Self-Portrait

I love. I love. I love. The song of the exterminating angel. Shattered concrete, rusted sheet metal, melting steel, poisonous lichen coiling itself around the entrails of the world-machine. It is a bloodless cathedral. A cathedral of molten lava, spit of liquefied mortar, ferrous tears, glass venom, leaden fractures. A cathedral that dies and comes back to life with every passing second. Destruction-construction-destruction-re-re-con-construction. A work of rage. Personal. Timeless. Fragile as a flower. And yet indestructible as a mountain range. To rise only to collapse more magnificently, in a Dionysian gesture of self-abasement. The art of wandering worlds that live fast and inter-die. The absolute precision of sound becoming an instantaneous supernova. I dreamed of flying hyenas, half-biological, half-robotic. Cosmic leeches were crawling out of their reddened eyes. I saw the shattered stained-glass windows, fragments suspended for eternity in a slow-motion dance, defying all gravity. Warheads flavored with perdition. Those knobs we turn, one after another, desperately trying to give meaning, however violent that meaning may be, to what is ultimately nothing but unreason. Self-Portrait. The record that best describes human existence in 2026. An absolute masterpiece. Thank you. -Sir Kuliktavikt