look the moral compass in the face:
you’ve been a bad boy.
you’ve been an evil-doer.
the Noseless One sure knows how to live it up.
there’s no mirror left in this room.
how my palms sweat, how the hairs on my arm rise
how there is no sound and yet your voice.
you do evil and it feels so damn good.
evil is itself an abstraction, a strategy, like terrorism.
heaving corpses over the pit’s edge—who said this was going to be a party?
still, my curiosity is piqued.
death is the ultimate evil, I guess.
when you have killed the world with all this “evil” you keep spouting.
overacting is what some critics might call it.
overreacting is more apt, at least in a work of fiction.
death is all you can threaten? obliteration?
who cares about something so unfashionable and tame anymore?
death, you’ve lost your sting: mortality, you’re lost in the wilderness.
it should be a moral question, and I should care.
does it make a person heartless to remain unvexed?
the will-to-death as the ultimate evil? come on, there’s more to it.
call me a Jew with a bag on my shoulder full of stones and lies.
there’s nothing more or less human than dying.
avoid the inevitable by witnessing the “evil” of death.
clinging to illusion is every Jewish Buddhist’s ex-pat role in Dharamsala.
it reaches an end, everything, entropy or annihilation or some other term.
this is where evil takes us? why invest such powers in a concept?
not even a good extended metaphor: where’s the poetry, even?
why ever would you want to be evil?
