There is No Universal Truth (Except this One)

unlike this fear. unlike the tendencies of the child. unlike the stars themselves despaired and despairing. we are the synchronized failures of a grammar of abjections. pits of a wellness sensation. winds captured in an endless revolution. convinced that we are victims signalling through the flames. monotheism is an actor. but we are merely scripts. the stage is consumed in a ball of light. expressed in bizarre corruptions. analyzed down to a genetic model. the tumors of tomorrow grow from a fragile fluctuating center which like the atoms of sunlight has forgotten its origin. compelled by clocks we close upon the passive paradox of an agency which like the current of our veins we cannot control. our costumes are impregnated by the nature of a product. swallowed by bestial essences. a monster whose faculty grows within our bodies like a new organ devouring my delightful island of desire. every falsehood devotes itself to the indeterminable. infinity laments the circle. naming and directing shadows, living instruments whose gods sleep in museums, addicted to their own exaltation. our burnt offerings rise into their sky. we can't love anything we can't control. agonized poetry predicts that silence will rule the shades. assailed by weary philosophers. making their way out of a cave. Wittengenstein the Great is fallen! the habitation of vipers that collude with an impossible truth. there is no truth. except for this one. there is no truth. which itself becomes a universal which subsumes the vacuous in a jigsaw puzzle of dreams. can we put our faces back together when we hide our lives in a bottle of pills. the chair is talking about a feeling. a dysphasia whose sympathy is the final breath of an expiring god.