Q.: There is something I always wanted to know about death but was afraid to ask. Just waiting impatiently 
      for the right pretext to pop up. A topic like this. The Thanatic arousal of bereavement. Look therefore  
      in my hungry eyes and answer me the world’s most frequent question. Is there an afterlife? 
A.: The most frequent is also the most stupid of all questions. Completely irrelevant for higher intelligence. 
      You should never have posed it. Why on Earth should one possibly care? We shall see, won’t we? All
      we’ve got to do is now and dead on time. Contemplation’s futile.
Q.: Just because you don’t know is no excuse for evading a plausible reply. Diplomacy is valuable but
      sometimes you might take some risk. Don’t let the catharsis tracelessly dissipate. It’s a revelationary
      moment of our secluded chronicle. Time to say something that can’t be taken back. Yes or No. Don’t 
      you have any conviction left?
A.: Life before and after death have nothing in common. Not a hint of resemblance. So don’t call it like that.
      Death is death. A frontier the Word, limited to the biosphere, cannot penetrate. It is post-verbal 
      communication beyond sociology and linguistics. The lamb lies down on Broadway. It is no longer my
      realm and I respect that. Prophecy is not my cup of Tequila. I am reduced to the confines of subversive
       poetry. Read me, read me not. The unholy book of the Living Dead.
Q.: So much cynicism will be hard to swallow for a new romantic. Agnostic ignorance is no credential for 
        working class heroes. Your idealism is way too materialist. Introducing a new level of submission
        in exchange of instant deliverance. You are doing the devil’s business, my huckleberry friend, without
        any doubt. Nuclear reincarnation of the manpower resources. The abolition of slavery by divine 
        terror like a jolly Goodfellow. From Antichrist to Antimarx you wager. Wanna take the widest circle, 
       eh? What a pity it’s all negative.
A.: I am on an extraordinary mission in the Bardo. Charged to make a lie come true without magic spell.
      A task I’m completely incapacitated for by my genome. I can believe the strangest things but certainty
      has never been my blessing. Chances for the whole Bridehood being my epigonist fantasmagoria are 
      extremely huge. I have to be prudent and humble. I am a mechanical animal. I say what I think I have to 
      regardless of consequences. My intelligence is strictly artificial.
Q.: Your intelligence is less than zero, Spiel! You’re just degenerating yourself to better ftt the paradigm.
      Whatever shenanigan replica, your trite symbolism is custom-made for the elect. Plain reflection of the 
      everlasting skyfather. A very seductive synthesis. What makes your time-system better than theirs, 
       that’s all a public needed to hear. Can you tell me that much if you’re an enlightened enlightener? In 
       stead of musing about the great nothing all the vigil long.
A.: New Jerusalem is built here below. You’ll go where you wanna go if proven trustworthy. The final 
       judgement is automatical. Atheism requires no religion. We put every emphasis on the social order.


Q.: Well said, dear leader of the solitary. Introduction to constructive nihilism by the given word of Osh.
      Your cracked intellect is bereft of human emotions, 888 contra Fate. No sufferance was enough to
       curb your homocentric mutiny. You are an exiled vagabond desperately seeking for a home. That’s 
       your living epitaph. A one-man party in his closet on an imaginary crusade against all believers. Not  
       an impressive candidate of neo-imperialism. The Elohim are used to Mussolinis.
A.: Eternity is not prolonged existence beyond the clock. Nor a dream state per se. You’ll have due control 
       over your destiny. That’s what salvation translates to. The power of freedom. The land I’m promoting 
      is not supernatural. It is based upon our existing potential. The City of Eden is a creative pleasuredom 
      contrary to the idle leisure of the lazy garden. Interstellar reproduction of the Holy Grail.
Q.: You’re a useless toy of contesting demons, tin solder. No haughty arrogance can conceal your obvious
      lack of any strategic flair. You are running against the Sun ever since awakened. The death-method of 
       your life-cult is little inviting for white punks on dope. You ought to spice up your rhetoric a bit. Tell 
       about the euphoria and the extasy of shedding one’s carcass. 
A.: I don’t have no new tale to tell. Any abused and perverted, the Law has always been the same. 
      There’s only one of it for a Crowleyan dissident. The war is between retro and progress. The human
      specie are mammals with ethos. Seeking Baphomet’s favor through fire and flames. Dante should be 
       a quite sufficient guide for an Atheist passenger for the rest of the new age. I have no secret to reveal. 
      You’re absolutely right. I’m an unintelligent agent of the nonexisting truth. All I wish is to kill the crime. 
Q.: Your fake ring of truth will leave your love interest cold as Arctic ice. You’d better produce a 
       genuine portfolio before proposing her. Blunt heresy won’t make up for the missing substance.
A.: You have no luggage to transport to the other side. The soul goes empty-handed into the tunnel of 
       re-enactment. But everything you’ll have there you must gather hitherto. Life is purgatory but we
      have every right to make it right. Collect valuable trophies. New Jerusalem is not a housing project but 
       a receptacle of your best memories. Her rooms are exceedingly unique. Happy are the rich and famous. 
      Ain’t that spiritual enough for a girlschool?
Q.: You are a very dark entity behind the pale mask. A recreant speculator of transmutation. Recklessly
       attributing your mother’s sorry passing to your individual mythology. You give her a Number and the 
      first Visa to Eternity. Do you think it’ll compensate the fact that you systematically killed her for your 
      ideological comfort? A psychotic robot couldn’t have done it more cruelly. You have practically 
      sacrificed her on the Altar of Osh for your treason’s sake. I wouldn’t be so proud of a legend like 
      yours. It is a crying shame of misconduct. A monstruous example.
A.: Vainly are you its exclusive witness, you haven’t got a clue about the extent of my struggle. The star-
       crossed quest for a lucrative redemption I am condemned to pursue.
Q.: You are bargaining with Azrael like a cosmic capitalist. You have made your Mutti the number one
      protégé of the Citypop. Dialectical nepotism of an estranged denier by the textbook. Surely the cheapest 
      imitatio since Saint Francis of Assisi. What a typical mother’s son…
A.: You are misapprehending my testimony. Nothing is accidental. I wouldn’t have adorned her if she 
      hadn’t deserved it. Objectivity is my biggest strength.
Q.: You’re the most unscrupulous bloodsucker of your evil karma. Trying to profit from misery like an 
      indestructible careerist. Recycling overused metaphors and call it counterrevolution. Your idyllic vision
      thing is more abstract than Hyperborea. Empty trash for the cravers. The ’Epitaph’ is not written to 
      your Mother at all. Just expropriating her assassination. Meaner than the lust of Nero.  
A.: That’s correct. It is written through her eyes. The transcript of a long distance telephone call cut and
      pasted in a candid twelve-liner  according to the Gates. I couldn’t have found a better medium. Her 
      message is beseeming everyone beyond race, age and gender. An epitome of overnationalism.


Q.: Isn’t it outrageous how selfish a man without means can become? You’d brazenly manipulate with 
      anything coming in your wicked way. Using your mother’s warm ghost for a flagship of departure. Your
      crocodile tears are only camouflaging a massive relief. For your deranged mentality the event is heart 
      balm. You’ll never have to speak her tongue again. After all said and done, it is radically torn out at last.  
      No more perfidious Christmas calls from the shrine. The umbilical chord is ultimately severed. Finally 
      you’ve got it made. At the age of forty she has set you free. Never mind the pain you had to inflict.
A.: Don’t have to confront me, I know what I’ve done. But I had no choice. I’m possessed by the Author. 
      This is the end of my genetic lineage. A milepost in the cauldron. Sister 4:32 was my last relative. Her
       remaining family will repudiate me for skipping her funeral despite obliging invitation. They don’t know 
      that I may not set foot on my natal soil under any circumstances. I took a most solemn oath on that when 
       left to conquer the West. I’ll be cut off my inheritance but have saved my morals. The file is sealed and
       the story has opened. My humor is a double-edged sword.
Q.: It might as well be the biggest blunder of your sentimental journey. The crown of your geopolitical 
      insanity. You were entitled of that money and Osh knows how badly we needed it. To renounce it from
      pure dignity is a crime against nature. All of her flawless life long she was trying to help you. But you 
      were insupportable. First you literally declared that she wasn’t your progenitor. Now you’re exalting  
      her ordinary profile into an irreligious icon. Whatever happened to your sacred logic?
A.: My absence from the entombment was more than allegorical. It was a demonstration against the mortal 
      coil. My presence was my hiatus. Epistemologically correct. I prefer to commune with her through 
      Candlemass and Polaroids. When no one else is around. I let her down for real but placed her imago 
      on the top of my Pantheon. Notre Dame 2.0. She’s gone to inspire my best song to date. A liturgic 
      standard of the Atheist canon. A thousand-years plan.
Q.: Ave Maria! Maybe a good electropop tune but hardly competitive to a Gregorian chant. Just another
      lowlandish artifice of your amateur malarkey.
A.: I am spending my unlife in an ambiguity complex. I didn’t mean to hurt her and she knew it. She 
      remained heroically tolerant all the way which only aggravated the ordeal. She was a perfect effigy
      of the superior mother from a Pannonian smalltown. I never could afford to send her any gift like an
      emigrant boy should. Not up to now. Her epitaph is my atonement. A prodigal remedy of my original sin.


Q.: Do you happen to presume your mother would be proud of you looking down at the dharma bum 
       trying to send her off as a bogus archetype? That she would appreciate the ostentatious gesture of a
       beggared misfit? And forgive your depraved subgenius?
A.: Don’t worry, Gina, I don’t have no illusions. My hate of existence vastly overshadows her immaculate
       persona. To give me life was an inexcusable misconception. I owe her no gratitude for that. And the
      incurable spell of a merry childhood. If I were a righteous brother I should be celebrating. I don’t belong 
      any more. My rise from the biomental grave has been accomplished. My transfused blood is purified. 
      I am a bastard son of a bitch and a real motherfucker now. A man without past.
Q.: All that sounds mighty fine but what about our materiality? The nebulous memoir of an ornery loser. 
      You couldn’t publish a fucking poem to prove her you were somebody. You’re lingering in the limbo of 
      a self-imposed exile without continuum or horizon. No return for a never-been.
A.: I am an illegitimate predator of the matrix by terminus technicus. The free visas I offer are reserved for 
      the few. I feel very honored to start it with Our Lady. Patroness of a black sheep.
Q.: You are the perplexed specter of an unlikely future. Investing into damnation like an Orthodox 
      Israelite. A most obsolete apostasy. Totally ignorant of the art of the deal.
A.: We’re left on our exclusively own at this crucial point in dead time. With no one to protect us by the 
      power of love. You and I, we are the Gemini of reproduction. Orphans in an orphaned land. The glass 
     spider tour has reached our hideaway. The 'Epitaph' is an immortal document of departure. It’ll be 
     inscribed on the gateway of The Building. I am a conscientious deserter of the human livestock. Not a
      random victim of the circumstances. I’ll forward the message to everyone whom it may concern. It’ll be
      a major trail of our propaganda campaign in the meantime. The best news you’ll ever get.