| A sensation of everlasting rot and those frantic wails, no, it is not a fall
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| into
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| The abyss, the defiance of descent, a coronation beyond liberty and slavery;
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| The cry of woe and deliverance exudes a flame, evasive as sound and ether:
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| An instant of collusion with death, without hope nor prospect, yet it is a
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| World below and above and in all eternity, a gift of fever, the wind of death
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| That sustains the life in me, yes, the lightness of hovering in permanent
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| Anguish; |
| I dared to borrow those words, to articulate them and to savour
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| Their turpitude, as I beheld the shrine of mad laughter
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| The limit is crossed with a weary horror: hope seemed a respect which fatigue
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| grants to the necessity of the world
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| As if Death was dashed onto the death within, a violent thrust stealing the
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| light of the eyes, a ray of darkness, a negation, the bread of bitterness that
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| ignites neither devotion nor fervour; |
| resplendent nothingness! |
| make all things
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| appear with clarity, ruined in the flame of repudiation, in the flame of God!
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| Interwoven joy and confusion, a stabbing confusion, asphyxiation from within,
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| yet I gained this certitude: malediction, degradation, sown in me like seeds,
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| now belonged to death, in harbouring a desire for the hideous, I was beckoning
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| to death. |
| Insatiable combustion, expand, this body is the vessel of grace!
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| The idea of God is pale next to that of perdition, but of this I could have no
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| inkling in advance |