Staging the Disease

Fragments of a Manual for Regression

It is clear that the world is purely parodic,
in other words, that each thing seen is the parody of another, or is the same thing in a deceptive form.

— Georges Battaile

The ultimate goal is the destruction of all, but you need to build up to it and, thus, to start small: With yourself.

As inside, so outside — the first law of magic: So go and rot away. Spread your stink, make the merry mice scurry into their corners: It’s merely the beginning. Personal hygiene, that perfumed pretension to immortality, will be easy to let go of. The body’s gifts, sickness and pain, will be harder to bear. Yet, your body is nothing more than an extension of your mind, and you know that your mind has been rotting since birth. So sit. Hate. Puke. Sleep until you go to sleep again. (Lethargy is anarchy.)

Be sure to eat too much. For a pile of shit causes disgust, but a mountain of shit causes awe and, eventually, adoration. Watch the world grow smaller in return.

Are you defined by your guts or by your mind? Do you believe that one of those things is worse than the other, or worth anything? Are you inside or outside? Where do you want to be? (If you are inside, your thoughts will be a self-referential loop of hatred. If you are outside, you’re a parasite, a living weapon.)

The sin of the flesh: That it started to move, disturbing the majestic tranquility of seas and desert with shenanigans, flopping genitals and words. (And the demons averted their eyes in disgust.)

Hope is the enema.

Dissociation concerns us all: All is well that severs the treacherous ties to each other.