Why the future is not worth remembering and the past is not made of sweat, the embryo of repeated forms that has no limbs, no theology. It is certain. Certain as the collision of the brain with a bit of chalk, that has drawn the figure of the body on the memory of the brain. Sweat is more electrical than any theological farce, and without limbs it is quite easily slithering down into the mirroring sleeves of the future, and visions of speculative fantasy.
     I am not the son of my father. Or his to sacrifice. Meaning that bead of sweat that stings in the eye of a quiet creature is only the breath of a tear that was shed in the Middle Ages. A moment, spared for the future, is drawn with the effigy of the body on the wall of the intestines only to be removed. It is quite used to slithering down the forbidden loops of the small intestines.
     A world without remorse, the endless line drawn on the world, sphere of vision, ambling memory of things that have never been... born of margarine, or tangerine. It is a sacrifice of the father to consume his daughter in a time of need, with strawberry sauces. It is a sacrifice of the father to bait his son with a taste of the forbidden, of sausages that indeed plot our skies and harbor the aliens among us. It is a bead drawn out into the wiring of the brain. Sight that is beyond the impulse of fossils. Sight that is more than a crucifixion of the image. A world shaped by sweat, devoured by the urges of a passionless figure, body that drowns in the world and drowns in the memory of sweat, shoved away.
     It is more than a jackal in the pocket and more than a counterfeit emotion. I cannot remember the future. Only the embryo that is just returned from there can open up that mirroring sleeve. Standing in the middle of that mirroring sleeve there is nothing to see. Nothing to remember. Once that embryo comes along and opens it up, then we can see ourselves. I am not the consumer of embryos that my father is, and the limbs of the father with their strawberry sauces, slithering down into the enemy. Sweat that orchestrates the electrical storm, that stiffening of the body, conduits guiding the brain along the Middle Ages for a moment that is not accompanied with the baggage of the past. A sausage above the tree-line... so that the bombs come down. So that our conventions are exploded, torn from the body with the ecstasy of the man.
     Saint with hands in the blood of children, doubt forms in a web of light. A brain, torn from the body, is gray elastic that bends under the force of the sledgehammer. It is consumed with a living fire, with the delectable odor of a color in the way.