God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thou brought us…
A sensation of everlasting rot and those frantic wails, no, it is not a fall into
the abyss, the defiance of descent, a coronation beyond liberty and slavery;
the cry of woe and deliverance exudes a flame, evasive as sound and ether:
an instant of collusion with death, without hope nor prospect, yet it is a
world below and above and in all eternity, a gift of fever, the wind of death
that sustains the life in me, yes, the lightness of hovering in permanent
anguish; I dared to borrow those words, to articulate them and to savour
their turpitude, as I beheld the shrine of mad laughter.
The limit is crossed with a weary horror: hope seemed a respect which fatigue grants to the necessity of the world.
As if Death was dashed onto the death within, a violent thrust stealing the light of the eyes, a ray of darkness, a negation, the bread of bitterness that ignites neither devotion nor fervour; resplendent nothingness! make all things appear with clarity, ruined in the flame of repudiation, in the flame of God! Interwoven joy and confusion, a stabbing confusion, asphyxiation from within, yet I gained this certitude: malediction, degradation, sown in me like seeds, now belonged to death, in harbouring a desire for the hideous, I was beckoning to death. Insatiable combustion, expand, this body is the vessel of grace!
The idea of God is pale next to that of perdition, but of this I could have no inkling in advance.