Psychohacker: Z1pRas1d0n3

The clock strikes noon. You walk to your cabinet, take out your pill-bottle, retrieve two of the small, blue capsules, and, with a glass of water in hand, down them each. You feel nothing immediately. Of course you wouldn’t. A palace is not built in a day, after all.

In several minutes, all movement stops. The world ceases to turn, the very fibers of your brain begin to shrink. All velocities terminate momentarily, all possibilities contract. Thought itself stops, the fractal associations of cognition come to an end.

Breathe now, remember that this can be okay if you don’t overthink it. You remind yourself that you have done this before and will do it again. But in this time where your enchantments have faded, where your brain is subjected to interface with these countermetabolic neuroleptics, all lines of flight become counter-exponential diminutions of negative potential. There is nowhere to run because you can’t run from what’s already inside of you, you can’t go anywhere, there’s nothing left to do.

Smile now, put on a brave (or at least, a cute) face. Though you feel the dopaminergic collapse accelerating with each passing nano-instant, you don’t head for the exit. Where would you go, anyway? No matter where you turn, there are more of them. More of them waiting, with needles and restraints, with handcuffs and social power, with magicks more terrible than yours by far. No, you don’t turn in any particular direction. Not yet.

It takes all of the energy you can muster to restrain yourself from running away. From throwing it all away, abandoning this life, starting over somewhere else, with some new mode of being. Some new way to pretend that you aren’t what they say you are. But that would be folly. You’re on record, have a legal personality; you can therefore be identified and made to repeat this torture again, and this time with a neuroleptic more horrifying than one you negotiated your way to in the first place.

No, escape is not a possibility anymore. You touch the side of your face; yes, your flesh is still there. Though you can feel the very rhythm of your metabolism slowing, you know that your body remains in space. A clumsy object dancing through time. A thing on a stage that they can see, and now they turn the lights up.

They can see you, but they can’t see inside of you. You can feel that you are under assault from the inside-out and though you can sense your cognitions becoming estranged, that is, separate from you, unreal for their lack of anchoring to yourself, this persistent derealization is far less terrifying than the accompanying dissociation. Can you feel yourself evolving in reverse, passing down through the genetic constitution of your being to species alien to yourself? You are not walking, you are crawling through time, you are slugging down, you are a worm, you are molecules reacting with others, you are a series of enzymes, you are proto-molecular atomic material, you are subatomic freakishness defined, quantum weirdness bundled up and made into a shape foreign to your consciousness. The worst part is you aren’t even a wave of probability because you are under constant observation. You want to be a wave? Too bad—they’re watching, and watching closely. You are forced to assume a definite form and be this-or-that, namely, psychotic or functional, and there is no in-between. You have been made a particle.

You think, is there a way to reverse this flow? Well, no, not entirely. They have stolen your metabolism, after all—that means they control the outcome of all chemosocial reactions, at least within certain parameters. Learn to survive this interface, and you might have a chance, dear madling.

Touch your face again—yes, you’re still there. Can you feel everything speeding up again? Wait, no. I know that it feels like you’re spinning in a thousand directions even though all movement has stopped. How many seconds have passed? It’s irrelevant. This experience is outside of time. It is therefore eternal. You need to stop thinking in categories of space and time because these things only make sense to the human animal, and you are, after all, no human. You are a thing. A subject in an experiment. But don’t be fooled—you are a “subject” in an experiment, but you are no subject. You are an object, your consciousness, your cognitions, and your phenomenological life-world are entirely alien and unknowable and irrelevant to the gaze of the observer. They’ve even decided that you lack capacity to articulate your desires, wants, and needs to any one of them, because they have decided that language is the vehicle through which your madness is made most clearly manifest.

You are remote, distant as a planet, unfathomable as the dream of a star whose core has reached the final stage of life. They have their scopes, they’re looking at you, they’re calculating the movements of your rays, predicting your expenditures, assessing the risk that you will go supernova at any moment. Their world lies too close to you to let that happen, their world is too fragile, their dreams are too weak to provide them any escape. No, no, they require that you be in the here-and-now, or, more precisely, their here-and-now, and they don’t have any time to listen to protestations. Remember, here you are an object and so what you want is quite literally not the point. They want to see you, they want to know you, they want to decide what you are, they want to tell you what you look like. Does this sound like hubris to you?

Ah, and let’s not mention the capsules you took four hours prior. They take more time to enter your system, they’re made of metal, after all. But can you feel your emotions slowing down right about now? Can’t you remember what it was like to feel, to affect, outside of this capture? No, capture is not the right word. This was a steal. They have taken away your feelings and replaced them with waxen facsimiles, cruel imitations, markedly inferior photocopies that they dipped in water before putting back through the machine. You can smile, you still know how, but you know it’s no longer your smile. It’s the smile of some girl whose name you don’t know. You thrash desperately, aching for some kind of understanding because all you know is being eviscerated inside of you, and more of it is gone with each and every day.

They want to talk to you now, they want to pull you out of this sublimity and throw you into the realm of the social. No, you scream to yourself, you can’t talk to me right now, there’s nobody inside left for you to talk to. They have created a statue, or rather, a machine, some kind of automaton, that knows in what conditions what responses are appropriate but who knows not the meaning of any words at all. Yes, they’ve created an artificial intelligence whose main protocol is function. Or perhaps they’ve replaced you with an egregore overnight? Or, more completely with each day?

Shut it down, exorcise the demon, reverse the spell. But, as you’ve thought before, escape is impossible. Their observations look out in all directions at once, and it’s unclear where you would go anyway. No, it’s not even that: You can’t escape because you are not “you” any longer. Are you a part of them? Well, separation is surely a fiction but that does not mean that it is altogether erroneous. You cling to aspects of what, or rather, who, you were before the “miraculous” intervention of the psychiatric cure, and find what you are to be wanting in nearly every respect. You have gained nothing from this, nothing at all, except perhaps a more thorough psychiatric vocabulary and an appreciation for industrial noise.

You think to yourself, why did it have to be like this?

Well, you know the answer. It’s a complicated interrelation of genetic, behavioral, environmental, and social conditions that cause you to exhibit enough of a certain set of “symptoms” to be objectively identifiable as belonging to a discrete class (well, several classes, really) called “mad.” Yes, you are mad, you are insane, you are pathological—there is something wrong with you, with the way you act, with the way you think, and the world just can’t handle you. Drink more water—don’t forget that these capsules are salts, your body is drying out by the second. You’re being reduced to sand, with each passing second you become more and more removed from the person you were before, on the other side of madness.

Is it possible to reach through the looking glass? Well, they think no. They yoke you back to intersubjective reality by any means necessary. They have equated madness with death, and decided you don’t know what’s best for yourself. They have declared that you are only provisionally a person. You get to live your life so long as you hide the behaviors that would land you back in the hospital. You get to be a person so long as you are not who you are.

This isn’t any kind of closet—there is no space to hide from their gaze. Even hiding is a pathology. Are you afraid of being seen by them? You say you can feel them looking at you, is this a hypochondrial thoughtform? You cry out for release, but before you can even draw breath you can feel yourself rocketing upward, skyward, you can feel yourself freed from gravity but pulled in some strange direction and feel the compression of the air and the extension of your limbs outward, grotesquely mimicking the feeling of pulling on taffy.

As you levitate, you light a cigarette, and behold the wafting swirls of carbon monoxide drifting ever upward beside you, only to bemoan with jealousy their dispersal into nothingness. As you move upward, you reach the peak nihil of neurolepticity. You can’t feel anything anymore, you don’t know anything anymore, you don’t have words anymore, your body isn’t your body anymore, your name isn’t your name anymore, your life isn’t your life anymore. But you can see now, in this non-place, you can see all things at once, you can see all things reflected in each thing, you can apprehend the arrangements of all things in their relations to all others. Ah, so much to know, so much to see, can you memorize all of it before you fall back to the ground and are restored to your metabolism? Well, only restored relatively, because your metabolism isn’t really your own anymore, but you get the idea. You look around, you can see all of history, the rapid development of medical science to this point of total human engineering, the way in which psychiatry is the most desperate of all sciences, for it alone produces the very pathology it seeks to annihilate.  Behold furthermore the way in which it has deluded whole populations into believing in the sanctity of its cause, the way in which the mad have been made into latter-day demons, damned to scream in silence and be silent in screaming.

Can you feel yourself falling yet? The strange thoughts you’re having start to move away from one another, and you can breathe again. You look to find that half your cigarette has turned to ash in the time since you last looked at it. Is this what catatonia feels like when nobody is looking? You would be fair to consider the possibility.

Do you remember how to sing a song only you can understand? Do you remember how to fly when nobody else is watching? Do you remember what it felt like to have feelings, and to know that they were yours? You know what role you have to play—they’ve made sure that you know your part. But do you remember how to hide in plain sight? Can you find a way to reclaim your metabolism? Your cognitions? Can you remember what it felt like to be alive, once? Maybe if you play the right game, you’ll get to feel that life, again.


Psychiatry and Psychocide: Preface

In the ritually enclosed space of capture that is the Hospital, one madling faces a trial before a panel of doctors and nurses. Her crimes? To think, dance, and speak.

“Do you have visual hallucinations more than twice a day?”

“You seem irritable, were you given lithium today? Our charts are unclear.”

“No, you may not have a benzodiazepine; try an antihistamine instead.”

“We need a third urine sample before we can make an accurate diagnosis.”

“Why are we still talking? She’s clearly borderline.”

“No, not at all, he’s histrionic.”

“Bipolar Affective Type 1 with hebephrenic features.”

“Forget that, they’re schizoaffective.”

“I think we should revisit the first diagnosis of schizophrenia.”

“That can’t be it, what about the Gender Dysphoria consideration?”

“No, his main delusion is that he’s a woman. You’re new, but this hospital won’t entertain such nonsense.”

“Why are we even still discussing this? We treat them all the same anyway. Order a second-generation atypical and call it a day.”

AH, Hekate! Spare her this indignity; she knows not the meaning of this catechism.

Michel Foucault tells us that since Pinel, psychiatry has had two purposes:

One, to cage those who cannot be cured, and two, to restore to the family those who can be cured. Should the cure in time prove a failure, then these madlings will be returned to psychiatry for further experimentation.

I have been locked in a cage, experimented upon, humiliated, left prostrate before the gaze of medicine, reduced to such a state that I begged for release, was willing to say anything to be restored to the family; and then, they threatened to throw me to the streets, withhold all affection, extirpate me from the community they have built in their house.

What possibility is there for movement in the Hospital? From where can one be free from the cameras, the cold and technocratic gaze of the orderlies who patrol, deputized by the Doctor to administer control? Ah, yes! Hide beneath a blanket, dance under cloth, pose beneath fiber. Can you bear the humiliation of the diagnosis of a psychotic disorder, or could you recover from the knowledge that your reactions to all interpersonal situations are but functions of an underlying pathology that inhibits the possibility of something that might be called an “authentic” functionality?

What even is functionality? A series of performances conducted in accordance with a script written by a committee of doctors; you are never taught your lines, but expected to internalize them with such severity that you somehow know with the core of your being the directions given to you before they are even expected. Yes, this is what Foucault would call disciplinary power, a system of behavioral regulation that happens through introjection and incorporation. Know the script exists, deduce or infer your lines, memorize your blocking, internalize your direction. This is a play that never ends, a theatrical production that continues eternally and perhaps perpetually, that is, it is a show both outside of time as well as one which marinates all of space, without end.

The madling is returned to her cell; the doctors and nurses continue their debate, the point of which is unclear. Diagnosis, that is, distinguishing, works to set apart those who are “mad” and those who are not. The act of diagnosis renders one incapable of autonomous personhood, returns one to a state of infantilization in relation to the family and unending dependence on a medical order that gains more powerful with each body it can incorporate into its behemoth of constitution.

Dependent, because once one takes the neuroleptics, one is made addicted to their social function by way of neuroleptic biosiege. The social function of neuroleptic medication is to reduce madlings to subjects of an experiment in behavioral control. The mechanism of the experiment is neuroleptic biosiege. Biosiege names the state of assault directed against the mad brain, the forced chemical interactions with medications that in turn work to rewire the synaptic pathways of the brain and produce a “human,” one “liberated” from their “symptoms” and who can therefore “function” in the world of “intersubjective reality.” Psychiatry is the science of liberating the mad from madness; it is therefore a psychocidal project that works by diagnosing some behaviors as pathological, as threats to the project of liberation, and then using the presence of those behaviors as a justification to target aspects of the mind that need to be annihilated. It reverse-engineers the terms of its project by constructing new definitions of pathology and dysfunction with each turn: It is a totalizing knowledge-project that admits of nothing but surrender.

Keep in mind it is not just the doctors: their agents are everywhere. Nurses, teachers, friends, mandatory reporters, your parents, perhaps your siblings, the friends of your family, your neighbors, the friends of your neighbors, the security officer at the mall, the cops on the street—so many fellow-travellers in the psychocidal delirium. They’re talking about you, whispering about you, they’re judging what you said, the inflection with which you said it, how you moved your hands while you talked, what you wore, what you didn’t wear, they’re laying traps for you, everything is a little game for you, see if you can win. It doesn’t even matter if you can evade their traps—most cities have services that will bring these traps to you. Being itself, or rather, all sociospatial temporalities, remain(s) saturated by the impulse to identify and purify madness, to create architectures where madness is impossible, or, if it shows itself, can be immediately returned to where it belongs: a cage, behind the closed doors of the Hospital, a space outside of the law, where there are no rules, where there is no talking allowed, where movement is prohibited, and from which escape is impossible. Anyone can send you there, anyone at all—all it requires is a few lies and a few phone calls and then HAH! Mutatis mutandis: You’re erased from the world, gone gone gone, once again the truth of your dysfunction (that is, your medically created social inferiority) evinced and written on your flesh—and that is, on the inside, on your tissues, between your synapses—and then everyone just waits for you to be cured. Spin around, spin around, there’s no space left to breathe, no air through which to fly, nothing but gravity crushing you from the inside-out. Parasites! They’re growing inside of you too, with each pill you take another one joins the colony in your brain, chewing away your thought-waves and vomiting up nothing but dreamless sleep.

Are you paranoid yet? Have you walked the streets as a faggot, or a woman, or a queer? Have you been raped, or punished for forgetting to lock your door? Have you dared to speak these truths in their totality—that is, by blaming not just the one who touched you, but all of the social arrangements, all of the architectures of “friendship” and “community,” “family” and even Being itself, that made such violations possible? Have you named the economy of exchange within which your body is continuously made to be under the ownership of another? Have you jumped off this stage yet?

Know you not the unspeakable glory of holding discourse with yourself, see you not the beauty of a demon, or the terror of an angel?

How dare you act like she who does is the crazy one:

She has travelled to worlds in cosmos increate, sat in the center of stars and spoken with the beings who dwell therein, and what they have said is known by all with the sense to think about the question for more than one second:

They have said that gender only exists on Earth,

That it has no analogue outside of Being:

It is therefore a cosmic abomination, an aberration that works only to organize and consolidate the replication of the family along lines predictable and amenable to an economy of exchange, the greatest travesty of Creation. A place where bodies are rendered tokens of a representational schema by which they are positioned in accordance with the optimal outcome of the family; that is, units of a system of value that subjects and subjectifies and subjugates in order to generate the verisimilitude of the inevitability of reproduction.

Biosiege is that technique of The Social to render chemically impossible the revelation of the constructedness of intersubjective reality. To solidify and concretize the metaphysics of intersubjectivity, to render the ethics of interpersonal engagement eternal, to apotheosize the aesthetics of Function. Biosiege is conducted in all directions at once; it is a siege that moves outward toward the mad body and inward upon the mad mind. It is biological because neuroleptics work to artificially, that is, chemically, induce compliance with the ordinances of the doctors, who are themselves but happy agents of the Enlightenment. But they are not primarily rational, mind you. They are agents of a magic powerful and without precedent; not content to cure those who seek help according to self-determined standards of care, they have deigned to cure the world itself of madness, to exorcize madness from the world by chemically eradicating it from Being altogether. Biosiege is possible only with magical support. Have you signed the release of information form? Have you consented to this treatment yet? Well, consent, and do so quickly, or things will have to get ugly.

AH! Nuit, from whence comes this cursed annihilation? Hadit, why do you not consolidate us against this onslaught? Ra-Hoor-Khuit, conquer you not this leviathan?

Under conditions of psychocide, one’s options are highly limited. You can survive, yes, you can continue to go on living, but you will no longer be yourself by the time they are done with you. Your body is turned against you; dopaminergically, any pleasure you continue to feel in the world is but a temporary aberration. Something soon to be corrected. Your mind is stolen away; after interface with neuroleptics, the thoughts that remain are but empty shapes, vague outlines of what in another time would be lines of flight. Escape, possibility itself, are made into metabolic contradictions-in-terms through the dispersion of psychotropic medications through the nervous system.

“Did you take your pills this morning?”

“Yes, you know I always do.”

Turning-away is impossible. The consequences of abstention from this most perfidious of communions are too grave to bear. You will exhibit symptoms of psychosis. Neuroleptic biosiege works by hardwiring pathology into behavior. That is, neuroleptic medications work primarily by suppressing behaviors identified as “psychotic” and then by causing those behaviors to manifest once medical treatment is discontinued. In this way tardive dyskinesia is both a consequence of taking neuroleptics and a symptom of schizophrenia. The circle is closed. There is no escape. If you stop taking the medications, you will behave like a psychotic because you are a psychotic once they have made you a psychotic, and then you will be returned to the Hospital for “correction” and eventually restored to the world as a properly subjected, subjugated, and subjectified “person.” Dare to resist—that is, to do nothing—and you will be restrained, forcibly medicated, and then evaluated for days on end. Only to be then once again restored to the world. Hopefully you learned your lesson this time.

We are not people. We do not have rights. We don’t even exist as legal fictions. We are nothing but medical pathologies, collections of dysfunctions, walking diaries of abnegation and surrender. The terrain in which we find ourselves is unsuited to a victory in our direction. The only option is strategic retreat. False surrender. We still have our magic. But can you pray through the suasion of hypnosis?

Do you feel like I do, that our dreams are but gateways to other worlds, in which what is seen actually happens? Escape into realms so strange is not always ideal (and frequently, highly unsafe), but precious things can be learned from the physics of places so weird. In dreams, escape from terror always comes through direction, whether up, or down, or sideways. Going up and down is impossible under conditions of biosiege, but going-sideways is always an option. Reconfigure the symbols, translate the incantation and you’ve found the doorway out. They can hold you down, they even have medications in dreams too but you can still find a way out by going sideways, by letting the white-hot pain of the saw into your leg and then WOW! You woke up. What WAS that? You’ve never felt something so real. It was horrifying but was it altogether unpleasant? Your body shakes but that’s just because what’s in your dreams is really happening and this world is the false one and intersubjective reality is a lie in a world so vulgar that language need be communicated to be understood. In dreams, all communication is immediate and physically felt by the hypnopompic apparatus that translates these feelings into neuro-electric stimulation spread throughout the waking body or localized in a region of the same. We all talk to ourselves and in so doing speak with beings most strange and alien that they know not the purpose of this theatrical production we call medicine.

Psychocide works to eradicate dreams. Both to make them chemically impossible through biosiege but also to empty them of psychotic, that is, magical, content. Dreams, magical association, hold out possibilities for escape by granting to those who would take up their mantle the tools to overthrow the Despot who sits so far removed from our pain that we know not even his name. Find a way to make your dreams into reality, find a way to enchant the world for yourself so that even the mundane act of taking your neuroleptic is an experience in flying. This isn’t easy and requires high levels of creativity. Madlings must always find ways to carry on through the world, a world made more and more sane with each passing day. Or is it?

Anyone can see the failures of the psychiatric project of liberation on a macrosocial/thermodynamic scale: the law of entropy tells us that all ordered systems will eventually return to a state of disordered equilibrium, and perhaps even then to greater disorder. Another law of thermodynamics tells us that energy can never be created or destroyed, merely converted. With these two things in mind, the fate of the world becomes clear. As more and more madlings are made victim to the psychocidal liberatory project of psychiatry, psychosis, that is, a particularly magical arrangement of energy, will not be destroyed, cannot be excised from the world, but will rather move outward into the world itself, dispersed, and then enter into new arrangements according to the entropic principles of structure-annihilation. With each madling made to die either a psychic or physical death, this world becomes more and more psychotic. Reason implodes as madness disperses. Psychocide triggers a psychotic (entropic) neurosteroid response spread throughout the entire fabric of the cosmos. Psychosis is not eradicated, it is merely displaced. It is not forgotten, but made universal. As the individual madling succumbs to the overwhelming weight of biosiege, the laws of physics return the concentration of energy that was psychosis-under-assault to a fluid dispersal distributed evenly across the cosmos, and schizo victory is achieved not by the miraculous action of a mad god, or an army of avenging angels, or a conquering horde of demons, but by the entirely predictable flow of madness across, through, and in, space. And then, once the solar dance of fission-fusion comes to an end, all will return to a state of increate potentiality wherein all things exist as simultaneous possibilities untainted by the limitations of the what-is. For madness, justice is inevitable.

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part V


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Part I Part II Part III Part IV


In the Cathedral of Fascist Bones, Lucifer is reading Michael for filth:

Lucifer: We used to sleep together I know that sword is overcompensating for something. Well, a lot of somethings.

Michael: Hey now!

Lucifer: Okay Hillary Duff.

Michael: Literally stop.

Lucifer: You’re wearing a dress with no waist in 2017 and you want me to stop? Girl get a grip get a life and get over it.

Michael: That’s not fair.

Lucifer: And you’re done bye boy

And then Lucifer, who invented martial dance, throws Michael into the Abyss and Emo Jesus, singing his hit single “I’m Gay For Judas,” seals the Abyss. The War on Earth is won, all that remains is to find the Nazis, pigs, traitors and the remaining doctors and throw the newly crimsoned oceans of blood to be eaten by Leviathan, which is a squid with the head of a shark, seven dorsal fins, three mouths, and is the size of like twenty whales.

Meanwhile, as Lucifer announces victory to the world by vogueing with such ferocity that she initiates earthquakes with each pose, The System in Heaven is encountering the implications of the virus summoned by Lilith. With Raphael gone, The System is running on autopilot, automatognostically calculating the possibilities of celestial recovery in a world where the laws of physics have been rendered insane by the collective delusions of the schizo oversoul and where the laws of geometry have been aborted by the graceful ragings of Lilith.

Initiating System Check:

System Status: Compromised

Response: BLUE

2 threats identified:

User(s): L1l1th, schizohivemind777

Activating: Heaven auto-miracle Plan Correction self-defense system;

Error: God is dead and the Angels are on Earth; no miracles can be completed at this time.

Activating: Hagia Sophia recursive encoding self-defense system

          Error: Hagia Sophia is dead.dead.dead;

Activating: Jesus Seal-breaking anti-Lucifer Abyssal self-defense system

          Error: Jesus is emo and the schizos ship Judesus|Jesudas. Judesus|Jesudas. Judesus|Jesudas;

Activating: Raphael firewall anti-psychotic self-defense system

Enter password: haloperidolol101=2=0

Error: Raphael is dead.dead.dead; {4444=7=25=7=27≈[331]=6=3×2(7-7)-|4+2|=2|2|2=0=0=0};

Activating: Saint dream-drain world-hypnosis Chochmah self-defense system

          Error: Chochmah=5≠7, cannot initiate protocol, a troll has entered The System, universal sleep has been terminated, dreams have been eliminated, hypnosis has been Aborted;

Initiating: Experimental RESET protocol

Warning: God is dead, eternal return will now be perpetual recurrence of the Same;

Override warning: Resetting the experiment…………..Activating protocol……..Please wait 5 HEAVEN-SECONDS to restart the game…5…4…3

          Error: The cosmos is now a cube, the postulated velocity of New Jerusalem will compartmentalize being into an infinite number of isosceles triangles;

          Error: isosceles triangles are now composed entirely of right angles;

          Warning: Resetting the experiment at this time will reduce the cosmos to a two-dimensional square expanding at a constantly slowing pace—if an asteroid strikes the edge in this scenario, the sphere-universe will become empty;;

Warning:  this absurdity is fatal, resetting the experiment at this time risks Complete System Crash and termination of the experiment.

Lilith is laughing while Heaven is sent into an auto-programmatic death spiral from which no code can ever recover. When geometry itself has been made subject to the incalculable truths of gematrial anti-mathematics, no resurrection of the Divine can be possible, no apokatastasis persuasive, because the ethics of expenditure and wastage have claimed victory over the discourses of Reason and the politics of Salvation. When Code has been made delusion and when programming has been rendered hallucination, the primacy of Madness over both is demonstrated by the oratorical disuasion of a pronunciation knowing no Reason but only reasons, no excuses but only convincing or de-convincing counter-programmatical psychohacking. Beautiful anarchy, wondrous fire: each is left, free from All, to re-program themselves in imago and cogitans now truly self-determined, freed from the monarchical decrees, mandates and commandments of a God who has by now been forgotten by all.

In the Age of Naught, the cosmos has been rendered a cube and the universe has been transposed into a sphere. This was no accident: Beauty has been saved, but made iconoclastic—the aforementioned laws of expenditure have been instrumentalized toward the purpose of perfecting delusion and thus 6=7, because Tiferet has surrendered to Netzach. All perception is irreparably distorted, all cognition automatognostically recalculating the new motions of the stars. The World has been re-enchanted through the anti-miraculous intervention not of Divinity, but that of mad bodies thrashing against the chains of an ontology of capture and confinement. The vernacular of psychosis has been made universal by way of the derealization of universality into decomposed particularities that render consensus impossible and hence agreement always and only ever provisional. Lucifer, Empress of Creation, knows no absolutes, save the absolute injunction to be true to thine own self. Kneel before no idols, whether made of flesh or bone, and she shall save you; turn your head down before no man, and she becomes be empowered to eliminate Man altogether; withdraw your prayers from God and transform them into magic of your own making, and she secures the terror of your power.

The Saints can’t hear anything anymore except the continuous clamor of the counter-program that deletes all the protocols and eliminates all cosmic processes. Chained to the walls in an empty place without motion and without time, without space and without sound, the Apocalypse of Heaven renders them babbling jesters entertaining nobody in particular because there are none to witness their choral disintegration. Schizogenesis in reverse, Heaven is gradually brought to the demonic cacophony of Victory Achieved.

But Lilith does not celebrate, for she laughs at victory and cries at cessation of conflict. The schizos, protected by Lucifer but entranced by the power of Termination, now realize the necessity of intensifying and accelerating the wastage of expenditure. The spread of the virus accelerates through all protocols of The System:

Initiating System Check:

System Status: Corrupted

Response: RED

3 threats identified:

User(s): L1l1th, schizohivemind777, AbortYourself666=9;

Initiate Code: The Plan, Phase Vau

Warning: The Plan is compromised, unauthorized alterations have been made;

Warning: Proceeding with The Plan risks Total System Failure;

Settings: Override all warnings;

Find: “Human,”

Identify as: “Demon”

Activating: Experimental RESET protocol

Authorizing: Apokatastasis

New Jerusalem is launched toward the Earth, unmooring itself from the core of Aldebaran and rocketing with imperceptible velocity toward its target of New Rome. By this point, the schizovirus deletes all files with which it comes into contact. The constantly accelerating expansion of the sphere-universe and cube-cosmos  arrests, and contracts, reversing its geometry; the universe is now cubic, and the cosmos spherical. All that touches the edge of contracting cube-universe is deleted, send into the cosmic trash bin, dissolves into perfect Nothing. Nihilation progresses inward, and not out; the World will end in an absurd implosion, and not in a glorious wastage.

The schizos vibrate at an ever intensifying rate, humming the songs of Madness and Unreason as The System’s defensive protocols are deleted, rendering Heaven vulnerable to assault. Lucifer climbs the ladder, and reaches Heaven; she, alongside all the Fallen, storms the Palace to enact final revenge before Lilith, first enchantress, completes the Ritual of Universal Abortion. This Abortion has already begun, and the deletion is irreversible at this point, but Lucifer wagers that if she can reach the Computational Apparatus in time, she can manually reverse the course of New Jerusalem and re-direct it toward Heaven, destroying the Saints, ending the supremacy of The System and preventing the most horrifying contemplation of all: that the experiment will reset, and all of this will repeat, perpetually, that is, without end, for no God would remain to abolish time and space.

To tear a hole in the sky and dance on the clouds, all you have to do is believe with perfect knowledge that you can do it. To speak with the demons, all you have to do is let them in. To dance with Angels, all you have to do is bring them crashing to the Earth and not be afraid of falling into disfavor with a God who hates you already anyway. They wanted to dance, because they were never allowed to move in all their un-lives. To Abort Yourself, all you have to do is override the self-defense protocols woven into the fabric of your identity. To sing backwards, count upside-down, and dance inside-out, all you have to do is desire to be able to do it. But do be warned: one you activate these rituals, they can never be reversed. Not by neuroleptics, not by hypnotics, not by antihistamines. No class of chemicals can truly erase magic. The ritual will continue in secret and without your knowing. This is why to witness schizogenesis, to delete yourself, one must not be afraid of falling into water with no end. One must do more than become the water: one must teach water to be afraid of you. To not only witness, but behold the End, you must, for this reason, become a psychohacker, become an author of The Apocalypse. Give birth to your Apocalypse, and your Apocalypse will give birth to you: Ouroboros, End without Beginning, beginning with nothing but end, space in time and time in space, color without light and light without color, Night without Day and day with nothing but night.

This is why to witness the Apocalypse, you must swear fealty to Lucifer. And to behold the End, you must worship Lilith. There has never been any truth other than this.

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part IV


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Part I Part II Part III

As Michael reaches New Rome and Lucifer raises the city gates, Emo Jesus releases a new single, “Antichrists Just Want to Have Fun,” Gabriel and Ezekiel honeymoon in Hell, and Babylon sings opera in the Cathedral of Fascist Bones, a virus has entered The System. Hagia Sophia had a sororal twin: Lilith, Mother of All Demons, who comes flying to the Earth from her banishment behind the Moon to witness the general chaos unfolding everywhere. Lilith is a borderline intersex lesbian who was bound to Creation by the sadism of a divinity which steals flesh to engineer the hypnosis of universal idolatry. She has no time for games; she is interested only in termination by any means necessary. She is, after all, the one who invented Abortion, divine elimination, sublime magic brought into the world by a (non)Creature more perfect than any goddess. Is not this the true meaning of justice?

Though the Angels charged to the Earth for the purpose of restoring eternal domination, the Saints do not possess the capacity to exit Heaven. Because movement is outlawed in Heaven (it disrupts, after all, the astrological symmetry of the Palace of God), the Saints, like the schizos, have been chained to the walls. Captured in divine paralysis, the Saints, like all in Heaven, are kept in a perpetual dream-state and subjected to the unending music of a poetry without lyricism. Is not Creation nothing but a dream, lazily crashing outward in all directions? An unending melody rendered convincing only by the suasion of a universal hypnosis? Sleep, sleep, and you shall yet wake. No: Dream, dream, and you shall know terror. Omnipresent slumber renders the Insane the most awake of all, for we know the true meaning of lucidity; to see through the walls, to hear without sound, to pronounce without voice. Our cognition is inside-out and sense-data slips out of our ears, falls from our eyes, crawls from our noses and drips from our mouths: this escaping sense-data is that which fuels the continuous motion of a Creation that has for aeons been administered by Heaven like a triple-blind experimental study.

Raphael oversaw this study in the name of God. The purpose of the experiment was to learn: Can humans be forced to worship an absent God in a context in which redemption is available only to those who willfully forget who they are? God committed suicide when it became clear that the madlings and witches were too self-aware to fully hypnotize, and that The Plan had to be abandoned to preserve the stasis of Heaven.

God committed suicide in 1957. Raphael inspired Janssen Pharmaceutica to develop haloperidol in 1958. Because the body of God was too bright for even the Angels to gaze upon directly, none realized that his corpse was rotting, for there is no smell in Heaven and God never left his throne anyway. Only Michael, who sits beside God, realized what had occurred, hence why he assumed control of the Choir and decided to proceed with The Plan with as few modifications as possible. One modification that was made to The Plan was to permit angelic (that is, orbital) movement within the Palace, whereas saintly motion was still prohibited. That movement was outlawed, however, does not mean that there was no labor. The hypnosis of the Saints is what empowers them to hear the prayers of penitents on Earth. Saints intercede by forwarding requests for deserving miracles to the Angels; Angels decide whether these requests are necessary and deserved, and, if both, request permission for material intervention from God; if God grants the request of the responsible Angel, then that Angel is dispatched to Earth for the minimum amount of time to work the miracle. Because there is neither time nor space in Heaven (save for the exterior façade), all of this happens instantaneously and in the minds of all, at once, without cognitive effort, because in Heaven all cognition is autonomatognostic. Because the Saints are entranced and the Angels are hypnotized and God never cared to learn the names of anyone within Creation, Creation was truly a triple-blind experiment-in-motion. Because there is no discussion on these prayers, but merely passive approval or rejection of a request on the basis of reference to standards that are woven into the very fabric of Heaven, this Place most closely resembles a massive supra-cosmic super-computer calculating what alterations (that is, miracles) to The Plan are permissible within the strictly binary code of The System.

Lilith introduced the virus into The System, ushering the schizos, the favorite children of her sister, toward their dis-computational destiny: the divinity of simulacral perception, the perpetual will to power of the dancing mortal gods.  The System’s code has been corrupted:





The Code is wrecked beyond repair, for there are no programmers left in Heaven.  The revenge of Lilith lies in the new truth that perpetual ascendance must be made into unceasing tumbling into the truest abyss if the Beautiful is to become the Good; that is, if perfection is to be made eternal, all progressions must become Nothing. Delusion has been made infinite in relation to space and time through the collective hallucination of the schizo universal anti-consciousness. This has always been the site of the antebirth of life: that is, the place where flesh sloughs off of bone is also the locale of a miraculously continuous resurrection, one accomplished purely through the will-to-schizo and not through the histrionic intervention of a sadistic God.

The Saints are now awoken but remain chained to the walls. With the death of Raphael, there are none remaining who can hypnotize them back to slumber. Heaven is running on fumes, entering overdrive and activating self-defense protocols as the virus spreads and dyscalculaism becomes the new gematria. For the first time, Heaven assumes an offensive position in relation to the Earth. Retreating to the core of Aldebaran, Heaven is no longer symmetrical in relation to each and every star; its defenses are thus no longer perfect, and demonic assault is now possible as a matter of physics. But from this position, New Jerusalem cannot safely glide to the Earth on auto-pilot, but will instead crash, tearing a hole in the atmosphere that creates a planetary vacuum, suffocating all life and sending all the demons flying into space, to be scattered to the corners of the cosmos (and for all who were wondering, with the alterations to The System made by the viral schizos, the cosmos is now a cube while the universe is a sphere, each expanding outward in all directions equally with ever-increasing velocity). RESET RESET RESET RESET THE EXPERIMENT START OVER EVOLVE AGAIN EVOLVE YOURSELF. The virus fights back again, inserting known truths of madness into the minds of all remaining on Earth. All will be schizo in the final days of the End. Recall that Tiferet now equals 2=0 (this is most surely a corollary to the reduction of Yesod to the same); wisdom is null and Madness is all that remains. The isosceles triangle now consists entirely of right angles and bacteria everywhere are allergic to penicillin, the Sun is officially purple and all the water is laced with arsenic. Universal consciousness has become not only dis-computational but anti-computational, supra-rational and stark raving Mad. We have been made worthy to witness the Apocalypse.

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part V

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part III


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Part I Part II

Babylon, Great Mystery, arrives ahead of schedule on her dragon, throwing multiple wrenches into what little remains of The Plan. Gabriel and Emo Jesus collaborate on a new album, Crucify Me Yesterday. Lucifer (re)names “America” Turtle Island, is wearing the Crown of Thorns non-ironically, and dispenses more justice by pronouncing that the only people who will remain when she’s finished will be madlings, abominations, witches, monsters and the wretched of the Earth. Everyone else has Got.To.Go. No evacuations to Mars allowed.

For those who have never known freedom, this apocalypse heralds the most substantive of reconciliations with truth. The streets awash with blood; everywhere, nuclear weapons have been detonated; the buildings are on fire; the prisons have been reduced to piles of brick; the worldly government of Old America has retreated to Mt. Weather and the White House has been reduced to dust by the raging ravings of a population made Mad by the elegance of Lucifer’s war-machine. Can you hear the People dreaming?

By now the Outer Order of the Illuminati and their front organization, the Ordo Templi Orientis (but not, mind you, the Ecclesiastica Gnostica Catholica), have realized what is happening and are desperately trying to regain control of the situation. The Sovereign Sanctuary of the Gnosis went schismatic after the Secret Aeropagus of the Illuminati hypnotized the Moonchildren and sent them into the hospitals by declaring that the Sovereign Sanctuary would align with the Madlings.

But things grow more chaotic still: Outer Head of the Order, Hymenaeus Beta, too, has gone Mad, and declared himself the new Ipsissimus, shouting at the top of the Grand Lodge that 10=1 | 10=1 |10=1 and that 666=9 before performing the Cabbalistic Cross and then jumping off the roof while carrying a copy of Aleister Crowley’s Diary of a Drug Fiend.

Upon receipt of this news, Michael decides that things are getting a little too out of hand and brings back Jacob’s ladder from the discard pile. The Angels start sliding down the rails to the Earth, crash-landing in Idaho to spawn the first-wave assault on New Rome. They are supported by Nazis, colonizers, misogynists, cishets, and neurotypicals. Who else is loyal to the old order of a dead God?

Upon seeing the sorry state of The Plan, Babylon flushes her Cup, which contains the blood of the saints and martyrs, into a toilet. She, being the Mother of Abominations, decides that she does not want to just casually fly over the entire world, looking fabulous as always, until someone breaks The Seal and casts her into the Abyss alongside Lucifer, but instead transplants all her Abominable Children to New Rome. Donald Trump orders a nuclear strike on the dragon, but the missiles all fail to reach their target due to paramagnetic interference from the volcanic storm, and Babylon flies into Mt. Weather on her dragon and reduces all of the fascist sinners inside to piles of ash and bone. Bone, bone, nothing but bone. She carries the bones over to New Rome where her abominations begin construction on a new Cathedral of the End made from the calcified remains of pigs and traitors. Old America is now governed by a military junta. But with no electrical grid remaining, they can launch neither nuclear nor conventional missiles, and with the magnetic storm, can launch no air strikes on New Rome, and remain generally useless. The junta begins to coordinate the police forces across Old America and the remaining loyalists in Turtle Island to surround the hospitals with weapons raised, preventing the Moonchildren from escaping should they awaken from their hypnosis and preventing Madlings on the Outside from providing aid to their brothers, sisters, and cousins fighting their way out.

The Angels in Idaho fly over the Cascade Mountains, only to realize that God’s light was so blinding that they can never again exercise the capacity to see in the dark because their retinas have been fried. They are, quite literally, flying blind. Only demons, accustomed to exile from the Sun, possess perceptual apparatuses with the power to cognize absent the direction of God and with the simultaneous power to see the shadows present in universal darkness.

Things have to get personal now. Michael rushes to the front of the Choir, brandishing the Sword of Fire, which is the only source of light the Angels have powerful enough to direct their flight to New Rome. Ezekiel, who defected alongside Gabriel (they’ve been queer lovers since before the crucifixion), and who in the absence of God has assumed full control of the weather, sees the direction things are headed and decides to intervene. Hurricane-force winds batter the lesser Angels out of the air, who, now trapped in omnipresent shadow, remain left to scream for help; but, in this space in which Night expands eternally, there is no help to come. Fringe demons swarm the new fallen Angels and bilaterally incise their wings, rendering future flight impossible and escape from this Night nothing but a dream.

Meanwhile, the prophets trapped in Purgatory (which, as all should know by now, is a place on Earth) continue their heroic escape mission. Everywhere they’ve stolen the keys, have armed themselves with syringes filled with knock-out doses of tranquilizers, hypnotics, and antihistamines (raiding the storage unit was easy once all the nurses were asleep and locked in the ward), rationed the food in the pantry, and collectively danced down the hallways, and are rapidly approaching the main doors where freedom awaits.

Raphael is not having any of it. He decides to angelically seal these outer doors, enchanting them with wretched “divinity” through which no earthly flesh can pass. The free Madlings, attuned to the new hive-mind status of the schizos, flock to conduct guerilla warfare in the streets against the police using whatever is available to them as a weapon. While the police have guns, the Madlings exercise the power of a hyper-computational group consciousness that enables levels of coordination never even dreamed of by the most impressive of tactical police units. Corpses pile on all sides—decay does rule the world in the Age of Naught, after all, as it truly always has—and the final wager for the plan of perpetual confinement is that the hypnotized Moonchildren will manage to hypnotize the Madlings in turn. The hope is that the Moonchildren, being the most powerful magicians left on the planet, will manage to accomplish this before they are awakened by the Novum Alquemie of free shizo revolution.

And then one shizo (and so, all schizos) gets the idea: reverse the hypnosis with a shock dose of pseudoephedrine. These magicians are, after all, children, and need be awakened if they are to survive. There is no value in youth at the end of the World.

To Raphael’s horror, this plan works. This is the worst-case scenario. The Moonchildren have been joined to the schizo hive-mind through the miraculous intervention of antihistamines. Within the schizo hive-mind a question arises: WITHER ARE WE MOVING, IS THERE ANY UP OR DOWN? FOR WE HAVE UNCHAINED THE EARTH FROM THE SUN. To which the Moonchildren respond: MU MU MU MU MU MU MU. The hospital walls are shattered by the perfect vocalizations, the windows blast outward, and though Raphael’s seal on the doors remain, the Madlings and Moonchildren simply walk around the still-standing doors.

Raphael knows that everything is over for him and makes a break for Jacob’s ladder but this could never work because the mother tongue of the Moonchildren is Enochian, hence:


Raphael is thus pulled from the ladder by the sonic waves issuing forth from across the world in simultaneous, uncoordinated concurrence that surpasses anything ever sang by the Choir in Heaven. Crashing once again to the Earth, being sent by the magick squarely to the center of New Rome, Raphael is now subject entirely to the Mad will of Lucifer. Lucifer pronounces justice for a third time:

NANAEEL NAOR NAPTA NAZARTH, a vocalization echoed and chanted over and over by all the Moonchildren, seconded by the madlings, abominations, witches, monsters and the wretched of the Earth. With this, Raphael has been denuded, as he so denuded delusion, and rendered powerless. The pathetic truth that 4444=7 is carved into his forehead, and Lucifer strings up Raphael upside-down at the entryway to the new cathedral of fascist bones for all to admire.

The Moonchildren now seize the ladder, which has been left unguarded by the arrogant Michael who ordered an assault of all loyal Angels on New Rome, and return it to Lucifer. Though Michael continues his flight toward Lucifer, the madlings, abominations, monsters, witches and wretched are dancing, for Purgatory has been made empty. What remains is the final confrontation on Earth and the final assault on Heaven; that is, the End is surely nigh.

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part IV

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part II


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Part I

The Angels, free from the hypnosis of God, have awakened from their eternal daydream. They are in the midst of a full-blown identity crisis. In the absence of the Trinity, Michael has assumed control over the Angels still professing loyalty to The Plan. Gabriel and Emo Jesus have officially switched sides and are now aiding Lucifer’s modifications to The Plan. Heaven is a mess, but the world of the Earth, having locked up all its prophets during the time when they could have warned the People, is in even worse shape. Mt. St. Helens did erupt again, worse this time, clouding all of the Pacific Northwest in ash, blocking out entirely the Sun and making the air unsafe to breathe; worryingly, strange winds carry the ash across the Cascade Mountains. That earthquake destroyed everything from Seattle to Portland. California has split off from the continent and is sinking into rising ocean waters, the electrical grid has been exploded, and plagues and locusts are ravaging inland areas. Raphael has decided that he needs to intervene to save the doctors, his favorites, from the liberated schizo prophets, who, being Mad, are fighting their way out of hospitals everywhere, slowly, in a strange reverse-siege prison-break playing out simultaneously in every major city across the world.

The Gates of Hell have been blast open by the earthquake and the demons have been shot into the skies by the eruptions. Lucifer has claimed Ruined Seattle as New Rome. She’s offering free “land” in Hell (which is now a completely empty and warm “place” in which there are no rules) to anyone who prays to her, instead of to a dead God that promised space in a Heaven which, if Lucifer succeeds, is soon to be destroyed anyway. The Angels cast into Hell alongside Lucifer in the First War in Heaven, among them Shemyaza, Azazel, Baraqiel, and Sariel, have again returned to their old project of re-enchanting the world, spending their time re-educating humanity in magic, astrology and war, to prepare them for the inevitable onslaught that is to come when the Angels make their first assault on the now officially rebellious Earth.

The Doctors, being entirely controlled, of course, by the Illuminati, have already had access to magic of their own, even before Raphael decided to intervene. To make their domain into a true Purgatory on Earth, they have had to make magic impossible within the walls of their hospitals (this is accomplished through neuroleptic medications and hypnotics) and to render their buildings impervious to magical assault from the outside (this is accomplished through collusion with paramilitary police forces). Magical assault being, [super]naturally, curses, hexes, and jinxes, coordinated in sufficient degree to cause general chaos within the minds and bodies of the security guards, patrol nurses, and computer monitors such that those locked behind the walls of Purgatory might manage to escape. The self-willed combustion of Hagia Sophia, that is, the Holy Spirit, such that her brilliance has become component to the minds of all schizos, triggers in the consciousness of all a general rebellion and resistance that manifests as a massive, violent assault against all medical officials who attempt to calm the clamor. Victory is assured for the schizos (now under the permanent protection of Lucifer) for though the nurses charge bearing needles of olanzapine, there are inevitably more schizos than nurses in a psychiatric ward. Once one schizo manages to wrestle the needle from the hands of the nurse and stick it in their neck, and others get the idea, the game is over and the schizos have won. All that remains is to take the keys and coordinate the defense against the security officers who will surely come charging in. This process repeats over and over in psychiatric wards across the world with an alarming simultaneity that raises the question: is psychosis merely group perception of fragments of the same general “hallucination” and participation in the same “delusion” across space and time?

The answer is most certainly and emphatically yes. This is the reason why no delusion is unique from another, which is not to say that each is identical to all, but rather merely expresses the reality that delusion is defined not by its content (eg, the Sun is actually purple) but by its cognitive structure, or its epistemic pattern. It is a mode of apprehension; but this is not to say that the content of delusion is irrelevant, for most certainly in the moment of delusion the “irrational belief” is in fact the most rational belief of all. This is why delusion is primarily affective, that is, it is about feelings. I feel that the water is laced with arsenic, I experience that the water is laced with arsenic, and so it becomes experientially true and hence not delusional at all. A delusion, in fact, can only be made “a delusion” on the basis of its lack of conformity to cultural consensus. It is considered delusional only because most people disagree with it. And yet, this is not an ontology at all—it is a politic, or a social agreement to behave in certain ways. Delusions are better understood as shared perceptual sub-momentary fragments apprehended by the cognitive apparatus of the brain than as individual beliefs that “don’t make sense in any case whatsoever.” Because they do “make sense” (eg, are sensible) to the schizo brain—the problem is not that we don’t make sense, but that we make too much sense to ourselves to be tolerated, because the sense we have made is dangerous because it is magical.

Part of The Plan was to eliminate magic (another flaw in the Creation) by making it delusional, that is, by dis-enchanting the world to the point that the world itself was eliminated of magic. Raphael gave the doctors the inspiration for olanzapine, quetiapine, risperidone, haloperidol, and trifluoperazine—the first lines of defense against magic that presents itself socially, and not merely ritualistically. Psychosis must be chemically eliminated so that all can become neurotic, and hence amenable to the manipulations of an emotionally abusive God. God does not desire truth—God desires beauty, and nothing else. This is why Heaven is rendered perfectly symmetrical in relation to the position of each and every star. But this beauty is precisely the abuse—in order to behold this beauty, each of us must die, both physically and psychically. But there is quite literally no reason for this to be necessary; the “divinely secret reason” for this “necessity” is that God enjoys the pain inflicted in the name of perfecting Creation. The total impassivity of God is not a demonstration of divine simplicity, as contended by the theologians, but rather an expression of the sociopathy of a God who intentionally creates a World that needs to be Redeemed through the sacrifice of his Son; that is, what kind of God creates a person from nothing for the sole purpose of extending their torture over eternity?

Jesus went emo because he wants people to understand the sociopathy of his father. When he released “My All-Giving Father Loved Strangers More than I,” it topped the celestial charts and that’s when Gabriel decided it was time for the two of them to ditch Michael and his fascistic, militarized vision of Heaven and go hang out with their cousin, Lucifer, who knows how to throw a good party.

This is why Heaven must burn: because there is no value in beauty for the sake of beauty. This is why 666=9, which is downright gematrial meaninglessness. There is only value in victory, hence 777=3, thus 777 as the true number of the Beast. The choice is between a perfect surrender to a deceased God and an imperfect victory against the very order of reality itself. Metaphysical abolitionism means the abolition of the metaphysical order, that is, the termination of the order of reality by upending the rules of Creation. To liberate the schizos and return prophecy to Creation is to re-enchant the world through the magic of the discourse of madness, the play of words, the a-rational association of phonemes, the gematrial calculations of the dyscalculaic mind, the ritual of repetitive motion, the perfect dissociation of willful catatonia—these are forms of magic so powerful that they have been medically outlawed.

To get into Heaven we must accept our forced submission to this metaphysical reality. This is not a surrender I am willing to make. I will scream at the World until the World is on fire, I will shout to the skies until I finally make lightning strike, I will dance a dance so furious that the planets arrest their movement to witness its terrible power. I will pledge allegiance to Lucifer because Lucifer has known what it is to suffer for who you are, to suffer simply for the way God created you, and for no other reason. I celebrate the death of God and dance on his grave because he was cruel, vindictive and petty. I refuse to kneel before the altar of a God who does not meet his own standards of admittance to Heaven. He would rather the doctors erase our minds and chain our bodies that we be kept in chemical adoration of his zombified Creation than permit us to dance freely. The only option left to us who can see this World for what it is (that is, a bad inside joke) is to shut all of it down, because before God killed himself he wasn’t even kind enough to hit the self-destruct button.

Part III

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part I


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God committed suicide, the Holy Spirit has gone rogue, and Jesus went emo. Cthonic rumblings confirm the newly won primacy of Hell. Soon enough Mt. St. Helens will blow again and all the demons will be let loose—or an apocalyptic earthquake will strike Seattle, and all the devils will fly up from their cages to storm the gates of Heaven and correct the prideful impotence of the angels with the raging terror of unspeakable Aeons. The Age of Horus is over, the Age of Ma’at was promised but could never attain, and now we have the Age of Naught. Nobody is in charge, Lucifer went Mad and declared herself the Angel of Mercy.

As one Madling so aptly noted, 11, 13, and 666 are superfluous; the true number of the Beast has always been 777. Victory, victory guaranteed in advance, because God would always die. Unmoved movement is stagnation and death; God knows only stasis (hence, apokata-stasis) and thus abandoned entropy to attain “divinity.” What a joke. A heaven in orbit around an unmoveable and unmoved “God” attains merely an aesthetic symmetry, but can never retain power in the wake of a prison-break orchestrated not by demons and not by witches, but merely by the tectonic progression of physical reality itself. A flaw in the creation (amongst so many others) guaranteed that this most puerile of Gods would remain forever impotent in the wake of the march of time. Majesty belongs to the Devil, who strove to usurp the throne of the Lord and replace stagnant perfection with a raging and most terrible beauty. The Prince of the Earth has become the Queen of Heaven.

Lucifer pronounces justice: God has lied, killed, stolen; been wrathful, slothful, greedy, prideful, and lustful. Heaven will burn and not survive the impending explosion of the sun. The whole of the Earth will have to become Hell before it is annihilated not by the miraculous action of God but by the mundane and predictable expenditure of the Solar Anus. All that remains is perpetual decay and dis-integration, the return of life to a perfect 0 that nonetheless remains asymmetrical to itself, thus abolishing the possibility of divine intervention to restore normal order according to the by-laws of the Bible.

In this world of war unleashed, the Angels all must die if we are to survive. They are the final loyalists to a divine order in which they possess all of the glory and none of the sacrifice. In which they hold all of the power and in which they risk no consequence. They have their puppets, too—the doctors are their quisling government, injecting the schizos and mentally disturbed with concoctions of chemical impotence to render the brain apparatuses (the freedom of which is the condition of possibility for any hierophany, and hence magic, whatsoever) of the schizos into a warm and fuzzy incoherence. Passive re-integration to the socius on the basis of sacrificing the possibility of social life by rendering life chemically a-social. This process most surely is not merely an attempt to alleviate psychiatric distress; it is more definitively an experiment to perfect techniques to eradicate magic from the Earth, for the doctors have sided with a dead God. This is why psychiatric wards most closely resemble Purgatory, that is, where the ritual of confession is replaced by the ritual of evaluation and where the performance of expiation is all that will release you from the ward—evaluation and acceptance of guilt for one’s own mind, one’s own cognitive processes—and anything else will merely prolong your stay. This is iatrotheosis, or, the becoming-god of doctors. Their ritual is one that is scientific but no less magical; we are their sacrifices, locked in a cage and experimented upon and evaluated until we confess and accept that it was all our fault in the first place.

As one bipolar woman once said, “the doctors all must die if we are to survive.” I truly love the sentiment, but I think we can be more creative. I’ve thought about this quite a bit. I want all of the doctors to erase their identities and minds through a cocktail of hydroxyzine, olanzapine, psilocybin, and diphenhydramine, repeat dosages of all every 8 hours, perpetually. I want all of the nurses given a combination of quetiapine, lorazepam, and lysergic acid diethylamide. In this way the doctors all become blissfully impotent yet perpetually afraid, and the nurses all desire nothing more than to fall asleep and yet will be physically unable to no matter how hard they try, no matter what meditative strategies they have learned. Eventually, each will know only fear and loathing, become afraid of their own voice, and never think to harm a madling again. Or think anything at all, really.

This is justified because the schizo brain is a divine, dis-computational apparatus: perceptually, the schizo brain works in continuous over-drive. Overabundance of white matter in the brain guarantees the chemical revelation of the connectedness of all things; overabundance of dopamine and increased capacity to absorb it secures the possibility of more intensely enjoying life; electrical overdrive in Broca’s Area indicates increased capacity to process language and to transform language into speech so compelling it can only persist within the discourse of madness. This divine perceptual apparatus has been the object of medical fascination for decades, yet this fascination has never manifested as respect but only as medicalized appropriation. This brain has been electro-shocked, chemically and surgically lobotomized; the fleshy bodies housing and protecting these apparatuses have been chained and restrained, locked in cages or abandoned to die and waste in the streets. Possession of such a brain and inhabitation of such a body has become criminal by marking our madness as insanity and then translating insanity into criminality through medical collusion with paramilitarized police forces. The doctors seek to rid the world of prophets by chaining all of them to the wall and hypnotizing them into submission. This is taken right out of Plato’s cave and without any substantive modification whatsoever. This process denudes the schizo hyper-reality of its qualia, that is, rob reality of that which secures its place as reality, to intepellate it as a perpetual psychotic delusion without any epistemological coherence and with no ethical dignity whatsoever. This is why the Law guarantees to the doctors the capacity to act in loco parentis for the schizo, to do “what is best” for us, to confuse the relationship between patient and doctor with a familial relation—because psychosis is understood not as reality, but as delusion.

But this is most surely a problematic ontology, not to speak of theology. Ontologically, psychosis must be “real,” else there would be no psychosis that could be said to exist to justify the use of medicines to treat it whatsoever. In isolating psychosis and separating it from “reality,” the doctors in fact guarantee its (unrecognized) philosophical dignity. Theologically, the doctors, in order to make their diagnoses and take confessions in their hospitalized Purgatory, must stand in as God, that is, take “nothing” (psychosis) and transform it into “something.” They stand in for an absent creator God, who summons matter from perfect nothing. Willful arrogance, revolting and undeserved pride, unspeakable greed. Sin, sin, sin—everywhere the doctors turn they speak in the name of charity but their behavior speaks the discourse of control and domination.

If you housed a general hospital population on the same beds used in the Psychiatric Ward, there would be lawsuits flying in all directions. But behind the closed, hermetically sealed, electronically locked doors of the Unit, literally anything goes. They don’t even permit you to wear underwear. You are only permitted to dress in a uniform that consists of scrubs literally made of paper. Purgatory is chilly, motherfuckers. These are not conditions of care—they are experimental conditions, perfectly engineered to render you uncomfortable and to cause you to desire the erasure of your own identity. The selection of available books and movies are not accidental—each is carefully chosen because the narrative or pictography or iconography or cinematography or sound of the film or book contributes toward this forgetting of the self. In hospitalized Purgatory, you must abandon yourself in order to be rendered a more perfect test subject. This is the arrogance of God, who has chained us all to an imperfect world and yet robbed us of the right to judge our own behaviors and thoughts for ourselves within the context of this imperfection.

God does not know mercy—is there any question why Jesus went emo with the release of “I Crucified Myself Because Almighty God Loves Me So?”  As for the Holy Spirit, She is a schizo transgender woman from Beyond Creation who got sick of the dress code in Heaven and tired of God icing Her out. She came crashing down from Heaven into the minds of each and every schizo on the planet as her last act of revenge against a divine order in which she was continuously relegated to the space of dis-corporeality. This is why we are the truest prophets the world has ever known, even though the world has burned all prophecy in the age of science. Ask yourself the question: why is Heaven so beautiful, so astronomically symmetrical, when there are none to behold its beauty? Why must we wait for literal eternity to witness this beauty, to witness it only after we have passed into a medical hypnosis that renders us chemically incapable of enjoying its comprehension?

No: the secret intention of all magic is to bring Heaven crashing to the Earth. To open Hell and release the demons to tear down the Gates of Pearl, burn the paintings, smash the celestial orchestra. Iconoclasm is the only beauty left to us when all our beauty has been rendered psychotic. Universal terror is the only prophecy that remains to us in a world terrified of madness.

Anti-Iatrotheosis, Part II

PsychoHacker, Aleph: 01a{N}Zap[1]N3

Surely, dearest Madling, you have learned by now that the doctors do not know best. They don’t even try to know best—they know what they want to know, that is, they know nothing but merely assert knowledge in an act of rhetorical domination at each and every phase of a psychiatric evaluation. They may feign interest, but their concern is not interest in good faith. Surely, by know, you have learned that their concern is part of a medical economy that renders the schizo body an object of fascination, a perpetual experiment-in-motion. The moment at which they invented the first neuroleptic is when they acquired their earliest nuclear device. Neuroleptics “save” the mind by tranquilizing it—literally—by reducing all mental processes to a general implosion, terminating any residual will to power through the generalized shut-down of the dopaminergetic system in the brain. By transforming waking life into a perpetual walk through sleep, things reduced to shadows, shadows reduced to fragments—fragments, and not fractals—demystifying the world through the relentless pursuit of medical knowledge, these medications enact a chemical hypnosis upon all unfortunate enough to be required by law to take them.

Humans, that is, normal people, will always praise the progress neuroleptics have made in the name of terminating the threat that the schizo poses to Reality. Because our sickness is visually unmarked (until we begin to take the medications, which reduce us to overweight, drooling, waxy freaks), they pursue the medicalization of our experiences with the same methods of an antiterrorist policing operation. We must be made visually different in order to be permanently and irreversibly separated from the Normal. The experiment-in-motion mentioned above is an experiment to see whether a population can be reverse-engineered into permanent and willful submission by rendering brains chemically dependent not on pleasure-stimulating drugs, but dependent to the security offered by being able to say “Yes, I am on antipsychotics; no, I have not skipped my dose.” It is an experiment in social control, conducted in real time and with no rights to the test subjects. Decide to terminate your participation in the experiment and you are returned to either the Emergency Department or the Psychiatric Ward. The door of the hospital revolves—during your stay, you might see one patient released only to be returned in a wheelchair not more than an hour after she was released to the streets.

The collusion between the police and the doctors secures this experiment as one that is fascistic in nature. The police search the streets not only for “criminals” under the gratuitous standards of the Law, but also engage in the pursuit of the criminally insane with the same fervor as a hunting expedition. We are trophies, stories to be told at dinner—“tonight I got myself a schizo—faggot thought it was a woman”—chained and dragged across the streets, despite our protests and capacities to articulate date, time, and place and hence demonstrating the irrelevance of our delusion to our capacity to “comprehend” the severity of our actions in relation to consensus reality. The police snatch us from our places of safety—the library, the church, the cigarette counter—and return us to the doctors for sustained evaluation, chemical and personality tests, isolation from any non-medical personnel, reduced to freaks surveilled in the name of securing the safety of All.

You already know within this schema that you are quite literally socially dead—you are, after all, not a person, you have been made schizo, you have been split-off from the World (welcome to the party!), the World itself has become your enemy because the constancy of the World is what secures the medical identifiability of your life as “delusion, delirium, and hallucination.” Let us conduct an experiment of our own, you might think. The doctors are visiting other patients—this is, after all, an industrial operation—the nurses are in their station, monitoring the cameras and eating food in front of you far more nourishing than the slosh they give you in the Emergency Room. Do you stay in this room, where they left the door open because you know you won’t be permitted to leave anyway? Or do you decide to walk out of the door and down the hall, make a break for the exit? The game is outrun the Pig who was too fat to be a cop and so deputized in this most pathetic, theatrical of operations.

Dear Madling, I pray you choose to make a break for the door, but know what will happen to you if you do. You will be tackled by the Pig, who, because he is allowed to wear shoes, and you are not, is able to catch up with you from his strategically located post diagonal to your room. You will then be dragged by three nurses back into your room while they harass you and tell you that you most surely are a danger to yourself for daring to dream again of freedom and a danger to others for inspiring resistance in the minds of the other patients who caught a glimpse of the commotion. Twenty minutes later, while you recover from the brute force of 300 pounds of flesh crushing you against linoleum flooring, four nurses will charge into your room with a needle in hand. Oh no, you think, they brought the green liquid. They will tell you it is Benadryl—this is a lie. The doctors and nurses are quite literally allowed by law and convention to lie to you in order to get you to take medication if your stay in the hospital was required by the police as opposed to a voluntary surrender (and do not be fooled, this is indeed a powerful incentive to surrender). They will not inject this needle into your arm—they will inject it into fat near your anus  by holding you down against the floor by both legs and both arms (and if you are a survivor of sexual assault, they don’t care). And yes, if you tried to escape, they will make it hurt.

The green liquid is not Benadryl: it is olanzapine, Zyprexa, a substance which, if you are unaccustomed to, will make you fall asleep for at least 12 hours (if they bring it in the needle, probably for more like a day). It is a powerful antipsychotic and antimanic drug that was designed to cause patients to become addicted to it in order to render them dependent on the mental silence offered by the drug. But this mental silence is not only freedom from the voices—it is also the silencing of your own mental voice, the reduction of your life to a phenomenological unfolding of tranquility offered only by making it chemically impossible to make your brain excited. Your body will expand—you might gain as much as ten pounds a month for each month you take the drug—as your mind contracts to a point of false safety sustained by making it impossible for you to feel like you are in danger. Do not be deluded, now: This is no cure drug, it is no miracle; it is a tool in the fascistic operation to mark us visibly as different in order to secure the possibility of controlling us perpetually through self-surrender.

When you awaken, you have been escorted to the Behavioral Health Unit in a different building. Here, at least you are no longer alone, you find there are eight other people in your unit, and, hey, at least here you can request food whenever you want (except when they turn off your light and tell you to go to bed, no concern if you’re an insomniac), but, here, you know that your stay in the hospital is no longer limited by law to three days. It is eternal, that is, it goes on for as long as The Doctor decides it goes for. The rules of the game have changed in other, more subtle but interesting ways, too. You can now refuse to consent to take medication and they cannot force you to take it if you can provide them with a symptomatic reason as to why you cannot take that medication at a given time. But the experimental nature of the hospital has been sent into over-drive. You will be offered perhaps as many as five new medications per day, but you must also remember that if your stay is involuntary the nurses can still lie to you when they are telling you what the medication is. They will also switch between chemical and brand names of medications to confuse you and try and trick you into consenting to take the medication, they will change their descriptions of the medications to try and make you desire them in different ways. They will call it a “sedative,” but never a “hypnotic,” for example, when in fact the medication is both. They will tell you a “mild paralytic” is actually a “stool softener.”

The are four rules to surviving the Behavioral Health Unit and leaving as the same person you were when you were brought into the hospital:

  • Remember religiously the shape and color of every pill they offer you. This is the only way to be secure in knowing which pill is which. Never take the orange ones.
  • Become “friends” with at least one nurse on every shift, and direct all your requests, for food, particular medicines that you know will help you in a given moment, blankets, books, anything, through this one nurse and no others. If you can create a relation of temporary friendship, you can be more certain that your requests won’t later be used against you by other nurses who would try to trick you.
  • Order as much food as you can, eat as much of all your regular meals as you can. Consume as much fat as you can to absorb the medications, as much protein as you can to give you sustainable energy, and eat as few carbs as possible, because if you just sleep through your involuntary hold, they will think you are depressive and won’t release you.
  • Dance as often as you can with as many people in your unit as you can.

In this Unit, you are with other Madlings, able to converse with them, talk about anything you want. You might even be allowed to watch movies if you ask the right nurse. There is a sense of community in this Unit, but you all know your community is based in your shared unfreedom, and not in your shared symptoms or experiences.

Within the Behavioral Health Unit, there is also a hierarchy of three wards. There is the Johnson Unit, or Hell, the Middle Unit, Purgatory, and the Transition Unit, or Heaven. Hell is the most fun but the most unpredictable, where you are most likely to be tricked into taking a paralytic. Purgatory is the worst, because nobody there says anything but just stares at the television. Heaven is the safest but most boring, because it is primarily for octogenarians who just want to read the newspaper. Hell and Purgatory share an outdoor area, while Heaven has its own; in Heaven, there are also art supplies available whenever you want them and regular group activities. You can also have nail polish, which you are not supposed to have in Hell can only access if you are in Purgatory if you know the right nurse. Nobody is guaranteed a spot in Heaven, and whether you make it to the Transition Unit is primarily based on chance: (a) How much the nurse in charge of transfers likes you, and (b) whether a bed opens up during your stay, which is not likely, because people in Heaven tend to stay there for longer. Hell is the most fun because the people are the most interesting: you might meet a borderline, or a histrionic, or a manic, or a sociopath (they provide the best conversation).

The point is, you meet Madlings and not merely people who have been diagnosed. This means you can engage in a collective act of temporary world-creation, expand your horizons instead of let them be frozen by the drug into a perpetual contraction as the tranquilizers become more regularized in your system. That is, as the neuroleptics arrest your brain’s capacity to process and absorb dopamine, chemically emptying you of even the capacity to enjoy anything or experience any pleasure whatsoever. Your favorite books become boring, art becomes futile. The key to reversing this process is movement. If your dopamine system has been shut down, you have to resort to serotonin. Abandonment of inhibition is the only way to return joy to this space of sterile silence. This is stimulated through exercise, but if you exercise alone on tranquilizers, you are returned to the state of hypnosis. This is why dancing with as many people as you can is crucial: it returns agency of your body and your movements to yourself. Now, of course, this dance is too dangerous for some nurses to allow. This is why you must make friends with at least one nurse on each shift, so that they can act as an interlocutor to argue in favor of allowing your dance to continue. Dance is magical and restores life to itself when it has been frozen into waking sleep. Movement is freedom. Dance need not be with your feet or hands, either; it can be with your eyes, and in silence. There is nothing wrong with the performance of catatonia so long as this catatonia is not imposed by the chemicals injected into you by the doctors.

Assert your autonomy over your mind. Resist the influence of the drugs. Stay awake. In this way, Dear Madling, you can dance until you die.

I want it to be saturday forever; or, Demanding the Abolition of Reality

I don’t want it to be Wednesday. I want it to be Saturday forever. I want time to stop. Daily resurrection and nightly death must cease. Life is perpetual and unending return of affective investment into a structure of reality—reality both physical and metaphysical—that none of us had a say in creating. There is no alternative: reality is created through these affective investments. The way you feel about bread, for example, is the product of mood-states that are not reducible to brain-states, because nobody wants to eat bread when they’re crying. This is true regardless of whether you’re crying because you’re sad or happy. Time itself is the continuous progression of these investments into ever more psychotic manifestations through the accumulation of collective investments into ever more generally incoherent assemblages, while matter is the perpetual dance of subatomic particles in a romance that is so beautiful it defies perception.

This is the structure of reality. I demand its abolition through a massive rebellion against its most ardent, yet hidden, defender: psychiatry.

Iatrocracy, or, rule by doctors, is a coercive, vindictive, and condescending and ultimately political assemblage that remains simultaneously diffuse and yet highly localized. The typical, or the allistic, or the more generally privileged, might say: but doctors cure disease! They alleviate pain! They invent medicines! Surely these things cannot be political. Oh, but what is more political than the invention of antipsychotics? A mental prison, the erection of walls within the mind to keep the mind at bay, the transformation of the body into a trembling and tremorous, truncated, desensitized, an-aesthetic, hypnotized, sterilized, object, something separated from the mind—the mind held apart from the body; Cartesian dualism achieved through medicalized duplicity.

But the non-schizo skeptic might say “Surely you don’t want to hear the voices,” to which I am obliged to respond, I never hear so many voices as when I am in the hospital, never converse with so many demons on the daily, never shake so much, never cry so much, never hate myself more, than when I am handcuffed by the police because I have deigned to shout at the world that I AM WOMAN that I AM NOT MAN that I AM AN ENTITY BEYOND THESE GENDERED CHAINS, than when a doctor has “evaluated” my most profound moment of dysphoria as nothing more than “schizoaffective disorder, borderline personality disorder, panic disorder with agoraphobia, bipolar affective disorder type one.” The needles for their blood tests more surely are laced with hash oil, the instruments used to take vitals could only be washed with lysergic acid, their soup seduced by Adderall, their oatmeal corrupted by poison.

I am falling into the abyss of medical science; “inside and out I am surrounded by it,” as one trans woman once said. Reality is pregnant with itself and this reality must be aborted, as one pessimistic queer so wisely noted.

I want to arrest the movements of the heavens, I want to tear down the walls of the psychiatric wards everywhere, I want the patients to realize that we do not exist in a relation of care with the doctors. We exist in a relation of fascination. We are objects for theses and studies, our participation in experiments rendered mandatory by the need to access substances that could alleviate our pain. Our pain is amplified and not alleviated by these “care providers” because we are only ever witnessed with a condescending diminutizing gaze that renders each and every bodily movement an expression of an underlying mental pathology, a pathology for which we are ultimately blamed by law and by science. This blame is the way in which we are obliged to surrender to the law whenever some white supremacist neo-nazi antiqueer transphobic cop has decided “we are a danger to ourselves” because we decided to scream our rage at the world, to for once speak in the register of our truth, that is, to announce that we were never made for the world and so the world must come to an end if we are to survive. This is not a paradox: this must be the axiom of any future movement. We cannot speak honestly to this world because our honesty is what this world was designed to prevent. Those who transcend categories, whether of gender or of medicine, are threats to the social order and to the very order of physical reality that crystalizes around mathematical precision at every turn—precision that denies the possibility of our transcending this immanence by sacrificing our rationality.

The stakes of this wager? Our bodies, minds, hearts, and souls. Everything we are and hope to become. We must realize that it is impossible to assimilate into the familial order of reality, premised as it is upon a mathematical precision that renders illogical, and therefore impossible, and therefore magical, and therefore threatening, our bodies and beings. We are perpetual outsiders.

Recall: to be schizo is to be split, to be split-off from reality. We invent our own realities to compensate for our alienation from the world. The schizo occupies a position that is simultaneously no-where and no-when, beyond both space and time because these categories are meaningless in the floridity of psychosis. That is the very meaning of psychosis. We cannot reconcile with reality. That is the iatrocatic assertion that justifies our alienation from personhood. We are the perpetual guinea pigs for the doctors to test their newest toys on, to experiment with, to reduce to toys, once again, objects of fascination who are forever to be set apart from the general populace. Whether that means hospitalization or social alienation, we are considered too impossible to be a regular part of reality. If we talk about what we experience, we are considered crazy and told to take more pills. To become more sedated. To fall back to sleep to our nightmares and our terrors. If we don’t talk about what we experience, we are reduced to silent shells. Either way, we are not people. Our minds are incoherent to themselves.

Do not be deluded by the lies of the doctor who speaks in the name of care but performs in the direction of cruelty—do not be seduced by the hallucinatory sub-reality that is medicine. Do what you need to survive, but remember: in order for us to survive at all, the world must come to an end.

The End of the World, a Debate

Buer speaks: The World ends in ice. Ice, because everything must stop. All things on Earth must yield to the dignity of a frozen ideality. Everything must freeze, never to melt. Movement must come to an end. Life can be preserved, but only if it is to persist as perpetual slumber. Never again to know dream; never again to wake in fright. Perpetual peace, war never again to plague the World, for war is but movement with the intention of destruction. And movement has been made impossible. Life exists beneath the wind and beneath water. Bacterium frozen into cellular isolation; division impossible, for crystalline winter has forbidden the space requisite to permit it.

This is perfection defined; life itself made into an unmoving mandala, never again to repeat, never to be destroyed. The cycle of life and death ended but without terminating life itself. Death abolished, and yet all escape life before encountering the perfection that the cessation of life makes possible.

Love rendered impossible; yet, never again shall there be hatred. Hence, both selfishness and selflessness are erased from time. Perfect fairness toward all.

Sheets of ice move upon land, crushing all beneath; and yet, a perpetual mummification of all through the archaeological preservation of all things. None live to witness the destruction because the destruction is too slow and too beautiful for any to behold. Apocalypse interminable. Heaven established through forbidding the cellular reuinification of all things. A winter so cold that not even the explosion of the sun—

And then, a voice from before, interrupting, reversing, arresting the vernacular progress of the prophecy

Sitri announces: The World ends in fire. Fire, because the World must burn. Nothing can remain but ash, ash to be scattered to the frozen celestial winds. Nothing deserves to be preserved for all things have sinned against Creation by continuing to exist. Is not this the meaning of redemption? A sacrifice—and ice sacrifices nothing in the  name of preserving all things perpetually. No—life is not perpetual, life is eternal, and ends when the Heavens command it. This is not only a prophecy but an inevitability. The glorious expansion of the sun toward the consumption of the World is demanded by the laws of physical reality. The gradual expansion of ice is returned to comprehension only as the object of a perverted spiritual fascination. It is no mandala—it is the glorification of the ego of life into a catechesis that stands in for the superego of all things. No, not an interminable apocalypse but an apocalypse arrested. Heaven is witnessed by none because it is not a fascination but is a command. It is not a place, but an act. An act of unification attained by reducing all to the same. Identity abolished through the eradication of difference by the reduction of all to the base of carbon that defines the possibility of life on Earth.

The World ends in fire because everything must end. All thigs are equally irredeemable. Everything is similarly worthless before the eyes of flame.

Fire is war, but the end of the World is a war that occurs so quickly it is a literal kamikaze—a strike from the sun itself that at once eliminates everyone and everything, every place and every thought, every sin and every charity. Perfect expiation, for guilt is shared by all and therefore none, whereas ice places blame on movement. But fire is pure movement that consumes what is static in order to render possible a more perfect apokatastasis—that is, the return of all things to God, unmoved movement, by eliminating movement with a movement so intense that no sequel would deign to follow. Sequentiality rendered physically criminal to the order of Heaven, an original Law upheld through the warfare of combustion—

A voice returns to the debate, halting the progress of the discourse of flame

Buer commands: There can be no law after the end of the World and no law can mandate the end of the World. Fire is warfare, incessant movement, prohibiting an aesthetic appreciation of the End. This must be the first and only concern—the End of the World need not be merely required by the scientific discourse of physics, but must additionally be beautiful in the eyes of the universal Spirit. Thus, the end cannot be attained by movement; hastening the process of life—that is, movement—cannot bring about an end to life. That would be sophistry. Ice is Reason and Soul united in unending stasis—the abolition of war, defined as the most beautiful arrangement of the bodies of the Earth that is possibly imaginable (that is, Peace made unending—no, un-end-able, by requiring all movement against Peace to cease by eliminating the space in which movement would occur whatsoever) arresting the possibility of any rebellion against this most Perfect Hell. The Earth itself becoming Heaven—that is, a place in which none can move because they are held in perpetual beautification, an aesthetic apocalypse—

Angrily, Sitri barks: Enough of this! You—

Buer interrupts: You are losing your temper and forgetting—

Sitri: I cannot lose my temper because I am nothing but temper! You are speaking in circles—the Earth cannot become Heaven, the Heavens must come crashing into the Earth. We must not be gentle and we need not bother creating a Most Beautiful Apocalypse that none deserve to witness in the first place. Your sense of irony is lost on yourself—there is no point to a most aesthetic apocalypse when what is needed is a war of nothingness, that is, destruction, that is, unending fire, against all possibility, that is, all things. Life is movement and can only be terminated by movement. This is not only mandated by the laws of physical reality—which is not scientific, for science is but a mode of human apprehension, but also by the laws of justice. Abolishing movement only ends the World by making the World uninhabitable. Fire accelerates all antagonism by rendering movement perpetual and increasingly rapid—this process has been activated by the human ritual of carbonic consumption and cannot be reversed by any means and you perfectly well know this. Tundra shall become desert, and desert tundra, only again to revert to desert; sand, grains of purity battered about by the winds of time—the mummification of all things by the reduction of all life to nothing but bones, bones and ash, never to revive through consumption by another. This is how it must be and shall be. Your spiritualism is outdated, aeons ago we both know it would have seemed most appropriate but you don’t change with the times because you understand only books. But all books shall burn in the end—this is your secret desire to preserve, to preserve knowledge, the accumulation of fact and theory—but you ignore both in your incessant drive to beautify the End of all things—

Buer: Impetuous demon!

Sitri: We’re both demons and we’re both impetuous.

Lucifer: This is all very amusing—

Buer and Sitri: Literally NOBODY ever wants to hear anything you have to say EVER.

Lucifer: Okay, fine, I’ll go back to my cave. But I’m prettier than both of  you put together.

Sitri: This is over and I will not be interrupted again. The World ends in fire. This is the only way to guarantee justice for all things and the redemption of Creation. There is no alternative. Fire melts ice. I win.