Have you ever heard the sound a heart makes when it beats outside of its calcified prison?

I find it quite intoxicating, really. There is no deep, rumbling rhythm from deep within layers of sinew and tissue. These things are irrelevant to the music-maker within every living creature. It sounds, I imagine, how whale-song might sound if one had the privilege of isolating such a mythic beauty from the impure, sonic warper we treat with such reverence. There is no nobility in that, in treating the deepest and untraversable places as if they are holy.

Music is art, and art is the sufferance of all that humanity that builds up in one’s bloodied and beating circuit, that corporeal labyrinth for which anguish has no escape but through little shocks to the brain and the performances of the body.

None of it, however, is true art.

It is the false and blasphemous marrying of the internal and external actions, the treatment of the spiritual as, not a mental affliction, but a manifestation of the inner workings of one’s corporeal machine.

No, dear reader: the truest and purest expression of humanity is the exposure of life itself. A heart torn from its marionette strings, eyes and brain freed from their Cassandrean circuit loop of interpreting everything into legible translation for their human masters. The simple existence of the body without philosophy: hands without occupation, lungs without life, man and woman sexless and holy, made anew once devoid of that animal-cycle which dictates the functions of a system too vast, too beautiful to be understood.