Have you the fear in your heart to understand that word, that holy word, that real word, so much more fantastic and beautiful than even the destiny that weaves your fabricated and fancied body which you praise with lotions and pretensions, that word "real"?

What is this metaphysical category of reality that pervades sloppy criticisms and silly phrasings ("Don't tell lies", "What have you been smoking?", "A Clever Fake")? By what God or deity or Holy Be-ing do you invoke that holy word that burns only between the shadows of flames erupting from the fire that constitutes your very funeral pyre? By what ethical error have you stumbled into our land, a land of fantastic beauty, and heavenly horror, a land peopled by mythical words and gryphons and gargoyle hearts weaved through spiderwebs nesting inside of the eggs pictured on the pages of ancient and hallowed writings, written by the Rabbis and Prophets and Disciples of Al-lah, or imagined by the starving believers in J, or whispered between yearlong sessions of lovemaking by the dinosaurs of a remote future praising the name KALI, Kali, kali, ... softly fading into the candles' waning light?

From where do you issue your torments, your scandalous cravings, your dreamlike impressions of a difference between your world and our world? Why do you draw a line between truth and error. Have we not all been witness to the horror? And what does your science produce in you except an enemy to yourself, and more horror, and a legacy of horror, and a descendant of horror? You can learn or you can love, my very old friend, and that is why I love you through the surreptitous lips that fold out from the very core that populates my infinite soul.

When you call out to me a difference between truth and falsity, between history and fiction, between the past and the future, between reality and fakery, you only cry out against the names of so many freedoms, so many dying imaginations, so many tortured children, and massacred animals. You only form the words that have broken so many spirits, have sold so many souls. That distinction will crack the line between hope and despair.

I have seen the other side, I have heard the whispers of a being that is not of this world, yet not also of any world. I have heard those haunted sobbings, those inspired howlings, those phantom engines of artificial life, of natural beauty, of artists' madness and poets' wars waged against their own souls. In short, I have witnessed us cracking apart, I have seen our internal fissures, and our limitations. There is something that resides in between what you will have called "real" and "false"; there is something more than an axiomatic implementation of a prefigured world, a sustenance of so much pain and despair crashing against the breaches of our time. That something is called, I have heard in the spaces written between the time that folds between us, "beauty".

(This whole node is written between the parentheses that describe the peripheral movements of my hands, my souls, my many historiographies, histories and apocrypha.)

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