Our temperament. Our kind. We’re eschatological by temperament.
We want the countdown.
We’re apocalypticists. That’s our type. It’s only ever permanent catastrophe for us. It’s the endlessness of the disaster. It’s everything sucks over and again.
Annihilation – that’s what we want! The grandeur of annihilation! Nothing tawdry! Nothing mediocre!
To fast-forward to the end. To accelerate into disaster. To press eject on it all. To fire the ejector seat.
We’re the volatiles. We’re the ones who ought to be under control.
Our pathology! Our psychology! We’re all death drive and nothing besides.
Imaginary revenge! On a world in which we never fit in. Never thrived. That seemed raised against us. That seem predicated upon the exclusion of our kind.
Work in Progress 