So that bitter and hateful, spiteful and revengeful God-head; that self-preoccupied, unqualified therapist; that unGod-like creature; that fradulent "God Damme" -- it is He who proudly carried the burden, like the Beast that He is, of the spirit of "the end of life", staging an obscene musical comedy called "An Honor for Death and the Dying": wherever and whenever He goes, He speaks fluent Lies and Deception: that's His language, the language of God!!
It's only to worship that ancient idol and religious terrorist -- humanities self-serving abusive father-figure - "God", for whom the entire history of the human race was invented - that humanity shall, and has, indeed, become His personal servants, His personal destroyers and manipulative denyers (after working the graveyard shift) as His personal, eternal death-wish-forced-laborers, His personal sex slaves and mental hospital patients just for Him to beat up on, to ridicule, to discriminate and kill their hope and optimism with that Word He spoke to me that I wrote down and copied:
"Context is God. Whatever is not God must be content. Whatever is content must not be God and must, therefore, be evil. The end." (An absurdity from the cryptic, unhinged mind of a schizophrenic.)
But that "God" of which He spits, that is, the context He reserves only for Himself, must be all evil since all that IS must be content, and therefore, evil. Context and content, like God and evil, are mixed-up words, interchangeable ideas, words and concepts we substitute for each other at our risk, our expense and convenience. Psychotic traitorous antibodies attach themselves like tentacles and electrons split themselves like independent multiple warheads to form bloody blisters of blood, water and puss resembling cancerous skin abrasions from radiation exposure.
To prove my point which doesn't need any proof: in another room, an old witch is ripping out her IV needles screaming obsenities at care workers who are trying to keep her radiation bandages from breaking apart. In the mist and vapor that filled my room with a soft blanket of smoke and gas from incense rising up to heaven, which is really a locked medicine cabinet in the hallway outside the door to her hospital room, I wrote the words down whether it was a dream, or an hallucination, or a dream:
I was walking alone on a street. It was dark, gloomy, wet and slippery; it was dirty, too. Sort of like sex. I dreamt I was walking on the street. Then it turned into a place where a friend of mine lived. He was someone I used to know. I was sort of like him. The street was where we scored junk and crystal. Could've been any street in Oakland, just a big city street that he and I lived on, I mean, if we could call that living. There were taxi's, bus stops, book stores and underground subways. I dreamt that all streets became one-way, dead-end, over-crowded, no-parking strees, torn-up streets good for taking detours and avoiding cops: law enforcement using extra pot-holes for a eulogy to abandoned memorials.
So, I was at a oxycodon cocktail party. I can't call it sleep. I can't call it dreaming. I was hooked on vancomycin drips and my nurse was flushing ports. Suddenly there was an emergency and the ports weren't flushing; they were blocked. The head nurse stopped the procedure because there was a dangerous air bubble blocking the antibiotic getting thru the plastic tubing. I could hear concern and urgency in their voices. I could see it on their faces. They stopped the procedure because of the threat of this giant air bubble on its way to my heart and my brain. They took me off the vancomycin and unplugged the med packs. I waited there, laying in bed, and waited for them to come back and continue. I waited but I nodded out and fell asleep. I woke up three hours later. I wanted the procedure to start over again, where we left off. I was talking to my nurses about the experience I had, I was a little upset, naturally................but then I found out that none of it had happened. I imagined the whole thing. The procedure went exactly perfectly without any problems at all. My "experience" was all in my head. None of it had been "real". None of it was real. None of it happened.
I used to go to the streets just so I could listen to black mass bible prophecies spitting out hot accusations from starving, angry underground baptist spin-off hipcats. I'd sleep walk in the thick mysticism of a deep somnambulism to relieve my bowels by stalking the forbidden streets of boredom.
I didn't want to know what was going on in the country but I still dreamt for America. I still dreamt hopeless premonitions. Instead of sleep, I dreamt that heavy black shadows covered my eyes and weighed them down like gold plated money. Wild hungry dogs wouldn't even try to dig bones out of the ground. It got so bad the earth was declared officially cursed. (LOL)
