Gutter Gospel: Saturday Night Decay
It's Saturday night, humid and greasy. The summer has not yet hit and the heat is already getting to me. My body was not built for this subtropical climate, but I have at least another year of this.
My mind is reeling. The pressure I put on myself to make Razor Hill Comix into something makes me feel sick sometimes. Obviously, I am assigning far too much importance to something that, in the universal scheme of things, will amount to nothing more than a stack of wasted paper. However, I feel certain that I could apply that to most things in our life, yes?
Why eat? My body will only waste away one day. Why wash? The filth will only return. Why wake up when inevitably one day I will never open my eyes again?
Why the fuck do anything?
I am choosing to spend my time in pursuit of filth and sin through art and The New Taste. I will ramble and fuck around all I want in what is left of this life. My time is my time. My muse is all that matters; as long as the muse is fed and satiated, then I can rest easily. This is the contract I have signed with her. I will spend the rest of my days appeasing the filth she desires. The sin that feeds us.
In this world built on Christian ideology, Nature is sin. And therefore sin is nature—our true primal and real nature. The base of what it is to be human.
Yes. I am rambling. Yes, this shit makes little sense, but as I said before, it's Saturday night and this is what I have decided is important to myself and my muse. We are one, we are none. We spark sexual filth when we touch. The cosmic membrane weakens and rots the closer we get.
That is the goal then, yes? To dissolve the very fabric of reality and dance in the decay of what once was.