The wound invents the organ. Nothing upright survives untouched by fever, appetite, fracture, or the sweet corrosion of forbidden hunger. Under clean lamps and moral architecture, the blood still dreams of mud, collision, anonymous corridors breathing through neon and rainwater. Every living thing bends toward contamination because purity cannot generate movement; it only preserves tombs.
The body understands before doctrine does. Twisted impulses crawl beneath prayer, beneath machinery, beneath highways stretching through sleepless continents. A saint without rot becomes stone. A city without vice becomes a museum of dead clocks. Distortion is the hidden tendon inside desire; it pulls existence away from paralysis and into combustion.
One must descend sometimes; not for spectacle, not for cheap ruin, but because the abyss rearranges perception like narcotics rearrange midnight streets. Through excess, the spirit leaks beyond its cage. Through deviation, language acquires breath again. The cracked mirror reveals more than the polished one ever could. Even love requires a slight mutilation of certainty to remain alive.
Life feeds on mutation. It drinks from contaminated rivers and dances in diseased carnivals beneath electric scripture. The pulse itself is a betrayal of stillness.
. Small notes; 27 may, 02:25
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