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Dr. Faustus at his piano
I am writing of the era of governmental collapse, capitulation, the pallid grandeur of exhaustion, the intolerable contradictions of theology pressed hard by the Enlightenment. This isolation is the abyss into which our feelings vanish soundlessly without trace. The freedom of subjectivity has finally consumed itself, no creativity outside of the object itself, the propensity for dialectic reversal our only hope.
I propose then forming derivatives, neutrality in rows, each independent, the positional value the decisive thing to determine melody, a pseudopathetic designation and farcical monstrosity that has mathematical ceremony where greatness and death come together - the fine line of despair at the point of possibility.
The woman, a robot, sits in her corner, a phosphorescent sheen of sparks around her helmet. The antirevelatory spirit ascends within her Italian eyes as her certain Germanic coarseness enters into the mythic and collective. She grimly smiles at the harmony of rows as she rises with incomprehensible slowness.
by John Richards |