Act is if surrender to what you cannot control were the equivalent of making a conscious decision.
Build a bridge of water across a river of fire three thousand miles long to reach the seventy-nine lightning bolts buried in the snow like phosphorescent branches fallen from the tree of life lying on the ground before the gates of paradise.
“Probity is praised,” says Juvenal, “and left to freeze in the cold.” Now, two millennia later, looking down from the proud eminence of a much more advanced stage of moral decay, we’re inclined to suspect the satirist of exaggeration—surely there was never a time when probity was praised?
Deluded victim of the language of dualism make comparison after comparison until unhinged by the tempestuous disquietude of that relentless mental activity you mistake for lucidity you fall into a state of total lunacy and the prisonlike structure of stupid distinctions you have constructed for yourself in a trance and watched slam close on your consciousness like the teeth of an intellectual trap crumbles into ruin right along with your mind.
With hands and feet flayed of skin climb for sixteen thousand centuries of sidereal days in a solitude so deep it would paralyze even the devil up a sheer wall of relentless winter rain pushing as you go against a gale-force wind of intermittent appearance those few straggling thoughts and memories to which a self still faintly clings in your mind having been smashed together by the overwhelming force of an insurmountable fear to form the abstract equivalent of an unmarked grave.