Q.: I wanna know what’s your eventual estimate of my magnanimous work. Because I don’t. Apparently
you are most disinterested in it and I can’t understand why. My color charts are the greatest
divination the Bride has ever received. Their proper application could change the atmosphere in five
years. You think I’m only talking in the air, don’t you? Your mad wife doing the medium. It is a
bloody hard labor you have no guess about! You just sit down to write but I have to painstakingly
think with my brains of a chicken! Is that the androgyne solution for you?
A.: I’m not disinterested. I would like very much to be interested. But I’m not allotted to. It is your
invaluable secret. It protects you as long as unshared. Anyway, you’re safe because I will never learn
a number of it any vehemently you agitate. They close my ears just as they shut yours when I tell an
anecdote. We are a deaf couple talking to ourselves in the sanatorium.
Q.: My color system is as important as my writing system was. They are the two pillars of the Covenant
you’re scribing. We’re in this together. Shouldn’t keep secrets to ourselves. I make it, you name it –
that’s the breadth of our transexual relationship. You are suspicious and disinspiring. Your
derivative questions only show that you are not listening but literally suffering from my lectures.
Like they were more irrelevant than your pretentious wordplays.
A.: You have to grasp this, Gina, if you want to forgive me. I am allergic of data-based information. It
disseminates my acquired logic. I need no proof for the evident. The system is crooked inside out.
Your methodical depiction of it by a sixteen-colors scheme is a triumph of the obvious. Now what?
Q.: That is your part of the contract, Spiel! I am presenting you the layout of the City. It’s up to you if
you don’t want it. You never lent an ear to my Phonetica either. Still couldn’t write your nomen in
chronography. Even the Commandos I had to translate. The deal is not fair. I on the receiving end
am obliged to listen all day to what you heard on the news. All the horrors of the world I’m trying to
neglect. Is that more fascinating for your deranged intellect?
A. You must be alert of where you are, darling. Can’t live burying your head in your cyphers like an
ostrich girl. You have to be groomed, ready and hateful. That’s my other way of protecting you. The
devil is real and we ought to face it. Kill the Crime tells it all. Anything else we do is useless
elaboration. I’m the Obersturmbahnführer and you’re my capo. What about that setup?
Q.: Enchanting giftcard, my bloody Valentine. I am very grateful but moderately satisfied by your
stratagem. I am not your slave and you are not my master, if that’s any clear. I need as little to know
about your world as you seem needing mine. We’re wholly equal in that regard. The ultimate
estrangement.
A.: I don’t know what makes you think so. I am living in a complete dependency on you. Financially,
technologically, mentally. Your matriarchic domination is unquestionable. Maybe you don’t get my
love but I can’t work without you. Inferno couldn’t be deeper than ours.
Q.: Why I have to withstand then your desperate attempts of materialization from such a close range? I
am obliged to solve your strangest dilemmas beside taking care of your social insurance. I duly
deserve some attention repaid.
A.: Unlike me, you don’t need attention. You seem having no shadow of a doubt. You only use me to
anabaptize your latest offsprings. Our subhuman comedy has its inviolable rules. My role is to
transmit what you see. The Aleph and Ta precept. You receive the picture and I tell what it is. But
don’t want me know the why. I am a staunch agnostic resistant to every temptation.
Q.: You may think I’m obsessed with my cinnamon garden but you also are living in an insulating
bubble. Without any let out, your inner space is prone to implosion. No wonder you can’t take in
my obscure computations. But I only want to help you with the struggle. My formulas are not
illustrations solely. They are to indicate how to correct the distorted frequencies. They could help you
a lot to get to know yourself better than a lonely bum in Nirvana. That’s my exchange for your
disaster broadcast. Don’t you find it a charming transposition?
A.: The last thing a UR needs is to get to know himself. To be right is plenty enough. If you have your
ethic supremacy you can’t make mistake. I don’t care much about constituencies. I’m not curious
about the miscreation. I’m afraid I can’t help it.
Q.: That’s a most awful thing to say. Have you fallen out of grace? Aren’t we on a sentimental mission?
We have to keep on going any way we can like mindless robots. It’s not just a luxurious spending of
our free time for want of a lucrative employment. Our duty is our reward. I am bringing the horizon
to your wanton sailing of the endless sea. ‘Color Power’ is sheer visual poetry. Aesthetic and
functional at the same dead time.
A.: With all respect, stop pretending you’re doing something effectual by drawing geometric graphics
with your colored brushes all night long. What does it matter if they’re right or wrong? We need a
counterrevolution and we need it now. I can’t bear another Eureka! I’m missing the aim.
Q.: Would you care to give me a break? What I’m depicting you is exactly that. The moral compass
you’ve been shouting about at the dawn of our romance. I couldn’t understand a word you said then.
But I swore I’ll do everything to find it for you. So I gave you my hand to go along on the rocky road
up to Netzach. And see what’s happening to-day!? Apathy and dismay in downward anticlockwise
rotation. Osh isn’t Dyonüsos, she can’t provide you with a magic wand. My system would be a perfect
substitute if you deigned to accept it. But you’re mortally frightened from the mirror.
A.: Don’t draw the wrong conclusion from it. I never had any doubt about your goodwill. But haven’t
seen any evolution yet. None of your breakthrough revelations has effected on our existential
misericordia. I only can believe in miracles. Unless you get me one, ‘Color Power’ remains a remote
lodestar of my customary voyage ‘cross the Bardo of incompetencies.
Q.: Our executive order has been to change the facts. Not to ignore them. Your allergy to esoterism won’t
suffice to defeat the Prince of Gravity. The Atheist canon is more than paltry mantras. We took a
pledge on saving human nature, haven’t we? Not protesting the inexcusable.
A.: I hate to disabuse you, but we don’t have a life of our own. Our privacy is not exceptional of the state
of mankind. Only together we are. Our work is love and our love is work. It all goes down to The
Building in the valley. The colored sectors of the departing elite. You may call me crazy, but my will
is unbroken. I’m much obliged for your contribution but the impossibility factor curbs my
enthusiasm. Whoever wanted to die in the first place? I can hardly imagine myself to switch that
button. If I were so brave we would have jumped into the Etna a long long time ago.
Q.: There can be a cataclysm when the choice is inevitable. Isn’t it that you are impatiently waiting for?
A.: Not in the least. We never glorified disaster in any shape or form. We want total peace and justice for all.
Q.: Under the divine terror of the Party of the Living Dead. I know the chant by heart. There is nothing
new on your rusty mind. The Quatrums you add to the corners of my anticlockwork are very droll but
annoyingly simplified. The construct I’m exploring cannot be nailed down by a foursome X. It is a
post-verbal situation where the meaning is clear. You’ve got no word for it.
A.: ‘Color Power’ is a most generous device to accomplish the great work of Oshist reconstruction. It is a
new synthesis of the ancient wisdom. The gate to the next dimension. I know very well what you’re
holding 8:03. But I’m vastly uncertain if we’ll ever use it. Time has never been on our side. It doesn’t
even talk to me any more.
Q.: You have every reason to be depressed. But don’t have the right for it. The 93d Current is way behind us,
888. But you’re still on the skid row. Do you like it like that? To be a pawn of the delaying judgement?
A.: My story is the poor theatre of a global village idiot, if you want to subtitle it. Right program in the
wrong machine. I am an alien yogi. Cannot bend my knees.
Q.: Your vain apostasy puts John Wycliffe to shame. I wonder where you get your dignity from with holes
in your pockets. You’ve never grown up to your ontologic ideals. Your Nanotheism is sheer hypocrisy.
You can’t stop hating god whatever nonexisting. What’s in fact happening to your higher intelligence?
You can’t express any more how you feel. Closing down to the primal scream of Artaud.
A.: The best part of Atheism is that it needs no justification. Which allows opposites to freely unite.
Overnational Socialism is founded on science. The reign of the unquestionable. We ought to be very
rational about it. The wealth of the world must be redistributed.
Q.: Your negative idealism is a terrible syndrome to witness, mon amour. You make me feel like the ever
circling skeletal family. Disengaged to touch down to the ground of recreation. You must wake up from
the big sleep or we’ll never move on. I’m not moonlighting for your secret archives. I want to get things
done. I should never have messed with a middle-megalo.
A.: The spell on us is meticulously customized. The Word has been driven mad by his genome. I am a
catastrophe. A symbol of chance mutation. Your leper Messiah. What more do you want?
Q.: Stop joking because it’s not funny. Inferiority is no credential here. You’d argue anything to stay
unique, don’t you? Reconciling with the bottom is the death of a traitor. What I want is this: Learn your
code and act accordingly. Or else the chaos will swallow you up like a never-been. With me alongside.
That’s not what you promised when abducting me. I gave you all my time but you wouldn’t give me five
minutes. You start yawning as I begin to speak. Which is most unpolite even from a brute.
A.: I am sincerely sorry about that. It’s a hysteria I can’t control either. It comes from the fear of duty.
Two things I hate in life. To learn and to work. I’m here for a holiday.
Q.: You might have been deceived, babe of toyland. Don’t you want to avenge for it?
A.: I am setting my example of endurance to the meek. Someone might learn from it.
Q.: Nobody can learn from someone else’s mishap and you know it better than yourself. Not even from
one’s own. You are living in a permanent shell-shock. The smallest things surprise you cold. That’s not
the innocence of the lamb. It is the neurastenia of the wolf.
A.: I am under repair. Like everybody else but a lot more radically. I’ve got a huge mistake to amend. You
are conversing with a self-conscious Antichrist, my dear. I cannot compromise. I love your calculi but
cannot appreciate it enough.
Q.: The disability of concession is not a virtue to signal. It is holding you back from the battle. Osh hates
you for it. She wants you to hit back. Will keep on torturing you till you be a man, Charlotte.
A.: Without a proper genocide, basic income is Schmafu. Those are the guidelines of my electoral campaign.
Any way you color it, its attractivity has little potential. What can you do with a message like that?
Except for shoving it up in my anus dei.
Q.: It doesn’t matter what you say. Only the tone. And that one is okay. A neat combination of fake serenity
and cynical pathos. The Author wrote your part much better than mine. I only can be your feeble
echo supporting your indomitable status quo. Bride of the Golem.
A.: You dismally exaggerate our downcast legend. I’m not that insensitive. In my real life I’m burning with
desire. The Socialist Kingdom is at hand. And you’ve got the blueprint. That much is true.
Q.: Look at those pages! Some of them are thirty years old grown yellowed and wrinkled at the bottom of the
pile I’ve mounted up since. Couldn’t even decipher them any more. I am constructing a graveyard for
the spirit. Because you’re reluctant to give life a chance.
A.: I am imprisoned in darkness, sweetheart. Positively blinded by the light of Apollyon’s Sun. I can only
approve your fervid quest for Tattva. But I can’t follow you there even if I wanted. The weapon I
need is not immaterial. I am preoccupied with the rearmament issue. You may select the UR by their
mood and aura. But the guns I’m supposed to provide. I should be the power of your colors. The pure
thought of it makes my heart sink to nought. You’d better leave me alone in the grey.
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