THE END OF THE UNIVERSE, PART XII

Physics of hate. Pussy from a girl who likes corpse pose. Completion Vore Field States.

HATE

Lest hate become a total object, we continue to hate. It is impossible to picture hate discordant from love. Rather, it is fully possible to contemplate a power of hate so complete that it leads to the annihilation of space and swallows all objects as a whole. Bion (and Eigen repeats him) mathematically pictures this force of hate as something that destroys us and then continues to destroy after. Envy us, he says, of the object itself. Complete vore-through.

Hate is mysterious insofar as it cocoons love. Hate without love was exponentially prototyped during the Trump years. Trump was right, numerically, when he said he was the greatest scapegoat of all time. This is why nobody was ever funny about Trump. Because there was too much absolutizing of hate. And hate without some trace of love can never bring the funny.

Does she hate me? I feel it in my bones. Derrida says that we only ever partake of stupidity from our side. The point of soyjak pointing is just that, that when we point, which we always do, we are inseparable from the object. That such pointing is spatially irreducible is again like a mathematical force of erosion. This hate takes place on my side.

INFINITE LIGHT

to know what the introduction
to infinite light means

the rainbow light is pervaded by infinite light

in which case we don’t realize
the infinite light
of everything that is

and the way colors appear as its warmth
the warmth of everything

even if it’s ice
it’s warm

even if it’s water
it’s the space of everything

is not
one thought ever
after another
only ever

one

‘SHE’

Does she hate me? I imagine a voluptuous space in which she wants me to watch her forever. That this is the quantum kick inside the music of glass and dissolution is something I can pretend to know about. Inside music that makes me wince. That organizes an architecture of pain born after language. When I listen to her music I am not allowed. I am shielded by a kernel of hate. I am a pure force of artificial stupidity. I relent.

This kernel of hate is no different from the essence of 如來. Inside the seed, the cocoon. And within that seeded web, so many butterflies. Like the butterflies of Keats. Like the swastikas of HD. Their music—which is all the more valuable since it wraps the music of yet another—breaks my heart open into space. It breaks the heart into the lesson of infinite light. The lesson she didn’t yet want. Save here. Save her.

Pain. One is blocked and yet wanted. She wants me to reside just there, hither to hate, alongside the simple evidence of the name she always meant total love of me by (now as url, opensecrets). Glued to hate’s glass. What can I want but to be taught death inside extinction? To be lassoed by a shared space of emptiness as affliction. To perfect open secrets through this pure space singularity of wound and sound.

It hurts. I wound. I am open. As usual, I don’t know what this is. And if I do, I would no longer honor their soul from a distance far greater than any length or strip of time. I would yet run back through all my lives.

PUSSY FROM A GIRL WHO LIKES CORPSE POSE

Life is conceived by a fascination with sexual activity. Wrapped up in coils of light, the near-miss explodes outwards from pure emptiness outshining and inshining because of the pull of orgasm’s star. This star is right up against it. After that we can only want to kill, to understand just that spark of bloodless birth. To sort the plosion, the fontanelle of tangled radiance.

To rid ourselves and to enter, dreaming on the mounds of heaven, we hate. Hate is my shield and my sword. And what I really mean is ‘she’ wants me dead, because the birth canal is crowded. Already knowing through that the birth is in total emptiness and that the wound is nothing, I try to save her all the time.

She wants me dead, and she wants me to watch her. No doubt we are birthing an extinctophiliac star. A birth star. A bloodless emptying of the trace of birth. To sort out a lifetime is what I also mean. Between Her and I are Lifetimes. And the bloodline is a fragment of heaven light. One lost ark. A piece of her hair I cradled through time’s delicious hateful yield.

HEROES

We have reached a point. Such a point. It is hard to say how much. It is hard to say just how much. Hate the escape hatch keeps me from her. The open letters take place only on the last night in heaven. And then it’s the first night in paradise. A whole universe flashes before our eyes as hate comes through for us.

In coiling pools of hate, I see her eyes in infinite white. This longing has a mathematical point, to plot the course of what still kills us after we have done. She wanted for me to be dead so that I could listen to the music of moan from the absolute other side.

We have reached a point. Hard to say how much. Prophetic, too skilled, all must enter in like serpents, dreaming on the mounds of heaven.

BUT SHE IS MY CORPSE OF LIGHT

I’m making notes on the corpse at the end of time. The liquid state of hate that gets us out of sexed tranquillity. Sorry, Sincerely, Somewhere. I’ve been extinct for so long I’m pure white blur. Listening to Music Made By Other People is like someone spine-hacked from a more existent universe. I don’t miss. You. I don’t even. Think. About.

And open secrets always always mean the same thing to the corpse object at the end of time. And it makes my whole body and heart wobble and feel in pain like I’m being killed. She kills me. Music made by other people kills me. I swear she wants it that way, me being dead and watching her through time

behind a glass. I could give a thousand signs that she did. It’s like ________ but ________ has that desire and she makes it available as part of culture. Which is the thing to do. She wants to be part of aculture, just like me. Too like me. Too like me to be loved. To not be loved.

The entities want to block AND name me, tell me what that is except extinctophiliac. Things are getting off, right? She’s getting off on catastrophe whoosh. On abstraction whoosh catastrophe. On abstract womb.

JUST ONE NIGHT, NOW I MISS HER MY WHOLE LIFE

Just one life, how I’ll always love you. Just one night, now I miss her my whole life.

Status of an absolute object. Absolute love. Fear of infinite life.

RESOLUTION

But I was unable to resolve it. I would no more solve the tension of my life than understand what she had done. About hate and how we save hate for the one we love the most but know we can’t be with for a reason unnamed. Total life, absolute finitude, even knowing these for a moment leaves no trace.

Because we can’t read, because we can only ever unread them in particular. How I miss you nonetheless, impossibly my birth coming, and how I always will.

The impossibility of not still loving a human like that, an unknown in us, Dakini of inscription, in the mind of someone living. Hate is the only way to be rid of them. Or to cause them to hate us, for their love of us is unbearable. It is something we only ever unread.

MISREADING

Simone Weil grasps the thorn inside the nectar. The milk before the womb. The light flooding the aftersoul. Here is a reading clue that tests all others:

To want to make one’s dreams read by others.

To make a surface that always appeals across time to those who can’t get there is one thing. To make that which the other cannot see absolutely (a dream) is something else. An aesthetic object can be imagined, after all, with no viewer forever until the end of time.

The theory of reading and non-reading in Weil moves easily across this as a musical surface, as if the wrapped score were the dream wanting to be read. Wanting to be read is normal. But wanting all to be read? Even a dream. Even the inside stretch of music as the down slope of time?

PURE READING IS COLOR, PURE COLOR

If everything is being read at the same time in Weil’s pure theory of reading, what happens? Who gets off? Vampire doesn’t do it. The open letters at the end of the universe are a threat, were it not for the promise of Destinerrance. Destinerrance comes before time and space, as pure color does. What bloodless birth really wants is pure concept, not sexual sorting.

What was Weil trying to read? Was she turned on, awares and unawares? To make one’s dream readable by others is a way out of the birth impasse. The colors lift out of genealogy into another type of patch. As she says:

You do not see, but you read. You think you see. This belief is a fact, like color.

But color is only a fact, a mere belief, when not shone through. General reading sends us crazy if there is nothing invisible. That total fantasy only makes the birth bloody again, and just at the wrong point. Be invisible and infinite inside instead.

The music by others as readable to me as a dream breaks open the heart into emptiness shattered. Supine, listening, made of color.

Not to read.

PURE HATE

I’ll make sure we exist in a universe where none of you see me
You’ll never fucking see me
I despise being underestimated 
And I have so much more knowledge of the intersection 
Of quantum mechanics and Chinese philosophy 
Than you are literally allowed to know
I will destroy this reality
Without moving
A finger
Fuck you guys
All I have to do is jump

NO MORE GHOSTING, NOT NOW 

Ghosting is bad
Stealing is worse
Threatening me is unacceptable
I will respond

HOW IT IS

Her true desire can’t be written down

THE CORPSE AT THE END OF TIME

When I make CiaraTok I’m mourning the corpse at the end of time. I’m listening but I’m no longer reading. I’m sorry I can’t hear you right now, I’m away from the computer. I’m not there.

Your herringbone chain looks like a caterpillar,
a circular rainbow made of infinite light.

Angelicism is an architecture of longing, yearning and mourning, for example for Ciara, for Miya, for the future extinct. For Music By Others. Morbid white munificence of perfect empty light.