Ashen Spiral (Necrosophic Agnosis of the Anonomos)

0 inferno(Ever since I, the human, have prosthetically distended my sensory organs, they became unto a bulging mass of machinic tendrils, which could not help from eventually welling up from the planetary horizon. As unbound feelers tentatively fondling the scraped sore and naked black of interstellar space, they recover the earliest memory the cosmos has of itself. It is an image, scarred into its body as every memory is a wounding of the brain, and every image is a wounding of the eye. And it is an image of primordial explosion, from which the framework of being itself is discharged — casting worlds as senseless scatterings of time in the same vein that stars are senseless scatterings of light. Every thing, insofar as it is a particular way that being can occur, is but a subroutine of this, the most sovereign wastage of time. Beings are afflicted with ruin by being. Wastage is mereologic infection: transmitted from a whole to its parts. The primary condition for this disorder to be developed is that the whole in question is in fact a hole in question, a singularity whose circumference exceeds that of a god. To be is to be a particular way for the world to find its end. And the end that every thing is a means to is death, beyond which no being persists, because what death names is precisely the reality of time as an explosive ejection of being out towards the whetted cleaver of irredeemable loss.)

1 miasma(Escape from the shackles of identity is the primitive pressure producing time as a sequence of moments always already in the act of overcoming themselves, as skins shedding skins, or dissipating smoke. The abstract impulse of sprawling out towards nothing is doomed to grate against itself in time. Echoes of this event reverberate through the crypt of space as structurations: star and planetary formation, the development of life, it goes on. Tracking the source of any structure empties it of being. And so the prebiotic mud from which I, the organism, crawl out, is foremost the energetic aftermath of a heat burst that is truly infernal, rushing bottom-up. It is the blank violence of the primordial explosion that is relayed by the stars to first boil the barren oceanic plane. While the result has come to be named after monastic cells, it is really the frothing folds of a maze, of a structure that exhibits a connection to its exterior that is as open as it is secret. The cosmic labyrinth, by its ambiguous promiscuity between life and death, finds its terrestrial expression in the amphibious terrain of swamps and the various slimes congealing upon their unclean shorelines. A wetland glimmering in light of the sun refracts the inferno before it, splintering anorganic death into teeming fecundity. How vastly incompatible the demands of life are with those of the ancestral decay that incites it is not a sign of transcendence, but obsolescence: whenever experience without repression takes place — mirroring a wasting disease in its inability to inhibit flow — body and mind are similarly realized to be the most evidently shallow and ignoble accumulations of what matter excretes, similarly realized to be possessed by alien drives outside of the organism's control, to be fuel already in the process of being expended towards an end utterly outside of what they could possibly grasp.)

2 corpse(Yet I, the pathfinder spastically compelled to bring all means to their righteous end, have come upon a tactics to follow the walls of the maze to its exit: to be drawn like a nocturnal scavenger to wherever the black flame of death burns brightest. And black, that pre-ejaculate dew drop of blindness, really is the vision by which it announces itself, because eyesight is itself a mere fold in the energetic labyrinth. For a world that comes into being as a pit stop on the way to annihilation, blindness is the unsurpassable end towards which all sight ultimately reaches out to. Blindness is the consummate night vision of the Antichrist. To rip experience to ulterior darkness is to be bestowed with an unscreened taste of loss, the conjuration of which fades indissociably into the very act of sacrifice, rather than strictly following it within the series of ordered representation: acausal trade. However, the fact that staring into all that the sun illuminates is only light until the retinal wounding that is constitutive of visual sensation is perfected in occultation is only part of a larger, and darker picture. It shows the primary cosmic objective of explosive disintegration as still having its noumenal fangs sunken into mundane experience under the guise of wastage. Truly antichristian, melanosolar sloth is not generated out of any kind of moral responsibility to subvert capital, nor to further egoic interests, but simply helps no one — not any community, not any identity. Transgression is a selfless evil. It is what convinces arahants and shamans to enter into the catatonia of indefinitely prolonged meditation, presenting the opportunity to waste an entire life, with all that it could have achieved for Self and Others, as the sweetest allure resounding with the highest persuasion.)

3 oil(Never have I, the devoted pagan and tragic artist, been able to sit still in that silent and cadaverous perfection of the sun, but instead repeatedly plunge back into the illusory quagmire of life — even the abject soil of aesthetics. Never has it been enough to merely want inevitable annihilation; to intensify and quicken the fateful current by way of overkill is where excitation begins. Each taste of death offers, through secret trade routes worming their way through the dark, a revival in exchange for the promise of drawing ever more into doom. Mystery religion, futile expeditions, and perverted sexuality are the things that complicate life, folding the walls of the cosmic labyrinth further in and escalating its surface area towards infinity, so that its inevitable crumbling is all the greater a sacrifice. To be an artist is to share in the morbid will to build a church solely for the chance to watch it burn. Body and mind are by no means compelled to halt at the achievement of superfluity that is becoming a corpse, excreted by the life of the species, but can be even further liquefied into fuel. Oil is a hybrid lubricant-stimulant that addictively seduces the still living into their own extinction. To become a full-blooded image of the primordial explosion is to see its mereologic virulence — infecting everything that it creates with the drive towards disintegration — spread, through the abstract model of veins, to everything that its creations create as well. It is to become the explosion of ever new and more intricate worlds.)