78 lines
4.6 KiB
Plaintext
78 lines
4.6 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Sickness
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by Franken Gibe
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>>> a cDc publication.......1993 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____
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|____digital_media____digital_culture____digital_media____digital_culture____|
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Thinking is the most painful thing I know. Thoughts can metastasize,
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spreading anxiety like a cancer; thoughts can be tumors, their black tendrils
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creeping into every sense and sensation, making life a kind of death. When I'm
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sick with thinking, it's usually because I've run barefoot through the snake
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bed of That Issue - my mortality. I try - I SWEAR I try not to let capital-
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letter issues like Existence and Mortality paralyze me. It's just that in the
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fever of thought it's all I can do to look out into the wide world and not see
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a grotesque masquerade. A thousand thousand masks turn toward me with their
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hideous frozen grins and hollow eyes. And I know that behind the masks are
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death faces.
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I'm sick with obsession. I don't want to die, but the world dies around
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me, and I gasp and choke on last exhalations and the sweet stench of decay. I
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feel myself dying and I wonder why, WHY. I stare at the clouds in the
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nighttime sky, glowing orange with the city's street lights, and I scream for
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answers, I beg for secrets, I whine for special dispensations. The clouds roll
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silently on, and I know they're just fucking clouds, physical phenomenon as far
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from having any transcendent consequence as I have.
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JUST BIOLOGICAL? Is this it? I can hear the distant echo of some distant
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classroom voice droning on about the conservation of matter and energy. Is
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this all science has to offer us, the immortality of our essence, but not our
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consciousness? The eternity of everything that isn't WHO WE ARE as self-aware
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beings?
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I'm feverish with self-consciousness. I'm sick on the notion that I am
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the only source of my own transcendence. I'm the captain and crew of a sinking
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ship who boasts to the wind and waves of my marvelous destination: that island
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of dreams that I've never seen, but whose existence keeps me from plunging
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overboard.
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Culture? Culture is a mat of brittle twigs and dried leaves that covers a
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depthless hole. I can feel myself slipping, falling through the rickety mesh.
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I NEED transcendence. I'm dying of the pressure. The universe looms
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immense around me, and crushes my lungs. I can barely breathe. I'm so sick.
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I want to vomit up the venom. I want to RAGE AT THE WORLD, I want to fucking
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kick a hole in the eternal and climb through. I want to curl up in a ball
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beneath some table and hide from Death.
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_______ __________________________________________________________________
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/ _ _ \|Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362|Kingdom of Shit.....806/794-1842|
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((___)) |Cool Beans!..........510/THE-COOL|Polka AE {PW:KILL}..806/794-4362|
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[ x x ] |The Alcazar..........401/782-6721|Moody Loners w/Guns.415/221-8608|
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\ / |The Works............617/861-8976|Finitopia...........916/673-8412|
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(' ') |ftp - zero.cypher.com in pub/cdc |ftp - ftp.eff.org in pub/cud/cdc|
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(U) |==================================================================|
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.ooM |Copr. 1993 cDc communications by Franken Gibe 04/01/93-#221|
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\_______/|All Rights Drooled Away. SIX GLORIOUS YEARS of cDc|
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