Careful that whore riding the dragon. Password. This way to the lower world, three turns to the right then you’ll find your divine spirit in the depths of matter. Don’t believe me? Doesn’t matter. Not important. You’re in, you figure it out. A hint, friend. The more you putrefy the more likely you’ll purify. Understand? Have you no soul? You have hope, you say. Hope. you think that’s enough? Please. Pandora, you know her? Cheap whore that one but a nice kid. She let all the evils out of her jar for the world’s grief and left hope inside. Smart girl. Oye tell me, yeah, if you’re so smart, if you know everything about sin then what’s hope? What was hope doing in the jar with all the other baddies? Lucky it stayed in there. Right. So. See there my vulture’s shadow? Follow it. Now go. Estúpido. Quién no tiene fuerza para matar la realidad no es lo suficientemente fuerte como para crearlo. Hablar conmigo de esperanza. Estoy grandeza tres veces. Estoy palabras en acción. Te ves en todos los estratos del ser y es mi cara que ves. Soy el mago que creó magia! Estoy sentido inagotable. Hice el culo sólo pensar en ello. Hablar conmigo de esperanza. You still here? I said go.
Who am I? So many have told of me and have spoken with my mouth. They say I invented magic and then poof! I made astrology appear. With that I gained the foreknowledge of truth that diligent stargazing affords the patient. But those who lived my life didn’t stop there, oh no, not when it was relentlessly clear that I had invented truth itself. Believe me. That’s when my magic, they tell me, turned to the black variety and I became fearsome. Those closest loved me, especially for the words they said with my voice. He that stealeth from the poor lendeth to the lord. I became for some a prophet of God! Imagine that. Nietzsche even said that the priests, those poets of the Veda, were unfit to unfasten my sandals. Of course I too was a Vedic Priest. As I understand, in that capacity I wrote millions and millions of lines of verse. To give myself enough time for such a task, I invented the week. You’re welcome. And born from necessity, I invented hieroglyphics; I used them to hide my invention of Alchemy. Well to speak the truth that element of my curriculum vitae never quite stuck; Those who move Hermes Trismegistus’ mouth had that particular market cornered. Better PR. In my later career I denied to oblivion many deities so I could invent a singular monotheistic morality. Then Nietzsche used my voice to deny morality in favor of truth, my prior invention. Ay me. Well, what could I do? My life is an accomplishment of others. Rather grand and famous others too, I might add. I was the teacher of Pythagoras, they say. Plato liked the words in my mouth so much that he passed them off as his own. Excuse me, Socrates’ own. I was even Yeats’ pen pal! There’s a laugh to rival the one I had on the day I was born. My head came out pulsating and there I was, infant tiny thing giggling away. To my mother’s horror my head could repel the touch of a hand. You can’t touch this. Oh a unique birth to be sure. And rather an unnatural death as well. I’m rather proud of this one. By the time of my doom people were calling me a living star. Can you imagine? Me, a star! So how does a star die? I was murdered by another star. Was it really a meteor? Maybe lightning? You’re asking me? You show me what’s real. I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t there.