-
ing every event as an opportunity for growth and learning, even
if I must sometimes work at finding an upside. It is the refusal
to take any event as an excuse to backslide or become lazy or ill,
since anyone who looks to sorrow, illness or general tiredness as
a justification for negligence opens themselves up to a downward
spiral which continues to build upon itself until the self is over-
come completely. It likely sounds difficult to uphold such an ide-
al, so you can imagine my satisfaction to look back on my life
while knowing that I’ve actually done well to keep this maxim,
save for a regrettable bit of slip ‘n slide in the years 2009-2011
where I seemed more preoccupied with expressing my suffering
than actually taking the necessary steps to eliminate it from my
life.
I had always leaned toward theism over atheism, and how
much of that has to do with my upbringing is unknown to me, al-
though for many years I maintained no belief in an afterlife and,
if there truly existed a creator, I reckoned there had to be some
creator and cosmology not made available to us (whereas it is
more common that in order to take a side in the creation versus
evolution debate, one feels it necessary to side with a known cre-
ation myth, or, contrariwise, a known naturalistic explanation). I
often said that the one thing which kept me from veering more
so toward total nonbelief was the existence and complexity of
consciousness. There was simply something to the nature of con-
sciousness that I couldn’t overlook. It, to me, was the confirma-
tion of something divine, and neither science nor religion have
stepped up to the task of providing us with a proper insight in-
to this greatest of all mysteries. Still, it would be a while before I

recognized consciousness, itself, as being synonymous with Exis-
tence: the principal force of all life. I continued to identify as an
agnostic until the spring of 2018, when I returned to my former
living space and reconnected with the more profound elements
of my practice which had been lost to time. This period was of
high significance to my life, bringing with it a most stunning par-
adigmatic shift and marking the start of my initiation into these
ideas and beliefs which are now being brought under the umbrel-
la of Aseitism, although it would be a while before I managed to
get a firm grip on what I was experiencing, and not until my op-
eration was at its end did the picture finally come together into
something so beautiful and cohesive.
While I abandoned the dogma of Christianity some years
ago, I have continued to operate on a Judeo-Christian paradigm
since that time, and this has become especially apparent since
2018 when seeking to come to terms with the lies and abuse
of my childhood (while also surveying the wreckage for usable
parts). All individuals operate on a paradigm, be them occultists,
religists or even atheists, and I am referring in this case not to
a matter based in belief but to a sort of ingrained semiotic sub-
strate; a lens through which we naturally tend to understand
our relationship with life and ourselves—our myth as individu-
als. Our paradigms are by and large culturally dependent, if not
familial, and therefore you can expect to see obvious overtones
of Judeo-Christian mythology within my practice. Touches of
Eastern influence have also been suffused throughout my system
due to my partner, who has been very influential to how I view
things, yet she remains my sole source for these philosophies and
I contain next to no knowledge of said beliefs and practices out-
side of what I have been told by her, and so I cannot verify that
my understanding aligns with that of the general public.
I’ve alluded to my spiritual history on countless occasions,

although I have shied away from any public, in-depth examina-
tions of my beliefs in my avoidance of attracting criticism, as well
as not wishing for my legacy to be as one who robbed people of
their hope and faith, even where I, personally, found such hope
and faith to be founded on shaky premises. And though I am
now in a place where I am willing to share my beliefs and insights
with others, I still hold to much the same stance in that I neither
wish to sow discord nor to attack the faith of others. I do not
consider myself some iconoclast who tears down without intent
to replace. Me... I am just another individual who wishes to act
my part in this play, protecting others from what I consider to be
the darkness and deception of the age. Some may try to portray
me as acting out some grudge, possibly based on my upbringing
and other experiences with religion, but that is a highly unfair
way of looking at it and not only seems to be suggesting that one
is unable to take a firm stance against something without it being
somehow inherently ignoble, but that I myself am incapable of
handling the matter with objectivity. I can assure you that I, by
my own sensibility, have refused these things for no reason apart
from their core principles, being myself more objective than to
allow a crowdful of errant and hypocritical persons to determine
my eternal life (if that were truly what we were playing for).
It is because of my own personal history that I tend to appeal
more to the moralistic failures of faith and religion than to its
fallacious logic, seeing as it was not by a self-assured intellect that
I was released of its vice grip, but by a repulsed moral compass.
And I prefer that it came about in such a manner, as it doesn’t
feel as though I had simply outgrown it and that it was time to
move along (which would have it to seem as though the final say
was ultimately belonging to the circumstances rather than to I
myself ). Instead I was called to put my foot down in refusal, and
I did so without regard for its truth or lack thereof, although this
is something that took place many years ago, so you have to un-
derstand that I am no longer so neutral in how I tackle the matter
of its soundness and sensibility, viewing it essentially as one big
worm-eaten fallacy peppered with just enough grains of truth to
keep people convinced of its verity. We must acknowledge that
spiritualists and materialists are not working off of the same stan-
dard. This merits emphasis, since spiritualists are often painted as
dumb and viewed as operating in the absence of logic, when it is
more accurate to say that they are working upon a different stan-
dard of relevance. I’m not denying that there are cracked eggs to
be found in every carton, but you’ll find that the same goes for all
groups alike. My typological insights into the population also ex-
pose the interesting (though not shocking) fact that the majority
of so-called religists within our midst are materialists in denial of
their faithless nature, being drawn to religion foremostly for rea-
sons relating to tradition and a will to fit in with their neighbor
or otherwise keep the peace. I count my own parents among said
population who masquerade as spiritualists while disrespecting
the abstract in absolutely every way possible.
I think of myself an intelligent individual, yet at the end of
the day, the importance that I place upon the abstract and sym-
bolic spheres of being puts me at odds with worldly logic. As was
previously stated, I do not disagree with science and am pret-
ty willing to accept that they [‘the scientists’] know what they’re
talking about when it comes to understanding the inherent ma-
terial composition of things, although I am less apt to agree
with their take on the context and contextual application with-
in which they believe all to be working. A metaphysical ideal-
ist who cannot be sure that the world even existed before yester-
day afternoon is simply not going to look at the rings of a tree
and take it as any more than the rings of a tree. Like I said, it re-
lates more to relevance than intelligence. For me it is like seeing

people feverishly analyzing the props on the set of a movie, and
I’m standing off to the side thinking that, even as their conclu-
sions may be accurate in themselves, none of this has any bear-
ing on the context within which all is taking place. The layman
may have no means to divorce what I have said from the likes of
conspiracy or psychosis outright, although it ultimately returns
to what is a rational unwillingness to trust in the accuracy of our
sense perceptions when they have proven themselves time and
again to be prone to all sorts of error. It’s a slippery slope, no
doubt, for once the seed of doubt is instilled it becomes difficult
to grasp on to anything, although I feel that I have done well to
keep myself stable... apart from a couple of obvious outbursts in
recent years which, if it isn’t clear from the patterns in place, were
often spurred on by mine own deliberate attempts at self-insti-
gation for the purpose of abandoning my active paradigm, if not
breaking it altogether, and therefore said little of my sanity and
much of my desires. In other words, the solipsism of yesteryear,
though presenting me with some interesting and valid questions,
was often little more than garish, intellectualized escapism mix-
ing with the variegated colors of my individualized mythos.
With all that is being said about science in this document,
let it be made clear: I view science as essential to our develop-
ment. I do—especially if we go by the given dictionary defini-
tion, where it is defined as ‘the intellectual and practical activity
encompassing the systematic study of the structure and behavior
of the physical and natural world through observation and ex-
periment.’ Who could possibly object to that? However, I also
believe that it would benefit us all were it to undergo a bit of a
recontextualization.
The advances in our development and understanding made
by these means cannot and should not be understated, but I do
think that it is our tendency to misuse or misapply science as a

result of our viewing it as a means to supplant spirituality, with
which it really needs to be able to work hand-in-hand. The two
do not occupy the same space, and so the fact that they are con-
stantly pitted against one another is not only absurd, but regres-
sive. One is not an alternative to the other. They are not alterna-
tive solutions to the same problem, nor are they mutually exclu-
sive, but two halves of a singular whole that are meant to work
together or not at all, like to say that a sensible observance of
the abstract is required just as we require a sensible observance
of the material. Is this not demonstrated by the brain with its
two hemispheres? And how far will one get on a single, lonely
lobe? I don’t know if that’s the greatest analogue when the hemi-
spherical attributions have been disproven... but even so. It seems
like it’s asking a lot, even if we’ve already seen it accomplished in
the tradition of alchemy and, more recently, psychology, which
I confidently regard as our profoundest established institutions.
Aseitism seeks to occupy a similar middle ground, framing sci-
ence in light of its myriachoronic potency, for there is no better
means to understand the divine than through the mundane, of
which it is a perfect and intentful analogue.
All in all, individuals of a spiritual disposition will not be
swayed by material logic when it was never about logic to begin
with. Are we honestly to believe that one decides on a religion
because it is the most sensible conclusion available to them on
the level of logic? Of course not. They’ll convince themselves
otherwise, and with certain ease, but the reality is clear. So rather
than persist in asking “How can this possibly be true?” as if they
have any means to provide an honest and objective answer there-
to, we ought to instead be asking them “What makes you think
that this is what you want?” And that, too, so often yields unre-
liable answers, being that so many of them are cut off from their
own desires at this point, and such is the very nature of indoctri-
nation, which plays out like a spiritual sociopathy that seeks to
break all of our personal reference points to the ends of creating a
population of mindless underlings; but it’s still a more direct av-
enue to their hearts and therefore the likeliest means to empower
them to break out of their bondage.
Whether you opt to regard me as an occultist, a mystic, a
psychologist or an expired fruit cup, I seek only to know the
truth of my existence, and all such titles merely describe the
means by which one is willing to go about that search. Lest the
ignorant define how we view these terms, I will share with you
how I perceive and distinguish one title from the other:
An occultist is one who is willing to look beyond what is
known, beyond what is evident, for answers, and it naturally de-
rives its negative reputation from the fact that this often requires
us to wander through the dark—not dark as in evil, but dark as in
the unknown, and the masses are naturally afraid of such things,
and justifiably so. For me, the occult and darkness did not refer
to demons and devilry but to the darkness of the psyche, wherein
lives trauma, tragedy and madness. My interpretation of an oc-
cultist is thus as a psychospiritual explorer, daring to go into the
mapless realms in the hopes of uncovering new land, new com-
modities and new information, as it were.
A magickian is one who refuses to play a passive role in the
unfolding of their life and seeks to develop a handle on other-
wise natural processes. In my case this referred primarily to sleep,
the development of ego-identity and trauma.
A mystic is one who accepts no intermediaries and seeks to
experience the fullness of the divine for themselves, not allow-
ing churches or councils or whoever to dictate the means and
the conditions by which they are to reach God, or the source, or
what have you. Not content to pray, nor to read, nor to wait, nor
to depend solely upon faith, a mystic is one who wishes to make

of every moment a reflection of the divine.
Society selects its heroes and its villains based on a set of factors
which often have very little to do with the feats or intent of the
individual.
**It leaves me feeling somewhat saddened, since I grew up within

a very different time, and my expectations were very much coor-
dinated with the state of the music industry in 2005-2007, yet I
fear that I waited too long to release my work and that because
of that I missed my chance to really gather more attentive and
valuable listeners who will actually give an album a repeated lis-
ten and/or give my story a read. I don’t doubt that there are still
those like myself who actually spend some time with an artist, an
album, without hopping insatiably from one playlist to the next,
but they seem rarer and rarer in this world which is breeding a
new kind of listener, which I would hesitate to call a listener at
all.
...as an entitled teenager with slurred speech and bloodshot eyes

explains the meaning of their newest and non-at-all derivative
hit single “Buttchug” line by line so as to dispel all confusion
related to its meaning (because people simply can’t relate to a
boy confronting the likes of mortality, loneliness and alienation).
[Part of a rant on seeing what ends up making the homepage of the
lyric site that I’ve been posting my work to.]
**I’ve been analyzing a lot of the terms by which I have under-

stood myself for so long, like how I seem to think of myself as
a ‘late bloomer’, a ‘troubled child’, ‘socially awkward’, or ‘thin-
skinned’, and I don’t think that any of these really apply to me on
the level of nature, and it’s weird to be realizing that about my-
self. All such things are like a gross film which has come upon
me through poor parenting. And it’s sad, because I’ve made such
strides to overcome all of these things, yet by now it is too late
and I would never end up feeling the weight of my success, which
was met with the avoidance, intolerance and impatience of soci-
ety. I’ve really latched onto the trope of the disturbed individual,
identifying therewith, but that’s not who I was; none of this was
me. I only wonder if my self will shine through the damages I’ve
incurred via abuse (in the eyes of the public, I mean).
Even so much of 2009, 2010, and all such years for which
I generally use the term ‘insanity’. It’s so hard to analyze these
things because I am so emotionally invested in this narrative, and
it can’t be denied that I made some very poor choices as a result
of holding to wrong priorities, like those which resulted in my
isolation and my damaged health. The more I look at it, the less
I am willing to state that I was ever insane or even out of sorts.
I think the whole ‘myth’ of my madness really began as a means
1) because I held an unrealistic and high view of mental illness
and 2) because I needed an excuse to not only be able to take
some time to hide out when everyone was trying to force me to
move on whether I was ready or not, and b, to keep my parents
from continuing their interference. That isn’t to say it was a lie,
or... well, maybe it began as such, or at least as an exaggeration of
extant struggles and concerns, but I think that after taking it on
as my identity, as my legend, things really got out of hand. And
then there is also my being self-aware of how I am perceived by
the world, in which case it benefits me to be able to sort of stylize
those differences in a way where I can use them to my advantage

rather than seeing it used against me.
**Hesitant though I am to encourage any sort of church-like as-

sembly, I can’t help but be reminded of the importance of com-
munity and ritual in this life and I acknowledge in what ways I,
myself, would have loved and benefited from something of the
sort (a community devoted to Existence as defined by Aseitism).
As I grow more and more antipathetic toward organized reli-
gion, I want even less to resemble these political corporations
called churches. My disgust for organized religion and spiritu-
al abuse has increased fiftyfold in this time, for in having gained
a firmer understanding of our circumstances I am able to final-
ly say of these hollow and abusive institutions that they have no
right or purpose to exist within our sphere unless to demean our
lives.
Those who believe as I do won’t feel the need to proclaim
these details loudly among the streets, and so will they not be
content to sit stilly and watch the world pass. I will be creating
outlets for those who cherish this existence and wish to ease the
suffering of our species, which means abating the ignorance and
illuminating these dark halls with the light of knowledge and
critical thinking. These outlets which I have designed are rooted
no more in ‘weird spirituality’ than they are in proven psycho-
logical and biological facts.
Ahhhhh, life.
AAHHHHHH, LIFE!
I have always had mixed feelings on the matter of documentaries

and similar records which often rely heavily on interviews. After
all, I have carefully protected my legacy, my myth, my heart from

the abusive and neglectful individuals in my life, and it would
not seem fair to then give a platform to those who cut me down;
it would not seem fair to give a voice to those who rendered me
mute. I don’t have anything to hide at this point, though I would
think it highly problematic if others were brought in to speak
about my ‘nature’ when not one of them ever sought to get to
know me and many of them even abused me, so to treat any of
them as authorities on my person just seems heinous as an act.
(This paragraph, along with many similar statements written
within my works, could now be amended in light of the close-knit
friendship which has formed in recent history—speaking in refer-
ence to Wyatt, who I would trust to speak on my behalf ).
For me there was never any satisfaction in being right. The only
victory, in the case of arguments and quarrels, is mutual under-
standing, and I’ve rarely achieved as much. I do not suffer from
regret, believing that I have remained authentic to myself and up-
right in all circumstances within the bounds of my ability, but
it doesn’t shield me from grief. I do not feel like a victor. I feel
alone.
Myriachoronically speaking, it is all just a process in which we

step closer to the Agnosis and Gnosis divide on a nightly occa-
sion, with sleep serving as a ritual of Innaemulation, or a sort of
regulatory ritual. That much complies with even our scientific
understanding, although I am speaking of a different sort of reg-
ulation in this case which speaks not of the processes of the phys-
ical body so much as it speaks to Innaemulation.
Many of the problems I am encountering with my story come

from attempting to concretize the abstract and linearize the non-
linear. Given their abstract nature, in which events played out
in a realm of Meaning rather than one of Representation, many
of these events can be expressed in numerous ways, and whereas
in the beginning I was intent on expressing the story in the
most simplistic way possible, using easy-to-understand language
which painted a vision in the mind of my readers, I became dis-
satisfied with the turnout and have begun my attempts to paint a
more accurate, if slightly less legible, picture.
There are plenty of complaints in circulation about people who

are intelligent and think themselves superior and there is a lot
of sympathy for those who have to deal with such arrogance,
though there aren’t many speaking about the issues afflicting the
percipient, and part of that has to do with the unwillingness of
the population to even acknowledge that there exists different
types, if not strata, of cognition (although the extremity of
American anti-intellectualism may be skewing my interpreta-
tion, somewhat). Although before continuing that thought I
should probably opt for a different term, since I am not really
meaning to speak about the intellect as measured by man but the
degree of our awareness, which I deem spiritual in nature, and
which is available to all men and women in equal measure with-
out restriction. It is due to that availability that we should not be
made to feel guilty for acknowledging these distinctions which
exist and divide the inspired from the uninspired, as the fullest,
most lustrous inspiration is ever within reach of us all.
There is a deep sadness that comes from looking out into so-
ciety and seeing all of the beautiful and smiling faces and know-
ing that I am unlikely to find a meaningful spiritual compatibil-

ity. I cannot simply ‘order them a drink and have a one-in-three
chance of finding common ground and making a connection’. It
doesn’t work that way for persons like myself—in which case I
am not referring to outré, artistic freaks, as it were, but to self-
aware, spiritually-inclined individuals. And over time the beauty
and attraction fades into something vile and disgusting as the as-
sociations themselves see a change. The sadness that I feel is un-
speakable. It’s like being allergic to all the world’s delicacies. And
it all looks so delicious! Meanwhile, everyone around you is rav-
ing over the flavor. Though it will only leave me with cramping
pains, and it doesn’t matter how much I try to see past it, will-
ing to convince myself that there are more important things than
worldview (or however I try to classify the difference). It’s not
just about an IQ score or some silly math quiz which are man-
made and spiritually useless. It’s not simple book smarts or some-
thing which is not actually important in the real world. It’s a par-
adigm. It’s a way of seeing the world. And as if one’s perception
is not enough to limit one’s yield, then add an idiosyncratic per-
sonality or sense of style to the list. It has no means to register in
the minds of others what you’re even talking about and so it can
only seem novel or invalid outright. Intimate communion is not
possible under these conditions.
Is there a way of waking up to and acknowledging these dif-
ferences of cognition and spiritual capacity on a broad, semi-ob-
jective scale without inviting stratification and bigoted, counter-
productive attitudes which preclude growth in the underdevel-
oped? Is it truly a possibility? Since surely I do not advocate for
castes of any sort, and I would not wish to do anything to feed
the arrogance of the modern man. I think that the only way of re-
ally doing such is if we first acknowledge, once more, that every-
one is ultimately capable of everything on the existential level,
with no one being at an advantage or disadvantage, although I

still expect much pushback due to the variance of beliefs, as well
as the variance of lifestyles which may cause others to refute the
foundation on which these statements rest. This is because so
much of the population is perceiving their circumstances by way
of the lesser paradigms (or the subjective, dispositive paradigms)
which causes them to identity with physicality and, by extension,
the scope of their physical freedom (or restriction), and so the
poor and the sick may refuse to believe that they are as capable of
achieving the awareness (which does not mean the education or
any such shallow noetic matters) of Existence as easily as the rich
and well.
Think of it as you would insects, such as moths or butterflies,
which know multiple distinct stages of life on the way to matu-
rity—all of them relevant, all of them worthful, but not all of
them truly mature, capable and autonomous. Can’t we acknowl-
edge and respect the imagos without disrespecting the still-grow-
ing larvae? We are going to have to if we wish to improve our
condition as a species since, as it currently stands, we are all just
encouraging the people of society to remain as larvae in our re-
fusal to acknowledge anything greater.
And ultimately... beyond questions of if we can achieve this
admission on a large scale, some might ask what is the point of
doing so. Well, beyond the fact that the people who are likely
most capable of recovering and healing our world are living dis-
consolate lives of depression and alienation... you have the very
dire reality that Awareness and Knowledge are being DISIN-
CENTIVIZED... as in there is a dearth of incentive to actually
grow as a human being on the current landscape. Most people
wouldn’t even know what the fuck that means since they just
think of everything in terms of aging, college graduation and ca-
reer choices and that’s pretty much the only sort of gradation
they consider essential to life...
We often acknowledge the distinction between a fixed mind-
set and a growth mindset, and I myself have been one to perpetu-
ate this dichotomy, having some rather blanket remarks to make
in regards to the worth of the latter, although I wonder if it is un-
fair of us to view this as a fixed aspect of our person. Rather, what
if all individuals begin in a state which can be classified as fixed
mindset, resistant to change and bound to viewing all things as
a threat to their wellbeing. What if this is a rind that must be
peeled away if one so wishes to transcend themselves, as it were.
I do struggle to think that anyone with a fixed mindset can grow
to the necessary degree of awareness, and therefore I have to be-
lieve that one is not doomed to remain in this state of mind,
since it wouldn’t make sense for there to exist so many individ-
uals who simply have no proper means to grow. Maybe what we
regard as a growth mindset is merely a natural step on the lad-
der unto a greater spiritual awareness and prosperity, and this di-
chotomy is no dichotomy after all, but a veritable climb.
I just think it is so foolish of us to believe that we truly un-
derstand the stages of growth taken up by the individual, and
therefore it is ludicrous to say we understand how to catalyze/
educate. It is my hope that we will learn much about the actual
growth process in decades to come, seeing it represented in a
more objective and digestible manner.
As with any of my works, I do not consider Clyssus of Man to
be complete. As a project it was based on approximation: that is,
approximating an experience so surreal and magnitudinous that
I would be foolish to ever expect satisfaction with my portray-
al. Ultimately, it sets out to accomplish that which is most nec-
essary: to inform the world of where I came from and where I
went.
I see only ugly, unanalyzed souls in expensive robes. It is not by

choice that I view society in such an unpleasant manner, though
I will not hide from that which has revealed itself to me. You
have those who insist on thinking the world a beautiful place,
and they will deny its ugliness in a desperate attempt to uphold
that belief. And then you have those who insist on thinking the
world a cesspool, and they will close themselves off to its virtue
in their childish resistance to upholding that belief. Me, I stand
centrally: I do not deny the ugliness of the society in which we
live, yet I believe in its potential to transcend the mire via self-
awareness and intention.
**It’s still quite surreal for me to think back to my youth, seeing

as I spent most of my life viewing my child self as problematic; a
‘troublemaker’. Looking back now, it breaks my heart to realize
that that simply wasn’t true. What they [my parents] considered
troublesome was only the reality of a child having his own in-
terests independent of theirs and asking questions instead of fol-
lowing blindly. What they called troublesome or disrespectful
was only my natural youthful energy and my being enthusiastic
about all things before me. The punishment that I endured over
my lifetime was rarely a reflection of my person, so much as it
was a reflection of the ignorance, intolerance and... well, low
emotional thresholds of those into whose company I was forced.
I wasn’t a problematic child. I was a good kid. I heeded all that
I was told. I obeyed all of their rules for many years until doing
so left me desolate and hurting—betrayed. That is because they
did not see the point in ever sharing with me what I had done
that was so wrong and expected me to follow their train of
thought—but there was nothing to understand. And it makes
me so angry that it has taken me this long to realize the extent to

which others have influenced my way of seeing myself and my ac-
tions. It never changes. Family and society are always turning us
against ourselves. And it is always heartbreaking. Most individ-
uals will never be able to distinguish between the reality of who
they are and that which has been projected upon them by others
(often at points in our lives when we are vulnerable and reliant
on others to protect and guide us).
Since self-awareness is not a trait that the masses particularly val-

ue, they do not readily recognize it in others. It’s simply not a
part of their criteria, as it is not a part of their existential model;
their paradigm. Thus, it is sadly the case that anyone expecting to
be commended for their self-awareness is naïve to the ways of our
society. And that saddens me, since I was always quite excited to
serve as an example, so to speak, of an inspiring breed. They may
see that I differ, in disposition, from themselves, but it’s unlikely
that they will be able to pinpoint that distinction (and even less
likely that they will find it agreeable). It won’t appear especial-
ly mature or ‘enlightened’ for me to be so aware of my own in-
tentions or willing to apologize and humble myself in situations
that call for it. It will not appear healthy to others that I choose
to reflect upon my past traumas and deep-rooted faults, as these
tendencies, to them, are the symptoms of one who is sick and ob-
sessed, and my health will rather have me looking like a madman
who gravitates toward blood and drama. All will continue on as
ever: our peers will not notice our successes, our cooperation, for
such things comply with their expectations, and so they shall on-
ly notice that which does not readily comply with their expecta-
tions—our faults and errors (as decided by them, or by their pain
receptors). It’s the same as it ever was and it’s so damn tragic.
Those who we allow into our lives naturally become a part of our
myth. So you must guard the gates of your myth with all of your-
self, for if enough contaminants are allowed inside you will lose
interest in your own story and it will seem as a torment rather
than as a sanctuary, a paradise, an existence.
No, I was not some shamefaced failure. I achieved exactly that

which I set out to achieve and need not rely on others to authen-
ticate my victory. I became all that I desired to become as a boy.
Then it baffles me to know how I am viewed by others. It baffles
me that no one else seems to view it as an achievement. And this
fuels my strange fixation, as I have no deficiency of self-worth
and self-satisfaction.
My default strategy, in cases where an individual did not appear

particularly warm to me—or perhaps even seemed antagonistic
toward me—was to just keep on sharing, to keep on speaking,
and to do so with heartfelt sincerity, because I was so sure of the
purity of mine own intentions that I could go on believing that
any enmity with which I was faced came in response to misun-
derstanding or a lack of information. This ostensibly naïve ap-
proach led me to give too much of myself to those who harbor ill
intent (or simply a general lack of interest).
At this point I’ve pretty much accepted that people will classify
my music as they will, though I still take issue with modern
popular genre classification. For instance, the majority of music
which incorporates acoustic guitar is labeled as folk, while most

music which incorporates electric guitar is labeled as rock, and
it often has little to do with the style of the music itself. You
swap the guitar for a keyboard and now what... is it electronic?
Jazz? Something else entirely? I feel like I’ll end up labeled folk
by many, even if it’s one of these less definable, catch-all subgen-
res like ‘experimental folk’. And it’s not that I particularly mind
that. I even sometimes classify myself as ‘dark folk’ for the sake
of convenience. Though I wonder: is my music actually folky or
is it simply the instruments I choose to use? And would that in-
terpretation be affected by a switch to, say, a synthesizer? The
boundaries between classifications are so ill-defined and I cannot
help but take issue with that. I like for everything to be clearly
defined and sensibly so.
Growing up, my parents were highly neurotic about locking

doors, and they passed that on to me. I’ll lock the door just to
couch and come on back out. However, in my Tendon Levey
years I often left the basement door unlocked or even ajar be-
cause I quietly wished that some robber or wanderer would enter
in and end up being convinced to stay and become a part of a
song or a band project. I used to be very convinced of that sort
of stuff: my ability to convince people. It was probably very daft
of me, but damn I liked the thought. I didn’t care about feasi-
bility back then. I just saw that it would make a good story. I al-
ways used to have dreams like that, where I’m being robbed or at-
tacked and I manage to turn them into an understanding friend.
Well, these dreams stopped within a year of re-entering society
when my mind calibrated to the new standard.
**It was traumatizing to grow up having dozens of people in a

youth group who claimed to be my friends and then as soon as I
start questioning my beliefs their whole tone changes and they’re
all gone out of my life. We act like it’s just an unhealthy obses-
sion—my rumination—and that I can’t move on from old expe-
riences, but what if no one is actually moving on and the pain
that we feel inside is only stacking, distracting... The world is a
creepier place when you see it this way because then all of our so-
called complexes and neuroses make so much more sense. Heal-
ing—and I mean actual healing—is a true rarity within our soci-
ety, and that which we are quick to regard as healing or ‘maturi-
ty’ is only the ability of one to distract themselves or to dissoci-
ate altogether from the lingering agony and insecurity caused by
shattered expectations. What, then, does it mean to heal? These
ideas open the gates to so many others which will be very hard
for our civilization to actually face down, seeing as society, as an
entity, values the assembly-line efficiency over the actual spiritual
and mental health of its inhabitants.
I’ve noted before how I still haven’t been able to heal from
betrayals which occurred many years ago, and I have often
blamed that on the fact that they haven’t been replaced by good
experiences since then; and while I still believe as much, I also
don’t believe that to constitute true healing. And it really has me
wondering, because I don’t think that my pain is unordinary; I
just think I’ve been forced to confront it to a greater degree due
to an absence of distractions and replacements. That’s where I
seem to differ from the standard. It’s not that the masses have
healed and I have not. So few of us have ever truly found healing
for the horrors we’ve experienced, whereas most equate healing
with a basic shift in focus, and the truth reveals itself in how we
treat others.
I don’t really react to inconveniences or unintentional foibles. I

mostly react, at this point, to acts of deliberate abuse, allowing
just about everything else to pass. This has been the case since
making my return to society in 2014, as all the suffering I was put
through in solitude has dramatically altered my threshold, and
this can strangely have me seeming carefree and relaxed. It can
even have me being viewed as a pushover since I am not quick to
take offense to things that should very well offend me and cause
me to walk out. All things considered, I don’t know if I’m actu-
ally better off for it, within a social context, although I am very
proud of this equanimity and resilience which have developed
over time, knowing I was quite the opposite in my younger years,
always seeming eager to huff and pout.
Here is what you must understand when reading these back-to-

back stories of betrayal and neglect: I am not simply choosing to
share the negative and disastrous accounts from an otherwise di-
versified history. This is all of them. I have no more to offer. So
it’s not like I am only focusing my attention on the negative. This
is it. These are my relationships.
I know that I commented on it before, but it is worth some de-

gree of emphasis that all that I have accomplished within the
realm of openness is unlikely to have come about were I to have
gotten what I wanted, and were I to have existed within better
conditions. I am so horrifically derealized due to having been
shown such a startling lack of kindness, love and acknowledg-
ment in my life that, despite whatever acuity I may contain with-
in my mind, I am living in this cruel eternity of derealization in
which everything is simultaneously all-consequential and utter-
ly devoid of consequences. It’s an odd little hell into which the

fates have forced me. That isn’t to suggest that I have adopted
some misaimed respect or appreciation for the persons who have
abused and betrayed me, but I do respect the current along
which my life moves, even if it has pulled me away from the land
or lands that I thought I wanted.
I derive some pleasure from holding my breath. It is like stealing

a glimpse of what it means to be healthy, not having to experi-
ence a reminder of my swollen throat for just twenty seconds of
this long, loathsome life.
Even when it comes to the so-called philosophically inclined:

the majority of these individuals approach the realm of philos-
ophy and knowledge not as open-minded explorers, adventures,
but as shoppers searching for a nice new blouse to complement
their shoes. The ideas that they are picking up are not being tak-
en on as tools which may assist them in their future creative en-
deavors but as a set of names and phrases which they may bran-
dish about at parties in the hope that it will reflect well on their
intelligence, worldliness and depth of character. Modern philo-
sophical institutions, if we can even call them that, are an ut-
ter joke. And while I don’t subscribe to the idea that philoso-
phy is a dead art, one can not be faulted for thinking so given
its presence within our modern age, in which ‘philosophy’ more
or less means going down a list of dead men from distant civ-
ilizations and regurgitating the regurgitated. For a long time I
avoided thinking of myself as a philosopher—mostly due to the
masturbatory connotations of such a term (which doesn’t really
seem like something that a person should even be able to apply
to themselves, as it seems to entail an assessment of the quality

of one’s thoughts and ponderings and all self-assessment there-
fore tends to show bias). Besides, there is enough of an overlap
between the philosopher and the mystic that it would seem al-
most redundant in my case. As my sphere of interest has broad-
ened over time, becoming more universal in theme and applica-
tion, I do feel that I have been able to contribute a substantial
amount of thoughts worthy of mass considerations and at this
point I hope that history will look at me as having left a dent
in the world of philosophy, whatever be my categorization and
locker combo. Though I never approached the field in a mastur-
batory fashion, as if only out of a desire to come up with an idea
or challenging position. So many positions reek of this, like be-
ing taken up for the sake of themselves, and I can always tell...
I can always tell when someone took on a task or trade, be it
philosophical, artistic or otherwise, and whether it came about
because they had an idea begging to be expressed or if they sim-
ply wished to associate themselves with a certain field for reasons
of prestige. And too much of what I have heard from this sphere
seems less about the opinion or the philosophy than the fact that
this is someone who really, really wanted to associate themselves
with or think of themselves as a philosopher.
Extroverted Thinking naturally adheres to a universal model of

success or respectability, whereas Extroverted Feeling naturally
adheres to a universal model of agreeability. Both are working off
of an impersonal and ever-changing standard, so I don’t see how
it can be asserted that either is objectively ‘better’ than the other,
though I do have mine own biases.
A phosphene manacle constrains me, forcing my ancestors to live

and breathe when you can not. Now I am free. I am more than
the money that I make. I am the soul; I am the star.
A community based around these principles would not end up

like just another congregation that stands around in robes and
chanting. Aseitism is uniquely practical and proactive, and I
would expect a community to revolve around the exchanging
of methods and insights into how to live a more rich existence
on the daily scale, not so unlike what I had to say about Com-
prachicos, or its aim, which is both highly interactive and cre-
ative.
The artwork used for the Tendon Levey project was, like the mu-
sic, the unplotted, unintellectualized result of a moment in time.
It wasn’t about showing off my abilities but about accessing the
realm of instinct, which I thought to be a truer realm than that
which is typically featured on display. As for the art, it was al-
so just me figuring out the medium, as I had never painted prior
to creating these works. My first painting adorns the cover of my
first album, my second painting adorns the cover of my second
album, dezinezinet. I can appreciate what I accomplished in that
realm, especially when seeing it all together, as it forms a vibrant
and idiosyncratic picture which displays the colors of my heart
over the browns and grays of my environment; but if given a rere-
lease, or if given time to plan things out, I would surely give my
albums a total makeover.
In addition to the sort of ‘monk punk’ basement aesthetic
I’ve codified in recent years while establishing my online pres-
ence and identity, I tend to draw a significant amount of inspira-
tion from my childhood perceptions, amounting to an aesthetic

which seeks to emulate the world as seen from the eyes of a shel-
tered Christian child—a sight that which is simultaneously hor-
rific and alluring. I’ll never forget the magic of those years and
the part that music had to play in it all. My parents put up such
a huge fuss about secular music—so much so that it had me hid-
ing CD’s in a box behind a pull-out drawer beneath my bed. It
was always so exhilarating each night when I would retire to my
room, lock my door and pull out the box (and indeed I did this
every night). The mystique of flipping through the CD inserts in
the dark left me feeling like I might legitimately go to Hell and
for this alone, for such were the implications. Oh, and of course,
the Geocities homepages with massive walls of neon text having
to do with alien abduction or magic spells and dithered, dizzy-
ing .gif animations of eyes and hands and ghosts. It is a strange
existential fear to which we grow quickly desensitized, but the
odor never leaves those who had the privilege of experiencing it.
It’s not that I try to emulate that aesthetic or aura, per se, but
that atmosphere had worked itself so thoroughly into my under-
standing of the magic of music at a young age, as well as what
I perceived as “powerful” and also “cool.” Indecipherable sym-
bols that could very well contain within themselves the ability to
possess you, unidentifiable textures that almost scratch and sup-
purate and stink (if you haven’t noticed, I am very, very big on
grimy, unidentifiable textures as such, as featured on the covers
of Uhh Usst and Votcofifxa, which actually received these updat-
ed covers in recent years). The tragedy of a mermaid in a man-
hole: something taken from heaven, from fairytale fantasies, and
left to blister under the cynical sun of human society.
After all these years on the same path, I have a far better un-
derstanding of my own ‘myth’, as it were, referring to the symbols
that are mine, and the focus of my story, as in knowing the rele-
vant from the irrelevant. A release from me, or re-release, at this

point, would therefore look very different. I am saddened that I
won’t get the chance to release any of these packages.
I do not weep for an absence of influence or respect. I weep

that it has become so difficult to live comfortably without sti-
fling some integral aspect of the self. I weep for the pathway of
virtue which has become all so narrow; a stricture. I weep for
the prayers which become ever more succinct and selfish with
time. I weep for what it means. You must listen attentively at
night when I sob, and you must listen attentively when I howl
a begrudging howl, contemplating my obsessions, because that
which appears to enslave me is the fire to which I will be sacri-
ficed, and that raging flame which takes me in and engulfs me be-
comes sated by my sacrifice and shall lessen in my wake. I obsess
so that others, in ages to come, will not have to obsess similarly.
I suffer so that Existence, itself, will not have to suffer so outra-
geously. That which kills me will be killed in the process, and that
is why I have allowed all of this to take place for so long.
You should not take my claims as an isolated incident, for
then I shall only appear like a psychotic individual with delu-
sions of grandeur. Rather, you must look to the history of the
world and mankind and see that the pattern repeats, and every-
thing which I am describing has been written on the walls since
we were living in caves.
There have been many instances in which I have planned out my

suicide in advance, scheduling a date, time and all other relevant
elements. These periods are surreal in ways I cannot express. I’ll
often have a list of fifty-plus chores and things to prepare before
the time comes, so I will spend the days leading up to it going

down the list, doing everything from finalizing projects, to clean-
ing and throwing out belongings, to making sure that my work is
backed up where it may be found after my death, to listening to
some of the albums that I enjoyed in my youth, or having a listen
to my own personal musical creations, to scheduling posts and
emails to be posted within a specific time frame after my death in
which I announce the news and any requests I might have of my
(very) limited online audience. It becomes very difficult to take
part in any inane activities in these instances, whereas all media
and entertainment comes to be seen as very hollow and surreal.
It already possesses those qualities to me anyhow, since I live my
life in a way where I expect that I may die in any given moment,
but the surreality is intensified in these times of planned suicide.
I may not waste my days watching television and playing video
games, but if I’m exhausted and require a couple minutes to recu-
perate my motivation I might end up picking up my phone and
turning on a video of... I don’t know, a baby monkey interacting
with a baby pig or something simple to that effect. Or I could
easily spend an hour in front of the mirror running through a
fake interview in my imagination. It’s just so strange when you
actually know the amount of minutes remaining in your life, and
it makes everything out to be simultaneously flat and intense. It’s
very weird to carry out daily rituals, since everything carries the
connotation of being the final instance in which I may experi-
ence these things, at least within the is context. “This could be
my last green smoothie,” “This could be my last dose of kratom,”
“This could be my last shower.” It may be different for those who
lack passion and legitimately never cared whether they should
live or die since they never placed any stock in this life and its rit-
uals, but I have really sunken my hooks deep into this life and it
ain’t so simple in my case. I am still achieving great things every
day of my existence. I am still finding things to laugh and smile

about. Happiness may be a rarity at this stage, if it ever existed for
me at all, but suffering is such a significant aspect of my life that...
it’s all I really know, and because of that, I feel that I have been
granted an extra bit of staying power. Suicide, for me, has never
been about giving up, but about taking control of my story and
letting myself out, as it were, by mine own means, before this life
opts for a more sporadic ending, and that ending comes rapid-
ly for me. I am like a man who lays bound, gagged and starved
on a railroad track. My suicidality is reflected in that image and
therefore does not resemble that of the tweens who are unable
to recover from break-ups and bullies, although I don’t mean to
deride such, or anyone who comes to the conclusion that this
life isn’t worth it. This life is surely worth it, but there comes in
point, at least in certain instances, where even that doesn’t mat-
ter. Nonviability is nonviability, and I would rather write mine
own ending then have it written before me.
I can think of happier alternatives to this life that I’ve known.

I can think of more comfortable alternatives. Yet I can think of
nothing more potent than the experience I’ve known, and was
that not precisely what I requested from life as a boy starting
out? Truly, I’ve arrived at a point where I genuinely lack all desire
for the alternative, and it’s so fascinating to me that I can write
these words as I lay here, on a cold cement floor, wondering when
I will eat again. It’s so fascinating to me that I was able to reach
this conclusion in the honesty of my soul, despite what this life
has cost me. I only hope that my audience is willing to trust that
these words are an accurate reflection of my heart even when
it exceeds the bounds of their understanding and expectations
of what it means to experience veritable fulfillment in this life.
I wouldn’t claim that it isn’t complex, but if it weren’t such a

mystery to us all then would it not appear more commonplace
among the masses?
It is important that you don’t allow society to dictate your belief

in Meaning; in the concepts carried by our actions and empires.
It is important that you do not stop believing in love, in light, in
goodness simply because you have been lied to by those who do
not possess anything of the sort.
Here is the thing: you’re not going to find these sorts of successes
and theorization outside of the realm of acute personal trauma.
Some may wish to take that as a symptom, meaning it is some-
how ‘wrong’, but to me it is the same as saying that for a fish to
be found inland something must be wrong with the water. Some-
thing significant is required to extract us from our place of com-
fort, just like one does not typically opt to work a job unless they
are in need. One must be sufficiently disturbed to delight in the
unknown.
My confidence is my confidence, and my pride is my pride, and

my bravery is my bravery, for I do not depend upon the attributes
of the crowd that backs me. I was always one and always alone.
Most misunderstand their own strength, which is more about re-
liance on others to catch them, to avenge them, to console them.
The confidence in their eyes speaks none of confidence after all,
and it reveals itself when they are left alone, and the muscle-
bound motherfuckers crumble along the floor like reduced sodi-
um saltines.
Oh, I could have been a mystery to captivate the cretins! But in-
stead I became a semi-gloss brochure.
This matter may be one of the greatest when crossing the para-
digm: nothing can be accomplished without intent. For me this
is not so strange, as I infused all mine actions with great in-
tent, seeing no actions in life as insignificant. Yet it’s not like this
is actually a new development. It has always been this way. It
seems like we’re ambling purposefully from place to place here
on earth, able to get by without proper focus, but we’re not ac-
tually moving, and that is why. It is not our feet which carry us
through a space that doesn’t exist, and into a future which does
not exist, but our intent which carries us along, and without in-
tent, without a guiding question, there is no destination; there is
no answer.
The hour in which I finally leave this earth will be the hour that
I come alive and I welcome it as nothing else, embracing it with
all the warmth that remains in me, but at least I can finally find
some value in the fact that I did not die sooner.
One’s mental and emotional well-being is more and more being

considered a problem to be handled by professionals while being
shirked by friends and family, though it is absolutely ironic to be-
hold, seeing as the problem of our well-being stems by and large
from our interconnectedness or lack thereof, and I fear what will
happen if we continue to overemphasize therapy and medica-
tion over prevention. If only media advertisements went beyond

products and services being sold by corporations and we actual-
ly invested in broadcasting helpful messages over the airwaves:
simple statements intended to foster emotional intelligence and
compassion in the population.
My readers may have no way of knowing this, but the Mrtagrha

chapter (Clyssus of Man) is more intricate than may be readily de-
duced, featuring passages from the original Divinity of the Idem
text which weave in and out of my third and final astragon in a
most meaningful way. While the First Rite of Consolidation ap-
pears to represent some crowning achievements of Selfness, it oc-
curs at the height of a most selfless catastrophe.
As mentioned elsewhere, the Ashlands, Mrtagrha and Manus

Dei chapters were written as part of the original Dirgha Svapna
text, explaining why the writing style is considerably more poetic
and perhaps more difficult to follow than all that follows after. It
was only after the The First Rite of Consolidation that I realized
I was in over my head, having involved myself in a greater expe-
rience than intended, and it is at that point that Dirgha Svapna
was abandoned, or exchanged, for Clyssus of Man.
I do not seek to act as a keeper of the gates of Heaven. I do not

seek to make of myself some holy icon. I am a collaborator with
Existence. I am surely not perfect, being susceptible to error as
all! I aspire to live by a higher standard, and I think it comes eas-
ier for me at this point to follow that standard since my wants
have genuinely synchronized in most cases with my needs, so I
do not experience any struggle or temptation to go against these

beliefs and proclamations.
The final chapter featured within my book is clearly a bit mud-

dled in terms of its meaning—not only because I was asked to
sidestep the ritualistic and metaphysical aspects involved so as to
not seem as if I am glorifying death, but because ultimately it is
not my essential body, so to speak, which is giving way in this
case, but the set of associations which we regard as my physical
body. Yet the situation is infinitely more complex than I am pre-
pared to get into, especially since the distinction between ‘subtle’
and ‘gross’, or the spiritual and the material, by our terms, is not
nearly as cut and dried as we tell ourselves, as everything stems
from the self-same source, which is our understanding; so that
which is ‘dying’ in the final chapter is really but an association,
an assignation, to the ‘mission’, to mortality, to flesh and decay,
and it affects my essential body thusly. Though my essential body
will not die, as in it will not be lost to Agnosis. This is but one of
several points within the book wherein I’ve opted for simplicity
at the cost of accuracy.
Many are terrified to think that we are born as some meaningless,

ugly and unlovable things without allowance, without entitle-
ment. It haunts them, and they will go their whole lives aiming
to convince themselves otherwise. For me, I was empowered to
believe that man is not born but built. I never once stared into
the mirror needing to tell myself “You’re perfect as you are!
You’re worthy! You’re wonderful!” To me that sounds positive-
ly alien—which isn’t to say that I don’t ‘love’ myself (even if I
wouldn’t normally put it into those words). Anyone who reads
what I have to say can see that I possess a very rare, healthy, com-
mitted ‘bond’ with my selfness. Though what I see when I look
around in society, with all of this mass-marketed ‘self-love’ stuff...
it is such an unnatural way of going about it. It’s so roundabout.
I see people staring at an unformed lump of clay and crying that
it’s perfect as it is. And it’s not, it’s absolutely not—but with suf-
ficient work it could be! All but another instance wherein weak-
ness shall deprive them of something authentic. But it’s okay! It’s
okay to be ‘immature’ and ‘incomplete’ insofar as we are with the
percipience to recognize that improvement is possible; it is okay
as long as we are with the courage and tenacity to strive after that
completion.
There exists a vein or some such between my right arm and clav-
icle that will become prominent from time to time, with there
being a palpable lump that rises to the surface. This seems to me
as the most overtly visible manifestation of my TOS or whatev-
er it is that is causing the issues to occur between my throat-neck
and hand-arm. I try to massage it, but the efficacy of that action
is questionable.
The cause of my perineal pain (and the consequent walking trou-

bles which began in the fall of 2015) is still somewhat of a mys-
tery to me, since I had already been suffering from the sports her-
nia/torn oblique since late 2013 and was walking freely for the
two years that followed. A secondary hernia has been my fore-
most theory, and considering the trouble it caused for my or-
gasms, I have to imagine that it relates to the frequency with
which I was masturbating in that period, coupled with my emo-
tional instability which brought about all sorts of trouble for
my anxiety and muscular tension. I am naturally multi-orgasmic,

and so I will often orgasm twice at a go, or at least I did through-
out my twenties, with the second following within thirty sec-
onds to a minute after the first. I don’t know how commonplace
this is, and I worry it might have weakened or strained some
muscle or something to be orgasming two to three times within
the span of a couple minutes. Kinda difficult to say, since there
is still an absence of study and literature on multiple orgasms in
men.
The book [Clyssus of Man] was mostly complete by early 2021,

or that’s when I gave up on it—incidentally so—though I did
add to the final chapter since then. Still, I opted for a posthu-
mous release due to the nature of its content. Therefore I held
off on the release while we went off and worked through my to-
do list composed of things I wished to complete before leaving
this plane, a lot of which related to my music and, later, Com-
prachicos.
It was a little bit strange to have everything demystified, yet I

have learned in time that the mystical and the supernatural do
not exist as anything but classifications with which to write off
the worlds whereof we are ignorant.
We are raised to believe that those who do right are rewarded,

while those who do wrong are punished. And me, I have lived
my life within this vacuum of striving to do what is right and
being met with resistance from the universe and from my body
and from society. It’s just this unreal experience, and I never stop
what I’m doing, believing that I am doing what is right regardless

of what happens as a consequence, but my only reward is mad-
ness. This quandary has a lot to say for my life and mindset.
I can guarantee that, at some point while reading this text, you
will come upon the words that will never leave you; and I can not
decide which words those will be, but I can put my all into mak-
ing sure that no word is out of place or lacks the intent of a lover.
Since I won’t be alive if and when the population ever discovers

my body of work, I am trying my damnedest to answer all ques-
tions that might have been asked of me.
I’ve attempted to upload all the artwork related to my Tendon

Levey albums, or as much as I could assemble together, though I
haven’t been able to amass the higher quality images in all cases
and a lot of these covers are only 1500x1500 px at around 72
dpi... so not too great. If anyone seeks to rerelease my work af-
ter my death on vinyl or some such medium and struggles to
find artwork of sufficient quality then I’m totally okay with the
covers being remade or touched up by a capable artist insofar
as they remain loyal to the tone of the original. I imagine that
would come off better than my own versions anyway. Honestly,
so much of my album artwork, especially in the first half of my
discography, was simply my practice material that I was work-
ing on at the time to find my style and learn techniques and was
not meant to be particularly creative... and if I had the chance I
would redo all or most of the art to be more creative and vivid...
matching it to my deeper, dirtier aesthetics of the present day.
Oh well. I wish I could appoint someone as “maintainer of my

vision” and give them a say over what is acceptable and unaccept-
able in regards to such things (posthumously), but I am without
intimates to appoint... (and is it perhaps all the more difficult to
find someone with such a strong visual fixation who is capable of
doing justice to my artistic vision which is meticulous and mad?)
It is difficult for me, since I want to see him come around. I want
him to recognize his fault so that I can release him, or his simu-
lacrum, from my self. I want to share with him this world that I
have built from a starting point of nothing; though I must not
become so eager to share the treasures within my vault that I ex-
pose those treasures to those of ill intent and irresponsible acts.
It makes me very sad to say this, yet it feels like innocence and
sincerity are most often but a fashion choice within our society;
like an affectation or a manipulative ploy (or even a character
flaw). I don’t imagine that others understood the reality of my
sincerity, my guilelessness, and it was made more difficult for
them to understand upon seeing how I was capable of such cun-
ning strategies and creative fictions. Yet my capabilities and my
will were not always in alignment, and this great potential for de-
struction that exists within me is not reflected in the hope of my
heart. It’s no wonder everyone is suspicious and dismissive when
all of our precious humanity is used as a device in the achieve-
ment of certain ends; a passcode used to unlock a door in an end-
less hallway.
The kindness, the excitement, the sorrow, the disappoint-
ment—it seems to me that it is all being abused... mocked, as
these things appear so hollow in how they are presented by our
society. When I say these types of things I am not speaking

as some city-dwelling punk who flips the finger with one hand
while continuing to shovel shit with the other. These are my im-
pressions as some moleman from the fringes who pops up and
around from time to time, much to my horror. I’ve based so
many of my expectations on the capabilities of man, as opposed
to the reality of man, so it is surely no wonder I take it so hard
when I catch a glimpse of the world as it stands.
Perhaps, more than any other individual in history, I was not sell-
ing a painting or a song or a book, but a life. This always made it
difficult for me to attract people via standard avenues and show-
cases, since no one could tell what I was peddling. It was all pho-
tographs of my living conditions. I’m not ‘selling’ you a product
but a process; not a polished endpoint, but a progression occur-
ring over thirty, or rather, fifteen years, from a boy with a dream
to a forever-bleeding stream.
A lot of the early songs coming from the period of 2005-2006,

like ‘Gestation Bottle’, were about Jeiezza. After some time in her
company I had begun developing a romantic attraction, but the
more I heard from others saying it ‘wasn’t normal’... well, I think
it ruined it for me. Then we went through years of awkwardness
before finally finding our groove, so to speak. She was my muse
for a while until I began dating around. I was that spooky guy
with a ‘ghost girl’, so to speak. It sounds absolutely stupid, and I
never encouraged that perception, but that is the rumor that ulti-
mately arose from the stray bits and pieces that got out. Everyone
within my circle was religious and therefore no one doubted. The
abnormality of the situation began to upset me more and more
and I couldn’t convince myself it wasn’t somehow ‘demonic’ so I

sort of killed off any romanticism that existed in the beginning
and got used to denying that it ever existed in the first place.
It sounds foolish, pointless, but I can’t tell you how upsetting it

is to feel that I am ‘cooler’ now than I ever was in my youth. My
frame, my posture, my fashion, my confidence, dezinezinet. I al-
ways expected that I would be well past my prime at this point.
In many ways I appear more youthful than ever before! So I gotta
say, each day as I twirl and air guitar in front of the mirror like
a total donkey I tend to feel just a little bit sad to think that I’m
not in a position to be performing publicly; I am sad that I don’t
get to show off this product of which I am proud. It sounds sil-
ly to be voicing it... but it’s how I feel. It is genuinely and over-
whelmingly disappointing. I may not be ‘cool’ or ‘sexy’ or ‘wise’
by the standards dictated by modern society and its never ending
fluctuations, but I’ll be damned if I haven’t grown into the boots
that are Tendon: an archetype unto itself.
It is so difficult for me to go through with it and share these

things so openly. I don’t want to do anything that will wound
anyone. I want to write the words that will edify and soothe. But
then I have to remind myself why my anxiety flares up when I
hear his footsteps, or why I’ve never been willing to share with
him even a single song I’ve written or tell him about how I feel
even when it’s my life philosophy to be so open. I need to look at
the whole, and sometimes that has its drawbacks.
It is too simple to say that my actions in 2011 amounted to a

decade of suffering. Yes and no. The vocal injury surely paved the
way for the illness that would haunt me all throughout my re-
maining lifetime, though it wasn’t some one-and-done deal like a
car accident. Rather, it initiated a vicious cycle which would see
me becoming wounded again and again and again for all the re-
maining years of my life. getting wounded. The initial injury led
to chronic throat clearing It’s why I’m not healing, because it is
continually agitated by bad habits which are, themselves, agitat-
ed by the condition of my throat. And this is so painful for me to
experience, since it feels like something that I should have con-
trol over, but I am never able to get a handle on it for more than
a short period at a time. It is true madness.
How strange it is. I clear my throat and tightness goes away, but
the choking becomes an issue. Then I touch the nerve which
runs alongside my ear and the choking is exchanged for an ex-
cruciating burning pain. All the trade-offs and counterbalancing
that takes place within my physical condition is truly a mystery,
but without having been able to identify and exploit such a sys-
tem I doubt that I would have survived so long.
All throughout adolescence I insisted on owning two of every

toy—at least when it came to my favorites. I would then preserve
the duplicate within a box without ever touching it again. I still
happen across some of these toys in storage from time to time.
They were often marked as being set aside for my future children,
having long notes attached to them. Sadly I did end up parting
with a lot of these during the suicide purge of 2019 which pre-
ceded my third and final astragon.
I do love how new psychological breakthroughs are still occur-

ring even now. I was recently speaking with Mora when I com-
plained to her, saying “Ugh, I can never relax,” to which she re-
sponded with a question along the lines of “Don’t you want to
relax?” and my answer was an instinctual “No, not really.” I wish
you could see her face at that moment, as if within herself she
was wanting to scream out “Has this been the problem the whole
time!??!”
It is so very difficult to describe this feeling with which I live; this

rare euphoria. Some might compare it to nostalgia in that it is
rooted in the ‘past’, yet through a nonlinear narrative, I can not
deny that it is here upon me, overwhelming me, the whole uni-
verse spinning around me. I’ll sit stilly in the dark, blue ambience
listening to the Baby’s First Bible compilation and unspeakable
glee will wash over me as it occurs to me that this is no less rele-
vant to my present than to my past. For what once was a seed is
now a tree. Oh, it gets me so emotional, so euphoric. When I just
sit and take in the context... of the music, of Anita, the lights, the
sounds, the place that my mind is at and what I have achieved
over the course of this life. The acknowledgment of context lifts
me up into the heavens. It is important to me... to my progress...
and I worry over how modern society seems intent in degrading
context and semantics for fear of being without; and to avoid
acknowledging their emptiness they will alter what it means to
know fulfillment. Can’t you see the conflicts that would arise
from this approach? Context is crucial to honesty, to truth, to
the accuracy of our assessments. I’ve lived for all my life in this
private, personal bubble in which context is carefully observed,
worshiped, preserved in the form of arts and industry. It reminds
me of the circumstances from which I came, and it allows me to

gauge what I have become. My happiness, my sadness, it is all a
product thereof. And the people of society would rather rewrite
the dictionary altogether than risk falling outside of its defini-
tions.
Seeing every connection align and light up is the most ex-
citing feeling in the whole world. I hold out this heart which is
attached to twenty-some wires and they all lead to a single uni-
fied point, like the last piece of a puzzle, an arcane metaphysical
puzzle. Such is life! This one piece connects everything and com-
pletes the image and that image is... love! Oh hell, oh hell, I’ve
become a sap-dripping hippy!
You see, I long intended to leave in silence, having nothing more

to say to anyone, and I was totally at ease with that. Repeated
talks with my partner influenced me to reconsider, since al-
though she respected my stance, she feared that I would end up
with regrets, and as my departure closes in, I settled on closing
out this chapter “right.” I attempted to rekindle communications
with a small group of my erstwhile peers to whom I wished to
give away some of my paintings and prized possessions and es-
sentially say goodbye, if subtly, so as to not cause a spectacle and
make things difficult. Always I want to believe that things were
better than I’ve made them out to be, and it is this attitude, the
will to never settle for any less than the ideal, that keeps me going
back again and again, but it is sadly the case that I have found the
opposite to be true in my life, and I was so distraught by what I
saw that I ultimately held my tongue and pulled back, wishing I
had kept with my original plan.
The horribleness of it all only seems more extreme to me now

that I have stood in the presence of an individual who is truly
passionate and cares deeply for others.
I don’t care to delve into the details, especially since I would
like to conclude this book on a note of hope, though it did leave
me sullen for my final weeks as I struggled to see the point in
writing even another word, and instead of fighting against that
discouragement, I think it may be better to just mount it and
ride off into the lukewarm sunset.
Let it sink in that these individuals, in some strange gnostic over-

identification with discrepancy, with error, with sin, presumably
caused by some dispositional fixation, go on to become exactly
that.
We often speak of power when discussing narcissists (and sim-

ilar) and that which motivates them to act, though I still stand
by the idea that security—and, by extension, consolation—acts
as a more powerful motivator than basic power, which arises
as a secondary demand from disconsolateness and insecurity.
These people feed off of and perpetuate the misfortune of others
because they require that misfortune to feed their self-serving
worldview: the belief that there was never a chance for them
to succeed, or that honesty would have never gotten them any-
where at all. It must be the form that their ‘guilt’ (howso sup-
pressed it may be) takes: to cope with having become a monster
which depends on dishonest means to achieve their ends, they
must forever sabotage those making honest efforts, that it shall
act as proof of their correctness. It is such means as these that
virtue has come under attack among the plains of society.
I am not positing that this can be applied to all narcissists or

manipulators. I just think of it as a valid angle which I, person-
ally, haven’t seen being discussed (although that could very well
have something to do with the fact that I don’t actually actively
read or take part in discussions on the topic).
I was born with a large birthmark on my neck and jaw which

was surgically removed in my early teen years. 1” x 2” I would es-
timate. I grew increasingly self-conscious over time, and by the
age of ten I was often sporting high-collared fleeces and turtle
necks in an effort to conceal the birthmark, as well as orienting
myself so that it was ever facing away from whoever I was speak-
ing with. It required three surgeries in total to remove the en-
tire thing. Following the first surgery, I started covering it with
bandages, which gave me a little added confidence since the ban-
dages blended in with the color of my skin, although it was a real
hassle in the summertime when I would sweat and it would slip
off or get all slick and uncomfortable. I don’t think back on that
particular time period all that often so it is very strange to reflect
on.
I don’t feel that there is anyone who ever (or would ever) go out
of their way for me. Actually, I can think of one or two people
from my past who went to great lengths to accommodate me,
though I haven’t seen them in over ten years. Now, it’s not that
I’ve gone about testing people and seeking others to take up my
load, as I deeply dislike inconveniencing people. And then there
is the fact that I really, really don’t want to be known for that.
But to a certain extent I am missing something crucial in that.
I just don’t know what it’s like. In my life, there is no resilience
of relations. If any pressure is put on the stick, it snaps without

bending. This has, in turn, created a set of negative associations
in me.
I try to steer clear of generalizations, and hell knows I dislike

the thought of creating expectations in my readership, though I
don’t feel I do any harm by acknowledging that the Inspired, and
especially the Homo Spiritualis, are uniquely childlike, regard-
less of age, and in a way that cannot be feigned, as this childliness
is not drawing from shallow social stereotypes, nor does it arise
from immaturity, callowness or basal ignorance. It is beautiful to
behold, whereas most would attribute the wide-eyed nature of
the child to its ignorance or inexperience (which is neither fair
nor far-fetched as a conclusion). So when we see the wonder of
childhood mixing with the knowledgeableness and wisdom of
one who is fully whole, wise and matured, as with the paragoni-
cal adult (which, I am sad to say, bears little to no resemblance
to the so-called ‘adults’ within our midst), the result is uniquely
powerful, and this is essentially what is observed within the late
stages of the operation.
Every moment that we are alive, or should I say cognizant, is as a

part of a puzzle, and instead of asking “What should be done at
this moment?” one should go about asking “What hides beneath
the surface of this moment?” as it is not a matter of construction,
but excavation.
We both share a surreal sense of humor which delights in the

nonsensical, the misheard and the misapplied, as well as sharing
the childly tendency to laugh without cause at every infinitesi-

mal blip.
When finally she is done, she sinks into my body and stares up
at me, saying nothing. Her eyes reveal the philosopher’s key and
I realize my infancy before awesome eternity—an eternity in
which to explore and know the potentiality of my grandest lov-
ing heart.
How long I went about suppressing my opinions and judgments,

neither content to dwell on or admit to the loneliness and ennui
within my soul lest it seal my fate forever as a cellar-dwelling
cramp. But it got so lonely...
All of these are as metaphors for the force of unspeakable scores.

All of these are as songs to sing as the distinction between us
grows ever indistinct.
I once knew myself to possess a doll—a sausage man—and I

lived like a sausage all through the winter in this mass grave
which is called Mrtagrha. This doll was recognized as a makeshift
meant only to withstand the throes of the agnostic undertow
amid a time of determinate transactions, but such is the shape of
real reality in an absence of expectations and projections which
have herein been terminated by Irreferentiality. This strange ra-
tion of meat is all that I ever was before now.
I’ve maintained a consistent record of my existence since very

early on in my youth. As a child I was often confined to my room
as a consequence of punishment and my tape recorder was seen
as ‘someone’ to talk to. I left it running at all times, by which
means I managed to capture an estimated one hundred hours of
childhood recordings, and I am currently digitizing the cassette
recordings from around the ages of 7-9. Even with the shameless
nature of my output, I never even considered releasing such au-
dio to the public before now, being barely able to stomach it my-
self. It’s obnoxious at best, and one would have to be reasonably
invested in my person to find it at all entertaining; but I am so
intrigued by it all. It is haunting, especially due to my nonlinear
view of life and existence. For so much of my adult life I failed to
identify with any of this, treating my early childhood as though
it was all some mindless dream—a preface to the ‘real’ life which
began in 2004–but l have finally begun to look at it more closely.
So although it may appear wildly out of place among my reper-
tory, it should surely not be written off as irrelevant.
Even the thought of my childly hands on a keyboard just
doodling and diddling for days on end, or banging an electrical
fan before I had a guitar... it is valuable to me for reasons beyond
its goodness or entertainment value. It is as a portal into which
I may step. And it’s the lurking undercurrent of darkness within
these clips, as well the occasional ‘weird’ admission, that makes
them especially interesting to me, be it my adamance that all
‘belches’ remain authentic, or my idiosyncratic diction, or my ex-
act numbers, or the experimentation in my music even at such a
young age. The unsympathetic obnoxiousness...
I can’t believe I’m actually sharing it with the world, yet in
the moment where something becomes an embarrassment to me
it also becomes authentic and therefore golden, so it’s a cycle
which prevents me from keeping any embarrassing or shameful

secrets.
When listening to Tendon Levey or other, more recent
recordings after taking in these childhood tapes they tend to car-
ry a different feel, and at first I felt negatively about that, as if it
cheapens the experience in some way by tethering this mysteri-
ous and mystical creature to a child buffoon; yet over time I have
grown to appreciate the reality of my transition. It’s still some-
what surreal to me, but in the end, it’s the truth of my lifetime
and I have no right to judge/pick that apart. It’s like, when you
see someone as a child, you can’t help but to see them as a child
even after they’ve grown, and it’s very intriguing to me how the
understanding can influence our perceptions as so.
Most of these recordings were done during punishment/
confinement to my bedroom.
I speak of my life like there is some visible partition which
came about at age fifteen, and in a way there is, but my acknowl-
edgment of this spiritual and perceptual change has often meant
that I will neglect the development of personality which oc-
curred before that point... in which is plainly witnessed the seeds
of so much that I would become.
And to help my listeners with certain references heard in
these recordings, “Razzle” was my childhood hamster, “Scarlet”
was our toy poodle and “Smushy” was the dumpy tree frog that
lived in the computer room (in which my father’s keyboard was
also stationed for a while, as opposed to my cheaper bedroom
keyboard... so he croaked a lot while I was recording from this
keyboard).
It is commonly the case that we will attribute excess self-impor-

tance to anyone who documents their existence excessively (rela-
tive to the population), and that’s just not an accurate reflection

of my motivation. Every moment of my life is valued. Every ac-
tion is intentful, being part of a larger story, a puzzle. This isn’t
about being special. It isn’t even about being interesting or enter-
taining. It is about being simply alive. I am just utterly fascinat-
ed by the mere fact that the moments which make up our real-
ity can be captured by these sensory mediums. Our lives, which
are taken in and defined by our sensory experience, can essen-
tially be stored within a combination of film footage and pho-
tographs, audio recordings, dezinezinet. We take it for granted
how amazing this is. I even tend to view it somewhat mystically,
like as a means of breaking down the achronological illusion. I
do not speak with the mindset of “I’m going to share every little
thing I do because the world wants to know,” or because I think
anyone will care. These things are important to me, and it’s diffi-
cult to justify my reasoning by any other means.
The volume at which my music plays; the color and design
on the shoe box in which I stored my secret music collection; the
shape of the space I inhabit. All such things enter into the uncon-
scious mind, forming a web of sentimentality: a myth. It is a very
fulfilling reality and I want this for everyone. A lot of mixed mes-
sages are being sent due to the hardships that I have encountered
in life given my living circumstances and especially my health,
but I have often said that if only my health was at a manageable
standard then I would have what I consider to be the grounds for
a perfect life. With this I mean to express the utmost satisfaction
with my worldview, which I count as mythopoetic (although I
lived in such a manner long before I analyzed it or even under-
stood it, so a lot of what I have had to say about it, especially in
terms of its constitution, is being retroactively applied).
My partner and I have started this... I don’t know that I would

even call it a game. It is simply this activity that we do when we’re
resting where we attempt to list off as many gross word combina-
tions that we can. It has us choking on laughter within mere min-
utes, so we can only get through about five or six at a time before
it becomes too funny to continue. Some favorites I’ve written
down from previous sessions are: “Cripple crotch crust clump”
and, my personal favorite, “Glut bunk a bat bank.” There was one
night where we couldn’t even move past the word “slurp” before
laughter overtook us and prevented us from continuing. It’s not
even that funny on its own, but the whole atmosphere seems to
shift in these moments, and the look in her eyes as she’s trying to
think of something gross is so funny to me. It’s unusually intense,
like we’re taking it so much more seriously than we should.
I never actually attempted to learn or teach myself an instru-

ment. I simply picked them up and played around until finding
something suitable, and as this continues one just so happens to
improve, if slowly, in skill. Endless doodling. It may not create a
virtuoso, but it got me to a point with which I can be satisfied. I
had a poster or two which featured the chords, but that was it. I
never learned a single scale. It didn’t seem necessary for my pur-
poses.
She and I are currently considering a collection of rehashes—sev-

eral actually, although in this case I refer to rehashing songs from
early childhood. I am hoping to revise or rework some of my
old songs associated with the End Time Locust project while she
will be adding a selection of her favorite lullabies and other such
songs which she recalls from her youth.
To hell with the comfort which convinces us that it is our right

to stop moving, to stop searching, to stop growing. To hell with
the sense of security which slows the heart and sees us to sleep.
I have always romanticized passion, madness and raw effort—so

much so that the concept of failure never really entered into my
reality. The only form of failure that I ever actually acknowl-
edged was a lack of effort, and a lack of love for and investment
in the projects, undertakings or interactions in which I involved
myself. It reads like a truism, though it clearly has much to say for
not only my output but my mindset as well. And people might
not expect this of me, given that it is just very unusual to see
someone as intensely industrious as I am to have such a healthy
relationship to my craft. It’s been a good experience. No competi-
tiveness. No adulterants. No compromise. No frustration. No so-
called writer’s block. My only frustration is not having enough
time or physical health to realize all my ideas. It’s like a thousand
sperms swimming toward an egg, and I can only pick but a cou-
ple of these wiggly little buddies. I couldn’t have asked for a bet-
ter, more rewarding experience in terms of my creative life. Re-
ception is a different story entirely, haha. Still, let it be said: the
only way in which a creative individual knows failure is if they
stop exercising their creativity.
I’m very much about using all parts of a project. If I juice an
orange, I’m going to candy the peel or find some other use for
it. I hate waste. I always have. Minutes are precious. Efforts are
precious. Hope is precious. And I am committed to living with
the product of my minutes, my efforts and my hopes even when
they did not turn out as planned. Again, look at my vaults which
are filled with all manner of abandoned projects and scraps and
what-the-fucks. It ain’t some polished product that I am offer-

ing, no, but it is how I spent my limited time in life, and if that
is not enough, in itself, to have you falling in love with all the
balled up papers that lay in your trash bin then you really must
inspect both your expectations and your priorities.
That’s the thing about pain and suffering: it is, in most circum-
stances, a happening with which we do not identify, allowing it
to destroy the bond that we have with our bodies due to a lack of
identification.
With all these metaphors and comparisons being thrown about,

I must caution you against associating the boy with my child-
hood in the most literal sense, despite what may be deduced
from its manifest form; although, I will reiterate, for emphasis,
that the essence of the Child does in many ways match that of the
seed from which Entity Choir developed, and therefore right-
fully embodies much of that which I commonly attribute to my
youthful self, as in the body of demands and desires which set
the mystical operation in motion. They are as two poles which
depend upon one another for purpose: cost and desire, provider
and child, and between them develops all the meaning that I ob-
serve.
I have spoken out on the similarities between the mind and Ex-
istence, as I have compared Essence to Thought, with the goal
of Existence being when all thoughts are reflective of an under-
standing. This may seem more abstract than can be worked to-
ward, but in my final year of life I arrived at a place where every
thought was in order. That isn’t to say that there was no darkness
to my experience, but even the so-called darkness was in its right-
ful place. I wish I could convey the beauty of my position. To
see everything become relevant; to see everything fall into align-
ment.
The three days in the underworld segue into one another as is

because INSANITY is a cover up for ANGER (and responsi-
bility), while ANGER is a cover up for HELPLESSNESS and
GRIEF. So in each day I manage to shed another layer, getting
nearer to the core problem. And after facing down my helpless-
ness and grief within the underworld, it sets the stage, paradig-
matically speaking, for the development of trauma and hyste-
ria, from which arises the Coagulantula. It must be considered
meaningful that the Coagulantula—the name of which hints
at somatoform conversion, or the giving of tangible form to an
abstract matter—is guarded by Everycarcass (representative of
everything that I am not, or in which I have failed to see myself,
or for which I have failed to take responsibility) via Mahanava.
I’ve twisted myself so out of shape that I am no longer a man,

and I have not been a man in many long years. I’ve twisted my
definitions, eschewing all pleasure, eschewing all light so that I
might carry on through damnedest swamps without ever being
reminded of the life I could have lived instead.
There is inflammation in my abdomen, beneath the floating ribs.

The inflammation affects my breathing, pushing up against my
lungs. The swelling is visible, palpable and very uncomfortable. It
is a protrusion, and it is aggravated by coughing, laughter, strain-

ing and direct contact. I do not touch it, although I am aware
of its shape, which is not like what I would expect of a hernia
and rather feels long and rib-like. Swelling often appears, though
shifts, between my right hip and the upper abdomen just below
the rib cage, typically staying within the dextral hemisphere. The
biggest threat is presented by coughing. I don’t typically cough as
it is very bad for my condition, although I do clear my throat pe-
riodically, and I tend to (lightly) cough out any mucosal obstruc-
tion quickly rather than clearing outright simply because it’s not
as bad on my throat (or so I assume). I am fortunate that I haven’t
suffered any coughing fits in years. I take daily supplements, such
as Marshmallow and Slippery Elm, that likely aid my lungs in
this regard—the former at least. This swelling has been an issue
since 2013 or 2014, although it is not constant. I have sometimes
gone several months without trouble and notable flare ups only
usually come about once or twice a year. They are very difficult to
manage, especially due to my throat clearing and laughter which
is a problem. It also creates digestive disturbances. This leads to
a vicious cycle which must be prevented at all costs, since the di-
gestive issues will cause further stress in the abdomen and the
two will feed into each other and so my best recourse is to fast for
a couple days. As of recently, the large abdominal mass, which is
typically within the upper right quadrant of my abdomen, seems
to be attempting to shift to the center of my abdomen, and it is
choking me as it pushes up on my diaphragm. It is a horrible feel-
ing, occurring beneath the xiphoid process. When laying supine-
ly the pressure in the area is exasperated and I must contort my
body in a most unusual way in an attempt to shift the pressure,
although I can not turn my head to the right without suffering a
vertiginous spell, and that is normally the best position to relieve
the pressure in my abdomen, wherefore I must keep my body lay-
ing in a twisted, uncomfortable pose where my body turns to the

right while my head remains straight and level. This only became
a problem very recently and I can’t say what caused it to flare up
so suddenly, although my labored breathing seems to be a culprit
and that has been a significant problem in recent months. My
partner and I describe it as ‘sippy’ since when breathing becomes
difficult the pattern changes and I am forced to make these short,
sharp inhales with my lips pursed, as though sipping from a cup,
and this will normally alert my partner to my struggle and diffi-
culty breathing.
Since the start of the year I have been dealing with a new sort
of throat trouble. There are multiple issues I experience in that
area. I am used to my throat and neck becoming very tight when
I use my hands in certain ways and overwork myself, which can
happen in a minute’s time over very basic things like turning a
spigot or using a pencil to write my name or quickly attempting
to touch up some image on Photoshop. The problems experi-
enced in this case are usually more of a tightness in the neck
rather than an internal choking, feeling like hands around my
neck, although as of recently that sensation somehow changed
to a different variant which entails pressure being put on my gag-
ging area, and it feels more like a horrible choking, and it’s like
a finger on my ‘Gagger’ and I have to stop moving for hours or
days and lay low so as to avoid worsening it as I will vomit and
choke. I believe that this became an issue due to a recent, albeit
minor sprain of my hand/thumb. It doesn’t seem like it should
be such a significant issue, but hand sprains and chest/sternal
sprains have been known to have a notable effect on the tight-
ness and behaviors of my neck and throat (my sternal muscles
have been known to rip periodically since late 2019 due to my
labored breathing which creates for erratic patterns). Also, my

vertigo started up within twenty four hours of this ‘gag pressure’
problem and apparently relates to the condition of this specific
neck issue. I haven’t been able to really turn my neck to the right
in months now, not that I am physically incapable, but doing so
will lead to a relapse, which will not simply pass minutes or even
hours but potentially days, and in that time I will be virtually un-
able to move, confined to my bed and hesitant to move my head,
lest the world spin away from me and cause me to vomit.
I suffered a sinus infection around the same time and it led
to an increase in swelling within the palate and I nearly passed
out in more than three dozen instances in the span of two weeks.
I am in the poorest shape of my life and I want (almost) nothing

more than to see this body die finally. I must constantly hold
my epigastric region as I walk due to the uncomfortable pressure
which has formed in that area of my abdomen. I am often mak-
ing sipping and slurping noises due to respiratory difficulties
which make my breathing difficult and irregular, and I am forced
to sort of sip the air to keep from suffocating. After a hundred-
odd days, I believed my vertigo was behind me. However, fol-
lowing a week and a half wherein I was getting along well, I was
rubbing my eyes and suffered some sort of strange ocular seizure,
brief though it was, which left me dizzy and suffering all of the
familiar symptoms of extreme vertigo as such that I had known
previously. A nystagmal attack, it seems. My throat is so sensitive
that I am unable to cough or move my tongue without suffer-
ing hours of suffocation which, in turn, exasperates my abdomi-
nal condition and feeds thus into a most vicious cycle which, in
the most unfortunate occasions, leads to muscular sprains being
caused by my erratic breathing patterns that usually entail deep,
sudden breaths (which not only risk spraining the muscles in

my neck and throat but seem to weaken the muscles in my ster-
nal region). Any muscular pain or spraining between my throat,
sternum, hand and arm is known to interfere with my ability to
type as well as causing an intense choking sensation which is not
so much like a tight turtleneck or even the sensation of having
choked on food, but like a finger pressing into the gagging reflex
or directly upon the laryngeal prominence.
In this life there are countless persons causing their own prob-
lems, as there are countless persons fascinated by a trendy, fash-
ionable depiction of darkness. I do not refer to such individuals
in this case, surely as disposition relates neither to one’s interests
nor to basal immaturity. It is something far more complex and
any attempts to track it among this sphere would result in failure.
It is for that reason that I do not provide further descriptions of
the lathotropic individual, willing that it should not feed into a
stereotype.
**Absolute vulnerability is requisite for absolute intimacy. We

should aspire toward total vulnerability, total transparency. Not
only since, with sufficient closeness to our Existence, can we
change the collective attitude theretoward and improve the liv-
ing experience for all. It allows for intimacy. Surely, in my writ-
ing, I have made no effort to conceal the possible and likely
downside to this approach: it will surely increase the difficulty,
but so will it increase the degree of reward and satisfaction. This
will be one of the easiest ways to plunge yourself utterly and
rapidly into a more meaningful life experience. Just know that
what you lose to honesty you never possessed anyhow Also, it’s
okay to work your way up. Even I moved gradually, like an inch-
worm, over many years. Take inspiration from my vault, but do
not feel pressured to work at a certain pace and toward a pre-
set objective. I didn’t start off by showing the world my dopey
sleeptalking clips. No. First I had to know that I had shown the
world a more accurate representation of my speech, my presence,
and before that I had to show the world an idealized representa-
tion. And the interesting takeaway from that is that it may also
start off relatively inauthentic, yet as we become intent on shar-
ing more and more of ourselves, something occurs, and the pic-
ture becomes more and more balanced and the ideal melds into
the whole, and we will not accept anything less than a complete
picture to represent ourselves. I can at least say that this is how it
happened for me.
I didn’t even have the time or stamina to do a spellcheck or run

the text through a redundancy finder, which I had planned to do
at the end of writing, so please pardon any mistakes that are pre-
sent in any of my final works. I am too ill, and far too tired, at
this point, to care for such a thing.
One of the most common pitfalls within my life has to do with

loading up on some supplement or technique during an outbreak
of illness, and when my illness shows improvement I take that as
indicating a lack of severity, by showing me that it can be tack-
led, and I stupidly see that as giving me some leeway. For exam-
ple, I take a ton of anti-inflammatory supplements. When some-
thing works I tend to feel a return of hope and then often con-
tinue on with my work (which likely caused the problem in the
first place). I don’t know if I am explaining myself properly, and

I’m much to tired at this time to remedy that.
I often used to claim that the men from the fraternity had
‘tapped my phone line’, leading to the cancellation of my phone
service, but that wasn’t what actually took place, being a bit of
a dramatization. My family simply wasn’t comfortable with the
fact that strange guys were calling and leaving ‘cryptic’ messages
over and over, or having our number to begin with. You have
to remember that this is in a time before it was customary for
everyone to have their own cell phone (I didn’t have my own cell
phone until 2014).
They behave as if they’re my ‘friend’ in spite of my quirks; but

these parts of myself which have survived the conditioning and
scrutiny of society—or my ‘quirks’—are where lives the most au-
thentic parts of myself. Oh the ogres that call me their friend!
They make me feel unwelcome or uncomfortable to speak of my
health, my family or anything less than stellar, as if I must apol-
ogize for my circumstances, my illness! They show zero interest
in any of my many projects, creations or even my life story. How
the hell can they call themselves my friend? Is it merely because I
make them laugh?
I feel animosity toward most of those who consider me a friend,

or have in the past, seeing as their actions, as well as interests, did
not reflect such a sentiment, and ‘friendship’ became a guise for
abusive acts. However, there are still those from my history, how
few they are, whose friendship I regard as worthy and authen-
tic. Coming to mind is an individual by the name of Daniel who,

over the two or three years that I knew him, was nothing but car-
ing, supportive, hospitable and inclusive. I wasn’t as appreciative
at the time, seeing as I was still chasing the weirdos and the un-
healthy, drug-addled, artistic types (and the lifestyle to go with
it) but in terms of those who treated me well, I would probably
put him right up at the top. We lost touch around the time that
my throat illness took over my life in 2009, sadly, yet he was ex-
tending invitations for me to join him on his different outings
right up until the very end. I don’t think it a coincidence that he
is also one of the only individuals who I have known personally
with a growth mindset, always pushing himself beyond his com-
fort zone in an effort to expand his interests, abilities and possi-
bilities and I hope dearly that that spirit remains in him to this
day. I also tend to think fondly of some of the guys from the dis-
co years even though we never went too deep with one another.
That time, in itself, was simply a special time wherein everyone
seemed like a brother and I felt included in the game of life, as
it were, and I’m overall rather uncritical in how I view that pe-
riod. I had a few online friends from late adolescence that I still
wonder about sometimes, as well, but our Christian faith was at
the base of our interactions and I suppose I didn’t want to sad-
den them with the fact that I had left the faith (or I didn’t wish to
be judged). I also avoid reconnecting with old friends mostly be-
cause I don’t wish for them to see me in my current state. And let
us not forget to mention that most, if not all attempts to recon-
nect with individuals from my past have left me feeling regret-
ful, as many former friends grew up to be horrible and unhealthy
people in the end (or in some cases just boring, work-marriage-
church types with whom I cannot relate in any way and leave me
feeling judged and pitied).
Oh but how can I speak of the beyond when I have yet to pass!
Am I then no different than countless religions speaking with au-
thority on the landscapes of the afterlife? My brother, my sister,
I am already there. Have you learned nothing from my infinite
spitting?
Nowadays we, as humans, are so aware of the faults that exist

within our species that many are prone to writing off anything
less than the worst, most egregious of sins as minor and insignifi-
cant. An individual suffering the trauma of a broken and abusive
home is going to be pushed to the sidelines due only to the fact
that many are struggling similarly, and we will subtly insist that
this one individual is not nearly as needful as the bleeding, limb-
less torsos on the battlefield. Yet it is in this way that darkness
and suffering perpetuate themselves, as the traumatized individ-
ual who finds themselves neglected and minimized by others
very often goes on to carry out precisely the sort of heinous and
diabolical acts which perpetuate this never ending cycle. And I,
as but one individual, don’t know how we are to confront and
deal with this. I don’t know how we are to make everyone feel
heard. It is the job of the family to protect the child. It is the job
of society to protect the family. So on and so forth.
Honestly, I think that most of this could be tackled with the in-
creased prioritization of emotional intelligence within the edu-
cation system and society withal, with all its forms of media. I
feel so strongly about this.
I am calling on my reader base and all who take to heart and

agree with the words that I speak: do not live passively. Do not
resign yourself to the small scale. Most who take to my offering
and my person are probably artistic types themselves, but I say
to you: do not content yourself with doodling in a bedroom or
being an impractical philosopher cleaning the crumbs out of the
crevices of your armchair. Aspire toward greater positions—the
types of positions from which to effect these kinds of changes,
becoming teachers, politicians, whatever is called for. I’ve said

it before that this would have my main focus if I didn’t antici-
pate that I would be dying in days, weeks or months from now:
I would assess the situation and work to either devise or expand
existing curriculums, bringing not just understanding but incen-
tive to nurture our emotional intelligence and capacity for em-
pathy as a people. If emotional intelligence and self-understand-
ing were treated with even a basic level of importance within our
world our world would change entirely. Don’t let that be but a
dreary dream. The powers that be have every means to establish
such. Unfortunately, the powers that be are, themselves, asleep to
the worth of such things and care not about the mental, emo-
tional and interrelational health of the people. They care only
that we color within the lines, and our misery and stupidity is
none of their concern. It may sound overidealistic, what I am say-
ing, but when you really consider the steps involved to imple-
ment something of this sort... it really isn’t that crazy. The un-
fortunate thing is that most people who aspire toward such po-
sitions of power haven’t these humanistic motivations, yet there
are thousands in the world today who could effect these changes,
slowly but surely, through their influence, and these people are
being replaced all the time. I haven’t given it too much thought
at this point in terms of how these things would be established
and also presented within the education system and society at
large, nor have I even looked into/researched the current state
of things to see if anything like this is in the works or what peo-
ple have to say about the possibility. All that I know... and all
that I ever know... is that there is a void... and that void, in this
case, is the mothervoid at the heart of so many of our other voids
and deficiencies and suffering. You got all of these steely fools in
the laboratory obsessed with prolonging life and transhumanis-
tic nonsense and colonizing other planets and all of these stupid
distractions which often seem like little more than an attempt at

self-consolation, repackaging escapism as progress and/or fash-
ion, while the real problem is being ignored, mocked and spat
about. Fucking dammit, we need better ways to qualify/quanti-
fy/measure the abstract... and not just emotional and empathet-
ic intelligence... there is so much that gets ignored, denied... ugh
I’m so damn upset and I’m sitting here in bed and I should re-
ally go to sleep instead of getting into all of this right now. It’s
just so hard to look out and see that no focus is being given to
the things that really matter in life. We’ve too many people fo-
cusing on treating scabs and getting cosmetic surgery to cover up
every little visible flaw while there are so few attempts to actual-
ly tackle everything at the root of the problem. And the world is
filled with these sadistic and capitalistic vampires who it seems
don’t even want the problem to die down because then that elim-
inates need and the elimination of need spells the end of their
paycheck. I’m so damn happy that I found a way to integrate
all of my arts and crafts into my philosophy and then into my
greater goals, because I don’t think I would be able to justify tra-
ditional art as a recreation in my life at this point. I just don't
think I could. My mind, as of these past several years, has turned
to the larger scale of humanity and Existence and I cannot justify
wasting my minutes on something that doesn’t have the potential
to reach everyone and everything. I can’t justify using my mind
to contemplate anything that is not urgent to humanity. I can’t
justify it. There’s a sense of responsibility underlying it. I’ve been
blessed with the ability to think of more than the food in my
mouth and the fashionableness of my apparel, as well as having
been blessed with a sharpness and insightfulness that allows me
to approach existing problems at new and novel angles that may
not come naturally to others, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna
squander my gift on something which doesn’t give back to Exis-
tence. It doesn’t sound fun—not by our human standards—and

so I cannot expect that anyone will envy my position, but I am
satisfied with my lot and all should aspire toward such a state of
focus and prioritization.
What I like about Aseitism—or, more specifically, the ideals

and reality which I attempt to capture and embody through
Aseitism, which is but a manmade shell to house the truth that
I beheld at the apex of my questing—is that you need not even
be aware of this philosophy to actually live ‘victoriously’. Stray in-
dividuals have been finding success all along in the absence of a
neatly packaged philosophy to guide them, although I do believe
that those who have succeeded represent a minority and it is my
hope that by attempting to encapsulate and organize everything
that that minority can grow steadily until becoming a majority
of persons who are conscious of their existence and willing to
live consciously and intentfully. Indeed, it all comes back to these
very basic elements which revolve around awareness, self-knowl-
edge, emotional intelligence, our innate disposition and certain
ideals relating to the relationships that we maintain with our dis-
position. To that end, we don’t even have to run about like loons
trying to force anyone to accept some system of philosophy. Sim-
ply increasing the emotional intelligence and self-awareness of
our species would carry us naturally toward the light of a greater
paradigm.
Knowledge of my objective, it claimed, was of paramount im-

portance to my ability to succeed.
The two of us are pooling our knowledge and differing expertise

to really explore the concept of physiognomy within the context
of Volens (and everything else that I’ve spoken about). It’s diffi-
cult to say what the parameters are, though I definitely subscribe
to physiognomic theories on some level, as in the link between
physical structure (particularly facial) and innate dispositive and
psychological factors.
Within the final chapter, or letter, of Divinity of the Idem, I

awaken on a stag in motion, slurring the words “Good Friday...”
as its antlers stab into my neck. En route to the Edge of Know-
ing, it takes me past a graveyard, where it briefly pauses to rest.
There stands a man among the graves, preparing the soil for
planting. The scene which follows is horribly delirious, given that
I am still coming down from whatever drugs Collbalchasse fed
to me, although the scene is notable for in what ways I saw my-
self in the cemetarian, bringing about the realization that I, my-
self, was behind all of the trouble that had befallen me, which is
to say that I was every man who raised their hands against me.
There’s no question in my mind as to whether or not I got the

most out of my life. I led a full life and no pointing at numbers
and comparing figures can change that understanding. Yet could
I have given more of myself ? That is the question that I ask my-
self each and every day, rather than asking if I’ve gotten enough
out of this experience. I had my fill of this world a long time
ago, but my spout still spills with all the fervor of a child fool. It
would be easier to leave if ever a day or a week would pass in the
absence of some creative accomplishment that totally manages to
outdo all accomplishments before it, but when I am still putting
down 15,000 words of text each day—and it often seems that I

am only now reaching my creative and insightful peak—it’s diffi-
cult to know when to put the pen down and call it a life. I’ve lost
the drive to create some masterwork and, as you can see, I’ve had
to make certain sacrifices all to be able to put out so much mate-
rial. I essentially decided that rather than finishing two projects
to completion that I would rather have ten projects at 70% com-
pletion. It might be different if I was just working within the do-
main of traditional artistic expression, but since my musings have
become increasingly philosophical, sociological and metaphysi-
cal I’m just not as concerned with creating some perfect Bible as
much as I am wanting to make sure that I get out as much of my
personal insights onto the page as I can so that they can be tak-
en up, explored and implemented by those who follow after me.
Sometimes it bothers me, since I fought for so long to complete
Clyssus of Man before my death, hanging on every minute, and
yet I completely diverted my attention to other projects, leaving
the book at only around 90% completion. I could have totally
finished it to my liking at this rate, but it would have come at the
cost of being able to release my papers on Aseitism and Com-
prachicos to the public, along with my lyrics, dream diaries and
other matters of organization.
Such a strong image and eccentric presence is also done to en-

courage salebral encounters, which refers to (oft-indirect) inci-
dents wherein the individual is affected in passing by encounters
with persons or things with which they’ve otherwise no invest-
ment, like in cases where the subtle and impersonal acts of a com-
plete stranger—say, a smile or a frown—are capable of altering
the course of one’s life (something that has occurred countless
times in my own life).
The main compartments of an individual egotecture (a person’s

system of ego-identity) are defined as follows:
Limbs, or appendages, represent the largest identity sub-
structure(s) and denote radical paradigmatic compartmentaliza-
tions of ego-consciousness. Example: Tendon, which represents
the autonomous self.
The first two appendages belonging to my system speak to
the ego, as in the part of the self with which I naturally iden-
tify—representing the automatic self and the autonomous self
(Korneli and Tendon, respectively). The latter three appendages,
however—referring in my case to Amanita, Everycarcass and
Mrtagrha—go beyond that with which our ego normally identi-
fies and addresses the boundaries between self and non-self.
With limbs each representing a unique paradigm and, there-
with, a unique objective, the extremities represent alternative
means and expressions used to achieve said objective; variant
paths leading unto the self-same end. Example: Tendon Levey
(loosely representative of autonomy achieved through liberty)
and Tendon Vzdutpondo (loosely representative of autonomy
achieved through discipline).
A glove is a superficial construct more or less analogous to
the commonly understood concept of personas. It is more accu-
rate to say that gloves are false paradigms with which the ego
does not innately identify: a mere charade being acted out in the
attainment of particular (interpersonal) ends. Example: Dean
Caligiuri, which was merely Tendon Vzdutpondo seeking to
achieve its end goals via an elaborate, corpse-painted pretense.
It is tragic that our neglectful and abusive upbringings will often

prevent us from entering into long-term, loving relationships,
but the greater tragedy occurs when two people from abusive up-
bringings come together.
*I would define a religion as any set of beliefs which manages to

quell or ‘complace’ our journey for meaning via the provision of
certainty, true or false. In that case even atheism can either be a
religion or not, depending on whether the individual is satisfied
to stop searching, content with what they’ve found. I know that
that’s an extremely contentious argument in some circles, but I
am sick of all the semantic arguments arguing against its dog-
matic nature when many of them will spend their lives defending
a lack of spiritual existence and inherent meaningfulness just as
much as the religists will defend the meaning to which they sub-
scribe ... people will bring up the fact that the term simply means
a lack of belief in god, which is the true definition of atheism,
but the fact is that the line between atheism and antitheism is
so often blurred that... well, it becomes very difficult to say that
atheism is not a stance in its own right, rather than the absence
of one. And at this point this isn’t even about the existence or
nonexistence of some deity, as a lack of belief in god is often tak-
en as an argument in favor of a lack of spiritual existence, and
that’s where we get into the dogmatic territory. As for me, I iden-
tify as both atheist and antitheist at this point in my life, mean-
ing that I both lack belief in god or gods and also see theism as
dangerous to the development of our species and therefore see fit
to oppose it, although it is only since 2020 that I came to identi-
fy by these means, and my stance is based not on beliefs and sup-
positions but on what I have experienced firsthand. Meaning my
opposition to god as a concept is not the same as a hotdog ven-
dor who denies god just because of how it affects their comfort
levels or even these dorks with their dicks caught in a Dawkins

book.
Through that lens would I ever consider Aseitism a religion?
Again, it depends on how it is utilized. There may be some who
take these insights as a chance to kick off their boots and relax
in the security that certainty brings with it, although I feel that
the framework of Aseitism actively discourages that type of at-
titude while forcing us to remain soft, open, curious and awed
by all things within and without, and anyone who truly under-
stands these things on an integrated level will experience no such
complacency as a result. So for me it is more of a praxis, like
yoga, which provides a framework upon which to continue the
search, and not a cause to cease activity. For religists who believe
in some god it is often the case that death shall bring them un-
to their final destination where they can carry out their main ob-
jective, which is essentially to suck off the deity that purports
to have created them with love. Unlike many of the religions
in our midst which attempt to depict only two stages to exis-
tence—this mortal phase, and then the conclusive phase, which
is paradise—Aseitism rejects that idea entirely in favor of life
which goes on endlessly and through no set number of phases,
therefore doing away with this whole ‘end credits cloud party’
that people are expecting of the next hour. I don’t believe in an
end in death, and I surely don’t believe in an end in Heaven. I
can’t imagine that there will ever come a point where we are done
building upon Existence. And know that we are so limited by
our paradigmatic understanding and therefore may not be able
to fully comprehend, let alone appreciate, what endless develop-
ment entails, but knowledge is still forming, and Existence is still
in its infancy, relatively speaking. And I guess I just can’t imag-
ine taking these ideals as a cause to become complacent and in-
curious. Not only is the field of all knowledge broadened via this
discovery, but we are left with the hope that we ourselves can at-
tain that knowledge through committed efforts (as opposed to
how it is within many religions in which we are merely told it is
beyond our knowability and relegating that knowledge to some
higher power). This ain’t some boring job where you’re sneaking
off to the toilet stall with your iPod every thirty minutes while
waiting for the next phase. If you truly understand what is being
posited by this philosophy, adherence hereto will keep you ac-
tive, humble and soft as down, and that’s just not something to
which the mainstream religions in our midst can claim—most of
which exist primarily to do away with the insecurity caused by
that ignorance and vulnerability.
Though I am confident in my understanding of Existence and

what that entails, there is no part of me that feels complacent or
as if I have been given a pass to sit on my ass. I am compelled
to act, to search, to discover more than ever, albeit this search of
which I speak is no longer based in anxiety or puzzlement but
pure fervor. Do I feel that I understand the mystery, the puzzle,
of Existence? Parts of it, yes, though surely not all of it. It’s going
to be harder to experience that complacency in this case when
you’re not working with that traditional take that some things
exceed the bounds of our earthly understand. Be not satisfied in
your confusion, realizing that no knowledge is beyond our im-
mediate grasp should we approach the gates with the necessary
acknowledgments. Once more, I see it as a framework or praxis
which, in many cases can be paired with religions, though I don’t
know if I would be so quick to classify it as a religion itself—at
least when minding the aforegiven definition.
If ever there existed a ‘god’ it must have necessarily come
about secondary to Existence, in which case it can be said that
it was only ever conceived as a result of a feedback loop, so to

speak, meaning Existence spawns Essence, and Essence, in mis-
understanding Existence, misidentifies the cause of our being
and, in turn, creates ‘God’ (although it is contestable that a ‘god’
created as secondary to any force can still be called ‘god’ at all).
It might not even be a misunderstanding, per se. It might be
fully intentional. It’s difficult to say, as I am still working within
the realm of my own paradigmatic biases. Though I will add
that it’s really not any more strange than the process of imag-
ination, in which our thoughts are so very convincing that we
begin to believe it or at least want to believe it (or simply try
it out). However, even with that being said, and the hypothesis
that Existence really has the ability to create in response to our
misconceptions, I don’t believe any god actually exists—not like
the gods of religion. Ignorance preceded all things. And thence
comes knowledge by dint of the paradox that is humility. The
way that I’ve described Agnosis and Gnosis may be confusing as
they are often described in relationship to Existence itself, as if
Existence is some observer, yet it’s a bit stranger than that and
not easily conveyed. Ignorance and Knowledge, or at least in the
case of Agnosis and Gnosis are not dependent on an observer (I
wouldn’t consider Existence itself to be an observer in the tradi-
tional sense, although that’s a quandary as well), hence why they
are called ‘objective’. And this objectivity gives way to Existence.
Existence is, more or less, the balance of Agnosis and Gnosis and
not simply some vessel that brings that balance into itself. It is,
itself, the balance, which is why it is constantly changing. Exis-
tence is a ratio. That is all that the mind is. A mind is not a brain.
The mind is a field of possibility. It is a set of numbers that tal-
ly to form Essence. Existence isn’t alive as we understand it. And
some of this is really dancing on the edge of what seems accurate
to my experience, but it may add some nuance to my portrayal.

Consider what becomes of the collision of hot and cold particles.
Therefore Existence has neither feelings for us, nor does in-
tend anything for or towards us. It is Consciousness, as in it is the
field of possibility. But it is not “conscious”, as in it is just rattling
off a million different combinations and we are those combina-
tions, which might amount to a clack. There is a distinction be-
tween consciousness and conscious activity, and Essence is that
activity.
We ourselves are little bits of knowledge and ignorance that,
once seen as relevant, are taken into that balance to affect it.
Think of it like a combination lock: there is one combination, in
particular, that will clack. What is that combination leading to?
It’s very generic, as in anything that will improve the awareness
and viability of Existence. Existence is more or less creating it-
self through a combination of strophae (Humiliation) and what
is essentially RNG.
Throughout my portrayal I am still prone to entitizing and
‘sentientizing’ the concept and it’s just in my nature to do so as
someone coming from a religious background. Besides, it seems
natural when speaking about needs, dearths, weaknesses and im-
maturity that we think of something living and sentient.
Existence is a balance of knowledge and ignorance. This has
a lot to say for the existence of discrete paradigms, which are dis-
crete ratios, and why all Essence, as humankind, is of varying ca-
pacity for knowledge and understanding.
This is not 100% in alignment with the facts as I understand
them, although it is probably the most accurate that I can get on
our paradigmatic standard of logic. Existence is the sum, and that
might not seem like much to us on this paradigm, but the whole
is allotted a different sort of... think of it like how you isolate any
parts in a system and it doesn’t function properly, as all things
need to be together for it to be able to carry out the function

that so defines it. Therefore, the sum is not simply a collection of
parts, but the bearer of a function, and the function conceived
by that balance is Existence is consciousness.
I really must tidy all of this up at a later point. It’s a mess,
being written during a period of low oxygen... which isn’t to say
that it isn’t accurate, but that it is scrawled out in a way that
doesn’t really do justice to what I mean to get across, being that
I am struggling to get my thoughts out in the quickest possible
manner.
That’s a better way of putting it, as Existence is not merely a
collection or even an interaction, but the result of that interac-
tion. What I find interesting in all of this is that this also explains
how Homo Spiritualis comes about, in a sense. It’s not a surprise,
given our understanding of Innaemulation. My book was very
abstract in how it went about describing the final ritual which
I took on in dissolving conflicts and becoming Homo Spiritu-
alis, but you may be able to understand what I am trying to
say, and how Homo Spiritualis was born from conflicting forces
while being, itself, a force in its own distinction. Homo Spiritu-
alis came about like a tornado that formed at the intersection of
Gnosis and Agnosis having taken on a particular configuration.
Or something... haha.
Note that this differs in some ways from my commoner portrayal

of Existence within Aseitism, although it is important to note
because nothing that I am saying is contradictory. I am only
looking at the same object from varying angles, and some might
prefer one over the other. It is necessary to not get so hung up on
portrayal (Representation) and fail to grasp the core (Meaning).
With every word out of my mouth I seek to form a ladder that
will carry you unto the upper levels of understanding. Though

once you see your feet planted on that upper level, so to speak,
there is zero reason to rely on that ladder, as ‘the book is not the
revelation’ and what you need to hold onto is not one man’s in-
terpretation but the core set of values and ideas that they tried
to capture and encapsulate. Once you’ve got the real thing you
no longer need the limited representation. For fuck’s sake, do
not make this some Cult of Tendonism. The only authority on
life is life itself, and if you wish to increase your understanding
of what that entails, truly and thoroughly, then you must only
come alive. It sounds hokey when worded in such a way, but you
should understand, by now, what I mean to get across.
There is a lot of shame that comes from occupying such a posi-

tion, being myself an atheist/agnostic who values the religiomys-
tical and mythical and scientific alike. There is shame, because
not many people are content to remain here in this liminal space
between what is... ultimately a false dichotomy. And that’s the
takeaway: there is no contradiction, like there is no ‘space be-
tween’. As far as I’m concerned, I stand on the only extant foun-
dation, sort of like the idea that everyone is actually an agnostic
and anyone on the extremes are simply deluding themselves. My
position is not really a position at all. I am simply committed to
making use of and seeing all parts as necessary without arrogant-
ly asserting that anything is an accident or deception outright.
No Essence, to my understanding, has known the greater para-

digms in their purest form (as Existence knows it), as Essence can
only reach the greater paradigms, objectivity, through the sub-
jectivity of the Volens, which creates Intension by freezing the
union to come of the Lesser and the Greater. Therefore Essence

and, by extension, Homo Spiritualis, will never be so objective as
to lack all subjective self-reference. In that case it will simply ap-
pear like one who is capable of accessing logical and emotional
points of view simultaneously (and we can even say that it has
benefits over the pure objectivity of Existence, depending on
our aim). Having said all that, when we speak of the Greater
Paradigms we speak of any paradigm which combines with the
Greater Paradigm, of which there is one—true objectivity. The
Homo Spiritualis is said to operate upon a greater paradigm. It
seems that I am currently operating on a greater paradigm, also,
though it is obvious that these are not wholly objective in their
perceptions. Therefore we do not classify based on the purity of
a paradigm, but by whether or not they take any influence from
the greater paradigms. The Lesser Paradigms take no influence
from the objectivity of Existence and is therefore locked into a
mode of volential subjectivity for the sole purpose of completing
a specific mission, whereas the Greater Paradigms takes influence
from the objectivity of Existence even when they inevitable mix
in a bit of influence from Intension or other, which takes influ-
ence from Volens. Hopefully this explanation isn’t terribly con-
fusing.
Sometimes I reread my work from the perspective of those who

have harmed me—not intentionally, but because I fall into that
mindset as if a sort of trap or pit from which escape is diffi-
cult—and as I sit reading through my sincere, intimate works I
become appalled to know that someone who is intent on view-
ing me through a negative lens will make of my words what
they please, and nothing that I say can stand up against or break
through the biases, the paradigms and the neuroses in place,
much like those who wish to view this all as the outpourings of
a madman will surely find a way to see each word as an expres-
sion of madness. It has dissolved all remaining hope in me. It is
a wonder that I am still writing at all when I have no means to
expect anything positive from the outcome. It is so strange to
pour my soul into this work and yet to know that there will still
be those who find a flaw in it simply because that’s what their
mind needs to see. I think about it a lot within the context of
my own sister. I do not believe that her discernment is fully in-
tact—not to the degree of the average individual. This is what
happens when you’re in a relationship with a sociopathic narcis-
sist (and of course a life of substance abuse is a huge factor in
her case as well). I believe that he will forever steer and control
her reception of me, as he has been doing since he first stepped
into the picture, and that is truly heartbreaking, because I never
did give her any reason to doubt me or to turn against me. I only
have to wonder what she will see when reading my words, my bi-
ography, my ecstasies and my sorrows, and I honestly don’t like
it, knowing the cynical and disconnected wavelength on which
those two operate. It is so sad to me I cannot bear it. I sort of
just sit here typing away in a determined fog, shutting down my
mind while I amplify my heart.
I continue on through nonviable and antagonistic terrain only

because I understand that these matters require patience, and
that the authenticity and verity of my methods do not alter their
rate of success among a world which does not recognize truth
and health as its foremost criterion. It may take a while, but it
only happens if we [as outliers] are willing to stand by our path
as authentic and do not give in to the hayforks and hollers of the
unthinking majority. If I went into this expecting red carpets I
am a fool, for I should fully expect to be burned at the stake and

shunned as a pariah. I must therefore opt for viewing myself as
an early adopter of something which, I expect, will become in-
creasingly commonplace as our species wises up to what is and
isn’t beneficial to the health of its spirit—individual and collec-
tive. This is one of the drawbacks of being ahead of the curve: the
community which may form in response to my efforts will never
be experienced by me, as I lived my life in solitude and starved
for compatible relations but was treated only to antagonism and
rejection.
I have never known someone so lacking in dignity as my late

mother. There was ever vomit in the sink and wine in the toilets.
I recall a particularly disgusting instance in which my dog vom-
ited on a ceramic plate after being overfed by my mother and
then, as she saw the vomit, my mother vomited onto the plate
as well and then left it to sit for days and days at her feet. You
know that house always filled with shit and piss because the own-
ers aren’t capable of keeping after the most basic of pets? That
was my house for many years.
I will not attempt to answer every question, yet I will leave you
with the means to answer every question.
It seems pretty pointless to strive for novelty at all given what I

have learned of Existence via existential propagation. Essentially,
if Existence acknowledges your offering, it will become suffused
into itself, and in a reality without time, this basically suffuses all
reality and consciousness. As much as I liked to think of my ideas
suffusing, I was very bothered at first by this idea. I’m not say-
ing don’t put your all into what you do, because if you don’t cre-
ate something great and meaningful it won’t be acknowledged
by Existence anyway. Yet always exalt authenticity over novel-
ty—or else you’ll be disappointed to see how it all comes togeth-
er. This would have pissed a younger Tendon off to no end, I
imagine, but at this point I’m just... goddamn, I’m just tired. As
some know, I’ve been at work on this book on and off for about a
year, and even in that time I’ve come back to it and it seems that
changes have been made without my involvement. This is not ab-
normal. It happens to us all. But our active paradigm will often
prevent us from acknowledging it when it occurs. This is actually
what finally convinced me to just call it a day and put the book
down. I wouldn’t say there was no point to doing what I was do-
ing, but damn if it didn’t sometimes feel that way. The changes
aren’t stupid and superficial, mostly having to do with changing
definitions on the existential scale. So don’t misunderstand what
I’m saying: it’s not like a pink pony is suddenly going to enter
my story out of nowhere, but definitions do change. Moreover,
it is the interactions between two or more definitions which ul-
timately end up changing.
They are bored by my silence. They are frightened by my speech.

I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.
Eventually I was required to acknowledge and accept that de-

spite a sameness of mediums, the similarities stopped there and
we were in different industries altogether.
It was in 2006 that I began to explore and experiment with mat-

ters of identity and personality, going through frequent name
changes and twice as many stylistic changes within the span of a
few short years, although it was a bit more complex than some
superficial flourish, being it a conscious attempt to manipulate
my understanding of mine own strengths, weaknesses and po-
tentiality, and via these means I was able to navigate the social
realm with relative ease.
Like millions across the globe, the way that he spends his
evenings is dictated by whatever is trending on his preferred
streaming service. Most of the time he can’t even seem to recall
the title of what he is watching. My mother was no different.
The original plan was to submit my work for publication, and I

maintained this ideal for some time, but given the process and
the likelihood of some waiting period, I would be depriving my-
self of much-needed closure to go said route. Therefore, I have
resolved to give the work a more modest digital release in the
hopes that all those who benefit from my offering will do what
they can to spread the word, and hopefully one day the work can
receive a more substantial release (and, with any luck, a media
adaptation).
So much of mainstream religion and spirituality decries our

world, our species, our inclinations, our will, our capabilities, our
selfness. How thoroughly ravished is our grasp on sensibility at
this point in time that so many are prey to this ludicrous con-
cept... this idea that the goal toward which we are working is to
suppress, mask and fracture rather than becoming more whole

and taking on a broader, more welcoming perspective of exis-
tence rather than one that is narrow and hateful.
Once I overheard her singing a wordless tune as we sat together

and my eyes lit up with delight, for the song which she sings is
the song of my love. This melody I recall composing in the sum-
mer of 2007 as I sat within the forest before the Thummim who
had just admonished me for my inconsistency and lack of fo-
cus. Having taken his critique of my behavior to heart, I com-
posed this tune on that hour through which I sought to depict
the essence of my utmost desire and from thence it went on to be
used as my primary aid in visualizing and rekindling my fiery im-
petus during the lowest, most discouraged points in my life. Said
melody, or leitmotif, later resurfaced in the spring of 2008, when
it became associated with Anita as it closed out the track “Dia-
dem”—the avowal of my still-young heart.
Reading through my work, it occurs to me how insufficient of

a picture I have painted of my disease—at least in its physical
nature. It is understandable that, after twelve years of pauseless
physical agony, it has become so normalized within my life that
I’ve difficulty keeping up with what I have said and what I
haven’t. I’ve focused so much on the technical side of things,
especially in regards to my investigative attempts at diagnosing
and fixing my problems, that I have sometimes failed to depict
the subjective horror of my experience and the frequency with
which all occurs. I find it difficult to imagine how others will un-
derstand my symptoms and my experience. I just don’t think it is
possible for them to recognize how utterly horrific it is. I don’t
think they will recognize how all of the many issues from which
I’ve suffered over the years are, for the most part, still with me,
and occurring simultaneously and at all times, and that I must
pay for every action with my fate, with my sanity. Every step,
every swallow, every bite, every breath, every clap of the hands: it
all comes with an immediate cost, dire and discouraging.
I don’t think that my audience will readily realize that I can bare-
ly type out a few sentences without feeling that I am suffocating,
and requiring to spend hours recuperating before I can return to
jot down yet another paragraph. And that when I say I cannot
use my hands I do not imply something so basic and ordinary
as pain as being the underlying cause, but the tightening of mus-
cles around my neck which trigger a laryngeal malfunction com-
parable to a severe and debilitating asthma attack. Now, I do go
in and out of spells where my abilities will see a small improve-
ment and this typically depends on multiple factors. If my throat
is hoarse or I have coughed or cleared my throat too much then
I could lose my ability to type for months. Extreme anxiety and
tension in my body lasting more than a couple days in succes-
sion can also lead to said fate, as it famously did in 2018 (twice).
Muscular pulls in my chest and hand could easily throw off my
system. Once I pulled a muscle in my thumb while carrying two
water jugs simultaneously down my staircase and my throat was
tight for months as a result and I was required to await the heal-
ing of my thumb sprain to continue with my work. The same oc-
curred when I injured a muscle in the sternal region back in Oc-
tober 2019 while reaching up to stick glow-in-the-dark star de-
cals upon my ceiling surface. This injury resulted in nearly five
months of being unable to write and infamously lasted through
the bulk of my third astragon.
It’s somewhat funny to listen back to recordings of myself in

which I am heard interacting with others, especially due to the
frequency with which I manage to throw out names and pop cul-
ture references—a manifestation of a deep-seated insecurity re-
lating to my lack of knowledge of culture and perceived inabili-
ty to relate to others in this common way. Yet all my references
invariably end up dating me, being from the 80’s and 90’s and
therefore may end up having me seem even less relatable overall.
It wasn’t until I began experimenting with drugs around the age

of seventeen that I became more physically observant, paying at-
tention to all the various sensations within my body. These ob-
servations were oftentimes negative, having to do with irregular
heartbeats and whatnot (and ultimately leading to a slew of pho-
bias and fixations which would disturb me for years and years).
I don’t really recall my body before that point—not that I lack
memories from said period but that I simply did not observe my
physical body. I have no, or very little, recollection of puberty,
which was over before I even knew what it was, though I wonder
if that somehow relates to my parents’ failure to teach me.
I do not speak often of ‘love’ outside of a romantic context, un-

less to speak of it in the abstract, and a lot of that may have to
do with my experiences in life and the fact that I haven’t really
known the love of family and friends and community withal; so
all that I know of ‘love’ has been abstract and, in a sense, self-con-
tained. Oh, but how love breaks and dismembers me in my final
hours, and this love I know for every one of you who loves this
species and this Existence and all the potential before us.
Even as I speak of Comprachicos as an activist collective, I

would—ideally speaking—like to see the term ‘comprachico’
evolve over time to encompass a class, an approach, rather than
a specific group or organization of individuals and identities. In
other words, the term would come to be seen much like ‘soldier’,
‘medic’, ‘mercenary’ and the like, which speak of a model and
approach, or a duty, as opposed to some specific faction; a new
sport rather than a sports team. A sort of militant humanitari-
an working to protect the psychological and spiritual health of
mankind and doing whatever it takes to counteract the oppres-
sive influences abounding within society.
The weight of effort is as the weight of conscience which breeds

shame through forcing us to consider our shortcomings. The
weight of effort is as the weight of loneliness, surely as those who
seek higher values and inner transformation know a higher rate
of loneliness and abandonment as the masses cannot tolerate or
relate to such motivation to grow. The weight of effort is as the
weight of failure, which is ever a threat and at times a reality.
And then the weight of effort, on its own, can be compared to
strenuous physical exercise as such that sees our muscles tearing
again and again to rebuild themselves stronger. It’s no wonder
that responsibility poses so great a threat to our current sphere
which shuns context and consequence. Though I am convinced
that these associations can be changed with continued, collective
efforts if only we can lessen the perceived stakes of effort, explo-
ration and responsibility, and it would be a worthy goal toward
which to work; yet as it now stands, we must both accept and

expect that there will be resistance in the population to ideals
of growth, healing, introspection, responsibility and what-have-
you.
Though my mental health and maturity have only improved

over the years in spite of my circumstances, the decline of my
physical health has unfortunately robbed me of all sense of vic-
tory and acknowledgment. I don’t think that my improved ma-
turity and equanimity will be acknowledged. How can the pub-
lic see it, when I exist in darkness! It’s a shame. I basically raised
myself, educated myself and all else without zero help from the
universe, and I’ll never be treated as any more than a sad story
by those who think they are better than me because they work in
an office, bow their heads on Sunday and shit out multiple kids
(all of whom will likely be popping pills as soon as the means be-
come available to them). I’m sorry if that sounds immature. It’s
just a difficult position I am in, because I will likely be looked at
as someone who just got worse and worse over time due to my
overt physical illness and negative social conditions, while the
fact is that my mind and my maturity and all sorts of related el-
ements have seen a consistent growth and improvement over the
past decade—progress that was made against all odds.
It’s not pleasure. It’s not entertainment. It’s an extension of sur-

vival mode which keeps extending to become more and more
attractive as we develop the means to convince ourselves of our
lack of spiritual inheritance and emotional depth. With all our
fault, all our modern efforts are spent toward convincing our-
selves that we are less than we are and that we are content with
that.
I’m not going to tell you to screw what other people think and
to do what you want, because the world doesn’t work that way,
but I’m also not going to tell you to sell your soul by devoting
your precious time, energy and heart to that which does not up-
lift you.
Our focus is holistic and geared toward crafting new struc-
tures, values and paradigms. I may be better known as an avant-
garde artist, a mystical ontologist, but my domain is in the cre-
ation of values, templates, paradigms and in organizing and con-
cretizing the abstract realm so that it may be better observed and
handled by a materialistic people.
Consider it in the terms of a struggling addict. One who
wishes to heal must see to the following steps: they must cease
the offending behaviors from the inside. They must rid them-
selves of the catalytic elements on the outside which foster such
behaviors. They must place themselves in an environment con-
ducive to healing and finally establish new values, new routines,
new paradigms.
My falls, my flails and my nervous cries are not like the fits
of spoiled children or the neurotic malfunctions of repressed
adults, but like components of the myth and stanzas of the po-
em. Give up the mind unto Existence and even its feeblest hor-
rors shall become as garnets in the great crown that we wear.
Every outpouring, every teardrop, every kiss is device. This you
must understand about my traumatized exposition. This you
must recognize about the story that I share with you. My faults
were every bit as meaningful as my flourishes unto the key, and

the scars upon my wrists comprise not some tragedy but a recipe:
a map for the daring.
We are not here to tell the people who to be or how to live their
lives. We only wish to see that all are given access to the proper
information and the proper aid and to see that knowledge and
awareness are being properly circulated, along with being proper-
ly represented, among the sphere, which includes seeing to it that
the media and the state are not working against us by romanticiz-
ing unhealthy behaviors and purposefully keeping us dependent
upon them so as to serve their greed.
When a problem arises, the animal mind first seeks to distract

itself. When that distraction fails, it then seeks out the justifi-
cation and/or normalization of the offending element. When
the offending element evades normalization, a person enters the
most decisive state of all, in which they are to decide whether
to surrender altogether or to accept the challenge to overcome.
Sadly, most offenses can, indeed, be stymied—at least superfi-
cially—by distraction and justification, and so the masses rarely
find themselves in a place of such desperation wherein they are
willing to seek change. And even when it comes to seeking real
change in one’s life, it is still so often the case that one is more
interested in eradicating discomfort than pursuing after growth
and change for its own sake. Some will call me foolish for ex-
pecting anything more, but I like to imagine a society in which
growth is an attractive concept—not for how it will improve our
‘dating game’ or net us x benefits, but because it is carrying us
gradually and noticeably toward a healthier society. In any case,
we must acknowledge these natural patterns and see to it that

the people are supported at every step of the way. Let every dis-
traction, in turn, point them back unto the sun, and let every at-
tempt to avert their eyes be condemned by a world that cares too
much to allow for such self-sabotage.
You can argue that point all you want—arguing for and against
its validity, its doability and its semantics or what have you—yet
I wonder: what would be your actual motive for doing so? What
sickness requires one to look upon the problems facing our
world and decide to see all potential remedies as mere options
or fanciful ideas rather than as dire needs? When given a cancer
diagnosis you do not sit around bemoaning the time and effort
required by potential solutions. Perhaps there is part of you that
wishes to, though if you impart any value on your life at all and
those who care about you, you suck in your spit and do whatever
the hell offers hope of a healthy recovery. Why, then, is it not in
our nature to react to a cancer of the mind and spirit as we do to
a cancer of the body?
When I speak of health I am not just talking about fad diets

and airbrushed yoga photography—the likes of which are still
very libidinal, or often so, in the sense that our motivation is not
‘health for the sake of itself ’ (a decidedly abstract concept that is
likely beyond most people to want) but for its secondary bene-
fits, e.g., how it affects our desirability and other social factors.
And once more I will state: we must not say of our struggle that
it is a struggle inherent to humanity or existence, for this state-
ment, which we treat as some rational discovery, was a decision

formulated in response to an irresponsible depression. It is sense-
less to act as if you have all the answers while you are surrounded
so obviously by elements and occurrences which, if you were tru-
ly in control, would not exist, and the simple fact that we are not
in control is enough to encourage me that we do not yet have all
the answers.
Consider, foremostly, the audience of this sort of programming

and how it overlaps with our targeted demographic, drawing in
the cynical, existential and socially-displaced—fitting with per-
fect ease into my concept of ‘inactive powers’—and this is but
one way I can think of incorporating humor and strangeness
without detracting from the inherent ‘coolness’ of the Com-
prachicos collective; so it’s not like this is impossible to pull off,
it will simply require some thorough psychological considera-
tions. I can think of many popular shows which, while not be-
ing ‘comedies’ by any stretch, contain their share of humorous
and quirky moments which do not detract at all from the depth
and ‘mystique’ that we see in said shows. Though in order to pull
this off, the humor must really be carried by the characters rather
than by the plot; and that’s a meaningful distinction to make (al-
though it is hard to look at some of the surrealistic elements with
which I’ve been working lately and to not imagine it being some-
what of a humorous plotline also, so I may need to revisit and
reevaluate some of the abovementioned symbolic elements).
I have always moved very stealthily and often in total silence. My

presence is very light due to a combination of body type and
how I walk (usually accompanied by weird, exaggerated ‘nood-
ly’ movements of my upper body). So in my teenage years, and

even into my twenties, I was known for silently entering rooms
and creeping up behind people, where I would then stand in si-
lence until they noticed me. It most often ended in screams or a
jolt at the very least. The most notable instance of this was one
occasion when I snuck into the upstairs computer room where
my parents were kissing. I remained low to the floor, creeping be-
hind my father, and then slowly stood to full height, and when
my mother saw me rise up over my fathers shoulders, she began
to scream into his mouth, and because he did not know what was
going on, he began to scream back into her mouth. I still do this,
but mostly when playing with my dog and attempting to confuse
or surprise him.
Over the years I have accumulated a mass of symbols. An as-

tragon is essentially a coliseum in which all the symbols and
questions are loosed, like lions, to sort themselves; to build upon
themselves. Clyssus of Man provides what is probably the most
thorough depiction of what I mean to convey with this descrip-
tion, being like a psychic arena containing every symbol that I
amassed over thirty long years, and I am leaving them to their
nature. Then, when nature takes its course, we find that it is
more than capable of answering itself. Some will look at my story
and think it some imaginative work, but to me it is like saying
7+3+11+7+1+4=33.
I really don’t have any secrets left at this point and I haven’t main-
tained anything of that sort in a long time. If I have not shared
something in my writs by now, it can simply be chocked up to a
matter of time and priority and I can guarantee that there is no
significant or weighty information relating to my life that hasn’t

been shared with the public by now. It’s sure an odd feeling. That
is why I am so gravely upset by the concept of lies and deception,
since I worked ever so hard and for so long to eliminate all poten-
tiality for shame and incrimination. And for one brief moment I
sighed in relief, thinking I had achieved something oh so grand
that would spare me from ever having my name brought down.
Yet reality only matters so much to a populace which would
rather win than succeed.
In life, a person is only as ‘good’ as the misdeeds for which they

never atoned. It’s not something I have decided. It’s simply how
the mind registers the acts of others. I know this to be the case
in my relationship with my father, for while he thinks that being
kind and helpful will do away with the need to apologize, none
of these actions are truly registering within my mind in the long-
term. And it’s a shame. It truly is.
Naturally, I tend to view our lives as puzzles requiring to be

solved, but childhood more than any other component of our
lifetime, for it constitutes that period before autonomy has de-
veloped in full, and before intent has overpowered instinct (if
should it ever...), therefore showing us the clearest picture of our
innate disposition, to which we equate the Volens (thereby ex-
plaining all of this talk of childhood). To ‘solve’ childhood is to
solve our selves in their entirety. Once again, I will use Tetris as
an analogy: one can take it a row at a time, moving from top to
bottom, as they usually will. Sometimes the rows are lined up in
such a way that, once the bottom row is in alignment, it causes
a sort of avalanche and all things fall into place and the board is
wiped. I compare the latter to the effect of resolving/figuring out

childhood our needs.
These were not the actions of some sad head-case who lost touch
with reality. This is a self-enfeebled demoniac doing all he can to
convert the anger, the wrath and the pride into something more
easily manageable before it takes over his philosophies and turns
him into a monster. That ‘something’ was found in identity, in
art.
In the fall of 2019, shortly before ‘setting off ’ on my third and fi-
nal astragon, I appropriated and modified the alchemical symbol
of Essence for my personal use, adding a few embellishments and
other stylistic changes so as to make it more appropriate (and
unique) to my purpose. This was back when my theories were
still comparatively young and the vision was unclear, although I
find the symbol most appropriate to encapsulating the nonthe-
istic philosophy that has since taken form: Aseitism. (Note that
the symbol has since been replaced by a more unique and fitting
symbol, which depicts a stylized brain and key).
It’s rather amusing that when someone kills themselves everyone

tends to say things like ”I wish we had known”, but if the suicidee
speaks out beforehand they’re written off as attention-seeking
and basically told “If you really meant it then you would just do
it.”
Even my beloved appears outwardly amused by the ways in

which I have described my experience and I can't quite gauge
what her reactions say of my awareness or lack thereof. I have
been compared to a newborn having been expelled from the
womb who has yet to open its eyes. Like so, I still feel myself
quite ignorant to the reality whereof I am a part and I can not
help that this has hampered my willingness to divulge in certain
aspects of my experience and ontological philosophies... not so
much out of a fear of seeming stupid or unsound but in the wor-
ry that I am utterly misrepresenting my mystical victories, de-
priving them thus of their sheen and putting wrongful expecta-
tions into the minds of my trusting audience.
[An updated take on my position regarding AI art written in the

spring of 2022] The question on everyone’s mind is how this will
affect art going forward. To answer that I must break the ques-
tion down further: is the artist in danger? As in, will AI offer a
sufficient replacement for the function offered by artists? What
is that function? And does this also endanger art as a construct?
It is important to break the question into as many parts as pos-
sible, because otherwise it is easy to respond from a position of
sentimentality, offering up an answer not much more profound
than “We need it because we need it!” and “It’s important be-
cause it’s important!”
The reason for why the artist is so esteemed is arguably be-
cause they have demonstrated the willingness and ability to con-
cretize the abstract dimensions of life unlike any other, a feat of
tremendous value to the population (which also helps to explain
the seemingly spiritual-mystical and even shamanistic associa-
tions that we tie to the artist). When putting it into those terms,
it becomes clear how this archetype can be simultaneously es-
teemed and disowned by the public, as the masses do hold a sim-

ilar relationship with the abstract and the unknown. And even in
the case of shallow pop culture dross, it arguably still gives tan-
gible form to our emotional states in a way that is not seen else-
where and I wouldn’t be so quick to discount out it in its entire-
ty.
Can the same be achieved via artificial intelligence? My
opinion is that it can, allowing us to concretize the abstract di-
mensions within and without with an ease never known before.
It is tempting to view this as a desecrating act—an attack on a
sacred archetype—and truly it is liable to change our relation-
ship to the artist archetype, though I am no longer convinced
that it is such a terrible fate that awaits us. The joy of creation
will never be lost on us, as a species. Our appreciation for beau-
ty, too, is here to stay. What may be lost along the way is a pres-
tige that is fundamentally indicative of unavailability; something
which has been held beyond our reach and for no good reason.
I would think to compare it to the Catholic church in which
Bibles are read only by the pope or an ordained minister and not
allowed of the congregation. This mystique which has developed
from a lack of access does not appear to be related in any way
to the valued parts of the thing in question and therefore I feel
that those who will suffer mostly in the wake of this change are
those who have depended, and wrongfully so, upon that mar-
ketable mystique so as to better themselves in ways having noth-
ing do with the creative act in itself, e.g., the finances and pop-
ularity gained therefrom, and all such disgust felt for AI in this
case should more rightfully be directed at our broken capitalistic
system which causes us to react to the brilliance of modern inno-
vation with fear for our livelihood. All in all, I hold a more posi-
tive outlook on it now than I did previously and I am no longer
so anxious when considering the role of the artist once I realized

that art, itself, is in no danger.
On the generic level, I also tend to believe that that which is
frangible and unable to defend itself in the face of progress does
not merit our esteem in any case—a mentality not so unlike “nat-
ural selection.”
I would not think to refer to these individuals as artists, since
that term foremostly denotes a process, and that process is not
being employed in the case of AI, although I don’t think that
these individuals are being deprived of the benefits to be found
in traditional art creation since, as I said, it mostly comes back
to the concretization of the abstract, in my opinion (a perspec-
tive I’ve not heard being discussed in relation to the artist’s role),
which encourages health and awareness in the individual, and
that process has now been streamlined. This is not to gatekeep
the role of the artist. Ideally, I would like to live in a world where
the term ‘artist’ seemed as redundant and unnecessary as the
term ‘human’ and has therefore fallen utterly out of use.
I’ve been dealing with a bit of frustration since the trial and the
Aseitism philosophy has really taken over my focus. I end up feel-
ing like I need to reign in my style, my identity, so as to not seem
overtly ‘ill’ or ‘perverse’ or ‘crazy’. And that is a crying shame. I
created these interesting videos that are short and obviously car-
ry a dark and unsettling tone as that’s just how I choose to ex-
press myself, but then I hate to think I’ll have people analyzing
and pointing it out after I’m gone and citing it as a reason to
think less of my work. I don’t know. It’s frustrating. I don’t like
catering to the perceptions of the ignorant and lazy, but at the
same time we need to be careful that we are not bringing dis-
grace to what we believe in and stand for, and it becomes an irk-
some dilemma. I’ve expressed my frustration in times before re-

garding the negative impact that my image and artistic expres-
sion are liable to have on my late-life body of work—particularly
within the realm of my philosophies. I don’t expect to make any
compromises in this department, believing that my whole story
will fall apart if I should withhold one brick, but it continues to
frustrate me. Though as I pointed out once before, as we begin
making concessions for the ignorant in an attempt to adapt to
their level of understanding then the concessions and comprises
never come to an end and we will lose ourselves and any cause
we hold dear in some never-ending attempt to be heard by those
who were never listening to begin with. A lot of it also comes
from the fact that I never got to stick around and see how my
reputation would develop among the masses. I’ve laid out such
an extensive portrait—more extensive than anyone has the time
to really consume and apprehend—and I can’t help but wonder
what will be the takeaway. One can paint up a million men from
such an extensive biography, many of which would appear con-
tradictory. A rabid madman and a highly self-aware thinker; an
angry, bitter cynic who entertains scenes of murder and violence
and a loving, deeply empathetic nurturer who would take a bul-
let for a stranger; a wild and diverse singer and a monkish mute;
a rare tragedy and a rare victor. All of these are me, even if it
doesn’t seem readily thinkable. So the question remains: what
image, what reputation, will prevail? Is it all about who reaches
me first? It has me curious and somewhat anxious and I’m just
glad I won’t be around to see if my legacy ever takes hold. I just
don’t trust the population enough to expect anything positive.
It is unfortunate that I am unable to relish in it, because the fact

is... these have been my most productive years ever. I completed
the bulk of an actual book, along with having released enough

‘bonus’ material via The Dissolving Path to constitute another
book or two. I’ve managed to transcribe the lyrics to thousands
of songs within my Tendon Levey discography—a feat that was
not nearly as straightforward as one might expect, given the inar-
ticulation of my vocals, which meant that doing it in this way
was in many ways more difficult than going about it the normal
way and writing lyrics beforehand. On a related note, I also pub-
lished a lengthy document detailing the general meanings and
associations of each album and song within my vast discogra-
phy. I digitized approximately 1,500 previously unreleased tracks
and put the best of them on nine new compilation albums. I
managed to put into words an entire system of beliefs which,
while rough in presentation, is fairly thorough. And these are
just my main accomplishments to come of this time. My entire
vault came about in this period, having been created around the
start of 2020. Thousands of dream journal entries, while insensi-
bly raw and juvenile, were publicized.
I won’t claim that I didn’t enjoy any of it, because that’s not
entirely true, as the sense of reward and satisfaction is great, but
it is unfortunately overshadowed by my illness, which is at an all-
time low; and secondly, while my partner has been very support-
ive, that doesn’t change the fact that I have received zero feed-
back or kind words from the outside along the way despite all
that has been released to the public.
For most, ‘humanity’ and ‘society’ are synonymous as concepts.

To me, I consider humanity as what we can be; that which we
have the potential to become. In that regard, society is in many
ways the antagonist. This explains why I tend to speak with
praise for one and with spite toward the other.
At the end of my life on earth I have a lot of bitterness still to har-

bor at concepts and institutions, but less so at individuals. I lived
my life as an angry individual, and while such an attitude was of-
ten within my right in respect to the sort of abuse and betrayal
that I had suffered, and while I never acted on my anger in a way
that I would later regret, being it all self-contained within my art
and analyses, I find that the hatred has since worn away to reveal
the underlying sorrow from which it was given life and I am left
to weep, as if I have arrived at the end of a war and am looking
back at all of the people that were lost along the way to my des-
tination. I became rather emotional the other day when listening
back to an old recording of Patrick and I. And most people won’t
even know of his person in any other context apart from that of
our falling out, so it is weird to step outside of that little narra-
tive and any other emotionally-driven association that my mind
has formulated over the years and to just take in the humanity
and the tragedy of life as it has unfurled and all of the little fights
and grudges and misdemeanors that didn’t need to happen (and
surely didn’t need to fester).
I am filled with the love of a fighter, and it is a strange con-
cept to describe. I would describe it as a realization of humani-
ty’s true worth which results in an unwillingness to belittle it and
a subsequent willingness to fight for it. To fight for them, and
to embrace them and to kiss them and to cry openly for them
and their willingness to give up so easily on the humanity within
themselves and others. It saddens me, though, knowing that such
displays would not go over well in our world, and I would sooner
be told to ‘pull myself together’ than I can expect the other party
to realize the worth of us all.
To everyone who has ever harmed me, and anyone who I
may have accidentally harmed or bothered in my ignorance.
I wish I could act upon such feelings, such awareness, but

over the years I have been forced to acknowledge that it is hardly
so simple, and that it takes two to dance. Thus, as wonderful and
as worthy as it feels to become aware and to mature as an individ-
ual, it doesn’t actually make as much of a difference in the world
as you would hope or even anticipate. The majority still wins out,
and all the strong emotions and love and apologies and maturi-
ty in the world are no match for those who simply aren’t feeling
them. It feels so strange to experience so much emotion raging
inside of me, and to perceive life as I do, and to still be bound
by a world which cannot see the worth of this Existence and the
humanity by which they are surrounded. I feel helpless, I feel
powerless, and I’ve not figured out any immediate way around or
through and must content myself with my continued efforts at
being the best person that I can be and not making any excuses
for any failures or flounders on my part to do as much. A huge
part of becoming and maintaining goodness in oneself is in be-
ing made aware and admitting to our propensity for ignorance
and evil. This is all we can do at this stage in Existence. It may
not have an effect on our immediate surroundings, or none that
we can readily observe, but I firmly believe that no action is for
naught, with every action feeding into Existence, into reality, to
create something new, something optimal.
It isn’t an easy experience. You can give your all to becoming
a good and honest individual and still be blamed for the missing
pudding cup by any fool who wishes to maintain their presump-
tions and delusions. I wish I could tell you to pay it no mind, but
I’ve found that it isn’t as simple as all our platitudes and posters
depict. Therefore, I cannot ask you to tune out what the world
has to say and forget about it like it never happened; like it never
hurt. I cannot ask you to get over your hurting, which is no dif-
ferent than asking you to dissociate from and suppress your ac-
tual feelings, and I believe that our feelings, which often tie into
our Volentia (rather than being but some incidental or maladap-
tive display tied to an event rather than existing inherently with-
in us), are of unrivaled importance to our process of developing
into so-called spiritual beings, aware and attuned to the winds of
life. My advice to you, instead of seeking to silence your hurt or
move beyond it, is to repurpose your hurt, allowing it to moti-
vate you or to guide you to a deeper understanding of yourself
and others, but without ever allowing it to steer you off of your
path. I’m not saying that it will be easy, and I am not saying that
the tears will suddenly dry up, but I can say that it is overall a
more honest and effective approach on the holistic level, since
so much of what we manage to ‘get over’ is only doing damage
beneath the surface. To use a silly example: there are known ob-
jects which we are advised not to flush down the toilet, being
that they are likely to clog the plumbing or lead to other envi-
ronmental damage down the line. If your only goal is to get it all
out of your sight in the quickest way possible then sure, let the
pipes carry your condoms and cotton balls away, but when those
pipes end up clogged and it becomes a huge ordeal involving oth-
ers and professionals must be brought in it will no longer seem as
the easy way after all.
I recently peeked at a notebook of song lyrics and notes that my

father will leave laying open on his desk and I glimpsed the words
“I’m a lost sheep, please come find me,” written repeatedly and
suddenly my problems in life don’t seem so severe.
I have opted to refer to this window as the ‘post-incidental cor-

rectional phase’, with ‘post-incidental correctional hysteria’ being
the term used to describe a defined outburst occurring within

said window. A notable example of this can be seen with my
singing when, after injuring my throat while singing, the anxiety
would cause me to rush headlong into another song. It wasn’t
even enough to begin another song. This mindset would force
me to perform another song in which ai hit the very same notes
as those which had previously proved disastrous, needing to
prove to my mind that it was all a fluke. This occurred on three or
four notable instances throughout my discography (all between
the fall of 2010 and spring of 2011).
This concept of the Post-Incidental Correctional Phase also
applies to incidents in which one puts themselves out there, say,
they get rejected or ignored when submitting to a website or
magazine. The instinct, following the rejection is either to be-
come sullen and depressive or to launch tons of similar submis-
sions into the ether in the hopes of making up for this disap-
pointment.
It is a desperate attempt to stave off the shame, disappoint-
ment and/or sorrow associated with the failed act. Maybe it is al-
ready a known concept. It could very well be, but I do not know.
My understanding of clinical psychology, after all, is shallower
than one might expect, since my ‘psychology’ does not derive
from science journals but from an earnest analysis of inner and
outer interactions.
I deal with this very frequently in the case of my health.
Think of instances wherein we will rapidly send emails or
texts one after another when not hearing back from someone, or
the like. It’s not because we are annoying but because our minds
have entered into a state of defense in which we just essentially
defend themselves against the disappointment, in which they are
basically doomed to repeat the initial offending incident until it
produces different results. It’s a way of both overcoming the on-
coming grief and justifying the initial incident by proving that

one is not in error (or, in my case, that I have not just suffered
some devastating loss).
I succumbed to it frequently in my earlier years, and while
the temptation never actually dissipates, I’ve become far greater
at managing it. It’s not always a negative or shameful act in itself
but it is almost always a reflex acted out mindlessly, and because
of the likelihood that it will only lead to repeated failures it must
be avoided at all costs, lest that which we were avoiding in the
first place is carried out again and again. I know this from my
own life when it comes to showing or submitting my work, in
which case it is also a defense mechanism which means to power
through the initial shame or offense by means of switching the
mind back to a point of hope.
I experience this phenomenon a whole hell of a lot when
I am active on social media and each tingle of disappointment
with how a post is performing causes me to post again and again,
putting me back in a place of hope until I get a validating ac-
knowledgement. However, I would say that the window is rela-
tively short-lived in reality and almost always dies down within
a day of the so-called incident, and commonly within the hour
(although it really has less to do with time than it relates to how
long it takes for us to synthesize what has occurred); but often
we pick up on the threat of danger before we actually recognize
what we saw or why we are running, so the hysteria usually only
lasts until we’ve ascertained a better understanding of what hap-
pened and how it came about.
I wouldn’t consider it a mental illness but a common symp-
tom of trauma. Yea, it is fundamentally a trauma response; and I
think that the most important thing one can do with this knowl-
edge is to really stop and slow down when something disastrous
occurs to trigger this instinct.
I do believe that the current generation is awakening to conse-

quences of traumatization, though at this point I fear that the
appeal of facing our trauma, if such a word as ‘appeal’ is even
appropriate in this case, is still quite immature, as in using it as
an excuse to not do what one doesn’t want to do or to have an
excuse to be a jerk. I don’t think that most of the people who
flaunt these terms are actually trying to work through their trau-
ma. They’re babying it, if not using it to garner sympathy. More-
over, they’re also likely being assholes to those who are actually
facing their traumas with more meaningful intent. For example,
I expect that I would probably get a lot of flack from these com-
munities who would rather hide under the bed, not because I’m
vicious or antagonistic, but because I’ve opted to stare the dev-
il in the eyes and I do not expect the world to hold my hand or
bend to me as I am dealing with these personal issues.
The thought of embracing someone while falling asleep always

sounds so cute and appealing, but then fourteen minutes in and
it’s become an inconvenience and I’ll have to pull away because
I actually want to have a restful sleep. It’s different this time
around, and I find myself sleeping as so with far greater ease. Of
course it has also led to countless occasions in which I am kneed-
ing her in the middle of the night.
The rituals described within my book are not described with to-
tal accuracy, especially where it concerns any spoken statements.
The events at issue were notably abstract and to represent them
at all I was required to take some license, and so I chose to de-
pict them through a more digestible narrative. The speech, itself,

occurred in a way outside of what most may readily understand,
due to the dissolution of Meaning and Representation/Action
and Intention (at least in the case of the final ritual which takes
place within a what seems as a metaphysical sea). Dialogue was
therefore not an actual factor in said ritual, or not as I’ve depict-
ed it. The majority of dialogue in my work is approximate and
not to be taken completely word for word and I say this simply
so that people don’t get too obsessed with the wording in these
parts of the book. Yea, they are meaningful and written with
purpose, and I don’t mean to undermine that at all, but these are
not the verbatim of Steulugalnemraiant spoken amid a ritual.
To some extent, I feel that I knew the people better than they
knew themselves. And it’s sure a difficult statement to make
without the appearance of arrogance. Yet it’s not about intel-
lect—not purely. It’s about being able to trace all actions back
to the root cause, and I have considered this one of my greatest
skills throughout much of my life. It’s very, very easy for me to
analyze the chain of events (which isn’t to say I haven’t had some
very notorious blind spots, especially when it relates to the physi-
cal world... since my specialty is more to do with emotion and in-
tention) but when you see it, you see something horrid, for most
are acting on fear and pain and other decidedly animalistic ten-
dencies. For me it was my burden: a reason to hate; a reason to
love.
The sort of ‘salvation’ whereof I speak within this book exists in-
dependently of mysticism, religion and modern concepts of en-
lightenment and may be reliably attained through these obser-
vances. Nevertheless, your understanding of what those words

actually mean may differ from what I intend to convey.
I can do nothing without weeping. It is all too much for me at

this point. I become the war, I become the sin, I become the dis-
crepancy between man and man which, in turn, becomes the dis-
crepancy between Existence and the Extant, for man holds the
key, and when we destroy man, when we belittle man, we seal the
door to the divine, just as when we silence the thought, we de-
stroy the potential of a mind.
Our union builds upon an ecstasy established in the rare delight

of fantasy, occurring without pause or terminus and populating
every branch of this singular moment calling itself infinity.
As a youth I cared quite a bit for originality—perhaps more than

authenticity itself—and it was often joked about that a possible
anagram of Tendon Levey is Need Novelty, but in time I have
lost my obsession with that sort of thing, caring only for authen-
ticity (or maybe that’s simply because I am, by this point, so far
removed from the human standard that ‘uniqueness’ is no longer
a problem, or it is a problem, but approaching from the oppo-
site angle). I am perfectly content as long as I can know with cer-
tainty that I acted in accordance with my truth, as opposed to
the trends of the day. My insular lifestyle and philosophy have
made it more meaningful of an experience to come upon others
who share in similar traits or ideas, and so an encounter with a
likeminded individual, at this point in my life, is very much wel-
comed, being received not like a competitor but like a brother or

sister.
For a while I believed uniqueness and originality to be what

made one untouchable as an artist: doing what no other has
done. It took me a few years too many to realize that it was sin-
cerity which sets the artist apart from the painter. Others may
very well come along and cop my style, my sound and whatever
else I worked to achieve through my efforts, with or without any
acknowledgment of those efforts (or of my existence withal), but
that which is performed in sincerity can not be undermined or
outdone by time or by trends. Its value does not deteriorate.
The idea of review sites makes me uncomfortable, and that

would apply to film reviews as well as music reviews, I suppose,
although I don’t really watch films. I simply dislike the idea that
our introduction to some creative work of art is coming to us in
tandem with the quality ratings of one whose opinion is of no
greater merit than our own. I’ve never messed with those sites.
Sometimes if I really like an album I’ll be curious as to what oth-
ers have to say about the tracks and meanings, but even that can
get a little uncomfortable for me. I find most of the artists that I
listen to via basic ‘related artists’ sections on the profiles of musi-
cians I already follow. I don’t listen to many modern artists and
I have absolutely zero idea as to what is going in terms of trends
these days. This isn’t going to look good for me, but I just tend
to get annoyed at watching things develop, be it new slang, new
trends or new styles. I’m all for progress, but I’d rather get to it
once it’s stood the test of time. Sadly the act and means of con-
sumption is integral to our bonding as a people. Humanity is not
enough in itself to bond us to one another (although that may

have to do with how most of the population have grown disso-
ciated from their own humanity within this late-stage capitalis-
tic hell hole). We need to consume similarly. I’ve known this for
quite some time, although I’ve refused to change my approach so
as to accommodate what I perceive as being a flawed system, pre-
ferring to bond over humanity and aspiration rather than some
watch list or blu-ray collection.
We readily accept that some are more physically fit, and better
at tennis or soccer or running than others, but we don’t look
with the same eye toward the abstract. Fundamentally, we recog-
nize that some people are better lovers, or overall more honest,
more sincere, but because the criteria is absent and because it is
so difficult to measure the abstract by our available means, we all
just tend to come up with our own ideas and systems, with these
methods often being little more than some self-serving jumble
of anecdotes, and people just disregard the objectivity of such
things altogether, but there is an objective reality to it all even
if we as a species are incapable of (observing and acknowledg-
ing it at this point (if not merely unwilling). And because of this
it seems so arrogant and silly when one should assert their own
skill and superiority in this way. And let this not seem like some
sulk on my part. The reason that this bothers me is not due to
a lack of acknowledgment which I have received (although that
does frustrate!). One of the worst parts about it is that there is
not only an absence of incentive but a massive disincentive in
place to develop these things for which there exists no viable
measurement. I feel immature to be voicing this, but it has long
troubled me to my core and for so long (and on a daily basis).
Visible, tangible reality is such a small aspect of reality as a whole
and 95% of life is being disrespected while a bunch of jackasses

run around kicking a ball in this nightmare of bread and circuses.
Until we find a means to respect the abstract, and not like these
religious hangnails who believe in whatever promises them peace
of mind, since that is not belief and it sure as hell ain’t respect.
No wonder the people are a mess. Eh, I’ll just sound out of touch
to keep on talking.
My definitions may not paint the most accurate portrait of the

relationship between Intension and Volens, which, while not be-
ing perfect opposites in view of the lesser paradigmata, are still
working off of each other in a very symmetrical manner. Hard as
I try, I am not always the best when it comes to delineating cer-
tain concepts, and a failure to draw the line in the correct places
can affect our estimation of their interactions with other con-
cepts, so please don’t be so eager to take my words as infallible
and consider these concepts and their interactions on your own.
I was once very proud of my work and excited to show it off.

It’s not that I ever stopped thinking highly of my creations, but I
find that my mindset has shifted since 2017. For example: I fre-
quently find myself experiencing a sense of surprise when I lis-
ten back to my albums, where I think “This is actually awesome!”
as if there was ever any doubt. It is almost like I struggle to be-
lieve it, or like it’s an unpopular opinion that I hold by thinking
so highly of these works. Indeed, after four years of having my
works go ignored, disrespected and worse, it has affected my re-
lationship with my work in a multitude of ways and, although I
have continued on as ever, not stopping for discouragement or
disinterest of any magnitude, I’ve lost all the hope and expecta-
tions that are standardly associated with the creative process, as

in the belief that this work over which I slave will excite, enter-
tain or edify others. I dream that that will be the outcome, but I
have lost faith.
I always aspired to be someone who challenged others to live

their best lives; and I don’t mean that in an intrusive sense, where
my fixation on growth means ignoring the will of others and ulti-
mately leaving my peers to feel like they are walking on eggshells
(or being, themselves, stepped on) as I work to meet my own per-
sonal quota. I simply don’t see it as unreasonable to think that
every interaction can amount to something meaningful, just as
my every day in aloneness has amounted to something meaning-
ful in my own life. I am neither an idiot, nor am I a selfish bas-
tard, and I would never be so intrusive, or so oblivious. How,
then, do I aim to challenge others and encourage growth? Well,
hmm, for one: when a problem arises, either intrapersonally or
just in general, as in when we find ourselves in a frustrating situ-
ation, I would really attempt to talk it out and examine how it is
affecting us and what are the takeaways of our disturbation and
if it is even necessary. Moreover, instead of springing for movies
and video games and concerts and other activities which are loud
and detract from the element of intimacy, I will always suggest
meeting at a restaurant, where we may hold thoughtful discus-
sions—the intimacy of which is often determined by the other
party, since I... well, I’m basically up for anything and have nev-
er been known to turn down a topic, regardless of how painful
it may be. After all, I am not simply looking for people to keep
me company or to be a witness to my life, but wish to see them as
people with their own thoughts and something to say and some-
thing to offer and I want to both give them an outlet and a plat-
form, if casually. And that simply doesn’t work, because others

see socialization as a means to escape from all of their thoughts
and emotions which eat at them when they are alone. That, or
it is viewed as a respite from their work, which they have grown
accustomed to seeing as the central task of their adult life and
therefore close themselves off to putting energy into any other
aspect of their lives. I would also sometimes invite people to par-
ticipate in my creative projects as a means to build rapport, as
well as bringing them into a creative venture as such which they
might have never experienced before; and because I’m such a
machine who always sees his projects through, I thought it might
excite people to know that their effort will actually go toward
something rather than being a fun idea which ultimately never
comes to fruition. In that sense I tried to be like a wizard who
brings dreams into reality. Unfortunately I haven’t had the best
experiences in this department. However, as you can see, I’m re-
ally not employing any intrusive or insensitive means of attempt-
ing to derive meaning from my interactions. I may have a mili-
taristic level of determination and resolve, but my emotional in-
telligence prevents me from acting in any way that could cause
others to become uncomfortable or to close themselves off to me
or what I am saying, which would be totally counterproductive.
Not only am I in it for the long game (which has a significant
effect on my manner of approach), I do very well at reading the
room, even if I sometimes fail to respond in the most appropri-
ate manner (not as a result of a lacking awareness but due to my
own awkwardness which often stems from a delayed adjustment
to deviations from my unconsciously-maintained expectations).
I felt that such individuals [referring to those who challenge
and inspire others] were the most valuable, and therefore the
most valued; but I was wrong in projecting my values upon a so-
ciety which clearly does not share in my paradigm. It would sure-
ly seem that the masses do not want someone who challenges

them or shows them what they could be; what they could have.
They would much rather spend their time with those who can
make them feel more comfortable, complacent, with exactly
where and what they are at this moment. They don’t want some-
one who will stand by and cheer them on as they make their ar-
duous way to victory. They want someone who will either have
them convinced that they are already victorious and that there is
no work left to be done, or that victory itself is some idealistic
ruse that ought to be dismantled for whatever nihilistic and cyn-
ical conclusion they have reached via their depression and anx-
iety-fueled pessimism. That’s it: people want to feel like every-
thing is actually as it should be in this moment and nothing on
the contrary is welcome. Anybody who speaks of growth and im-
provement is viewed as insatiable. I know that my ex-girlfriend
saw it that way, or so I did gather from her reactions. And it
may not seem like a true statement, since a quick look around
will reveal that people are trying to improve their lives; but we’re
not talking about matters of spirituality and emotionality here.
We’re not talking about people who are willing to confront their
traumas or re-evaluate their own self-concept in the face of end-
less discontentment. The ‘growth’ and ‘improvement’ of society
is all but a bunch of convenient rituals that do not require any
real sacrifice in the sense that they are not only socially accept-
able but oftentimes trendy, e.g., dieting, working out, mindful-
ness meditation. I’m not saying that such things cannot amount
to great benefits in our lives, but I am speaking in this case only of
the limited view of growth which society holds. Eh, I’m not sure
that any of this holds any actual merit beyond serving to pacify
my belligerent disappointment. God, oh god am I disappointed.
I also believe that we are so accustomed, as a people, to the fact

that the masses hide their demons from public view, that when
something (of a statedly ‘emotional’ and/or ‘personal’ caliber)
spills out into the open it is taken as a red flag to indicate some-
one is especially unstable, and so the tendency may be to look
upon someone like myself and think of me as particularly prob-
lematic, even dangerous, not realizing that I’ve put all of myself
upfront; and in their failure to understand my nature they go on
to shun me outright, preferring to associate with those who hide
their darkness and instability from view, though it festers with-
in them all like wretched worms. Such individuals will not read-
ily acknowledge that my stability stands above that of the com-
mongoing individual. Or think of like an iceberg: if that much of
their person is visible above the water, how much more must ex-
ist beneath the surface? But it is a faultsome conclusion, for not
all frozen masses are icebergs (verily, glaciers tend to rest entire-
ly upon the surface of the land). And it is so strange to experi-
ence, since my sincerity, my trustworthiness, my stability and my
virtue are on display before all, and yet because such things are
not usually to be taken at face value, they are not viewed as valu-
able indicators of the person I am. So it seems that the world is
more comfortable around a vicious dog that has been muzzled,
chained and neutered than a free-roaming dog known to express
the normal range of emotions and reactions: excitement, arousal,
distress, aggression, love, distrust.
There are different ways of going about it, and I do not feel
equipped to say one way or another what is right and what is
wrong when it comes to the practice. One manner in which I
approached governailia early on was in thinking of it as a sort
of sensitizing process, as in the antithesis of desensitization: a
restoration of the senses which have been lost to time. I will just
take my emotions to the table and I will allow myself to put
down all the armor that I wear throughout the day and really
consider everything within the holistic context of Existence. We
see and experience so many a troubling display in our days and
many of us must push it out of focus if we wish to continue
to operate, and some of us tend to hide from the context more
than others. So it is very difficult for me to describe my process
in a way that sounds like anything more substantial than some
emotional and cathartic upheaval which combines Intension/
Acknowledgment. I could just sit on the floor sobbing for hours
about the abuse suffered by children and animals, and I just let
myself really take it all in within the context of all life and poten-
tiality undoing all of the normalization, undoing all of the jus-
tifications that have forced us into seeing these as things to be
accepted or as tragedies beyond our individual control. I take in
the state of things, and I just weep bitterly, though not purpose-
lessly, since poignancy, like any suffering, cannot exist in the ab-
sence of an offset. There must be a dichotomy. That which we re-
gard as suffering is, in some sense, the coming together of knowl-
edge and ignorance, and the interaction arising from the two.
This understanding comes with a lot of practical uses in psychol-
ogy.
I often meditate with a chalice-like cup balanced on the crest of

my skull, where my hair is tonsured, and when I complete my
meditation I will dump the water in a ceremonial fashion. I’m
not saying that this is necessary. It might be distracting for most,
although it comes very easily to me as one who has had to learn
to be stiff and still due to all my various ailments which will often
require me to sit for days with limited muscular movement.
I think that that experience of suffering is integral to the gov-

ernailia meditation... not any old “suffering” but specifically suf-
fering in its purest definition, as in that which is created via di-
chotomy. And I like to think that suffering experienced within
such a context sends a strong “signal”, as it were, to Existence, as
in I find it to be the most effective means of showcasing one’s In-
tension, or position.
My associating death with disidentification may raise a few

hands, coming with the oddest of implications for us all. And it
may not appear to comply with our current understanding in all
aspects, yet there are certain propositions related thereto which
do seem to add a lot to our current incomplete understanding of
death and its erratic conditionality.
A thousand men stand before me now upon a stile: they point

to my hand, unable to explain its very intentful movements.
My consciousness has already populated the ether and the hand
which writes is merely a servitor to my Intension, vacuous in its
own right.
Since sensitization, as a concept, appears very abstract and vague,

let me put it into more tangible terms: consider yourself as a
youth, and consider how you once felt for certain aspects of life.
Consider the wonder with which you approached each activi-
ty. Consider the love that you had for your family regardless of
what they did to you. Consider your favorite toys and dances and
songs and how you loved them without regard for what others
thought of them. Grasp on to these individual elements, mem-
ories, and know that most, if not all, of those feelings and asso-
ciations are inherent and bonded to our disposition, thus creat-
ing for a specific reaction in us. When that reaction grows weak-
er over time, it is because the two sides are no longer touching,
so to speak. New associations and experiences have robbed from
us, undoing our innate associations which we now tend to asso-
ciate with a point in our lives that we can never get back, but that
which we knew in our youth remains always in us, and if we can
only systematically re-sensitize ourselves to all of these things, all
will fall into place, or so I am convinced. We must get ourselves
back into that headspace, undoing the associations that have de-
veloped over our lifetimes and taking our initial imprints as signs
of our truer feelings and associations.
I wouldn’t say that this is standard governailia, although in
my case it always been a potent means of getting myself into the
mindset. Governailia is about communicating our impressions
of Existence unto Existence, as silly as that sounds, and in order
to do so we must be sensitive to the world around us, and if we
are to achieve that then we must first be sensitive to the world
within us. Yet view it not like some prayerful communication,
when it is not about reaching outside of yourself. Life is steered
by the thoughts of the individual, and by reflecting Existence
back at itself. All of this still sounds very abstract, though hope-
fully you take something valuable out of it. For me it is always
an extremely emotional act so I do it sparingly. Fathom Omen
Om developed around this practice, as I was struggling to get
started and so I would write out these long lists of things that I
wished to ponder and confront during governailia, and as I got
more and more into the practice I began writing amid the med-
itations rather than prior, which is why it bears such a sharp yet
surreal tone. Only desperation shows itself through the abstrac-

tion of it all, and that’s what it is—it’s like this abstract burst of
desperation, empathy and bitter tears. Once again, this is only
my approach to the practice and differs considerably from the
approach taken by my partner, so different approaches will work
for different people and I may continue to add to my ideas on the
practice over time as I become more involved in it.
The Lesser Operation is most accurately defined as taking place

between the individual and hiser Volens. And since some of my
readers may be left with some uncertainty as to which parts of
what I am saying constitute advanced speculation (as opposed to
which parts are representative of practical truths that should be
undertaken within our daily lives), I will attempt to simplify the
nature of the Lesser Operation, which constitutes our main task
after becoming aware of our Existence: we must come to grasp
our Volens, or disposition, which we do through an examination
of our propensities and by discovering what we naturally desire,
what we respond to, independently of society, and once we have
found that trail, so to speak, we seek to follow it into a place of
understanding. And once we realize that Volens fully, which cor-
responds to the need from which we were ‘conceived’ (by Ex-
istence), we realize the answer concomitantly, and this resolves
the Lesser and Greater Operation both (which are connected at
the point of Volens). Ultimately, this is not anything that would
seem out of place within good therapy and practice and need
not wear the label of mysticism at all. However, we must keep in
mind that nothing done in the absence of focus (on Existence)
actually counts towards the process, so we must be consciously
aware of what we are doing as we go about our way, since it won’t
simply happen accidentally. It’s not like that means we have to
start all over if we don’t do so from the start. It just means that
the operations won’t end until Acknowledgment transpires.
I do nothing out of spite and nothing out of arousal, but all

things in dedication to this grand document.
My body is no longer a human’s body but a mass of kitchen ap-

pliances trussed together as they are blending and burning and
buzzing and chopping and whirring and pulsing and sparking
and killing the soul of me. My survival, at this point, depends up-
on a certain degree of dissociation—not to the extent that it con-
stitutes delusion, but projection, rather. If I was more identified
with that body, at this time, I would be in greater trouble than
I can imagine. This garden is the last to sustain me. And when I
leave this garden, I will be no more.
Again, I imagine that most persons who hear the word ‘trauma’
and witness its effects are wont to relate it to the emotions, but
it is the ability of trauma to rewrite your definitions, associations
and expectations which make it what it is. There is no pill or po-
tion that could set the semantics back into alignment. Whether
one chooses to undertake professional therapy (mehh) or more
personal forms of therapy such as meditation, journaling and fo-
cused introspection (yayy), it will always require a direct con-
frontation.
See me not as a celebrity to be venerated, but as an archetype to

be embodied, and thereby shall your observance of my life not
detract from the observance of your own.
I doubt that the public will readily grasp the effort that has gone
into this. A single paragraph can contain as much or more strat-
egy than a damn chess game. And that isn’t meant to implicate
anything sinister, as I am not concealing any sinister intent, nor
am I concealing anything at all. I have been very upfront about
what are my aims. Though I also leave it more to hope and try to
use everything from my tone to my diction to my approach so as
to have the likeliest chance of communicating the ultra specific
set of points that I am needing to make.
Most simply write what they wish to say, though I am over
here having to account for so many variable factors and make ad-
justments accordingly. I would compare it to the firing of a pro-
jectile: it is not enough to aim and shoot, for you must accurately
account for wind force, light, terrain and other conditions which
could affect its trajectory. I treat my writing like so. So even in
terms of my manner of speaking, I sacrifice the respectability of a
formal philosophical dissertation simply because if I fail to speak
my common thoughts then I cannot reach the ‘common folks’, as
it were, which informs my format and approach, which are ad-
mittedly not the best that I can do but probably most that I can
do before I cross a fence beyond which I lose a lot of readers due
to inability to follow.
I wish that I could spend some time and break my methods
down for everyone, if only because I think others would be im-
pressed and... well, I would like for people to be impressed by
what I do and how I work, hahaha. And there is a lot more
method to what I do than the spit-slinging ecstasy that comes
across (although I ain’t saying that that spit ain’t also authentic...
it certainly is). I am the type who will even slip in spelling mis-
takes and Freudian slip-type incidentals with intent, usually as a
means to aid in the speculation and suspicion of my readers. And
again, usually when people speak of this kind of stuff it is ignoble
in nature, so I don’t want my readers to get the wrong idea. You
can see from my history of texts that I am quite obsessed with
whether I am being understood or misunderstood, and that’s all
that it comes down to: using my knowledge of psychology and
sociology to further limit that likelihood of my words being mis-
construed. And sometimes, when it involves limuviation, it can
get so difficult. It’s like ‘x is the correct answer, but I anticipate
that the subject is going to be a recalcitrant bitch about it, so I
have to say y just to get them to actually choose x,’ hahah.
My attempt to write out my philosophy was a miserable ex-
perience overall, as I really had to strain my system through a
colander, and what comes out doesn’t always resemble what I
see in my head. Then it ends up anchored to a lot of New Age-
sounding buzzwords that are even likely to mislead the skim-
mers; but it’s not for no reason, and it ain’t an accident, because
in the end I believe that my exposition comes together in such
a way that makes it far more likely that others will grasp what I
mean to say since I actually took the time to put it in their lan-
guage, even if that language is broken, rather than just shooting
these incomprehensible bullets at them that sound really great
and profound, but they can’t really be applied or anchored to
known information. They can only be worn like arrogant badges
by those wanting to feel cool or erudite... and I don’t want that...
I don’t want to create a new generation of hipsters and hobnob-
bers. I don’t want to create new mysteries for a world so lost. I
want to give substance, answers. I want to give them something
that they can use without any prior knowledge—“just add deter-
mination.” I want something that they can understand. And if

I have to bite my tongue, water down the wine and suffer a lit-
tle embarrassment for how it comes out... well, I think that’s al-
right. There is the temptation to actually make that disclaimer
again and again, letting everyone know just how watered down
it truly is, but I worry that that could be misunderstood as my
saying that it is not as meaningful as it could otherwise be, when
the meaning remains intact; I’ve simply made everything more
digestible. And sometimes I end up feeling a little embittered,
because I feel like I’m having to go the extra steps since the peo-
ple couldn’t walk them on their own; but I think that that’s just
my weariness speaking, because at the end of it all, this is what I
want to be doing. Though there is always the temptation to ditch
my particular way and opt for a different approach; to do it in
a way that pleases me, personally... you know, making it out to
look like all of those sorts of crazy, cryptic occult orders that just
sound like they know something you don’t, and it’s so strange
and cool sounding that you almost don’t care about whether it’s
true or not and would be willing to buy the membership pack-
age just because of its aesthetic and social appeal, and it ends
up as tattoos and t-shirts and people eat them up because they
love their memes and their nonsense and their hollow packaging.
Ah—AH! But I’ve actually managed to overcome those urges in
me to turn this into some personal art project, and I’m honestly
a bit surprised that I managed as much. As noted elsewhere, it is
bizarre that I have not been more obsessed with matters like rules
and symbols and word coinage, because those are the ‘fun’ parts
of building a philosophy. Hell, I expect that a lot of philosophies
and ideologies only came about in the first place because indi-
viduals wanted the ability to actually do all of that. And I, too,
imagine that that would be fun, but it’s just not even coming to
my mind in this case that I have the ability to do that. It’s not
registering, as I simply don’t see this in that way, and I’m fine
with that and I don’t want to do anything to change that. It’s like
how when you are staying at a luxury hotel you do not experience
the urge to decorate and personalize. It’s because you understand
that you are not the owner of this location and can not treat it
like your private little bedroom, and therefore the urge to do so
never arrives. In that sense, I view Aseitism not like a personal
project or belonging, but like a luxury from which I am benefit-
ing.
In a sense, I have sacrificed the appearance of profundity for
relatability. I’m having to speak in terms that the people will
readily understand, and the problem with this is that if you aren’t
really paying attention to what is being said and only basing your
understanding of my message off of choice words then what I am
saying may not appear so remarkable to you. Therefore you must
look closer to the order and at the relationships between ideas.
This is tough for me since I would normally sacrifice relatabil-
ity to create something memorable, but I have done the oppo-
site in this case, choosing to anchor new concepts to known con-
cepts, and it slightly upsets me because I feel like I am wasting
my understanding on something which could be spoken by any-
one. Our natural understanding is very shallow in that two sys-
tems can use the same set of terms and that instantly makes them
out to be the same or a similar system in our mind. I don’t ex-
pect anyone to grasp the sheer intricacy seen in philosophy of
Aseitism, which, despite anchoring its superfice to known con-
cepts, has a very peculiar configuration and order that makes all
the difference in the world.
I am both baffled and horrified by the disconnect between my

body and mind over matters of anxiety and perceived danger.
My mind is both resilient and rational, and while I can think of

plenty that brings me discomfort, minor or major, I can think
of nothing whereof I am particularly fearful at this point. As it
is known, I suffer from quite a bit of trauma which manifests it-
self in a variety of ways. It is strange, for I know that I am in no
danger, but nothing can be done to convince my body otherwise.
If it were as simple as what I believed in my mind I would be
entirely without these problems of anxiety, but my body, it ap-
pears, is confused as to what threatens it. I am disappointed that
I can’t crack the code and rewrite my body’s instinctual reactions.
Maybe this has nothing to do with danger whatsoever. Maybe
it is not misperceiving a threat. Maybe I just place so much im-
portance on so many acts and individuals and processes and my
body cannot handle the experience of something that my mind
deems so important.
They’re like dogs, in that they devour your belongings, they piss
on the carpet and they bite your fingers but then can’t under-
stand it when you’re mad at them. They cannot understand their
punishment: they have no context in which to understand the
negative things that happen to them as ramifications for their
actions. So are the bitey puppies of the lesser paradigms. I was
raised by such and I’ve grown among the sort.
I experience some frustration when I look over the liner notes

of any old album or production or what have you and see up-
wards of a dozen names belonging to those who assisted with the
project; and I’m not talking about a massive movie production,
but a boopy-doop acoustic album or something that, to all out-
ward impressions, seems a simple, intimate affair. It’s strange to
me, as someone who has handled everything on his own (with

the exception of any help that I received from Jeiezza over the
years), and I wonder if the audience knows, or if they care, that
the artists they enjoy... these albums that speak to them... that
the awesome artwork was purchased from elsewhere and that
they brought in the violinists and producers from the outside to
make it what it was and... I don’t know. It’s not as if this is any-
thing but normal. I simply dislike the idea that these bigger pro-
ductions are compared to projects like mine own, and then my
work is viewed as inferior when, with all factors taken into ac-
count... I ended up putting in tenfold the work of those who in-
variably end up soaking up all the sun. In sports we would never
pit one person against twelve and call it a fair match, always tak-
ing great care to see that everything is balanced, even to where
we are weighing our fighters in weeding out unfair advantages.
The art world may not be viewed as competitive at its face, but
it sure as hell is when you get down to it, and though there is no
thought given to these matters of fairness. Add to that the fact
that the time in which I created my music and art is also not be-
ing properly taken into account, since people only measure by
the level of enjoyment that they derive from an album, and so the
album that took me two days of improvisation is going to rank
poorly when pitted against those that took the creators years and
years of writing. It’s not bitterness that I am expressing, although
I won’t deny that that exists within me in certain quantities. It
feels more like a form of disillusionment and ultimately leads to
emotional dissociation. I’m very numb these days—not in the
way of some zombie deprived of all sense and emotion, but like
a boy left out in the snow for so long that it has started to burn.
At this point I cannot tell if I should remove my clothes or add
more layers. It is a very unique form of agony that I must experi-
ence each day.
We love to use terms like ‘salvation’, ‘immortality’, ‘enlighten-

ment’ and similar to describe changes in our spiritual develop-
ment, though all that ever changes is the level of knowledge or
awareness that one possesses, and while that certainly does count
for a lot, having the ability to rewrite reality and make one im-
mune to old threats, like that of death, it also creates for new sor-
rows, it creates new weaknesses. Our victory in knowledge will
not come as the transformation of man into god. It is just anoth-
er natural change in life, like a child registering new senses and
growth at puberty.
Highly significant details within my book are sometimes given

not more than a vaguely poetic sentence that has been left to the
astute. I am not deliberately seeking to roil the waters. I simply
do not have the time to elaborate on everything that I have said,
and in many cases I wouldn’t even know where to begin. So while
I wouldn’t regard my book as a puzzle, as I am truly attempting
to be as straightforward as I am able (paradigm locks forgiving),
Clyssus of Man is more densely packed with insights and infor-
mation than at first it may appear, containing more layers and
wordplay than has ever existed within any of my previous works,
and those who see value in my insights will certainly want to do
a bit of raking.
In every instance that I thought I had been given all the pieces
of the puzzle and was working with a completed picture of my
reality, I would then receive new information that left me feeling
as if entire passages of my history had been rewritten, and the
information didn’t always produce feelings of elation. More and

more it was leaving me with this feeling of indescribable neutral-
ity as new implications made themselves known and colored my
life again and anew.
My circumstances have allowed me to experience and explore

emotions or emotional concepts in the absence of environmental
anchors, in which case they are experienced as endogenous and
not dependent on other entities for their expression. As so, I have
been allowed to feel love without necessarily having anyone to
love. I have been allowed to feel gratitude without necessarily
having any events toward which to feel grateful. To most this
may appear unfounded, as our measure of our own abilities is
so firmly bonded to an external catalyst: a spouse, an event,
dezinezinet. It sounds empty any other way, if not impossible. I
not only argue otherwise, but say that the commoner way (where
concepts are experienced indirectly via catalysts) is that which
is empty and inauthentic. Consider sexuality: I am considered
asexual on account of having no desire to ‘sleep with’ anyone, as
well as being generally repulsed by the idea (although context
factors heavily into the level of repulsion that I will experience in
any given instance). Yet there is more to sexuality than who you
sleep with, and anyone who looks to me can see that I am highly
sensual, despite this. It has been rather difficult for me to get to
the point where I can reclaim my sexuality, as it were, and really
explore my sexual nature as distinct from crushes and cumshots.
It’s difficult to talk about, though, since it’s not a concept that
people generally understand. And this idea that people are sit-
ting around waiting for some fine young stranger to bring their
love to life... that’s not how love works, and suddenly it makes
perfect sense why human relationships know such a dismal fate.
I will often point to 2015 as being the point at which I ceased

being dependent on others for love and romance. It was then, at
this point, where I finally came around to grasping at this truth
(however, I would argue that it took me a little longer to really
assimilate its meaning into my life).
I sometimes ask myself: if a performer that I happen to enjoy

were to release these incredibly awful clips of themselves singing
as a child would I find them worth listening to? I would, ab-
solutely, even if just for the novelty factor! So I don’t think it so
pointless that I release all of my audio library to the public. It’s
also about making a big impression: one that excites. I like the
thought of people making their way through my archives for the
first time and seeing all of the titles and wondering what the hell
it might all be. That curiosity, even if it should only last for a
short amount of time, is worth so much, and can beget so much
inspiration in a person.
Even with it taking up more than half of my known existence,

calling upon the most tremendous sacrifices and creating for the
most unfathomable suffering, I feel myself so utterly humbled to
look upon the final result of my operation, like as a mother looks
dizzily upon her newborn child who lay across her chest. And as
I glimpse those tiny tarry eyes, all memory of suffering disappears
behind the miracle of new life.
I find it difficult to describe the childlike nature of our bond,

which means more than some basic ‘enjoying cartoons and
laughing at stupid jokes’. The childly spirit is authentic in our
company, and it mixes with wisdom to create the brightest, most

profound atmosphere I could imagine. Though this year has
brought the greatest suffering, it has brought with it the greatest
joy, and the most voluminous laughter. I have felt somewhat ob-
ligated to create this mystical portrayal of our bond, but what is
‘mysticism’ except the name that we give to that which defies our
understanding. We are Essence, we are living creatures, we are
fools. We do not sit cross-legged like buddhas beyond some pul-
pit. We do not speak in somber, colorless tones. We dance and
we laugh and we crack inappropriate jokes at every chance we
get. We make music and we make love and we make fun of any-
thing and everything. We both find something attractive in mad-
ness, in surrender, in rapturous abandon. And I just don’t think
that the public will understand us as we are.
For most, survival trumps all else. When one cannot be honest,
they will simply resort to a life of dishonesty. It’s difficult to say
how and why I differ so greatly from the standard in this re-
gard—which is not to insinuate that I am any less prone to error.
However, when I cannot be honest, I will opt to abandon what-
ever life I’ve created for myself in defense of my honesty. Sincer-
ity of expression and openness is of the highest order and must
be given our priority. And I have lived forever in the space be-
tween nothing and nowhere, surely as there exists no communi-
ty for one who exalts legacy at the expense of longevity: an in-
finitesimal blister wherein I could say and do and ideate whatev-
er seemed to me as the most authentic expression of my being.
I tried my damnedest to broaden my ambit, not willing to settle
for solitude, though I never managed to find the people and the
places that nourish the soul. This may cause me to appear unrea-
sonable or unpredictable, if not noncommittal, yet I am nothing
if not committed: not to mankind as it stands but to mankind

as it could be. I am otherwise as predictable as they come. Some
call it eccentric, but from where I stand I know there to be no ec-
centricity, no mysticism, no mysteries among us, surely as they do
not exist on the objective scale as anything beyond names with
which we dress up our own ignorance. And know this: that when
I speak of honesty and openness I am not candy-coating crass,
selfish behaviors, much as bluntness has come to be associated
with tactlessness and general inconsideration for our fellow man.
There is a state available to all in which every atom of this life ap-
pears profoundly personal.
Note that I use the term ‘myth’ with a certain frequency
within my works. It is inextricably bound to concepts of magic,
which itself relates to myth as it fundamentally boils down to co-
hesion: a cohesive lifetime.
I am unable to be present where there is no belief. I could
never sacrifice my vulnerability, as it is only by these means that
we are to know an intimate experience of life. I am not an an-
tisocial individual. Hell, I’m not even especially introverted. It
is simply the fact that I never managed to find a community in
which my honesty and vulnerability were not only welcomed,
but respected.
I endeavored to create something intimate, and instead I have at-

tracted voyeurs and peanut pitchers.
The mythopoetic individual exists much like Santa Claus and

other such fables, in that disbelief of our peers weakens our ex-
istence (or, more accurately, our bond with Existence). It is a
strange claim, and my point may be garbled due to a lack of fore-
thought, yet there is surely something odd and “mystical” to this

matter which merits examination (the concept of belief, or sur-
rounding oneself with those who believe in you... and by “you” I
mean your “myth”, your “narrative”, your “symbols”). Moreover, I
am quite confident that this acts as a factor distinguishing shal-
low relations from those seen as meaningful. These ideas revolv-
ing around myth and narrative are so intricately connected to the
so-called unconsciousness and “soul” of a person. Again, I am
not explaining my point all that well, so you may have to fill in
the blanks on your own time.
I have remained at all times within the confines of the garden,

allowing for only a singular exception, which is to hold periodic
rituals upon the clifftops, where I and my partner will pour out
the contents of two cups over the earth in mourning.
My parents were always finding a reason to confiscate and de-

stroy my childhood creative works. Once it was because a story
featured persons being raised from the dead. Once it was because
of the inclusion of dragons and serpents. Oh, so perfectly sensi-
ble.
It is no surprise that I would encounter the mental difficulties,

the neurosis and the troubles that I would, given the nature of
my interests and my experimental approach thereto. What sur-
prises me is the fact that I have managed to overcome them to
such an extent that my behavior, my sensibility and my empathy,
at thirty, is at its highest height yet. I am not yet where I want
to be in the sense that I would still like to hone my instinctu-
al responses and resolve some of the lingering trauma which eats

away at me, but regardless of how I make it sound: I’ve never
been more mentally healthy than I am at present, and let not my
rigorous self-inspection to depict otherwise.
[2016] And whether was I fueled in these months by optimism,

arrogance or sheer desperation, it shall remain forever unclear,
for it is dotted and dashed like a lucky wrist.
“Herein lies the crooked form of two in one, where rats play their
satire. I stopped the wheel with a single determined finger, and my
soul slipped from the sill of eternity into the surreality of knowledge
I had faced. A ghost became the suffix of my being. And my eternal
judgment, while not in my favor, is well-earned. This is the palm
which holds the soul of the world. Theirs is the incest of untimely in-
vestments. Theirs is lost to the winding wheel.”
The writing process is so strange and numbing. In early drafts I

might write out a line or paragraph which pleases me, and over
time I stop believing the premise on which it was based, but I
eventually fail to question its inclusion within my book since I
worded it so well and became accustomed to seeing it in my out-
line, so I’ve got all of this irrelevant information hanging around
into the final drafts for reasons as stupid as accustomization.
At times, due to fever, the text of my book has distorted before

my eyes, and each paragraph will vary in size due to that distor-
tion. It is very warped and unusual. There are times when several
paragraphs overlay one another and become nearly impossible to

differentiate. I think it might have been cool to achieve this ef-
fect via formatting if I were to end up putting more time into my
book, but it’ll just have to be one of hundreds of ideas I have to
put down due to my constraints. I don’t really want to make it
seem gimmicky, anyway, so it’s alright.
Between my being highly particular of what is kept in the book,

as well as my partner having edited out many lengthy passages of
what she called ‘feverspeak’, I don’t really feel like my voice comes
through in this effort. There is just so much pressure in knowing
that it’s my final message to the world, and feeling I must not on-
ly be comprehensive but... sensible. Due to my desire... my need...
to have my points delivered respectably I am essentially having
to forgo all artistry and that’s made it very, very boring for me...
it feels like a very stale book. Maybe I’m just worn out. I know I
am.
Despite the artistry of my lifetime, all that I’ve accomplished

can be accomplished through essential psychological means and
does not require fate, fortune or fireballs. I’m not trying to sell
myself short, but one isn’t required to put a sword from a stone
to achieve what I have achieved. You must only eliminate the dis-
crepancies which keep preclude self-understanding; the discrep-
ancies existing between you and your disposition which prevent
you from becoming as you were meant to be. And in knowing
your Volens you shall know your highest conceivable potentiali-
ty (via Orsa). No need to sacrifice animals or leave your body or
yell out into the woods or whatever it is that you think I do. It
isn’t easy—by no means—but at the same time it really isn’t that

complex.
It may also be worth pointing out that his temperamental profile

is in many ways like that of my ex-partner who would often pre-
sent a joyous, friendly and overall agreeable face before the pub-
lic, but would then just sort of power off when by themselves
and deprived of input, unable to access and identify their own
feelings and interests in the absence of others to tell them who
they were. It’s like catatonia. These types of individuals terrify
me, leaving me feeling this horrific burden of proof which fol-
lows me around at all times.
I suffered from frequent chest pains as a child due to trapped gas,

as in when you get a gas bubble around the heart area and it feels
like what we imagine of a heart attack, where it is both painful
and difficult to breathe, and you have to rid yourself of it by tak-
ing deep, sudden breaths (counterintuitively so, as the deeper the
breath, the deeper the pain). These experiences make up my ear-
liest brushes with mortality, even if I was not actually in physical
danger. I would often awaken in the middle of the night to these
attacks, and I would stumble out of my room, barely able to walk
or breathe and clutching my chest, and my parents would stand
by and laugh at me and the way that I was walking, all doubled
over. Assured that it was not a major medical emergency, they
saw no reason to show any sensitivity to the fear and pain that I
was experiencing.
There is just this ever-present temptation to pour honey onto my

skin, though every time I do so I regret it. I will still use honey to
style my chin hairs if I need to snap a quick photograph or some
such and don’t feel like heating up the wax.
This vertigo is horrendous. I was already in the most miserable

state of my life, physically speaking, and finding it very difficult
to stay motivated. At the time that it came about, I was lying
down and speaking with my partner as she was trying to encour-
age me. I was going to turn over and pounce on her to be silly
and to show her that I wasn’t giving up—not ‘pounce’, but just...
roll over and kiss her—and as I did, the world began spinning
and I held onto her tightly for two three hours while unable to
stand to my feet or turn my head. It’s hard for me to keep track
of time these days due to where my mind is at, but I still have my
phone to keep me grounded, and according to my phone it has
persisted for nearly a month at this point. It hasn’t managed to
stop me from meeting my daily writing quota, but I am having to
write while laying on my side, head immobilized, and the world
is just whirling around me as I continue to put thirteen hours a
day into my texts. I dearly hope that it is BPPV, although it is
more likely cervicogenic. I do not feel safe attempting the associ-
ated maneuvers since I can not vomit in my condition. It would
be a death sentence for me. Even if I didn’t choke on the vomit,
all that acid in my throat would do a horrendous amount of dam-
age and likely leave me suffocating for weeks on end or until it
killed me. Somehow it is not affecting my ability to think clearly.
It amazes me. Nothing appears to affect my clarity of mind. The
public will believe what they will and my self-estimations prob-
ably don’t carry a whole lot of weight in such a case... but I’m
telling you...!
I guess I tend to anticipate a pushback whenever attributing im-

portance to mankind or the individual, and that’s quite tragic
to think that we’ve spent all our eons and resources to convince
ourselves of our own insignificance. The religious and the secular
have that in common. It’s really no wonder that our world is
falling apart when it is our tendency to view ourselves as passen-
gers lacking all say.
I can enjoy a work that lacks originality, by my standards, though

I cannot enjoy a work that lacks heart. Too many works being la-
beled as ‘avant-garde’ still appear to be following in the trend of
retrofuturism which dictates that the future will be cold and im-
personal, and I can’t stand it one bit.
Over time, my interest in social matters has evolved into a full-

fledged passion for politics—something that I never imagined I
would be saying, considering I went for most of my life avoid-
ing and disdaining anything which carried the political seal (a
common outcome seen in societies where the youth is actively
and strategically disincentivized from participation). I think that
the matter of politics is also relevant to a lot of my grievances
which, in the past, have been leveled foremostly against the mod-
ern man. That isn’t to say that the individual doesn’t bear some
responsibility for their spiritual development, although I am rec-
ognizing more and more how difficult it truly is to thrive as a
spiritual being within our modern landscape. You have to recall
that my experience was not like the standard in that I was never
truly a part of society and therefore never had to deal with a
lot of the obstructions erected between the individual and their

ability to exercise their will. I’ve been on perpetual sick leave for
all of my adult life and, while there is no denying that it has led
to its own miseries, it has also allowed me a rare opportunity to
devote all of my time to my own interests, be them artistic, in-
tellectual or spiritualistic. As a result of such a lifestyle, I have
achieved a degree of inner fulfillment that is expressly uncom-
mon and growing more uncommon all the time within our mod-
ern landscape which is simply not built to nurture the soul of
man.
As I have invested more and more time into learning about
the economy and other social systems, historical and current, I
have begun to see our circumstances in a more nuanced light, re-
alizing that so many of the grievances and gripes which I have
aired within my works are not proper choices born of desire or
even indolence but dark ramifications of these exploitative, neo-
feudal conditions in which we now live—conditions which are
incentivized to suppress the spirit of man and to manufacture
new needs and struggles in a population which already has
enough to contend with. That being said, I think I would take a
very different tone when addressing the matter of society nowa-
days, knowing what I now know, and not only do I want that
to be taken into consideration by those who read my critiques
of humanity (which still hold true, on some level, even if failing
to factor in the whole picture from a socio-economical stand-
point), but let that also encourage my readership as it has en-
couraged me. Our failures, our anguish are not accidents, but
features of the vampirism under which we live, and all vampires
die in the light of the sun which corresponds to knowledge and
understanding. So don’t be put off by the realm of politics, for
it is inextricable from psychology and spirituality as systems, de-
spite the way in which it is often painted as being without rel-
evance to the youthful and the heartful. Had I done my prop-

er research (six words well-suited for my tombstone) and looked
into things a bit sooner I reckon that it would have altered my
path in life to a noticeable degree—not only by giving me in-
creased hope in our ability, as citizens, to take the reigns of his-
tory, but by pointing me toward a viable and active community
which might have spared me of my terminal aloneness and self-
defeating, American-bred hyperindividualism (as well as putting
me in contact with precisely the sort of passionate, humanistic
and driven individuals that I was so lacking from my life). Un-
fortunately, the USA is utterly lacking in proper leftist represen-
tation and it has left our youth with the sense that all political
piping leads to the self-same sewer that is corporatism and all the
shades of inhumanity that suckle in its stench.
My ruling is this: in cases where elaboration leads not to clarifi-

cation but to a cheapening of the essence of my venture I should
and shall refrain from speaking.
This devil, as it were, was none other than the haunter of the ag-
nostic void; physician of illegible script.
I could feel them in my thoughts, worming within my capabili-

ties and within my philosophies, where they created temporary
confusional spells and other cognitive aberrations which, while
alarming, did not usually last very long.
Despite what may be deduced from my tone, I am not a picky in-

dividual. I take what I can get and find a way to appreciate it.
If I remove the element of pain and suffering from the equation,

looking only at what I did with my time and what I learned along
the way, I can honestly say that I am satisfied with my lot—ex-
pressly so. I’m not sure that my suffering actually changes my es-
timation on the whole, though it does surely complicate things.
I’ve gotten so used to thinking of myself as alone, which is partly

influenced by the opinions of the uninformed, but I can’t say I’ve
ever been alone. There was an angel with me in the furnace, so to
speak, explaining why my mind and spirit did not burn up like
those of others in my position.
People develop these fine filters to enable themselves to navigate

society without being taken advantage of or bothered, and I feel
like I’m an unfortunate material which happens to set off the
alarm or get trapped in that filter without proper cause. That’s
how it often seems. And it torments me every day of my life that I
cannot ask for help because there are others who abuse the good-
will of others. And I cannot be believed as a result of the fact
that there are others who deceive. I fear for where we are head-
ing, and the sort of cynical dismissal that is taking over. Preva-
lence and importance are becoming more and more bonded. We
are more aware of the suffering of our fellow man than ever be-
fore, and also less apt to care for and consider what that means,
because we have become so desensitized to the realization. I def-
initely acknowledge the part that technology, specifically social

media, had to play in this.
I couldn’t be more eager or more ready to leave this world be-

hind. I have done all I set out to accomplish. The knowledge that
it will soon be over is all that is giving me strength to write this
book I do not wish to write.
[2013] It wasn’t simply some scam to make money. In fact, I

opted out of payments and carried out all of my services free of
charge (and not simply due to the fact that associating my real
bank account with a false name would have not gone over so
well). To me it was a joy to speak openly to people about such
things that were regularly considered too dark and disturbed to
be spoken of openly, with others. Over time my focus shifted to-
ward delinquency and the so-called darker side of the popula-
tion. I was working on ideas for a program/class that could be
taken by those being released from prison or in lieu of commu-
nity service which would help to reform and inform on topics
I deemed crucial and encouraging. I was looking to establish
this via official channels in the long run. At that point I based
my goals off what the world lacked rather than simply what I
thought the world would allow—and I guess little has changed
in that regard, although back then I rarely gave any thought to
the latter, the logistics. These days I must waste so much of my
time formulating a case which shall simply convince a benighted
public that yes, they want what I am offering. I miss that age in
my life when I just assumed that my vision was shared by all and
liable to garner ooh’s and ahh’s at the merest mention.
I maintain somewhat of a tortuous relationship with my work as

a mystic. I do not doubt the weight of my experiences, although
I very much despise my perceived inability to convey those expe-
riences in a way that does not come across like hokey, New Age
fluff or schizophrenic ramblings. No one is more aware of how
ludicrous it all sounds than I. It puts me in a bad situation, not
only with myself, but with my readers, since, despite how badly I
wish to be understood and believed, I find it hard to respect any-
one who can read such an account and, without evidence, trust
in such an experience. A bit of a cruncher, huh. I like to think
that the outcome of all such frustration will be a positive one,
though, in that it forced me to pay attention to certain details
and adjust my tone in ways that might not come standard to one
who was not so naturally skeptically and pissy.
Tendon Levey was an absolute madman, though not in the way

that one would think. I willingly sabotaged myself. Thus, I was
mad because I kept myself mad, causing clutter and confusion
within my mind and never allowing myself to come up to the
surface for air. The events of the winternecine were a big ‘uh oh’
for me and did cause me to take a step back, although not entire-
ly. Perhaps I needed an excuse to separate myself from the world
and devote myself to my studies? Or perhaps I relished in desper-
ation so much that it made me ill? Perhaps I love to beg for my
life. And between the insincere impediments and feigned move-
ments of those years, there was a boy who knew full well what
he was doing, and beneath a façade of harmless cartoon portraits
upon the wall were blueprints for how to exploit my mind. Yet
how can I ever admit to the fact that, when I retreated from the
world, there was little actually wrong with me? Yeah, I was trou-
bled, but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t have been fixed with
some hugs and stitches. Perhaps it a means of keeping everyone
out of my hair as I explored my authenticity. Perhaps it was a
means to ward off all consequences for my actions; a means to
ward off all responsibility. Yet my body wasn’t fooled. It should
not go unacknowledged that I spent the years of Tendon Lev-
ey fearful of Thummim. It is creepy to think of that time. I see
a boy who, for some reason, desperately needed to view him-
self as evil. [...] a now infamous diary kept throughout the Ten-
don years (called “Eigengrau” and subtitled “When I go insane...”
or “My Leverage Against God” in which I mused over what I
would do if my dreams proved impossible, I went insane and
the disgust within my heart trumped all moral judgment. It be-
came a genuine outlet, and like so it came to take on somewhat
of a disturbing shape, descending into lists of eBay sellers and
neighbors and those who wronged me. It wasn’t anything that
would shock anyone who knows my backstory, being but a book
made by a boy experimenting with ways of dealing with his anger
and anguish, but I won’t deny that it became very uncomfortable
to look at... the amount of lists without context depicting the
depth of my fixation and inability to move past my hurt. Consid-
ered the darkest of my works to date, perhaps even more so than
the deleted Algorismus, it was a book covered in gray snakeskin.
Ironically, it is perhaps this effort which woke me up to the fact
that this is not who I am, having found it increasingly difficult
to identify with these words which I wanted to think of as being
my deepest, darkest desires.
A great many religious and spiritual philosophies are put for-

ward not to get us thinking but to quell all thought and especial-
ly the anxiety that arises therefrom. I hope dearly that my state-
ment will not be an end, but a beginning to what will be a serious

and ongoing consideration of our relationship with Existence.
My to-do list, as of the current moment, is roughly 24,000 words

in length.
No profession or lifestyle is noble in itself. Nobility resides only

within one’s attitude and intent. I look at these tree-hugging,
sun-bathing nature lovers who think they’re somehow living a
more honest life than the club-going boozers, when all in all
they’re simply doing what brings them pleasure. The same can
be said of the artists and entertainers who think they’re so much
more important and necessary to society than the businessmen
next door. It simply ain’t so—not on its own. Oh, it’s all such a
joke, and to watch the parade from upon the cliffs... it’s so diffi-
cult not to grimace disbelievingly at all of the ways in which we
assuage ourselves.
I have to imagine that my process is quite a bit unlike that of

others, for the reason that I am not well-read and must go ‘with-
in myself ’ and do a bit of excavation prior to every utterance, as
opposed to simply attempting to pass off some quote or some-
thing that I read in a book as mine own deeply held belief. It re-
quires never-ending work, yet the result is a never-ending excite-
ment along the way. With every sentence, every paragraph, I am
thinking “Wow, how did I ever deduce such things on my own
strength!” It is actually surreal that my understanding is where it
is. I can’t possibly explain the surreality that comes my way mere-
ly to hear myself speaking. I wouldn’t necessarily think to com-
pare it to Imposter Syndrome, despite how it may sound. I am

just so aware of my lack of education, as with my lack of input,
and I don’t think that I am overestimating my own abilities when
I state that my works do not reflect an ignorant, uneducated man
as such that I am. Still, I try not to draw too much attention
to the fact that I do virtually zero research prior to writing out
some of my boldest and most formal dissertations, drawing on-
ly from my own experiential reservoir, since there are many who
would see that as announcing a lack of credibility (even if I don’t
see it that way), but it is so crucial to understanding my works. I
haven’t even used a thesaurus since around 2014.
Having lived my whole life in literary and philosophical ig-
norance, I often wonder how I measure up, or if I fit in with any
particular school or clan. Who are my peers, my equals, my com-
rades? I wonder if any famous author or authors share my style
of writing, if I even have a classifiable ‘style’ to begin with. And
I also have to wonder how I would react to being compared to
someone. I think that I would have to take it on a case by case ba-
sis. I would likely become bothered, defensive and mildly upset
to be compared to someone in whom I did not detect any sub-
stantial similarity, though in cases where I was actually able to see
myself in someone else, I imagine it would leave me somewhat
ecstatic, like having found a sibling or best friend. I have spoken
out before about how there are certain names which come up
more than others when I am searching words or queries on the
internet, and I have made note of these names in the passing of
time. I haven’t yet had the time or will to read any of their books,
although I might occasionally look into some popular quotes,
and I’ve gotta say, there are a couple of books out there that I
would be really, really, really curious to read, but there is a fear
in me of being disappointed, and I would rather hold onto this
belief that I have likeminded peers in them (which is also why I

refrain from speaking these titles and authors).
[Parents] They’re from a different time in history in which it

seems to have been accepted that one ought to harbor explicitly
negative intentions in order for an act or behavior to count as
abusive and this has ever prevented them from accepting the
harm that they have caused.
It bothers me a bit to think that most persons who write books

are simply regurgitating and reframing information that they
themselves gleaned from (other) books, while being convinced
that they are speaking from their own experience. And I’m not
talking about originality, so all you jackasses who are constantly
looking for opportunities to give people the ‘there’s nothing new
under the sun’ reality check can keep on crouching.
[Pharynx] Though there were multiple layers of dissociation.

The deeper of these was the chaos of total subjectivity, yet the
higher levels were not so lacking in objective merit, allowing me
to glimpse these insights into my nature. As if I must venture to
the border of nowhere and nothing and no one in order to find
out who and what I am. This would seem to correlate to what I
previously had to say regarding Agnosis, and how when you lose
the ability to make connections, there is a stratum, that first layer
of Agnosis, in which connections are made for you.
Whether does this world ever learn of my name or honor my of-

fering, it will not bear an effect on the degree of my influence,
wherefore I shall stand among the few who die as they live, who
dance as they lay, to weaken the hold of the prevalent paradigms,
a bridgelayer unto the stars. I will be called a fantastic under our
modern solemn standards, but I urge you to look out for mani-
festations of my influence. It may be slight, overall, and it may be
resisted, but it will not be absent.
2022 has been my most difficult year yet. An epigastric hernia,

or so it seems, is constantly interfering with my breathing and is
bulging from my chest which distends in the middle. It is horri-
ble. I feel as if I’ve an apple or softball about three inches above
my belly button, at the bottom of my ribcage (center). Laugh-
ter upsets it. Dancing is impossible. I believe it to be the result
of years of labored breathing which has only worsened over time.
I suffered from an extended spell of vertigo for the first half of
the year and was unable to turn my head to the right in that time
and forced to keep my head constantly tilted leftward and down-
ward. I suffered from some strange, albeit temporary injury to
my esophagus, presumably esophagitis, where every breath, swal-
low, belch, was riddled with a horrific pain that could be felt all
the way from my throat to my sternum. The latter finally seems
to be healing, fortunately. Having that in addition to my existing
laryngeal problems was something I thought I wouldn’t survive,
seeing as my larynx is so tight most days as to put me on the floor,
day after day, struggling to get my breath as my whole body tin-
gles with static and shuts down from circulatory issues. I’m not
enjoying myself, but I’ve been making the most of my every day.
It has been the most productive period in all my life so far, and I
would not have considered sticking it out so long were that not
so.
I would have given up on this book much sooner, doing the bare
minimum, if not for the fact that this effort will represent her as
well as I, and I want the world to see her as I do.
Below is a partial list of projects from my final years, most of

which were abandoned partway through in favor of focusing on
Clyssus of Man.
Benthos (2019)
Liber Exuviae (Book of Molts) (2019)
Menarche (2019)
Dirgha Svapna (Long Dream) (2019)
Clyssus of Man (2020)
The Dissolving Path (2019/2020)
Cupbearers, Moonwearers (2021)
Fathom Omen Om (2021)
The Opening of the Right Eye of the World
The Opening of the Right Eye of the World is a collection
of meditations on death and volential divestment which draws
from my years of practice as a hypnognostic to create somewhat
of a novel view of this most momentous event. As of now I have
not considered releasing it to the public for precisely the same
reasons that I have avoided excess talk of death within my book:
I worry that my words could be misconstrued and potentially
lead to unwanted outcomes in an impressionable population.
The two of us are also collaborating on a book which takes its
title from ‘the book in the mirror’, The Widow Burns With Her
Husband. It follows the ecstasies seen in the Oxygenia chapter

while also providing a more intimate look at her person.
As I’ve said elsewhere, I take the attitude that the commoner

arts, such as visual art, music and writing, can be the perfect
tools to really put us in touch with our humanity; however, once
we manage to achieve that awareness, that connection with our-
selves, I feel that it is our... I wouldn’t say ‘duty’, but I think that
we should aim to make humanity, itself, our art, while graduat-
ing from the personal to the universal. Of course not everyone is
going to agree with such a sentiment, though I do like to think
of... say, music and canvas as a little practice area in which we
get to really hone our skills as creators and test out what works
while becoming intimately acquainted with our own style, goals
and limitations. Though just like we switch from pencil to pen,
working our way up to larger and more indelible (and more con-
sequential mediums), I like to think that the focus should natu-
rally move from traditional art, to self, to society, and then finally
to Existence. It’s a natural gradation, as I see it. And notice that I
referred only to ‘focus’ and did not state that one necessarily has
to abandon traditional art forms as our focus shifts to more com-
plex means of expression. You can still paint and perform, just
as I have never stopped feeding my artistic interests, but I think
it would be a shame if one who has ‘unlocked’ their immunity
spent their entire life hopping around with a guitar on stage and
didn’t move on to a higher, more universal medium. The things
I’m doing these days which would qualify as ‘philosophy’, if you
look closely, are merely transpositions of that which I have been
doing for decades behind the brush, behind the bass. I have ex-
trapolated the style with which I once approached music and art,
bringing it into other mediums. Every aspect of it: my improvi-
sational tendencies, my exploratory and avant-garde sensibilities,

and even my voice. It didn’t die with my music; it was carried
over into other mediums. And that’s a beautiful thought: the
transferability of our creative profile. To hell with all of the peo-
ple who seek to turn philosophy into this stuffy academic pursuit
which disallows all experimentation, ambition and pleasurabili-
ty. It’s like those motherfuckers who get their heads so stuffed up
with music theory that they can no longer feel the music within
themselves, thus losing sight of its greater magic and purpose. I
feel the same way about most modern philosophy, which is so far
up its own artful ass that it’s lost the sense for exploration. I am as
trained in philosophy as I am in music, and by that I mean that
I’ve had zero training. For me, it’s just like improvisational mu-
sic: I just stare out in search of voids, and once I find that void I
lock in and become lost in it, doodling and warbling until arriv-
ing at a fix. It doesn’t take me weeks or months and demand to be
passed along a long assembly line of professional approvers. I’m
okay with people having discrete approaches to the self-same art,
yet when we try to make one approach the standard we threaten
the art in its entirety, as it has now become a pseudo-science.
Having nearly completed my writing, I worry that, in my at-

tempts to avoid forcing out a formula or providing a blatant in-
structional, that the points I am making are ultimately lost, and
others won’t grasp the fundamental application of my story: an
offering which seeks above all to contextualize our relationship
with Existence and to provide a useful model on how to main-
tain a healthy and fulfilling relationship with our existence on
the metaphysical and psychospiritual level.
I hesitate to speak of my late-life illness, partly out of caution, for

I know so well man’s ignorance, and the ignorant will look up-
on my physical condition as detracting from my claims to victory
(often the self-same persons who try to pin sickness and suffering
on a lack of faith in Christ, while conveniently sidestepping the
fact that they, too, continue to grow sicker and eventually die de-
spite their supposed ‘faith’).
The lie of time is an enemy unto relevance. You need not be a

conspiratorial mystic to dispute the reality of chronology as a
construct. Even science is willing to make the stray statement re-
garding the plausible nonexistence of nonlinearity or timeless-
ness altogether. Yet what does that mean for our lives—on the
practical level? A fact, a concept, a philosophy is quite worthless
if it cannot be applied to the reality in which we live, and we’ve
sure amassed quite a library of useless and impractical/impracti-
cable data if to pacify our infinite ignorance. Some of my conclu-
sions may not appear entirely groundbreaking at face value, as in
my denunciation of time and space as concepts. However, I have
done what I can to provide my readers with insights into how
such paradigms materialize and interact with life as we know it,
and I feel that my contribution, for that matter, is significant. I
don’t allow anything to remain but a clever statement or theory. I
speak of experiences, and I do so in mind of the gulf which sepa-
rates noetic acknowledgment from integrated acknowledgment,
for is not enough to understand what the words are saying. Let it
permeate your attitude and acts! If time does not exist, how does
that alter our attitudes toward that which we regard as the past?
When do events actually conclude if not at sundown? How does
love come to an end if not by distance? When do ishebdowjwp-
wksjepq?
**I’ve never enlisted an editor or proofreader, so please pardon

me if Clyssus of Man ends up being a difficult read in ways that
I didn’t catch. My partner did end up offering a hand, so that
should count for something. Still, it may help to remember that
it was written by someone who hasn’t read through a book in
half his lifetime.
I try not to beat up the anti-religious sentiment within my

works, yet it has become increasingly difficult for me to hold my
tongue at this point. In the months since my operation I have
experienced a fairly significant shift in my attitude toward these
matters and it can seem that I’ve become far more anti-theistic
in my tone. However, a lot of what kept my antipathy in check
throughout my adult life was the firmly-held conviction that this
line of thinking could be benefiting us on some level even if it
wasn’t true, as in it was crucial to our psychological development
as is all myth. However, I no longer believe the same, or not to
the same degree, and I can no longer convince myself that it is
harmless. It is as I posited via the Rapeworld analogy: as my eyes
have been opened to an alternative in which the same ends are
achievable in the absence of such villainy, I can no longer stand
by the ways of the majority. I can no longer keep up my erstwhile
chaote-inspired way of thinking, as in “whatever amounts to pos-
itive results is a positive thing.” It sounds good in theory, and it
leveled me out to believe as much for a time, but it’s not so sim-
ple. I subscribe to the belief that value is inherent and not con-
ferred. And the religion of the world is the most vile dangerous
thing I’ve ever beheld. As I said previously, it’s not just grand-
mas sitting in their dresses on Sunday morning. I compared it
to the Chinese practice of footbinding. It’s deformation. And it
keeps me up at night in horror and sadness at what we’ve done

to ourselves. The horror is unreal. The mixing of anger and sym-
pathy creates for this mindset so difficult to bear. These people
just want to be safe. They just want to be loved. Just like the
foot-binders only want to be perceived as beautiful in the eyes
of a society which maintains these sick and unrealistic standards
of what constitutes beauty and goodness... not unlike religion.
And when put into those terms... instead of some faceless, hos-
tile terms of us versus them... it’s so heartbreaking to me. It’s so
distressing to me that I could vomit. For too long now have we
held one another to a standard which does not exist, and for the
good of our kind we must learn to despise holiness, welcoming
a wholliness which rejoices in no less than the wholeness of our
humanity.
As can be readily observed, I’ve long led a sort of timeless exis-

tence with respect to my various practices and tendencies. My
ways were helpful to shedding the illusion of chronology alto-
gether and I don’t doubt that the Steulugalnemraiant took me
down this path for precisely these purposes. It’s far easier to wash
a dirty dish if it is first left to soak in the water for a time be-
forehand. All in all, I now perceive so much of my isolative years
as just that: an epoch of soaking, so that by the time I am pre-
sented with reality and all associated philosophies, I am already
disposed to believe. In that light, I wish that my readers would
carefully consider the actions and habits taken on in the years be-
tween 2004 and 2018, as many of these were authorized by Steu-
lugalnemraiant who was my guide and can therefore be seen as
purposeful in the greater scope.
For many years I pacified my despair with the belief that one day,
all those who wronged me would realize their error and repent in
sorrow. It may be when I die, but they would realize—I thought.
Such notions as these are all that some of us have in the way of
consolation. Though I no longer know such consolation in life,
for I know that we aren’t required to realize their fault, and most
will not. It is easier to drink oneself into a lethean stupor than
to face down the destruction we have caused. It is easier to create
false portrayals of a person and to slander them maliciously so
as to justify one’s behavior towards them than to confront one’s
faults and wrongdoings, and I expect just that from the heartless
bastards who drew my blood, or those who took themselves to
be my family and friends. It takes a courageous heart to bear the
weight of remorse when it is easier to make it the fault of our vic-
tims. I know no one so courageous.
My fever is growing stranger in pattern. It will come on suddenly

in the day, hitting me so hard that I can barely do anything but
lay down and await my death, only for it to then vanish in an in-
stant some four or five hours later. The pattern will then repeat
the next day.
My story must not be handled as a fictional tale which is only as

great and as complex as what is found upon the page, for fiction
does not exist where it has not been written. Rather, what exists
upon these pages, in my case, is a paltry reflection of an experi-
ence or experiences much greater and far more perilous than any-
thing which I was able to depict herein with my limited abilities,
and you will be missing out on much of the story to stop where
the pages stop.
I fought invisible wars, I played invisible games. I had invisible

affairs, and I suffered invisible attacks. All that I am and have
become exists beyond the perceptions of the world, and then I
weep for what that means. I don’t regret doing as I did. All that I
tend to ‘regret’ in life is a ‘regret’ espoused on behalf of the peo-
ple and the society which does not accept such life, such love. My
burden which I carry was taken from you. I could have avoided
regret, living as I have, but I took on yours as mine own.
I lift up my voice, saying “Honored be this widest womb, within

which galaxies tumbled and turned. Honored be this warmest
breast, from which the stars steal their endless sustenance. Hon-
or us now with pealing bells! So then I, who was once a child
with a vulnerable little fontanelle, may dance in celebration, hav-
ing become a man whose name can neither be spoken nor
spelled; whose attributes can neither be framed nor conveyed.
And when one so wishes to reference me, they must describe me
by my beloved one, saying “He devotes himself eternally to the
woman whose name and attributes are likewise unutterable.”
Though the most surreal aspect of our bond stems not from who
and what she is, but from being with someone who is stable, ma-
ture and deeply empathetic in a way that expresses understand-
ing as opposed to masked neuroticism (what normally passes as
“empathy” in the modern, diluted day). It is truly beautiful to be-
hold. She contains her share of ‘problems’ as anyone, but these
problems do not control her perceptions or her actions, and it’s
as bizarre as it is beautiful. It is like a fire which burns fiercely
but without spreading. In that sense it reminds me of my original

perceptions of Idem, or the self that I saw on the Avenue of Sun.
It is harrowing to learn that the world favors allegiance over

truth, although knowing this does allow us to make sense of what
is taking place all around us. I think that my eyes first opened
to this reality around 2016, when dating a Fe lead. Yet we see
it everywhere we look, with people being more apt to side with
their friends and family members than consider the information
before them. And then seeing what became of the GOP in recent
years—scary examples that show the limited influence of truth
in our espoused beliefs. It’s all team sports and foam fingers. So
perhaps it was to my favor that I had no loyalties to life’s institu-
tions: no intimates to whom I was indebted; no political party,
religion, nationality or sexuality with which I personally identi-
fied. Perhaps it allowed me to be just slightly more honest with
myself and others.
It’s a bit of a simplification, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find

that Existentialism versus Nihilism boils down to the nature of
one’s self-opinion (relationship with oneself ). I don’t believe I’ve
ever met a nihilist who thought well of themselves, and I find the
opposite to be true of proper existentialists. I know that my own
path was greatly affected by my personal ‘relationship’ with my-
self, and I was never able to give up all hope in man and society
insofar as I knew myself to be of good character. I am not speak-
ing of basic confidence or self-satisfaction in this case, but having
access to a mind that we can trust. If our spirit does not merit
even our own respect, then we will have no basis to believe that
any spirit is worthy of respect.
It is by all means ironic that I am too honest in my ways to ever

be considered upright. That, of course, observes the faulty stan-
dards of our sphere when we should instead observe wholiness.
When I was actively committed to the whole Dean glove, the

date of April 1st, or April Fool’s Day, was somewhat inverted
for me in that I would take it as a day to be honest about who
I was and what I was up to—not to the point of giving away
my whole shtick, but I would post these personal insights to my
social media profiles, like the fact that I was engaged and mov-
ing and things of that sort that might not fit with the Limbo
Styx mythos, as it were. Then again, it wouldn’t have been so un-
founded of me to just up and announce that it was all fake and
that I’m not even a metalhead named Dean or something of that
sort, which would have just been laughed off by those who had
zero clue as to the depth of my dealings.
The age is changing, one into the next, and the increase in
knowledge necessitates a new approach. The grip of ancient re-
ligion is lessening, cynicism is beating out curiosity as the dom-
inant attitude, surely as we’ve yet to fully eliminate the cancer
that is false meaningfulness within our lives, and we require a
new myth which forms not in accordance with that which enter-
tains and pacifies, but with the intricacies of our reality, our sci-
ence, our health, our needs and all that we wish to become. Yea,
myth fails when it makes us complacent, being it required to pro-
pel us forwardly toward the sum of our needs which is where we
must go, one and all. The Comprachicos will be the mythologers
who step up to this task, and the sensible mythologer shall usurp
the philosopher, the clergy and the government body as our
most capable leaders, not to create vivid tales that keep us docile
and amused, but to convey the abstract body of needs, threats
and potential of our kind in a way which is experienced as real,
urgent and actionable by a materialistic people.
Art, for me, is about silencing the ego and getting as close to the
natural, as close to the actual, as can be achieved—closer than
even our daily interactions allow. It is a purposeful stripping away
of all the varied layers which make up our social defense. Oth-
ers may listen to my clips of sleep talking and interactions and
say it’s not art, but I’m as proud of them as I am of my paintings
and music. Sounds funny to say, doesn’t it. But it’s true. And I
think they really become art in the moment that I decide to share
them. Not simply because I decided it so, but because something
transpired in that moment... something to do with my ego and
vulnerability and integration and self concept.
I never quite agreed with the idea that art was synonymous
with expression... not so simply... because so much of our expres-
sion is tainted by desire and misconstruction and ego delusions
and means to an end. Art is whatever can get us to the most
natural and ‘uncontrived’ state possible, as well as the product
of that endeavor. This differs from many definitions but it does
overlap curiously since nothing helps us strip back those layers
and give ourselves over to nature like a good song and dance.
I never managed to adapt to and recover from the realization

that true humanity alienates.
Living in this bubble where I get to continue with the belief that
people are precious, even if I dislike them so. Most love and ro-
mance that I see is simply people repeating what they see on the
television—acts and statements which worked for someone else.
It’s all but a pretty script, and therefore it should come as no
surprise when their actions fail to match their words. It has me
thinking of all those laboratory tests where you get the animal to
push the button to get their treat. The little beaver bastard hasn’t
the ability to analyze the meaning of the button or the mecha-
nisms behind it. All that it knows is its learned associations, and
so it pushes the button when hungry simply because it associ-
ates that button with food. It’s not intelligence. It’s not love. It’s
learned associations. You see the same in the human population.
People don a guitar and write a song and they’re looked up to as
some genius, but they’re just pushing a button to get their food
because they saw others before them succeed similarly. Every brat
that learns to speak ends up saying “I love you,” but again, it’s
naught but a button. For the most part, what separates our soci-
ety from said laboratory animals is negligible at best; yet you can
count on us to really emphasize whatever distinction we can find
so as to keep from acknowledging that our whole lives are just
pushing the button for food, for sex, for entertainment and for a
false, momentary fulfillment.
At the end of the day it is not the people I am fighting, but the
forces that possess them: ancient atavisms.
Coughing fits have aggravated the ‘herniatic’ swelling within my

side, which has since either grown or spread and is now on both
the right side of my abdomen and within the center, pushing
against the epigastric region of my chest. However, it does not
feel like a hernia. It feels like a swelling. And attempts to massage
it gently have only made it worse. It is pushing against my di-
aphragm and presents me with one of the most uncomfortable
sensations that I have ever known. My epigastric area is swollen
outwards. I am losing weight at a rapid rate. However, after near-
ly four months it seems that my vertigo is slowly beginning to
subside and I can once more turn my head to the right (although
I am still hesitant to do so) although I am still avoiding all sodi-
um since even a tiny bit has been known to act as a catalyst and
it’s just not worth it to me.
The following is a scheduled e-mail I wrote to be delivered to my

father in the case of suicide or guaranteed departure.
This message was written and mailed in advance of this date.
I am only requesting that you hold no funeral in my name.
Overlooking the obvious fact that I do not believe as you believe
in regards to spirituality, it will only be insulting me to gather to-
gether under the pretense of loss and mourning with all those who
hurt, disparaged and abandoned me outright.
It seems I should have more to say to you in this event, though
I worry you wouldn’t understand the words of my heart. After all,
you never sought to know the person that I was—not when it was
so much easier for you to simply tell me. And all these years later I
still can’t imagine the perception you must hold of who I am and
how I spent my time. If, with a bit of necessary courage, you one
day find yourself wanting to confront these realizations, there exists
ample documentation within the public sphere that will tell you all
you could ever want to know about the life that I have led. How-
ever, if you are approaching the matter with the wish to see your
hurt assuaged then it will only distress and disturb you further. So
you must approach these realizations in want of understanding and
nothing less. Until your desire for understanding eclipses your desire
for comfort and security, my words will seem unapproachably cruel;
threatening.
I haven’t bothered to leave Asia with any sort of message. There
hardly seems any incentive to do so when any word out of my mouth
is bound to be filtered through her husband who decides her percep-
tion in accordance with his own security (or lack thereof ). Besides,
I’ve not had an actual, heartfelt interaction with her in a third of
my life at this point.
For the first time in thirty-five years you are an independent
man in the sense of lacking all dependants. Be liberated by the re-
alization, while refusing to see this event as a justification for any
of the harmful, self-destructive and numbing acts in which you may
be tempted to indulge. It is never too late to awaken to the splendors
of this existence which awaits your passion, your participation, in
every moment that you sit in wait of a tomorrow that owes us noth-
ing.
Sometimes I have to wonder if there was some memo telling

others not to acknowledge or comment on my achievements or
the things that I say, since no matter what I release, it never re-
ceives even a single bit of feedback or acknowledgment. Noth-
ing whatsoever. It’s utterly maddening. I feel like I’m in the Sixth
Sense. Maybe I was a ghost the whole fucking time. The people
who speak about me in a positive way then never respond to
any words I say. I’m not even exaggerating. And it keeps me loi-
tering around... because I want just one... just something... one
snowflake on my tongue and I’ll go home... it’s gotta come some-

time... statistically speaking, it’s gotta come sometime... and I
keep telling myself that... and I keep standing here... and I keep
degrading myself by standing here... an utter ghost... and I watch
them eat the meat from the bucket... from my hands... and I wait
for them to spit out the bone... and I wait for them to belch...
some sign that it went down... some sign that it satisfied... but
they devour and they walk on...
Whereas trauma and discrepancy refer to a disconnect between

expectation and reality, I see dreams as a means to correct our
expectational maps, thereby achieving that which is achieved by
the grieving process and eliminating discrepancy.
My musical discography plainly showcases the fact that it is not

time by which evolve but the degree of activity and participation.
I went through more evolutions and revolutions over four years’
time than most will go through in the span of decades, and it’s a
fascinating notion, similar to how I’ve reached a mentality at so
young an age that most do not see until the end of their lives if
at all. It’s not time which dictates these things. Time was never
a factor in our development, but involvement, and it’s ‘time’ we
stop pretending otherwise.
I was ever one who relished in the farthermost limits of mental

spaces, flipping the finger to anyone who accused me of “over-
thinking.” Hell, I flouted even the notion of there being such a
thing as “overthinking.” Yet I’ve become too aware. I don’t know
how else to put it. I will try not to paint it as being inherently dis-
astrous, only saying that it is not compatible my circumstances.

It’s not meant to be. And it is experienced like the most in-
tense existential claustrophobia ever known—distinct from fu-
tility. Much of the discomfort is paradigmatic—like an adult
man in a child’s playhouse... stuck, unable to stand or move
about. Every thought and action coming in the context of the
lesser paradigms is like a feedback loop; a screeching, nightmar-
ish recursion that goes on and on. This appears to be a common,
if not standard, occurrence with individuals of my disposition,
leading to a curious practice of disengagement. I know it as ‘the
shroud’, whereby those occupying a similar paradigm will live out
the remainder of their lives on earth in a detached state, refusing
to engage the sensory environment (to various degrees). Indeed,
it is not heroic to face these paradigmatic discrepancies but fool-
hardy. Even attempting to write a book on the topic was consid-
ered a damning act only liable to disturb my functioning. This
does explain why those in a similar position will rarely attempt to
share their knowledge directly, and the books are comparatively
few, being that the Idem exists in a place where speech is virtual-
ly meaningless. It is only in my need to finish my story that I’ve
committed to what feels like a meaningless task. That is all that
separates me from the lot who have the wisdom to say no—the
fact I am more committed to my legacy than to my own health
and sensibility.
I do not believe in fate in the deterministic sense. I believe in dis-

position, which is a reflection of an Existential utility that may
be rejected or accepted by us as anything else. Otherwise, the
template of fate, as we know it, does not mesh with my current
paradigmatic understanding, especially in consideration of the
Law of Orsa and the objective absence of chronology. Regarding
what was said on disposition, I believe that the things which (in-
nately) excite us, disturb us, dezinezinet are not but arbitrary ge-
netic or environmental matters but profound ‘clues’, as it were, or
remnants, from which we were ‘created’. If Essence stems from a
thought, or the analogue thereof, and reflects the needs of Exis-
tence on the whole, our innately held preferences are thought to
relate, by and large, to the needs form which we arose. Our pas-
sions, as well as our disdains, and other matters of instinct, must
be closely examined and not written off or demonized. You can
see, in my own life, that those things which I disdained so long
are, in the end, considered the target objectives toward which
I was launched—those things I was asked to eliminate with my
time and attention, so to speak. My recommendation is not to be
so quick to demonize or silence that which disturbs you in life.
By all means, we must learn to tame our responses so as to not al-
low our ‘demons’ to overpower us, so I am not recommending to
become some neurotic asshole who neglects to control his anger
and frustration, but these ‘demons’, ultimately, are not to be si-
lenced, but heard, if you wish to understand your grand battle
which is fought on a grand scale. If you look to the things that
bother and disturb me most... therein will be plainly discovered
the things that have been affected in the wake of my rise unto the
higher paradigms, and when asking “Where can my influence
be felt in the fabric of Existence?” It is not decided by my will.
It’s not like suddenly everyone sings like a damn goat and eats
their oats with ketchup... although I’ve gotta say I’m totally con-
fused after being away for a couple years and then I look out into
society and everyone is talking about social isolation and wear-
ing masks and listening to disco and calling each other ‘goats’
as a complement, hahaha...not that this has anything to do with
propagation... just coincidental strangeness that is simultaneous-
ly hilarious and annoying to me. Anyway, actual existential prop-
agation is directly correlated to these things about which I so of-

ten complained... tortured myself... and can be readily gleaned
from my diaries.
The Law of Orsa can be seen as analogous to the idea of ‘ask and
you shall receive’, and ‘seek and you shall find.’ Spend less time
seeking after answers than is spent shaping and refining the ques-
tion, the quest, the wish. They must be as specific as we can man-
age. Curiosity and desire are not merely motivators which may
propel us forward toward the goals that we keep. These things
are themselves seeds which will sprout into that which we are
after. There is no distinction between beginning and end, ques-
tion and answer, operation and outcome. All these things I call
by one word: orsa. That is how Existence experiences all so-called
progress and evolution in the absence of time and chronology:
through will and relevancy. Ōrsa is Latin for ‘beginnings’, or also
‘undertaking’, and is simply the word that I have opted to use as a
catch-all for deeds undertaken with will and desire, and it there-
fore encompasses all points of the process, including both con-
ception and resolution, which are statedly indistinct within the
context of Aseitism.
My way of communicating, both in-person and textually, tends

to be very ‘meta’, as in I am constantly analyzing what I am saying
and what it says about me as I am saying it, and I’m not sure how
this would appear to others, since it is certainly not among the
commoner conversation styles.
The popular claim that morality and goodness are somehow

contingent on divine law is a most abhorrent idea—one which
is in no way reflected in reality and appears reasonable only
via means of cognitive dissonance and indoctrination program-
ming. Morality and ethics are less related to philosophy, and
even less to religion, than they are to basic psychology and biol-
ogy. Indeed, that which we understand as morality is naught but
a holistic grasp of health and wellness. It makes sense that the-
ists should hostilely oppose the notion that moral excellence is
possible in the absence of god, when their scriptures have, most
ironically, rendered it an impossibility (what with cognitive dis-
sonance, cynical and misanthropic views, perpetual self-abase-
ment and interminable suppression and projection preventing
them from ever achieving a healthy state of being). So of course
they’re going to reject these ideas, when their very foundation
makes moral goodness—as defined by psychological and biolog-
ical factors—an improbability.
That isn’t to say that they can’t put on a good act and behave
toward others with kindness, mercy, hospitality and all of the
traditional virtues; however, I argue that this is distinct from
‘moral goodness’ and instead constitutes an act, even while I ap-
plaud the effort and I think it still has a positive effect on our
world (or the potential for such). The tragedy, however, lies in
seeing others perpetuate this notion that goodness can not be
achieved and must necessarily always be a struggle, requiring us
to deny some darkness bubbling up on our insides, and I firm-
ly reject that notion. I reject it in line with not only my un-
derstanding of what it means to be upright, but I reject it in
line with my own experience and what I know of my own in-
terior. I put forward that, within my current state of mind, it
would be far more difficult to act unscrupulously and unkindly
than the contrary. And it isn’t because I’m some perfect and in-
fallible being, but because both my experience and my under-

standing have brought me to grasp the nature—and thereby the
worth—of health on the holistic level, wherefore it naturally ex-
tends beyond the boundaries of my individual self to encompass
the health of the population, seeing as the health of the individ-
ual is firmly tied to that of others.
Truly, we must work to eradicate the association between
such acts and goodness altogether. The dichotomy of good and
evil which has been imposed upon all our acts has roiled the wa-
ters of sensibility, convincing us to base our acts less on natural
sensibility and more on legalism, and only a population so utter-
ly dissociated from its own needs could ever continue so long un-
der such a fallacious pretense. But I argue, and with great convic-
tion, that one wishing to understand morality must make their
focus psychology and biology.
I find it so odd that, although I’ve given my all and suffered with-
out end to achieve my aim, I look now upon my victory and I
am shocked by how something so great could come so cheaply.
My words will be taken in by the eyes of strangers, yet I just don’t
imagine that anyone will really understand what I am describ-
ing—this outcome that I have landed for myself after years of in-
tensive psychomystical operations. I don’t think that the mind
can even fathom it unless in the case that it has met with the ex-
perience itself (as is essentially the case across the board when it
comes to understanding, I suppose).
There is great dissonance to come from my spiritual victory.
The satisfaction is weighed down by sorrow, and I become angry
at times, unable to understand why I am so alone in my striving
and in my successes. Why does the world not stand beside me
here upon this peak? I was an immature child, dumb and uned-
ucated and... I don’t understand it. I feel myself like some cripple
at the Olympic finish line. I want to be happy, and oh how I want
to celebrate, but I am too damn confused by it all. Clearly I’ve
gone and offered much thought and speculation as to the process
which would answer all these questions, but it doesn’t change my
feelings, nor does it prevent me from wondering ‘what excuse do
you have?’ at the sight of others who have resigned themselves in
the search for something true.
Objectivity, in my view—as in the experience of the greater par-

adigmata (and Existence itself )—is an experience uncompart-
mentalized, whereas subjectivity is more aptly described as the
objective reality being filtered through the likes of particular
needs and expectations: it is not even a distinction of knowledge,
since Existence and Essence are drawing from the self-same pool
of knowledge. Therefore, it is the needs and expectations impart-
ed by the Volens which generates that which is known to us as
subjectivity (and individuality, even). That explains the nature of
our focus, our differentiation. It also explains what occurs when
one is operating on the greater paradigmata, as I have been since
2020 (or so it is my claim). It doesn’t mean that I am now all-
knowing, as nothing, including Existence itself, is all-knowing or
powerful. All-knowingness is not an attribute that exists outside
of our storybooks, and to expect it from our ‘enlightenment’ is
folly. I can at least tell you, from my personal experience, that
need and expectations have dissolved in me to the degree where
I am now seeing reality unobscured by such demands and needs.
Again, it’s not about intelligence. It’s about an absence of needs,
as dictated by the Volens. This has made my final years very pe-
culiar, because I’ve got all of the passion of my person, all of the
intensity and focus, but my focus has expanded as my Volens has
pulled away, leading thence to a very empathetic, selfless state in

which my personal needs are replaced by universal needs. Noth-
ing about who I am or my approach has been lost along the way,
but my sights are no longer upon my individual needs. Without
the fear and need that made up my early existence (until 2020),
it is a very, very different world. So here’s a question that others
may be wondering: what do I think or feel about this change?
After all, it’s not like I’ve been deprived of the part of me which
holds opinions and has feelings. All of my original faculties are
intact. What once was but a spotlight has simply expanded to il-
luminate the whole of my environment, and of course that is go-
ing to have an effect on my emotion. Anyway, for all of the pain
and overwhelm that it brings to experience a dissolution of the
personal and the universal within a world so ill and self-sabotag-
ing, I prefer this way of seeing things over that which I knew pre-
viously. Life feels a lot more real to me now, though it’s difficult
to describe what I mean by that. That sense of disconnection is
gone. Fear is gone. Misanthropy is gone. All of these things left
me at some point around the tail end of my trial, and it’s quite
strange that I am able to say that and for it to be an honest as-
sessment, since these are attributes which made up a significant
part of my life and I was able to shed them so suddenly. It’s even
stranger to me because I wasn’t even seeking to abandon them,
per se, and that’s what I love about the autodidact nature of my
personal psychomystical trajectory, since I didn’t really have any
expectations of what would come of victory. I simply believed
that it existed, I believed that it was necessary and worthwhile,
and I followed the lead of Thummim. This goes in stark contrast
to so many self-professed seekers who, in their ignorance, settle
on a specific idea of what it means to be mature, knowledgeable,
whole, and they will allow that perception to dictate their trajec-
tory—all of which is based on an assumption that they under-
stand the ununderstandable. This not only skews the trajectory,

but it skews the perceived results, especially when working with
abstract aims (as is often the case in this instance), and so people
are wont to prematurely claim ‘enlightenment’ and victory sim-
ply based on some shallow, subjective criteria of these ill-defined
concepts. In my case it was a lot more organic, but also a lot more
strange, and every step of the way was a surprise to me. For in-
stance, if you look at the individual that I was in 2012 it can safe-
ly be said that the guy had no expectation or desire of humbling
himself and committing to altruistic aims. I feel I’m rambling a
bit at this point, but hopefully you understand what I mean to
get across without it sounding too fanciful.
It should be obvious that my Volens is still connected to
some degree or else it is likely that I wouldn’t be here, since it is
also my body. Although I admit that I don’t readily grasp every
aspect of the processes underway. I’ll no longer attempt to deny
that fact... that there are still aspects of all of this that I don’t ful-
ly understand, regarding my current situation, and I am not sold
by the ideas I’ve been given by my partner. Divestment, too, is
a confusing matter which I don’t fully understand—or rather, I
understand it, but perhaps not enough to explain it by analogy
to my audience.
I never called out for anyone to save me. I only asked them to not
set me back further. Even then, in an absence of interference or
opposition, I think I could have survived to see midlife, but the
people just couldn’t turn down the opportunity to gawk at the
wreckage.
A movie idea that came to me in hypnagogia: man gets granted

unlimited wishes, but the reality isn’t as he is expected and he
ends up stuck between the layers of a wafer cookie.
I had a term for this: Omoudnpam, or Omoudnpam Child, or

the Unimpressed Child. My insular and autodidactic approach
left me better able to remain unimpressed by society and adhere
to my disposition. I can’t imagine how difficult it might be for
one living among the masses to even discern their disposition. I
try to step outside of myself when writing these guides, putting
myself in the mind of the general population, though some of
this stuff I just find so difficult to fathom from where I currently
stand. I hardly recall what it is like to be so out of touch with my
disposition, my emotions and my self in general, and I wonder
if I sometimes underestimate the ease with which it is achieved
beyond such specialized and unusual circumstances as those in
which I happen to have lived.
I’ve said it before that I suffer from physical and psychological

withdrawal if I am to go without music for an extended period,
with the typical onset being at about three hours after the last-
played song. Having spent most of my life within my bedroom,
I was able to play music incessantly, and I have, and I do. I cer-
tainly believe that it has contributed to my cinematic and roman-
tic view on existence in that the world unfolds like some music
video around me. I instinctively synchronize many of my actions
to music, from basic movements to typing speed to bites, swal-
lows and orgasms. My way of walking tends to be very loose and
‘dancey’, with frequent 180 degree spins and other movements.
Even after hurting myself, I can’t resist.
At times I want to think that my father has changed, and I will

become so excited and so anxious at the thought. I want one lit-
tle deed to be enough, like I want to erase all of the negativity
from my book so that my family doesn’t have to be known in this
way. I want to be able to share uncensored photos of us all to-
gether, but I have to listen to my body, my mind and the ever on-
going patterns, in such cases. Why do I not show him my mu-
sic? Why does my body begin to shake and tense up when he
says “We need to talk,” or “Oh, by the way...”? Why, after thir-
ty years in this household, do I still not feel secure in the idea
that I will have a home tomorrow? Why do I feel like I need to
prove that I am actually suffering to the extent that I am when I
have never given anyone any reason to believe otherwise? Why
does a wave of anxiety overtake me still, to this day, when I see
that the weekend is approaching? I am not as vengeful as I once
was. Even then, the image of me as some vile vindicator was like-
ly worn in defense of myself, to protect my heart from the pain
of endless betrayals of trust. I always have my eyes open and ears
peeled, waiting for an earnest, unsolicited apology, or some sign
that those who hurt me have acknowledged their wrongdoing.
Yet I cannot be so eager, so desperate for change that I forget or
otherwise minimize how my life was devastated by these persons.
It has taken me a long time to come to terms with the irrespon-

sible and ignorance of my father. I do not feel that I have ever
received even the smallest bit of wisdom from this man who po-
sitions himself to instruct, yet does no such thing. I see him as
a fool. His religion is nihilism wrapped in Sunday dress. It is a
shame. It is a true shame. My entire family, nuclear and extend-
ed, is built of fools with nothing to think and nothing to impart.
And I don’t understand it. My standards aren’t even so high in

terms of what I will accept from others, being that I do not hold
others to the same standards to which I hold myself. I would
have accepted someone who was even moderately curious about
life. I would have accepted someone who was even moderately
self-aware. I would have accepted someone who was even mod-
erately empathetic.*
Sadly, this is not unique to me. Within the modern world, the
victim is often tasked to prove that they did not deserve the evil
that was done to them. It’s a tragedy, but tragedy shall prevail as
long as discrepancy does.
I’ve a larger library of text documents I hope to release to the

public before my departure which includes a more intimate look
at my inner being and my personal psychological development,
such as a document which lists all of the ways in which ‘I am
still immature and in need of growth’, e.g., my inability to take re-
sponsibility for happenings I neither intend nor understand, or
my frequent failure to respect those struggling with such things
as anxiety or introversion due to judgments regarding its un-
severity in comparison to what I both experienced and overcame
in my own life. I’ve a document which lists out the purportedly
common thoughts and emotions that I’ve never experienced, de-
spite knowing many others who have experienced them, e.g., feel-
ing like a failure, not knowing what to do with my life, not be-
ing aware of or capable of discerning my emotional state—all of
which are virtually unknown to me.
My attitude toward sex might make more sense to those who

have been given a glimpse into my teenage years. For while it
may be said that I, myself, was never sexually abused, I was sur-
rounded by it—what with the rape of my girlfriend and the un-
expected pregnancy of one of my crushes—and my sheltered
Christian upbringing left me without the means to fathom or
process it (although maybe it’s not something to be ‘fathomed’
or ‘processed’). That isn’t to imply that my asexuality was ever a
protest or a choice, and the fact that I have never had even a sin-
gle sex dream (by which I refer specifically to intercourse) speaks
for itself, unable to be faked. Yet this took something I didn’t un-
derstand and made it very dark to me, framing it through some
transgressive and ultimately animalistic lens. Clearly I am highly
sensual and I have not sought to hide that fact from the public,
but so will I not hide the disgust that I feel for the animalistic
tendencies of our kind, especially when it sees us hurting others.
Some might think that my church upbringing influenced my
views in some manner, but no one within my family demonized
sexuality outright, despite their conservative views. It was only I
who thought in this way. Apart from that, I never had any direct
experience with sexual abuse or anything of the sort; but all the
pregnancy and rape did leave a very somber mark on my psyche.
It is very visible and very shocking in my writings from that peri-
od, in which sexuality is being used as a trope of horror.
I am not upset that the people who rejected or ignored me don’t

want to be with me. I am upset that there are not more people of
the sort who are attracted to my being and to my undertakings.
The only loss that I have suffered along the way is a loss of hope,
as I have lost nothing in my former (falsely so-called) friends and
intimates. I hope that makes sense, since I find it to be an impor-
tant distinction. It was never the case where I just wanted friends
and was lonely, and those who think that of me are sorely mis-
taken. If I was merely seeking a pizza party I could have had one
going every night of the week. It’s like the idea that that which
truly exists cannot be destroyed or desecrated. We do not mourn
those false relationships and hollow joys that fall away from us,
except for the realization that we had not actually been in pos-
session of something true.
Linearity is forced upon our understanding by virtue of our cog-

nitive limitations, through which we can only take things in se-
quentially. We are limited to that whereon we can focus within
a given moment, from which comes the illusion of time. Really,
that is all: time is a byproduct of our limited focus. So the con-
cept of time only seems to make sense when you subscribe to lo-
cation, as well, although once it is realized that ‘position’ and ‘lo-
cation’ are not determined spatially but gnostically, as in via our
understanding, we become better equipped to grasp at how our
‘focus’ can be increased, surely as we cannot view the world in a
panorama; but when it ceases to be about the capabilities of our
eyes and becomes about knowledge, a change does occur.
The child, as I’ve hereinbefore claimed, is the singular most im-

portant key of personal and spiritual development. And the
child, or rather, what it represents, does not go away when we
‘age’, and so we must not allow the illusion of chronology to di-
vorce us from our needs. Those who maintain an intimate con-
nection with their childly nature will require nothing more to
become Homo Spiritualis, for our childhood in itself is a map,
a manual unto purpose which derives from innate Volens, need
and desire. Our main objective may be described as figuring out

how to integrate our whole falsely so-called timeline, and my
personal way thereto was via egomorphosism. Once we can be all
we are at once, we transcend the illusion of time altogether—but
first we must recognize the importance of doing so. And recog-
nition is not enough in itself, as we must also salvage and satis-
fy the Volens; we must heal and fulfill the child living beneath
the rubble of trauma and worldly dissociation. My bond with my
youthful self has long been a motivating force within my prac-
tice, though not until around 2016-2018 did I begin to consider
it through this lens, like as a veritable piece within the puzzle and
not just an impetus.
In the wake of my trials I ‘integrated’ the paradigms and atti-
tudes of my youth in a way like never before. Something clicked,
overlapping, and I noticed something awfully strange: the first
fifteen years, when overlaid upon my latter fifteen years, demon-
strate a shocking symmetry. The periods of creativity, the betray-
als, the astragones... they are mirrors.
My kindness, my creativity, they were no matter, for my presence

bears an unwelcome urgency: an urgency to acknowledge our
life which is fleeting. The pressure to examine ourselves and our
actions and to live consciously. It’s more than most can bear, and
it saddens me so. Among my infinite confusion, nothing con-
fuses me more than how willingly disconnected people are from
their histories.
I am not one to be content with knowing nothing of a person’s

history or inner psyche—within the context of friendship and
intimacy, I mean—and therefore I cannot stand this widespread
disinterest in sharing our pasts and thoughts with one another,

asking no questions at all. I only want to converse about grief and
healing and trauma and inclinations and examine these things
thoroughly and with all the passionate urgency they require.
That’s all. It seems impossible to find others who are willing,
let alone capable, of examining such aspects of themselves. They
look at me like I am crazy because of my willingness to acknowl-
edge and confront these things.
I find it interesting to look back at old writings and recordings

and hear the early reflections of my modern beliefs and philoso-
phies. For instance, when asked the meaning of existence (at age
twenty), I would confidently answer “To give back to existence.”
Funny how I didn’t even say “the world” or “the people”, as most
would, but specifically “existence.” Similarly, I have long claimed
that the value possessed by an individual is commensurate with
the value which that individual imparts to life.
**It’s not like one day I just decided to be open and immediately
bared all. There was a lot more nuance to the process of opening
up and allowing myself to become so vulnerable. Every year I am
more open than the last. Things which seemed irrelevant then
now seem relevant. Publicizing one file allows me to publicize
something else, creating a sensible gradation. It continues to fall,
like dominoes, until all shame is eventually gone, and until the
whole self has been rendered necessary—every second, every un-
dertaking. It’s so indescribably beautiful and complex. So don’t
despair if you can’t find the nerve to do it all in one lunge.
I am not asocial. I am someone who had his privacy, personal

space and creative ability violated and disrespected extensively as
a child and the ripples of these violations are still being felt and
observed well into adulthood despite all efforts on my part to
overcome.
It is now played as a joke: to feel that one is misunderstood. Sure-

ly, the idea has lost all drama, becoming a shallow characteriza-
tion; a trope. Yet consider the significance of not having your
words, your actions or your being taken as they are. This isn’t
but some ‘emo’ high-school mope and I wish that the claim was
treated with the seriousness that it deserves.
I reject mystery as a human attribute. The thought that even

someone with nothing to say can achieve such mystique via
means of a desperate people is all I must hear to know it is worth-
less.
When I consider myself an occultist I am fundamentally identi-

fying myself as one who believes that the truth will not be hand-
ed to us, as it is not found in plain sight and must be excavat-
ed. Occultism is an approach—a proactive and investigative one
which need not imply stereotypical witchery and mostly implies
a commitment to going beyond the surface of what is seen and
of what is offered unto us, be it by others or by reality itself. And
unlike traditional science which forces us to analyze and inter-
pret all input through the use of a singular system of logic, the
occultists freely analyzes the approach as well as the outcome.
While I want to avoid peddling excess speculation, I have reason

to believe that this may relate to some of what we consider to
be ‘paranormal’ and ‘supernatural’ occurrences, which may be re-
framed as a sort of paradigmatic interference. Surely, that isn’t
to suggest that every creak in the night is the product of such,
though it certainly appears to be the case that cross-paradigmatic
‘ripples’, as it were, do exist. As someone who finds most pur-
portedly paranormal and New Age topics utterly ludicrous, I am
hesitant to even suggest the idea, although it makes sense, in
light of the myriachoron, that these concepts would derive from
something, even if our conclusions be a misconstruction. And
any Essence or Homo Spiritualis creating for such effects will
not be perceived as it is, since their appearance will depend up-
on the understanding/paradigm of the observer, meaning that
even if there was some chance that I, myself, would continue
to interact with this sphere following my divestment, my nature
and appearance would be distorted by the observer’s ignorance.
I would argue that all such occurrences remain within the realm
of the psychological, which is all-encompassing within an ideal-
istic reality and need not be written off supernatural. The fact
that these relate to paradigms of consciousness could also explain
why said experiences are very rarely shared among individuals,
seeing as everyone contains variations in their understanding
and this need not imply that anyone is gifted or otherwise in pos-
session of some special ability that allows them to pick up on that
which others cannot, although this is a pretty slippery slope that
I am talking about here and hesitate to go all in on my position,
even though I do believe that we are on to something significant
here.
I believe that many known religions and philosophies were

founded by what I regard as Inspired individuals and even Idems,
though these individuals, as insightful as they may be, are not
without fail. The perfect truth is not something that is conveyed,
but received, and those who receive the truth via revelation often
end up (justifiably) misled into thinking that their output and all
that they have to say on the matter is also truth, since it derives
from their revelation of truth, while it is being inevitably filtered
through a combination of their subjective worldview, their in-
terests, their experience, their understanding. This is unfortunate
and dangerous and I can see such filthy fingerprints upon every
religion which tell me that someone who saw the truth failed
to grasp the fact that their representation of the truth is only
that: a representation, a simulacrum, a map of greater territories.
Then we end up calling these books ‘infallible’ and becoming so
focused on these self-instated leaders that we fail to focus, in-
stead, on the sights whereon they themselves were focused. In my
youth, as a Christian, I differed from my peers in my willingness
to see Christ as a template, and when he spoke of being the way,
truth and life and whatnot, I didn’t see that as us being asked to
rely and depend on him to carry us over the waves, but to be-
come him, to become the template, for that is the way to God, as
it were—an early reflection of my mysticism. In that same way, I
don’t want to be a mascot of my philosophy. I am not a leader. I
am just a very vocal follower of this way that I espouse. I am de-
voted, though I am fallible. Do not gaze into my eyes, but follow
my gaze, which fixates upon the sun. Do not seek your inspira-
tion from me, but from what inspires me. I just think it would
be a shame if people were so distracted by my person that they
refused to give an honest look at an idea that is bigger than us
all, and I’m willing to lower my face to the dirt if it means get-
ting you to look past me. May there come many in my wake who
build upon what I have created, and may this same humility en-
dure forevermore in association with Aseitism and the Existence
it so venerates: an Existence reliant upon us all.
I have achieved this in the honor of man. I have achieved this

in the name of the nameless ones. I have achieved this for the
very persons who will scoff at my efforts and I dedicate my life to
them also. Yesterday I was here, alone to my own, and today I am
nowhere to be found, but tomorrow I will be everywhere—alive
in all fire.
And in woe I stare out upon your arrogant complacency with

this to say: may the fire of the philosophers divide verity from
falsity and men from dogs. All will come that is due!
And the martyr sings a sad song:

Oh, how could you leave me alone?
Your tears you did not leave with me,
Your kisses you did not leave with me.
Your hands you did not leave with me,
Oh, how could you leave me alone?
Your tears, your kisses, your hands!
How shall I live without you, my soul?
I lie on my bier,
Never to leave it,
My tears come down in torrents,
From my unhappiness, I drink.
Tears fall on my bier,
No one knows another's sorrow,
No one has another's father.

No one has another's mother,
No tears fall for my sake.
I have fallen into my own sad thoughts,
A shadow on my face.
Oh, I will not leave my bier.
The birth of my greatest work! And who am I, among the an-

cients who have passed before me? And who are you, amid the
depths of the infinite among the infinitesimal that will give way
to all creation? Who is anyone at all, amid the uncountable num-
bers of the nonexistent?
A day of calamity and, at the same time, a day of grace and bless-
ing. This day, after so many centuries, after so many eons, will be
the day of my reckoning.
And I held the floodgates of my mind open, letting my Essence

spill out through the dark recesses of being as I spoke the words
that had been sent to me, directed to me by Existence itself. And
so, as of this night, all Existence was forever changed... and so
then, forever altered.
And so with the revelation of that, of my operation, I knew
now that I could never be spoken of, or written of, or known. I
exist in secret, in shame, and in ecstasy, but I exist nonetheless.
I dance and I whirl these days, and I shall soon part to meet, once
more, my “Death.”
Hahahaha.
I lived my life in search of the ultimate origin, the ultimate fi-

nality. The ultimate beginning and the ultimate end are now in
my hand. On this day I will be chastened and questioned and ac-
costed and dealt with as one who will be sent away! I shall be no
more...
[Regarding my book] Consider when your favorite childhood

cartoons are given a special theatrical release; and though the
plots of these films are important in terms of expanding and
moving along the familiar characters, changes to format and an-
imation quality seem to detract in some way from what one has
come to love of the cartoons in question. That’s how this book
feels to me. I’m not a writer. I’m a ranter. And this book has
forced me utterly out of my typical range.
While I have sometimes identified myself as a cynic, especially

with my recurring “The greater the cynic, the greater the saint”
tag line (which really boils down to my saying “Those who ac-
knowledge the problem are best equipped to fight against the
problem,” and not only smacks against all this “defeat it with
love” garbage but also empowers the misanthropes) I would not
identify myself as a standard cynic, if I can even be called a cynic
at all. I do tend to believe that most people, given our current so-
cietal conditions, are incapable of selfless care, concern and love,
in precisely the same way that most individuals are incapable
of executing some crazy sports maneuver or the like: it is not
that it is beyond us, but it does require discipline, which first re-
quires dedication, which first requires desire, which first requires

understanding, which first requires humility, and beyond all of
these responsibilities that rest squarely on the individual, society,
itself, has a part to play in keeping us not only motivated and
incentivized but pointed in the right direction. Fortunately, all
of these things can be taught and learned, yet our current sys-
tem hasn’t made these matters its focus. Humanity is beautiful in
terms of its potential, but what we are seeing when we turn on
our televisions or walk down the street... I dare not call that hu-
manity. True humanity in this world will have you being called
an alien, because it does not answer to the standards of society
which does not seek to service the human soul. Of course I also
wish to stress that I do not believe that any individual, including
myself, is authorized to determine who is and isn’t capable in this
regard; they will be revealed in time by Existence itself.
I haven’t written any updates in a while at this point. It has been

a strange period of time which I may explain in greater detail at
a later point (or not). After having come to grasp the similarities
between my current state of mind and that of a lucid dream, I
found myself better able to manipulate my position, even if there
are still elements to all of this that I cannot quite grasp. My part-
ner advised against it, though I continued on regardless, con-
vinced of my own understanding, or at least convinced that it
was necessary to being able to really deliver my insights unto the
public before my departure. This has caused my health to dete-
riorate rapidly and in ways that I could not have imagined pos-
sible. It’s a very strange limbo that I am in, as if I am pretending
that all is back to “normal.” I’m dreaming again at night. I’m... I
don’t like this. Each night as I fall asleep I apologize to my part-
ner for having gone against her advice, but I continue on in my
attempts to make something of my insights. I’ve been more in-

teractive and communicative lately. I have mixed feelings about
social interaction at this point. All these years I’ve been very
bitter at the world and happy to flaunt my corpse at them, yet
as soon as someone shows me any lasting kindness my mindset
shifts completely to where I will find myself feeling guilty about
my upcoming departure and fearing that it will upset others and
their paths. I can’t really process it. I am trying to avoid process-
ing it, in a sense, though I have to take the well-being of others
into account. There is a sadness to come of it all, and it does come
with its associated difficulties, though ultimately I do not regret
this experience and I am grateful for the kind exchanges that I
have known, few though they are.
I’ve noticed that the manner in which one treats a pet tends to be
a good predictor of parenting style. I’ll never become a parent in
my own right, but in terms of how I interact with my dog, I am
the one who takes him (our current Maltese) out in the daytime
to play with him; the ‘fun uncle’ type. I am the one to whom
he brings his toys most eagerly. I’m not around constantly, but
whenever I am in his presence I’m always showering him with at-
tention, so he knows that I’ll be willing to play or take him out or
whatever else. My main style of interaction is playfully confusing
him... making him think I’m an alien, or an idiot, or that I have
a horn for a voice since he can’t see the horn behind my back, or
hiding behind walls and leaping out at him. I fake sneeze when
he fake sneezes since I heard that that shows them I’m having
fun too. Basically an extended peekaboo mindfuck all the time;
a lot of goofy gestures; only moving towards him when he’s not
looking; charging at him; not sure what kind of an effect that be-
havior would have on an actual child though, and I might have
to chase my approach in that context, haha. They’d have such a

shallow grasp of what is real. Hmm... hahah. I’m very sensitive
and empathetic to animals' needs and don’t really segregate them
from humans or myself. They have needs all the same, so I treat
them as I would want to be treated, not treating them as “pets”
as much as peers, even if that sounds odd. Life is life in my view.
That’s really it. It’s not a protest or stance, since I’m not really
some activist or outspoken “gaaaah-I-love-all-animals” type. My
mind just doesn’t differentiate in those cases. With the dog, it’s
like I’m not around 90% of the time, off doing my own thing,
but when I do come around my attention is 100% theirs and I go
out of my way to make it a special event. If I had a child I would
certainly try to spend a lot more time with them and would nev-
er allow myself to become an absent, workaholic father, being
more likely to end up as a stay-at-home dad who worked within
proximity of the child, but this is how it is with the family dog,
which is the yardstick I am using.
Within my own family system, my father simply sees it as
another part of life. He likes it but no thoughtful investment.
This seems to confuse the dog, as the dog is so trusting of him
and they have their share of fun together, but then he’ll just up
and punish him without an attempt to clarify, as if this, too, is
a natural and unquestioned part of the way that things are. He
essentially refuses to train the dog, or gives up immediately af-
ter the briefest effort is made, so the dog still pisses around the
house after like four or five years and then my father becomes
enraged and punishes the dog by locking it in a room or some
such. Nowadays the dog spends all of his time locked in the din-
ing room until my father gets home from work so as to avoid
accidents. The dog has no idea what’s wrong, and just lives this
crappy existence in a room deprived of its freedom while watch-
ing out the window when, if only my father would have taken
the time to instruct it, all would be well and he would be enjoy-
ing not only a greater freedom but less punishment. If that ain’t
a look into his parenting style then I don’t know what is.
My mother was the worst, always using the dog as a mouth-
piece through which to express and satisfy her own unmet needs.
She would overfeed our dogs until they threw up. She was over-
protective and wouldn’t let them out of her sight, and she would
try to speak for the dogs in ways that didn’t make any sense in re-
ality, while using the dogs’ supposed needs as a means to justify
her own wrongdoings. Prior to her death, most of us didn’t even
get to spend time with this dog as it was always kept under her
computer desk where she sat... by her feet.
My sister abandoned her own dog as soon as something came
up, leaving it in our care. She had a dog for years and they had
all sorts of fun and adventures together and then one day she just
completely neglected it while at college and when her apartment
wouldn’t allow dogs it was just like she forgot all about it, no care
or attachment whatsoever, as if they never had a bond to begin
with.
My maternal grandparents infamously screw up all of their
dogs, coddling them overmuch to where they turn into these
mega-neurotic prissy divas that have to have everything exact
and hate everyone and simply can’t function around other dogs.
They shake and they growl and not much else. It’s always been
somewhat of a joke to us since we don’t understand how they
keep pumping out these obnoxious and anxious pampered
princesses but goddamn if that ain’t saying something. All of
these seem spot-on accurate to me.
I often spoke of the importance of experiencing hardship with-

out my being discolored in the process. Though as much of an
effort as I have put into maintaining my spirit all along the way,
notwithstanding all the challenges I have faced, I worry that the
accumulated trauma and betrayal has caused me to become more
hesitant in my speech, and this has incidentally robbed from my
once-quick wit.
I care too much about my mental and physical well-being to con-

tinue these acts which are not without serious ramifications for
my health—acts which provide zero benefit to my person.
[Regarding society’s changing reaction to those of my type who are

of a more philosophical or ostensibly ‘prophetic’ disposition. “The ur-
gent ones,” and “Those with a message to share” have become but a
narrative device, a meme, a diagnosis, and I wonder how our recep-
tion relates to the dying hold of philosophy on the modern world]
I would honestly prefer the passionate, if superstitious opposi-
tion of yesteryear over the smug, cynical distrust of the mod-
ern internet sitter who will have me profiled and tropified based
on available patterns, and lazily so, within only a few short sen-
tences (or a glance at my attire). I feel that there is absolutely no
point in sharing my thoughts, my findings, when I am only likely
to be written off and filed away under the categories of the day.
Words can not express my disgust with the way we are headed as
a species, and the cynical self-sabotage of the moderns who...
I was essentially led to believe that if I left their [my parents’]

sights I would end up abducted and murdered. Combine this
with the heavy eschatological overtones of my youth and you’ve
got a pretty dark and paranoid outlook which formed not nat-
urally but forcibly. That sort of environment made it really dif-

ficult to know who we were and what we could handle. It’s no
wonder why both my sister and I made terrible decisions right
out of the gate. We lacked experience and knowledge. I was never
let out of their sight in my youth and told all sorts of horrible sto-
ries which made me too paranoid and apprehensive to even go
to the public restroom by myself until I was an adult. I remem-
ber being eighteen and asking a friend to accompany me to the
restroom. We were at Target. His response was an amused disbe-
lief, “Haha, what?!” It was only at that point that I started go-
ing off alone. I felt silly. I have yet to ever use a urinal, but that’s
a totally unrelated story. It wasn’t helped by the fact that nearly
every time I ventured off on my own I would have some strange
men trying to lure me into their car, only seeming to confirm all
that I was told. The cops were brought in a couple times due to
the creepy and suspicious acts of these people, likely pedophiles
in most cases. I don’t even know if I’ve ever shared some of those
stories. See, I was a walking target for that sort of stuff in my teen
years due to my long hair, eyeliner and nail polish.
I feel that there is this perception of me that I am some negative

and obsessive individual, or that my self-analytical nature is the
product of that. I don’t imagine that others see it as this won-
derful, enlightening and fulfilling practice, but will say to them-
selves “Look at Tendon, going on and on.” They call it over-
thinking. They call it [insert trendy derogation here]. It’s unfair,
I tell you. And I feel that no matter what I say, it is doomed
to be viewed as negative: a testament to just how distant we
have grown from the reality of emotion and thought. It’s har-
rowing to actually listen to others when they speak, and to re-
alize that almost nothing is ever in reference to one’s own char-
acter or make-up, with almost all points of conversation revolv-

ing around ‘what we ate today’ or ‘how was work’ or other things
that we are ‘doing’ as opposed to what we ‘are’. That is so bizarre
to me. In my world, the days and hours and years are virtually in-
distinct, and my focus is on these timeless, ‘big picture’ matters
which take in my life as a whole rather than focusing on this lit-
tle, temporary window of the day.
Here in the twilight of my earthly existence I lay prostrate and

weeping, wondering how could it be that I have found some-
thing that made all of my toiling worthwhile; wondering how
could it be that a treasure so grand actually awaited me at the end
of a long, dark route which I traveled all my days in the absence
of maps, markers and assurance withal; and how could it be that
such truths were entrusted to a child such as I, unschooled and
deprived. I want to say that I believed in this outcome, but I
don’t know if that’s the most accurate way of framing it, since I
was never actually assured that I would be victorious, though I
was convinced that this was the path I was to take, and whether
it brought victory or tragedy, it was my path to take.
My greatest fault lies in my inability to pace myself. This most

significant flaw in my nature lies at the root of nearly every diffi-
cult situation in which I would ever find myself.
My songs aim to capture a moment rather than to make a state-

ment. It is an objective only worth chasing if one intends to im-
provise: to accept the initial result as the worthiest outcome.
In many ways, the abstract has always been more real to me than
the physical, making it fairly easy to follow along with extreme
moralistic and idealistic stances, a la asceticism.
Will I be regarded as the philosopher, the mystic, the explorer

that I am or will I forever be framed as a poor child who simply
‘doesn’t get it’...? I have no hope at this point of being perceived
as I am. On the other hand, I am accepting of that fact: to be a
feral child among scholars, that will be my legacy, and this new
archetype will be received like bloody tongues.
It is very difficult to say what I need to say when I can already

hear it being mocked, misconstrued and stolen from its context
within my mind. Keep wondering, then, why I’ve such a defen-
sive style of writing.
I have thousands of dream entries I’d like to sift through; thou-

sands of video recordings and voice recordings; hundreds of old
poems from the time of my first astragon. A lot of it is inferior
in quality, at least on an artistic level, though it saddens me that
I cannot get around to releasing everything, even if it goes with-
out an audience.
Truth be told, I’ve already turned my attention to the next writ-

ing project in sequence, which will be a more obvious collabora-
tion between my partner and I.
It’s all just barely worth it—barely—by the merest sliver; but that
is the nature of the process, and so is it my nature.
I have described this ostensible realm as a temple: the meaning

beyond the representation. Those things with which I interact
are meaningful for reasons beyond that which their physical ap-
pearance dictates.
I have shared a lot of videos and photos on my public account in

the interest of showing my reality in full, yet in the end I expect
the people to be too shallow to really grasp the multidimension-
ality of life. To use an example, I have these videos in which it
depicts my father and I getting along, laughing, having an enjoy-
able time, and I hesitated to post them, as I wonder if that would
undermine my testimony, my story, and incidentally cause me to
look unreasonable in my claims (regarding his failure as a father
and his inherent coldness)—not because these videos in any way
contradict said claims, but because of the inability of the human
mind, in most cases, to avoid polarization. It’s highly important
to me that I present the whole picture and not just those ele-
ments which clearly enforce the narrative which I have put for-
ward. Continuing with the same example, it wouldn’t make sense
to present my father only as aggressive and unidimensional since
if that were the case, it would have never wounded me so deeply
to have his nature revealed in time.
There is also the fact that I don’t think anyone would readily
expect my family to be so faultsome, if all is to be based on ap-
pearances—a quirky, Christian family. The population needs to
wake up to the reality that trauma doesn’t always appear like

bloody knives. And if you can’t see that, then my story is not for
you.
One will be hard pressed to find any individual in recorded his-

tory who has sacrificed more to create, as you must not only add
together the severity of my condition in its many terrible facets
but also my sheer prolificacy. Each day I create, and each day it
puts me in a place of such weakness and constriction that I strug-
gle for breath. Yet this is not just some stupid “suffer for your
art” sensationalized nonsense and it pisses me off because my life
would be more miserable if I lacked an avenue of expression, but
let that not discount the sheer and abominable severity of that
which I must contend with in each instance that I simply wish to
put down a paragraph to paper. I dearly wish that I contained a
better, more medically-informed understanding of the mechan-
ics of my circumstances so as to create a more tangible image,
since the fact that my condition is, to my knowledge, without a
name unfortunately makes for a very vague scenario. With all of
the information I have publicized, I only hope that I will be vin-
dicated by those who follow after me.
I only wish that I had more time to sit with these ideas. Every-
thing has come to me in this blizzard of insight and it has not
settled down since the conclusion of my operation. It is not that
I am overwhelmed. On the contrary, it brings me great joy and
excitement; yet I feel like I am not being given the chance to in-
cubate a more profound take on it all. [Aseitism]
My relationship with death is surely a strange one. It’s never been

but some distant probability to me. Death is my neighbor, send-
ing me messages through the walls and keeping my celebrations
in check. Death is my lover, eager to touch me and devour me
as only it can. There is not a part of me, body or soul, that has
not been touched and turned by the spite of death. And the day
in which I finally give in thereto will be the most surreal of all
experiences I have known, though not for the commoner rea-
sons known to man. My whole life, my whole kingdom has been
erected with the aim of stalling death. My actions, my identi-
ty, my philosophy, everything is built to deny the place of death
and to fortify my will to live, my survival instinct. Every hour
of every day for the past fifteen years I have dedicated to resist-
ing its calls. I am constantly keeping up with myself on how I
feel about having not died sooner, and all of the benefits of stick-
ing it out longer on this earth. It is most difficult from a creative
perspective, since not a day goes by in which I do not produce
what I consider to be meaningful and creative works that are
then mixed in with my greater and ever-growing asterism. Each
week I look back on the previous week, saying “Wow, I am so
glad I didn’t die last week or else all of this wouldn’t have come
about and I can’t imagine my body of work without this crown-
ing piece.” It’s been especially weird since coming into the influ-
ence of a greater paradigm, since now the fire is just pouring out
of me and every hour reveals a new crown, a new epiphany, and
I have only to stay watchful in order to experience it. My abili-
ty to access all of my thoughts, and my ability to draw objective
insights from the likes of Existence itself I am finally in that cov-
eted position for which I have labored all my life, and now that
this insight is mine, it is my time to go. I do not fear death and
what it represents since I know myself to be a part of Existence
and the multitudinous truths which make up our experience of
consciousness. My Intension has already been drawn out, and my

being has mixed like joyful tears in an endless ocean. It is simply
the thought of entering a door that I have kept locked and barred
all my life. There is a surreality to it; and perhaps one should ex-
pect a surreality to come of death in any case, but...
It is the thought of laying down that punctuation mark, say-
ing “Okay, I’ve had enough,” or “I’ve done enough.” It is so pro-
foundly strange. I have spoken at length on the matter with my
partner, and it hasn’t always been easy to do so. The idea of plan-
ning out every little detail of your departure... it’s not so com-
mon, is it. Most simply go through life hoping for the best, bow-
ing their heads to the sexiest saint, and then they die. I spent
fifteen years essentially building a bridge to the stars and now
I’m sitting here picking out the clothes I’ll be wearing and the
music I’ll be playing when I finally make the journey. Would I
have preferred to experience it in the way that the standard in-
dividual experiences it? In other words, would I have preferred
to go through life thinking nothing of my mortality until the fi-
nal confrontation came and I was caught with my pants around
my ankles...? I actually prefer it as I experienced it, despite any
discomfort it may have caused along the way. That is simply the
price that I paid for the Intension which is all-important in this
life.
The empathy that I contain within my person has exceeded the

bounds of what is viable in society and among men of such di-
minished control and self-awareness. It’s not a good place for
me—here. I am not authorized to express what I feel. It would be
inappropriate, the love more than the hate. It is like being an an-
imal lover in an abattoir. It brings me to despair and no amount
of tears can change anything.
Again, I must acknowledge that my coverage of death (specifical-

ly as it relates to my metaphysical beliefs) is relatively lacking, at
least in comparison to what I understand of it all at this point.
This is due, in part, to the advice of my partner, who has urged
me to avoid saying too much on the topic, lest it amount to
perilous misconstruction. Although I have avoided a straightfor-
ward explanation, the percipient reader should be readily able to
discern all such information from the various statements I’ve al-
ready made. I keep quiet not to conceal a nasty secret; it is not
a nasty reality at all, but I will say that the reality of death dif-
fers considerably from how we have learned to see it, and any at-
tempt to bridge that gap in understanding is liable to invite com-
parisons which may or may not appear to undermine the actual
process. In other words, I don’t want to end up saying something
like “Oh death? It’s nothing but the x. It’s nothing to be wor-
ried about,” and then end up creating for this perception among
my readers which causes them to disregard death as a concept,
whereby they potentially endanger themselves and those around
them. I am not going to say that death is an illusion, as if it
is some inconsequential and uneventful occurrence. That which
we regard as death represents an authentic and meaningful hap-
pening which deserves all of the respect that it is given, if not a
greater degree of respect; however, like I said, it is also unlike we
have come to view it, and my understanding of the greater func-
tion thereof has left me without fear of death (although that isn’t
to pretend that I’m not still quite anxious and curious about it
all, as one should naturally be when they are about to undertake
any meaningful transition).
It is helpful to think of Existence like the sun, while Essence

comprises innumerable little Earths. We, like Earth, can enter in-
to the solar orbit, where we get to experience its properties, such
as light and warmth, yet we are not the sun (or, we do not “ex-
ist”). Though unlike the commoner mystic will have you to be-
lieve, we are not, ourselves, the sun.
It is commonly claimed that ‘no one chose to exist’. Quite a

philosophical problem we have here... except that I don’t believe
it is accurate, for it assumes that awareness (and an ostensible
embodiment) is tantamount to Existence, when in actuality this
awareness has been granted to us so that we may make such a
determination of our own volition. It’s really just a matter of se-
mantics, in the end, though it means something significant for
the philosophy in question.
As I’ve grown sicker and sicker, my beloved has become more

and more timid, having less to say about my projects. I hardly no-
ticed it for the first while as I was phasing rapidly between mor-
tal agony and pauseless laboring. She eyes me from her nearby
spot, and if she finds that I am pushing myself too hard or oth-
erwise failing to mind my physical limits, she will pull the tablet
from my hands, lest I undergo yet another unmanageable swell
of symptoms that leaves me pulling at the veins and muscles in
my neck like a ripcord to spare me of the suffocation.
One day, bright and windy, as I was preparing to leave the
garden I asked to know what she thought of my texts and what I
was doing. After all, I was curious to know if she saw it as a fool’s
errand to attempt something as such, which is not even liable to
be understood in full by the masses. Her response brought me to
tears, as she seemed so convinced of the worth of what I was do-

ing and wanted so badly for me to finish my work, though she
was terrified of doing anything that might encourage me to ne-
glect my condition, seeing me deteriorate further, and this pre-
vented me from knowing of her excitement with what I was do-
ing. She was fearful of clouding my judgment, as she wanted me
to be attuned to what I could handle and when to leave and
didn’t want me to push myself, so she was wary of encouraging
my projects overmuch despite her own level of investment there-
in.
My experience of this world was overwhelmingly negative and

I struggle to find even a single good thing to say about it all if
not for the sheer potential that I see when looking out. The peo-
ple are sick. The atmosphere is foul. And my greatest efforts did
not amount to friendship, respect or belonging. I leave willingly,
both arms folded, wanting nothing more to do with this sphere.
Though I do not regret that I labored every moment until my
very end in my attempts to bring to the world something of val-
ue, and to establish a new precedent, a new paradigm, via my
acts. I do not regret caring so much about the welfare and po-
tential of the people. I only wish that I existed in a place or time
in which humanity knew to value itself and we didn’t wander so
aimlessly in search of a truth that stands bare before us all.
Though even where there appears to exist valid evolutionary rea-

sons at work behind my inclinations, that is surely not to un-
dermine the authenticity of my aggression (and potential for de-
struction) and only confirms that the ‘active danger’ stems not
from basic matters of anger or self-control but from egoic needs

and philosophical substructures.
Do not write others into your story who will not write you into
theirs. Sentimental ties are established via the perceived relevan-
cy of a person, place or thing within our lives. Those who deem
us to be highly relevant to their person will be most apt to nur-
ture the bond and to uplift us, as well as least likely to betray and
destroy us. More than that, they are most likely to be willing to
work on a relationship when issues arise. All occurs on a spec-
trum, and there are always exceptions, so don’t take it so literally
that you fail to exercise your discernment, but I find that it works
as a general rule (especially as a means to reveal to you all of the
false or worthless relations in life).
Laws, routines, methodologies—all these things come about to

aid us in completing a goal by their ability to put us in the proper
mindset, yet they can also do the opposite, and all that set-up
can rob us of something authentic and inspired. So many will sit
around, saying to themselves “I truly wish to feel more connect-
ed to x, but I am in no mood to roll out the yoga mat...” or “I am
not of the mind to x.”
I do not meditate. I do not take drugs. I do not read books.
As I see it, the only essential ingredient is passion, is fervor, is
impetus. You want as few mandatories as possible; as few things
standing between your skin and theirs. In that way it cannot be
taken from you and there exists no illusion of separation.
I have been wanting to make an update for quite some time, since
there have been some notable developments which are not re-
flected in the narrative of Clyssus of Man. While the the existing
narrative is not false in its portrayal of events, it fails to account
for my experience after the year 2020. The deviation occurs as
I was preparing to wrap things up and divest from my Volens,
which I had initially planned on carrying out following the com-
pletion of the abovementioned book. My experience of “existen-
tial propagation” left me somewhat rattled and also incentivized
me to improve my contribution before leaving. This led to some
notable conflicts as I attempted to adjust my paradigmatic bal-
ance in a way that might allow me to achieve a sort of mixed
state: a return to my old way of life while keeping my new under-
standing—a very strange request in consideration of the fact that
all returns to understanding. To these ends I employed a tech-
nique utilized during lucid dreams which I have often used to
stabilize my dream after becoming overly aware of my physical
body and nearly waking up. I only wished to do this long enough
to tidy up my legacy and leave it to the people, although my part-
ner was not in favor of this (though it has since been learned that
she misunderstood what I was trying to accomplish) and this saw
her bring in a third individual, who was mentioned briefly to-
ward the end of Clyssus of Man. The two of us had met previ-
ously and in the manner that was recounted within the book, al-
though at that point he seemed closed off to working with me in
this state. Also, it was the book which I was handed in that en-
counter which actually introduced me to the idea of existential
propagation, although Clyssus of Man attributes this revelation
to my partner instead.
In the wake of my ‘meltdown’ he was essentially called in to
oversee the situation, which my partner felt had exceeded her
abilities, as she is about as agreeable as I am and isn’t comfort-
able killing my visions and inspirations even when she worries

about my health. So the man was brought in as a third vote, so
to speak, to oversee the situation and to aid me with the comple-
tion of my projects so that we could get all of this wrapped up
as soon as possible... especially since my so-called ‘paradigmatic
meddling’ led to some extreme upticks in vulnerability and re-
sulted in a lot of the medical emergencies from late 2020 and
onward as I had toyed with my understanding in a way that sti-
fled some of my recently acquired immunities, or that is what
seems to have occurred. My health deteriorated significantly at
this point. I had already been attempting to codify Aseitism for
some months by then but had reached a standstill, and this indi-
vidual with whom I was now working was not afraid to kick my
ass and tell me when I’m getting hung up on the wrong points or
that my exposition was becoming more self-justificatory and less
honest as a result. This was enormously helpful to me and I am
thankful for his aggressive approach—aggressive in comparison
to what my partner offers (which is not meant as a slight towards
her since I appreciate her nature very, very much, without which
so much of what I have accomplished would not have been possi-
ble). He also provided some extremely valuable insights into my
exposition of Aseitism which I may get around to sharing even-
tually. In short, he really shifted my way of viewing it all by giving
me a new perspective on its (or rather, my own) strengths, which
came as a surprise to me, since I view him as a highly rational in-
dividual, being more stereotypically ‘science-minded’ than I, my-
self, and yet he had some things to say about the emotional and
‘personal’ nature of Aseitism, or my way of delivering its message,
that brought a tear to my eye and really gave me a second wind.
For months I continued working on that project as my
health deteriorated at a rapid pace. I would lose my ability to
write for weeks, sometimes months at a time due to the strain
that it was pointing in my throat via my hands. At this point

it was a three-person project and that really made matters a lot
more balanced in terms of perspective. I tried to have all loose
ends tied up and projects completed by my thirty-third birthday,
but in the month of April I incidentally resurrected my child
project, Comprachicos, and like so I ended up taking on another
massive endeavor in a time when I really shouldn’t have. The two
with whom I had been working theretofore didn’t have as much
of a say or investment in this particular project, so I hit some-
what of a wall and began spending more time surveying the so-
cial landscape. A couple of the individuals who had been follow-
ing my music over the years saw my increased activity online and
reached out to me, and after years of being almost completely cut
off from society, I began maintaining social correspondences. It
all felt very, very strange at first, especially given all that I had just
gone through and not knowing how much I was willing to di-
vulge of my circumstance.
I have developed a very close and brotherly bond with an in-
dividual by the name of Wyatt with whom I have corresponded
daily over the past several months, often for hours at a time. The
two of us have much in common, and he has been an enormous
encouragement to me in this time as I struggle to stay motivated.
His whole family seems to have embraced me, and I feel a fond-
ness for the lot of them that is honestly quite alien to my expe-
rience of this life. There have been days where I have been strug-
gling with my health and worried that I can keep it up no longer,
and his mother would reach out to me with words of love and
kindness. It’s all so touching to me—an experience that I have
not known. I didn’t anticipate all of this coming at this point in
my life, and while there is certainly a bit of bittersweetness to it
all due to my condition and the implications thereof, as well as
the associated limitations, I am grateful that I could know such a
friendship and for what it has done for my aching heart. Though
after all of the time and attention that I’ve given to documenting
the negative relations of my life it feels a sin to be saying so little
of these experiences which have come along to subvert the nega-
tivity that I have known. I suppose that I see my personal myth as
having concluded with my operation and so I have really neglect-
ed to account for all that has occurred since—a surreal interstice,
though my most productive period overall. If it is already too late
to undo the bodily effects of three decades of alienation and sal-
vage my living experience then I will ask for my audience to di-
rect all care and compassion that they might have otherwise giv-
en to me on to Wyatt, willing that he should have a more satisfy-
ing and uplifting experience than I ever did.
A surreal time it has been, and part of me is upset to feel that I

am ‘sabotaging my myth’ by choosing to stick around and work
on such seemingly mundane projects when it might otherwise
appear anticlimactic, though I think that that is an apt reflection
of the person that I’ve become; and I am willing to spill my own
blood day after day if, on these days, I am able to provide my
species with a more useful and impactful offering—roundabout
though these offerings might sometimes appear to the glancers.
In addition to Comprachicos, I have begun multiple auxil-
iary projects—many of which I see as connecting directly or in-
directly to the aforementioned collective. In the span of only a
couple months I have laid the foundation for nearly a dozen in-
dividual ventures which, with the proper support, I expect will
change our social landscape for the better. Unfortunately, ‘prop-
er support’ remains a wild card and, thus far, has been what I
would say is insufficient to not only keeping this project alive but
keeping me from feeling that my continued investment in this
sphere is worth it, given the high stakes against which I am per-
petually grappling.
2023 update: after a year spent involving myself in the sociopo-

litical realm, I have fixed my sights back upon the ongoing
process of disidentifying from the Volens. Part of me had hoped
that I could spend some time tying up loose ends and that the
sense of completion would eventually be enough in itself to
weaken the last remaining filaments of my volential paradigm.
While it is true that I feel in me a sense of satisfaction with my
body of work, feeling finally able to say of myself that I am at
peace with the weight of my offering, it is also the case that my
attachment to this paradigm goes beyond that of some responsi-
bility to the population. I will soon be undertaking what will be-
come my final recorded ritual, called The Opening of the Right
Eye of the World. It is alluded to in the closer of Clyssus of Man,
so you shouldn’t think that I speak of something disparate, al-
though I have been very vague in my explanation, especially due
to my wanting a simpler, more sentimental ending to my book.
To be clear, there is nothing untrue about my portrayal, although
it neglects all mention of what is actually taking place. It also ne-
glects to account for a little scheme I have constructed which will
effectively close out the ritual with a raging fire to consume my
body, along with my underground living space, although I have
set it up so that it will only occur in the event of a successful ritu-
al—part of a compromise reached with my partner who, by now,
must be absolutely fed up with this emotional roller coaster.
Think back to what I described as the “second body” in 2019,

which relayed to my ability to sense the development of my
Intension (which constituted a second assignation beyond my

Volens).
This is sometimes known as the Ouroboros Effect, which speaks

to the occasion in which the idealist and the ideal come to form
a closed system and create a self-nurturing feedback loop. Limu-
vially speaking, it refers to any instance in which, by recognizing
our innate potential for growth, one comes to rely upon the self
as they would a hero, a savior, and not in a manner which de-
notes an absence of judgment, but in a manner which manages
to self-regulate the process by creating for an infinite ‘audience-
performer’ loop which leads to rapid, honest growth on the part
of the individual (as the audience desires to take pride in the
performer, whereas the performer desires to impress the audi-
ence). We create for this effect by presenting people not with
photographs, but with mirrors—so to speak—in which they may
see themselves.
In these cases, one’s dependence upon extrinsic motivation
is diminished and projections are largely nullified. Our inner
development then becomes far less precarious, as not only is it
no longer attached to changeable environments, but we depend
even more upon this system as we stumble, and self-development
continues at an accelerated, internally-motivated pace which can
hardly be threatened by extraneous interferences. This, as I see it,
is the key to the fullest self-realization and it takes its name from
the belief that the ouroboros—a popular symbol seen within
ancient alchemical manuscripts—has been widely misconstrued
and taken as a symbol of infinitude when in fact it has referred to
such a process all along (with the act of ‘biting one one’s own tail’
referring to the ‘higher’ and ‘lower’ components of the self meet-
ing through committed aspiration, although we know, via Orsa,

that head and tail are one object).
If you haven’t noticed by now, the contents of this text, which

I have fit under the umbrella of The Dissolving Path, are not in
what you might call a proper sequential order, being pasted in
carelessly and at random. This may result in some confusion,
with certain updates and details being followed directly by an
earlier entry which directly contradicts what I had to say (or
seems to). For example, I might speak of the fact that I have
been recently cultivating friendship with likeminded individuals,
while the very next paragraph may feature a tortured rant going
on about how I’ve never had any friends. The Dissolving Path
spans 2019 and 2022 (although it is concentrated around
2019-2020 from the period immediately preceding the events of
Clyssus of Man and aligns itself with my time in the Ashlands
while also containing a fair deal of overflow from the Martyr-
dome) and you must mind the disorderliness—a disorderliness
which is not entirely without point and contributes to what I
hope will be an apt simulation of the manner in which my mind
operations, jumping around from frame to frame with desperate
inconsistency.
Have your symbols, and know them well, but let nothing be
written off as impersonal or irrelevant to your experience of life.
[From an unpublished post regarding Aseitism] I have sung songs

and I have mixed colors. I have written countless texts in the
hopes of providing the public with rare and genuine insights into
human nature. Yet I am foremostly a mystic, and for two decades

I have labored night and day in the pursuit of understanding:
an autodidactic drawn to the mysteries of the human mind, the
nature of Existence and the divine—whatever that might mean.
Spurred on by a profoundly personal vision involving a flaming
candelabrum and an encounter with what I took to be my ‘future
self ’, I was only a child when I set off on the dissolving path, and
the nature of my restrictions in that period would contribute to
the decision that would come to define my practice: deciding
that I would isolate myself from all the world’s ideas, relying
not upon learning for my understanding, but upon unlearning.
I have maintained the same set of ideals for all this time as I fol-
lowed after my childhood goal. It was an odd goal; a goal that
no one understood. A goal that I hardly understood, myself. In
the simplest of terms, I willed to become the man I saw in my
vision. In the beginning it was really that simple, because at that
age I was so disturbed by what I saw going on around me—the
meaninglessness, the monotony, the anosognosia—and I wanted
nothing more than the assurance that there was another way, and
that I would somehow find it for myself. Yet I had no idea what
that meant, and I surely didn’t realize what it would entail. A
quick internet search will tell you that these past two decades, for
me, have been anything but normal, and not in ways that are like-
ly to strike one as pleasant; but in my life of striving I have found
all that I was seeking (and so much more), and after some initial
hesitation, I have taken on the challenge of organizing my body
of mystical insights into what has come to be known as Aseitism.
A philosophy, a paradigm, a doctrine: however it will go on to
be classified, it is the culmination of all that I have gleaned in
my decades as an experimental mystic, illiterate and alone, and I
have worked diligently all my days to achieve exactly this. And
from all that I am saying, you would think that I have come up-
on something complexly profound, yet I find it more accurate to

say that I have come upon the simplest answer of all.
The following is by no means a complete, let alone formal
dissertation, appearing more like a compilation of stray bits and
pieces to be used as a reference by them who will continue after
me; and among its contents you will find an overview, a glossary
of terms, a point-by-point comparison between the practical
nontheism of Aseitism and the likes of the religions and creeds
to which we have grown so accustomed, and various practical
suggestions on how to develop and maintain the meaning in our
lives (drawing from my own personal systems and mythopoeic
methods which I have developed with care and risk). I also ex-
pect to be editing and adding to the text little by little over the
coming weeks or until my sand is wholly depleted.
It took me a very long time to work up the nerve to break
down my insights in a manner that is both presentable and di-
gestible, and I almost declined to attempt it at all, aware that I
open myself up to the ire of the religious population due to my
approach which does not shy away from criticizing the preva-
lent doctrines of the day. Yet it is in my commitment to doing
the most with what I’ve been given that has me attempting what
should simultaneously come to be regarded as the most momen-
tous and controversial of all my efforts.
I thank you all who have taken the time to consume my
work, and I wish that every one who gives of their time to these
words will benefit greatly therefrom, for though the nature of my
works was ever personal, even to the point of seeming unrelat-
able, it has been my experience that one can only reach so deep
into the realm of the personal before grasping the universal.
Since a lot of my work has been copyrighted via formal channels,

I thought that I would make known my views and terms re-
garding any potential adaptations of my work in the wake of my
death. I welcome the creation of any adaptation of my works as
long as it takes no liberties with the story. There is more than
enough material to work with without adding on. I have shared
with the public everything from my daily diet and wardrobe to
medical symptoms to physical tics and sleeping positions, among
a thousand things more. I understand that little alterations may
be necessary simply to fill in voids and/or improve the flow, and
all of that is understandable just as long it does not alter the sto-
ry, as I said. I am admittedly unknowledgeable in regards to this
type of thing, and so I don’t know exactly what I should be cov-
ering and so I am only speaking my preferences.
If I only had more time I would have sought to release a collec-

tion of my works, or several, including the Traumaturgy drafts,
the online log 2017-2019, The Dissolving Path, An Introduction
to Aseitism and other write-ups contained within my extensive
library. I welcome those who wish to publish and preserve these
unreleased works on the condition that they remain faithful and
respectful, and I expect my audience to see to it that any adap-
tation or representation is faithful and respectful to the original
materials as such.
I’m all for having Clyssus of Man published via more wide-
spread channels, as well (along with my other works). I purpose-
fully declined to release a self-published physical edition in the
hopes that the absence of a physical edition would increase the
likelihood of having it picked up and printed by a more stable
press which can turn my writings into a beautiful work and keep
it in circulation. I don’t claim to understand the logistics of it all.
I know it’s a complex situation given my mortality and the fact

that I have zero representatives/people to speak on my behalf,
but hopefully I’ve made my position clear, and hopefully this is
helpful. If you can’t already tell, I care very much about the abil-
ity of my works to circulate in my absence, and anyone who as-
sists me in this effort shall be given my utmost gratitude.
If our failed system should steal forty years from my precious

lifespan, then I will labor all my remaining hours to bring the
population forty years nearer to its deliverance from that system.
This collection of entires, though it may be viewed as little more

than the diary of the traumatized, is more rightfully viewed as a
vivid portrait of my onliest Volens, and an awareness of this de-
tail shall prove valuable to those who recognize the implications.
Why else do you think I would have bothered to release all of
this?
Vomit comes as naturally as tears to me, and I am like a man in

a subway who can’t bear to sit, who can’t bear to stare, who can
only sway, bob, boil.
This is not something I’ve shared openly since I do not expect

that most will know how to correctly interpret the meaning of
such a sentiment, seeing contrivance where there is only inten-
tion. Yet there are certain realizations that will only be accessi-
ble by them who opt to look at my story, by which I mean to
say my lifetime, with the knowledge that all things, from even
the most absurd and incidental, or seemingly so, were carried out
with intent. So spake Steulugalnemraiant unto the exigura, “I
know what I do.” May this not go overlooked as another para-
graph among hundreds like it: in here hides an asp.
For it is said that I have kept this singular detail to myself like
the last candy, that it does bellow the name I cannot reveal. Yea,
this author’s name, oh author. And they will know, then, the de-
gree to which I control my fate. And they will not understand, as
it is not in them to understand these things that call upon holy
motive. The last name in the list of names belongs thereto. But
the ear of man will not understand what it hears, for it hears the
footsteps and believes it a heartbeat. The eye of man will not un-
derstand what it sees, for it sees the lynx and believes it a man.
And the masses will not behold my form, which is formless like
water, and like water they will come at me with dishes and walls
and I will be contained by them, taking the shape of their onli-
est ignorance and restricted capability. Thus I am come and I am
called as I am needed and man will not find understanding inso-
far as man does not understand that I am a book: I am a book
containing all things, and I am a book that says nothing with its
pages unless unto the exigurae.
My Existence, Our Existence

This is the night
My fate: it illuminates. It flickers. It bathes my space and all that

I own, or all that I have amassed through the privilege of Ex-
istence. This fate I have written with the hand that writes all
things. This fate I have written with the hand by which was writ-
ten all mine acts. Every twinge and twitch and choke of my life-
time shall sit and stand in agreeance as my corpse catches fire on

this night divine.
You saved my soul,

Beneath the green moss of a hidden tree,
Oh, yet what shall I give you in return?
I have but a tearful heart.
...
You left me your lips,
Your kisses have stayed with me,
...
You left me your wings,
In my heart they are always new,
...
You left me your hair,
Beneath a sky of silver rays,
...
Oh, you who caresses your own cheeks,
Oh, you of the hair flowing down from your head,
You, full of sweat from your labors, take leave
Of your masculine and feminine harmony!
When spring flowers will bloom again,
There will grow but one flower.
...
Cheer up your youth.
You left for me a white willow tree,

For verses of flaming songs,
...
I was brought to you and have grown fond of you,
I will undress you!
On the eve of all joys which together we will have,
I will kiss you!
Now I will call you,
As the blue hour has called me back.
And the white willow has allowed me this memory,
When will you return to me?
How to make my tears cease?
I wept both bitter and sweet,
...
Arms of iron dance for me,
The earth is red with blood so sweet,
...
I left the garden of my childhood,
I reached the vault of human suffering,
...
I left the desert and the mazes,
To experience a bond which does not depend upon fantasy,
Oh, yet what could I give you in return?
...
You left me your flower-bed,
Two summers and two autumns like the same,

Oh, yet what should I give you in return?
...
You scattered rose-blooms on my grave,
They will bloom forever unending,
Oh, yet what could I give you in return?
...
Warm-eyed bride,
Do not be too swift to betray me,
Go on your way,
The light comes again,
But it is different from that which you saw.
Evening comes again,
Into your lap I sink.
Oh, my beloved, oh, let me die!
Look at me, you will not see me dead:
From my bier I rise,
Oh, let me die, let me flower!
Beneath is my bier,
My blood will rinse me,
On my bier!
Look at me, you will not see me dead.
...
I vow that I will never weep,
I will not break in grief,
Whatever path I will follow,
You will always be my peerless glory.
And when I die I will not be rent asunder,
I will remain still with you,
I smile, I love my fate,
Only you, for you it is thus.
My domus spans as far upward as my ecstasy and as far down-

ward as my agony, and should you fall within bounds of my ex-
periences then you have agreed to know me. And I will be your
audience who cheers for your victories and cries for your losses,
though your senses may not recognize me, like my senses in life
did not always recognize the presence of those who cheered and
wept for me.
Know that I am proud of you all who find a means to grow
where it is easier to stagnate. Know that I am proud of you all
who find a means to dance where it is easier to sleep. Know this:
my tired eyes may die with my body of flesh, but my comprehen-
sion carries far, and by these means I can see you, and by these
means I can know you.
I love you, I do. I love all of you who refuse to allow the ill
and uninformed to determine your relationship with this: your
Existence.
In fact, I’ve been staring at you with my eyes shut, since you
were born—withheld in t'animal-trappix xl chaws java-jar sill
"open mouthed crone,” and omitted from the horvath house of
organs, the un-known gift of hah-shr.
Before your daddy was born, this world was ours to
eat—omitted from the roasted piles of kehrpstaunium and the
word of the god, hunza. Om em a vo'-dep pavith o-pavith, o-t-
or-t-ian t-of th'u'bit-der. The wash flats were a pan for sin and
all sins on the shore-line make us seas-h-sweet and tender. We
should spend a little more time out here. While you live you
have more than one name and my full name is whispered quieter
than the rest; and I have lots of names: "Human b-u'less of fire.”
“The priest of nun-stock.” “The w-hole of the body,” and “The
bridge to god.” The three-wednesday: its bones bake in the sun.

The voice of the mountain says, "Eat them buried bones of life-
death, and their undead flesh,” omitted from the buried flesh of
the "dead-god-eaters" who are not of sacra-ment-jerky or testa-
ment c-raise. The lake of beyond, the penis of you and me, steep-
ed in the o-liv-er and natures de-fec-t: they have broken all my
bones. The terrible flesh, “the o”, “the cup of blood-nouns” and
“the wicked-one,” “the quiver of quills,” “the crown above the c-
common-neck-of-shallow-water.” First you were the enchanter
of no hole. “Then you were the food of the lake and the tolltak-
er.” The fang below the c-fet-er of the moon.“ The rain which falls
for the moss. All the bones I cannot hold any longer. Then, you
were the heavy one. The coiled bones of the world, all ears to the
holy hear-te-ha-th-awh-ar. “the sot-ter,” “The lady of eternal gar-
dens and he who loves her.” “The sine of the b-igh-unt-op-ple.”
“The kiss of ex-change of funeral p-alms.” “The muse of the spi-
der and the bee.” “The birds of the water.” “The child sacrifice.”
All the cries turn to some kind of music, with-held on the eter-
nal/internal cliffs, with-held on the flaps of g-ott-swa-rd. So, I
clung. I held fast the clay of a gnostic-maze, and sent in to you my
living heart as the name of you here also, notep-ed in the books
of larch wood and before the kest-lo-cra is the m name: names
are the names of histories. That I may have my pla-ce on this rock
of god on the bottom land of the stomach of es-hat is the name
of the o-w ground. i wear it on my neck, proudly indeed, and
the name: I’ve told you many names that I have to be. I want to
tell you this one more. I have a name to tell you: it's the name
of omeg-ab-learn-don. A world exists unto knowledge without
points of entry or exit. It is the hole of the world-of-gods. It is the
hole of the red-fields. It is the hole of ha-rt. It is the hole of key
ground. It is the hole of the sacrifice. It is the hole of the old th-
an-non-s. It is the hole of names. It is the hole of the dream-chil-
dren. It is the hole of the fe-e-ellow’s nest. It is the hole of ha-sha-

f-hah-li.”
Steulugalnemraiant, relieve my heart and mind; nevertheless,

not as I will, but as you will.

The Dissolving Path - Choir Korneli Leviyey

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1

T he following work combines three separate texts: Cactus

tually meant to be mysterious in the first place, as well as address-

and unrealistic bunch of claims and complaints then it won’t be

about as much as I am willing and able in order to surmount said

tains, I have since opted for a more widespread release. Though

Ashland Text 002 (2019):

ness and mistreatment which we face in life regardless of any-

The proudness that I feel in my heart is immeasurably great and

The Thummim did make clear that I would not be permitted

and abused, no nearer to intimacy than in my isolation; having

spirit and passion and I did eventually leave it behind in favor of

I stifled all thoughts of what I felt that I deserved. I stifled my

to ‘normalcy’. But despite putting absolutely all of my efforts into

rush of what I took to be hopefulness: hope that I was somehow

If only I could have acknowledged the difference between

Like with many ideas, it exists on a spectrum. I, myself, stand

In a world where discrimination almost invariably amounts to

My commitment to upholding my convictions under all circum-

edge my progress as an individual unless I should bury my hate

(Unfinished Excerpt which originally corresponded to the Algoris-

2013 I even wrote up a short dissertation on precisely this topic

Even their commendations arise from the same ignorance which

or when an answer can not be agreed upon, we will quickly as-

Again, our associating wisdom and maturity with the willingness

The years have made me desperate and my hunger drives me to

Since the months of summer I’ve been hearing a strange melody

The most difficult moments come when I listen to the words of

It has been the strangest year imaginable in regards to my

legacy of goodness and uncommon light, only to realize that my

As many of you know, I have spent the majority of these past

In recent years I have come by an increasing number of issues

To be clear: I don’t claim to actually read minds via any type

pression, hence why I can rarely seem to deliver my points with-

The finer points of my belief structure have oscillated over the

shouldn’t be thought wrong that I wish to be seen (and, by ex-

I won’t typically speak of these experiences and feelings, not

My thoughts on the matter are undoubtedly going to upset

My observance of a separate and dissimilar standard of accept-

for that matter. Such is the problem of working exclusively from

me in this event should be rather said before a mirror, because

Simply put, I have never felt myself sufficiently ‘loved’ or appre-

There is no fate for the self-created man in such a sphere but

It’s so impossible for me to imagine my efforts paying off—even

through my workmanship, my songs especially—even though

could see how this would be considered an improvement; how-

kept me locked in a state of diminished discernment, heightened

The emotional experience concomitant with the abovedescribed

tense state of loneliness and an unrivaled hopelessness which

Ashland Text 006 (2019):

ing even more misrepresentative in the end, but... well, I don’t

The further I go into my mystical pursuits the more concerned

Ashland Text 007 (2019):

(ON MY OSTENSIBLY CYNICAL BENT)

behaviors issuing from an individual who claims to these percep-

(ON THE RESPONSIBILITY OF THE MYSTIC IN THE

I dedicated many years of my life to overcoming these hur-

To many a mystical practitioner this will indubitably rank

Given my belief in the futility of instruction, my only reason for

My take on the popular “There are two types of people in this

(ON THE DETRIMENT CAUSED BY STANDARDS SET

it an ‘awakening’ or touting themselves as ‘enlightened’, I opted

While it works against us to elevate our initiatory mystical