Love Death

Death to it all. Is that what you want? Death to everything. Does the thought of that thrill you?

The great Destruction, philosopher. Will that seem like Truth to you. Capital T?


The End. Is that what you want to happen, philosopher? With all of your heart? With everything you are?

Do you want it to End, finally? Do your eyes fill with tears of joy to think about it?


The apocalypse. The Ending. The great door closing. The lights turned off, for the entire universe. Wouldn’t that be something?


They’ll close its eyes, the universe. Whisper, Enough, and kiss it on the lips.

And abandon it to death. And how beautiful it’ll be, in its death. How coldly beautiful. How perfect. The corpse of it all, the truth of it all, just lying there, on God’s slab.


I’ll bet the best thing for you would be a love death. That’s it, isn’t it: would you like us both to die together? To hurl ourselves down from somewhere to other.

We’d both lie in the foyer of the tower, two cold corpses.


You’re not going to save anyone. Philosophers aren’t going to save the world from Organisational Managers. You’re too full of crazy, perverted thoughts. You’re too fascinated by death.


Why are you so fucked in the head? Philosophy makes a virtue of it, clearly: being fucked in the head. You’re supposed to cultivate it, in philosophy: being fucked in the head. That’s all philosophy is … a license to be fucked in the head. To be totally, like, aberrant.


You’re good for nothing, right? Good for no purpose. Good for nothing except death. Except accelerating towards death. Because you think that death is the truth of it all. That death is the end and the beginning.


You’re a Case philosopher. You’re a Problem. You need to be Explained.


You take things very far, philosopher. You take ideas … notions … and run with them. Run so far with them that … you’ve turned into whatever it is you are.


You’re hardly human anymore, are you? It sends a chill into me. I feel … frightened, even.

Frightened by what?

By you.


To have strange thoughts. To cultivate strange thoughts. And let them take you to … wherever. Weirdoville.


You want me to be cruel to you. You want me to say terrible things, philosopher. I can tell. You want me to be evil.


You want destruction. You want the end. You want hatred. And perhaps you should be destroyed and hatred. And this whole world with it. You want it destroyed just as you want to be destroyed.


Only the apocalypse will satisfy you. That’s all you want. Only the End. Which is very fucked up.


It would be easier for everything to end, wouldn’t it? For it all to be burned up? The apocalypse, happening once and for all. The end, and then rolling credits.

But it doesn’t end, does it? It goes on, doesn’t it? Today, then another day and a day after that.