It's a calculated fuck you.

You and your filth, in this place. A taint. A mote in God's eye. A bloody slash on the white plain of creation.

Why? You just had to smear yourself all over something beautiful. A maggot eats because thats its only instinct. Dig, chew and shit. You choose to do it. Some burnt out ugly little impulse sparked up in your degenerate head and filled you with infernal purpose. You had to do it. A human maggot, filled with purpose.

Before you, it was Eden. Blank, whole and infinite. A perfection of balance, purpose and function. It hummed with the pulse of the universe, like a hall of monomolecular crystal. Solitude was its only function, defence and reason. Then the man-ape came. The baboon plague of the Earth with his mashing paws and jet-black soul.

It must serve your purpose or die, you filthy ego-centric beast. Creation spins under your boot, smoking and churning to perform your pathetic feats.

So, here is your handiwork, like the swath of a wild uncaring storm. Broken pieces and ruined vistas. Smoke and pain. A million years to make and milliseconds to shatter. You must be very proud.

Do you puzzle and rut your brow thinking of your next act of pathetic hubris? Or are you a hell-borne savant, a genius grotesque generator, Picasso of the deadeyed set? I wish I could fathom the depths of your anthesis, the polar distance your soul sits from mine. It is as hopeless as staring into the Sun. The titanic volume of your base desires are beyond any stretch or leap of my imagination, a nightmare miracle I recoil from involuntarily.

It stains my reality a sewer-brown. It halts all thought. Voluminous hate blossoms freeform from me, a black miracle borne of your fistlike delicacy. Bravo maestro. Encore!

You make me sick, you little tin God.

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