Conic-section-like, the generative act yields as many exploded views as one is willing to slice it, with the whole (if such a word can be said to have any meaning) of the process is defined by the lack of choice we evince in our initial incisions.
When one reads entrails there exists a sheaf of what is left behind on the greasy butcher’s paper on the floor, for each bit of prophecy wrested from the warm mesentery the dominion of the unknowable is increased by an equal measure.
For every turning is a turning away, to lift our eyes is to undercut the floor beneath our feet and to risk (in the sense of permitting dissolution from withdrawing the collapsing wavefront of our gaze) being tumbled headlong into an unending abyss, without light, without air, without any of the benchmarks by which we gauge our rise or fall.
The Demiurge is properly reckoned chief among the fallen and we, his unintended byblows, fix the potential into the actual with nails that are numbered when we are born and it is when we are no longer to force the floor into solidity that we sink into it, through, beneath it, and are gone into whatever depths there are.
Listen. All that we can ever say is a lie formed by all the true things that we cannot say.
