Coils of Evil

Are you really making a snow angel, Driss? Sophia asks.

It’s supposed to be a snow devil, Driss says.

You’ve given it wings! Io sys.

Sure – bat wings, Driss says.

I can see why Cicero thought you’d be a totalitarian survivor, Furio says.

I actually think I’ve reached a new level of self-disgust, Driss says.

I didn’t think there were more levels, I say.

There are, apparently, Driss says.

There’s such a life to self-hatred, Sophia says. All our thrashings … Our convulsions …

Nothing hates itself like a human being, Furio says. We’re the uniquely fucked up species, right?

Because we know our sin, Io says. And we can do something about it.

But we don’t actually want to, except you, Driss says. And Fiver, maybe. We’re just lost in the coils of evil. Lost in the coiling, the writhing. Lost in the agitation of sin. And we don’t even mind, that’s the thing. Or not enough to do something about it.

On that logic, we should just let Organisational Management destroy us, Sophia says.

We’ll destroy ourselves, thank you very much, Furio says. We’ll do it in our own way. In our own time. With our own style. And we’ll do it with panache. And humour.