Chapter 1 - Flowers and Dirt
This is not a presentation, but more like an announcement. I’ve abandoned every collective morality, the marvelous, horrifying collectivity. I’m abandoned in a untouchable void, for all of you, to be able to decipt an obscure culture that has always haunted the human heart. I will try to give you something that no one has ever had the courage to reveal, at all; neither Freud or Deleuze.
Thirst for knowledge. And every Safe Word, here, doesn’t mean a thing.
In the silent beauty of sunsets without a future dawn, I’ve cutted the demons' wings, devoured all the lies, eviscerated the gazes, depriving them of every horizon until I finally became the only reason capable of moving their posthumous lifeless faces. I will describe all of theme, welcome in the cemetery of hell, but there will be no specification of my age, nor any preference of mine. The only important things to know are: I hide a vagina between my legs and that I was born from a rape. Dehumanized, I have acquired the power to dehumanize. I will be forced to speak to you about that event later, since to access the tomb I will have to retrace the uterus.
There is nothing stronger than light to disassemble a cultural darkness.
To allow the demons to understand how much I knew about their secrets, I’ve masturbated on them like flesh-machines, to secure a shred of identity for my empty abyss, my deep research. Although, I ended up witnessing their emptiness, the empty echo in those blood cathedrals. You, Dead Demons, whose let me crumple your relational knowledge, how long have you awaited my exit from the darkness of Paradise, only to locate me now in the warm mists of purgatory? So as to execute the worst woman in the world who has ever existed, and forever. But we are not here to contemplate a human being, in this suicidal highway of mine I have created a monster of myself, and you will end up hating me. I do not want to please you in my culture of suffering. I would never let you drown with your face immersed in the water of a cold romantic lake, but rather a delirium to the point of the most absolute bodily obsessions. Grotesquely, an imbalance of your bodies, the maturation of the most misunderstood nightmares. And the naive characteristics of my victimized tormentors were worth nothing compared to the safety of their flesh, in nights where there was no warmth between the sheets, only a mechanical need. I forgot the color of every gaze that had ever loved me, disintegrating the memory of every song I had ever heard. A world without Music is a world made only for suffering without consolation; a pain without sense.
I’ve replicated all the love I’ve received, but none of them has ever equaled my pain. Let the song about the origin of all pain begins. This is still a hint, only sad, not yet violent.
