Q.: Put your feet up and relax, captain of the Brideship. Aren’t you the cleverest drifter of the stormy sea?
No chosen one could have doped out a tackier iconoclasm. Your reach is limited to the surface of the
surface. Superficiality is a common trademark of your scanty output. All your fancy revelations hailed
from the lack of gnosis. All you have discovered has always been existing. You are a minor disgrace of the
tree of life. Playing the innocent lamb amidst the learned wolves won’t justify your phony avatar. You’ve
never read the Bible like your antagonists. You’re no scholar of anything except for old rock’n’roll music.
You have no credential to affront the Zohar.
A.: I do not affront but revisit it. ‘The Great Syzygy’ is not a reminiscence. It is an alliance of theographic
opposites under The Octagram’s magnetic aegis. This is the message of the Millennium. The ark of
the covenant.
Q.: You don’t say. Everything is the ark of the covenant for you. Your measly dictionary’s favorite allusion.
You aren’t even sure what it stands for, are you? Whether it’s a tabernacle or an allegory. You are an
unscrupulous plagiarist of the tritest fable with no original fantasy. Stuck with the phantom of a cursory
homecoming.
A.: To associate the emanations with the commandos is so obvious it wouldn’t cross a more sophisticated
mind. Osh is very lucky with me. I don’t respect nothing.
Q.: Because you’re a nihilist outsider of the equilibrium, that’s why. Not an antigravitational paladin from a
comic strip. Double-blasphemy is not a Meisterschaft but the advanced stage of your mental alienation.
You want to reinstate an unholy trinity. Equal down with both Jews and Christians. An overbearing
undertaking from a Marxist renegade...
A.: My arrow isn’t aimed against any tribe. I’m promoting a merciful deliverance of traitors without geo-
political discrimination. A new style of selection. ‘The Great Syzygy’ is a nuclear synthesis of the poles.
First I’m reconciling the two wings of Judaism, then update it to Osh who is None in one unperson. It’s
an operation beyond belief. A Covenant of peace. Would deserve the Noble-price.
Q.: You cannot expect your greedy generation to put their faith in themselves. Work and love for their
own prosperity solely. The order you’re down to challenge is based on dichotomy from Raism to
Zoroaster. Although time is dead, we’re running by the dial. Can’t conceptualize a state without slavery.
A.: Yes, we can. New Jerusalem is a stone’s throw away. Heaven is a place where everything happens on
purpose. An atmosphere of absolute freedom.
Q.: Moreover, your bogus theosophy blatantly neglects the Islamic hood of Abraham’s legitimate children.
The exuberant hordes of the true fidels. Sefer Yetzirah and the Deuteronomy are pretty harmless targets.
Try insulting Mohammed and your head will fly.
A.: Why should I? As a born-again apostate, I am preoccupied with my own roots. May the Quran be the
worst book ever written, I couldn’t care less. The Satanic Verses is someone else’s job. And so is
Confucius. My only war is on crime committed in whomsoever’s name. It is directly waged with the
global Beast. The Ten Commandos rule the whole civilization.
Q.: Well, thank you very much for identifying the function of my symbols anyway. All of my life with you I’ve
been searching for the keys but failed to recognize when finally found them. It’s a tremendous
adumbration, isn’t it? The crown of four decades of color analysis around the clock. Just to transfer them
to you as promised at the dawn of our rotted romance.
A.: I have never asked from you anything, 8:03. It’s you who’s overwhelming me with useless ciphering
interrupting my forced labor. You are giving me unwanted presents in exchange of the thralldom I
provide. It makes me feel very inconvenient.
Q.: Yes, you did, 888 my Ex. I have the gates, you said, go and figure how to open them. And so I did without
the shadow of a doubt. Who could have guessed it’ll take a lifetime? That the symbol will find us aged
and wrecked yearning for amnesia. You can’t even appreciate it any more. I have sacrificed my blood
for a counterfeit vampire.
A.: I am not ungrateful but verboten to express it. Experiences have killed the conquering child. The fact
factor is downright frightening. This arcane Putsch has been in the making since 1982. Originally planned
for the constellation of 1984. The Author took our time. Another fortieth anniversary to celebrate in the
well of sorrows. Is it any wonder I am little enthused?
Q.: Don’t eliminate it, your lackadaisical lassitude is inexcusable. You are treating the fruits of my travail
as extra trash of your lonesome harvest. You should see the face you make when I come up with a new
idea. From gravely annoyed to outright disgusted on the physiognomic scale. To be working for you is a
woman’s worst nightmare.
A.: When you do not live, every new input cuts like a knife. You like to work for me, but I’m working for
nothing. If it existed, I would hate Osh worse than Kali. Isn’t it remarkable how fine he’s eluded the
destiny of godheads?
Q.: Stop philosophizing about your nonsensical cosmogony. We have many concrete questions to solve on our
hidden agenda. The twelve keys of Sefirot are representing the power of the colors. As they turn by the
Views at their attributed rotations. It is a vast and complex system in the service of ethic cleansing. I
know it’s hard to grasp it for someone colorblind but I see it all by heart. In G.I.N.A. you can trust. All
you’ve got to do is certify it. Malkhut has been reached on the bathroom floor. Better late than never.
A.: Congratulations, but I frankly don’t know what for. Another sealed folder for the vault of my vain hopes.
Buried in the void of infinity.
Q.: You don’t have to do that any longer! On the Website I’ve set up for you we can instantly upload all your
litter. spions.ink opens your dungeon to the light. I don’t get why aren’t you happy with it.
A.: I am very grateful for that too but it doesn’t shift my original paradigm. I do not have a single follower of
any sort. Two surviving Hungarian friends left from the farthest past are all my links to the world at wide.
The higher you aim the deeper you fall. The page you have purchased and created is just a virtual
cabinet in any view. I am mysteriously prevented to interact. That’s where my untold story bitterly ends.
Q.: It is your utter horror of it that prevents you. The fear of saying something foolish. Or incorrect to make
matters worse. Your distraught seclusion is all that protects you from death threats. Even via satellite you
couldn’t converse with anyone. Osh gave a world wide web to your antique typewriter but you can’t profit
from it. You are the same universal refugee in Cyberia as in the streets of Babylon. Your Stone Age
program resists to evolve. You don’t know neither diplomacy, nor etiquette. You’re the most asocial
socialist ever run for office. An elitist brute.
A.: ‘The Great Syzygy’ is a cosmic coup d’etat. A breakthrough of The Bargain. It should appeal to both
mystics and pagans. It could be our magnet of conversion to Antichristianity if the time had come. The
foundation of the phonetic Kingdom. A reversal of the inkflow. As the energy regresses to Keter, so does
Hate recoil to Order by the way of omniscient Love. That is the nitty-gritty of this violent syndication.
The Law is eternal and syntactically solid. It’s time to declare total independence from collective
mythologies. Nothing compares to the reign of Logos. I am a Crowleyan bastard updating the Thelema.
Q.: That’s what you’ve been saying ever since you unceremoniously died in my arms. It was the theme of the
very first manifesto of your unglorious afterlife. Nothing has changed, did it? What you have done to me
is hardly forgivable by any higher standard. Pursuant to our individual myth indeed, you are a cunning
marriage swindler of the lowest profile. You have lured my innocent soul into a house of pain by your
suave rhetoric of threadbare slogans. And keeping it enslaved with illusions of reward. The unfairiest tale
of all modern times. I’d be better off with a rich evangelist.
A.: After time passed away in the strangest way, progression is no longer linear. We are pressing forward in
a realm of collapse. Our pointless oeuvre is a sempiternal pile with no beginning or end. The years are
only bibliographical entries of the filing process. It is always 1984 for us. Our future and our past. No
Present! Old war-cries never die.
Q.: ‘Cause you’ve got nothing new to say. You’ve been knocking at the door of Hell begging to let you in
since 1979. But no one has answered yet. You’re living in obscurity, without name and number. Rejected
by all institutions, excommunicated by all societies. No member of any union or club. The least known
citizen of the entire world. Is that what you call a spy of spies? Mission accomplished?
A.: I have no death wish but don’t want to live. Sitting in the la la, waiting for my ya ya. Inspiration have I
none. One man in the name of nothing. Ain Sof really got me.
Q.: That’s not the most aureate conclusion from a paranormal impostor. And don’t believe you are so damn
unique with the spell. There are thousands of living deads who feel exactly like you do. Some of them are
committing their suicide as we idly speak. Only you don’t have the guts. You’re not at all the brotherless
brethren as you pretend to think. Just too terrified of entering the sphere of surveillance. Nobody can exist
without data. Passports are not false papers. You’ve been a victim of your own ideology and not a martyr
of the catacombs.
A.: I would have liked very much to see the planet. Have a villa in Bali and a rally in Iceland. But I have
chosen isolation. I reclused myself in order not to spread the virus of rebirth too early like every good
patient should. And I’ve learned to like it like that.
Q.: How dare you speak in an active voice? You have never made the slightest choice in your unsubstantial
life! We couldn’t leave our lodgment for want of goal and money. I did my damnedest to provide at
least that roof for your uncrowned majesty. Bearing along with your deconstructive criticism of my
communicational skills. Advise is all you could ever give me. But no example set. You were a lot worse
at your best than me at my worst when it came to promotory. You aren’t unjustly quarantined for life.
A.: I am an epitome of the Pandemonium. The China virus exerted no impact on my style of living. That the
whole world must do as I had been makes me feel less segregated. My inadequacy is equalized. I never
needed more than food and shelter. I’m a nomad in the ghetto. I don’t believe in god but would never dare
to get voluntarily vaccinated. I’ve always been a leper and you my leperess. We’ve never ceased to
accommodate to the permanent Resistance.
Q.: You haven’t been a pioneer of anything. There is nothing esoteric in a natural catastrophe. You’re just a
fading echo of the distant thunder.
A.: Unlike Mr. Lenin, I’ve never contemplated what should be done. Reality has never been my obstacle. But
it’s enormous the gap between thoughts and things. My Kabbala is exclusively aesthethic (!). My profane
objective is to manumit intelligence from the spiritual oppression. I’m tracing old footseps with spanking
new boots. Loyal to none, heretic to all. Let this be my Epitaph!
Q.: Chances are that's all you’ll ever leave behind. Unless you learn the magic dance of the keys.
A.: The updated Sefirot is a smart token of reconciliation. Grey discipline will establish the new order. The
long winter of hibernation is now over. Let the counterrevolution begin. Happy new 2022!
Q.: Cool it off because your tongue will burn. No one would grant a meaning to your inconsistent gibberish.
You think yourself the white Ledermaus of a gay operetta, but in fact you’re a poisonous bat escaped
from the Sanatorium. The blue mask you mandatorily wear fits very handily over the missing teeth of
the coward lion. Ghost of an aborted embodiment.
A.: I have tried in my way to curb the adversity. I put up a video about the Oshist Breathing that could have
thwarted the lockdown. But no one hooked up, fuck the system. Improbability overcame my shakedown.
‘The Great Syzygy’ is even more absurd to expect anything from. Thanks for the keys but I can’t turn
them to account. Our waltz is a very sad epilogue to the Androgyne Reproduction. All the angels have
fallen. The right colors cannot unite. I cannot stand up against the crooked jeering world like Current 93.
All I’m left with are old-fangled apologies. Every road leads to Gehenna. I know the war of genders has
been lost. The Judgement is pronounced over the Hermaphrodite. Sex cannot be saved. But the
Overnational Front will never compromise. We don’t negotiate with daemons. Up to Netzah! Let’s do
the Marchant again!
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