But why? Why should I be handyman of the desiring machines, why should I slip between God’s heaving organs and divert the flows? Who will know? Yes, God is unconscious; yes, God trembles with the hideous strength of unnamable geotraumas, shudders with enjoyment of production’s recording on the body of the earth. But to who is this a comfort when they have been raped and starved? Who could speak of the abstract machine of the mortar and the trench? I am a bad materialist; I still want to usurp the sleeping God, to scream at that which has no face “I hate you, life! I hate your hideous ignorance, your magnificent courage and masochism!”

God recoils like a vine withdrawing from corrosive fluid. I am still so full of bile. The more I plunge my hand into the guts, the more I find my own throat. I laugh, adjust my grip, scratch a joke into the wall, dance on. Fluid runs under everything, everything is full to bursting. Someday a one will be born who won’t understand this. I smile at the thought.

I open my mouth. Gak gak gak. No language. Only the swelling noise of the century.