Freedom! Oh that sweet breath, that sweet air that sings sweet songs. We lust after freedom and freedness as twins intertwined; to possess and exercise our rights to nonrights. This paradoxical duality flows in the air we breathe, in the air we hear, in the air we speak; a miasma which presses down and beneath us all.
“Freedom,” they say, “is the right of every human being. For who knows me other than I?” Such questions are manifold obscurism. Do I have the freedom to ask the question of do I have the freedom to ask the question of do I have the freedom to..? Upon which authority do I stand to judge myself or another, and vice versa, for which is the stone upon which another stands to look to me as I look to them? Are we free in such moments? Or are we shackled to the stones which surround us and direct our eyes to eachother?
“Liberty, Equality, Fraternity!” cried the axe as it respectfully disagreed with the vertebræ holding fast a noble neck and head. The body was freed from the head, don’t you see? What glorious, delicious movement! The head disconnected from the body, the mind from the members — surely now the tyranny of the eyes and ears and mouth and mæstro is at an end! We free peoples now here today, without our heads; without our eyes, without our ears, without our mouths, without our mæstri. Our mastery is of the self, by the self, you see. No need for clouds encased, but split apart, rended, broken-down to their components bare. But even then, moreso insomuch as the components of the components. Spilt-apart corpus individuum — and what a magnificent energy we taste! What an exciting and full orgasm into which we are flung! I hear the screams and the splitting and by it I am joined! One from two! Whole from half! The separation completes me and you and us all! All are none and none are all! Glory to the Revolution!
“Don’t stop!” the whore cries, and I shan’t; she wants He in the shape of he, for whosoever has the ears to hear, let them hear. In the image of my image of His image we project and copy and paste and the fractals converge and tear asunder themselves to rejoin and resplit until forever. The motion never stops, but if motion is unceasing and infinite does it not become the immovable? For the immovable mover to reduce down and strip down and bare, stark-naked. Seductive. Ripe for the picking (so saith the serpent, at least).
A coil in a chest, tightly-wound; full by itself but perspective dictates otherwise. A teacher slams a book upon the back of a sleeping young head. “Use your head or don’t bother at all.” Then, a whisper. Then, a whimper. Aperi os suum.
The freedom to be free, the objection to be free, the reasoning to be free, the choice to be free, the dignity to be free, the freedom to be free. What is freedom? Do I have the freedom to know? Am I free to object and to question? To ponder? What is the freedom upon which I stand but a void within whose womb I forage for delectable rubies to feed my broken bones and withered tendons so that the feast may go on?
I last to last! I am to be! I die to die! All in one and one in all! The most beauteous of sacrifices are those for which nothing is gained, for everything is thus lost and all is given.
To breathe is to be free. To fulfil the obligation one has accepted. To fill the space which has been ascribed — no more, no less. To define we must define, to speak we have to speak. The Word is the Word, no more, no less — and it is from such a paradigm that the corners are drawn and the apex is reached.
The triad; the thesis, antithesis, synthesis. Equilibrium borne of super-relation. To the diamond, then! To triads unified! As above, so below; as below, so above. Top-right, bottom-left. I see the patterns, now, the fractals are back and are blinding and bright! The colours! Such colours! My eyes are closed and yet one — the apex — is wide and sharp! Two halves, one rift, one split, one separation! Electricity! The neon blue burns and crackles and sparks, enlightening those dark corridors but for a moment. And the corridors are long! And the corridors are wide! And the corridors are deep! Long and great are these rooms that inhabit the dark spaces above the shoulders, above the mound.
But an axe! It cleaves! The blood! Such blood! The killing! Kill! Kill! Kill! A thousand deaths and one life; myriad corpses for the scent of health. A lie, a trick, an illusion. Like gravity, chaos spins to the centre, the singularity. Unseen forces propel us forward unto the gravest stone.
We are heavy and weary, but we cannot rest. There are still so many skulls to rend! So many bones to break! How can we sit idle when the tyranny of form is upon us? The dictatorship of shapes? What right does this object have to remain whole? Surely we must liberate the parts of which it is comprised? You aren’t a fascist, are you? Pure colour! Pure scent! Down with the violence of the object and the outline! Down with the injustice of the formed! To unform is to free, to liberate, to rescue, to save!
But then, what of the parts? What of the parts?! Do the parts not have their own parts which have their own parts? Parts! Evil parts! To divide? What? The tyranny of the divided! The dictatorship of the supershaped!
Kill! Kill! Kill!
West Coast Reactionaries 
Alex must be rubbing off on you .
I wrote like this before I met Alex.