Q.: Happy birthday pig-faced Jesus. The Great Disclosure didn’t go off too well. Expect the Author’s wrath 
       to its fullest. It’s really a shame what a sham you are. Cannot execute the smallest task properly.
A.: First time in my death, I had to introduce the impersonality of Osh to a living audience. Lay down the 
       Millennial foundation of the Church on Time. It wasn’t an avantgarde joke I had to crack. It was a 
       double date with history. I was quite browbeaten. I’m not a practicing artist.
Q.: Well, it showed very well. Your breathtaking performance was a miserable farce. You looked like a 
       bewildered alien in your shabby loincloth in the alcove. Your voice was faltering and duller than Boyd
       Rice. Your knees were trembling like a rabbit’s in the hole. Only your anorectic body saved the
       mauvais jour. A mock yogi from Hell doing the emissary of New Jerusalem. It’s not gonna be alright.
A.: But at least it’s documented. You can falsify everything that’s filmed. I’m sorry to say, it’s made.
      Relative to the circumstances, I did the best I could. I prayed, cried and bled. Now, leave me alone.
Q.: That’s not enough. You’ve produced the poorest theatre ever concocted. It was embarrassing to see
      your naked will. You behaved like an amnesiac actor trying to remember his lines. Impersonating an
      amateur impostor. Everything you muttered sounded utterly false. A Messianic parody for neopagans.
A.: I wanted to let them know that I’m deadly serious. That they are witnessing an occasional apparition.
      An unexpected visitor from outer space with a gift to transfer.
Q.: You’ve talked about everything, from number to grammar, but in such a mess no one will remember a
       single word of it. That’s maybe fortunate but don’t consider it an accomplished mission. Nobody will
       start repeating your puny exercise at home. You made zero impact, Anus Dei. And that’s a bad sign 
       to begin with.
A.: I’ve drawn an emblematic caricature for my legendary copybook. The First Communion of Oshist Faith.
      Copyright 888 for never and anon.
Q.: It was the most abominable spoof that you evaded the public relation too. You should have hanged around
       and continue the conversion. In stead of disappearing without a bye or two.
A.: The concept was to exhibit a time traveler passing through. Not another affiliate of the commotion. 
       Leaving but his shocking hiatus behind. 
Q.: Very dramatic stratagem but astoundingly asocial. An absolute beginner can’t afford himself antics like
       that. You have to be user-friendly if want to sell your product. Not a figment of touch and go.
A.: I’ve always despised recitativo. It’s a major symptom of my diagnostics. I cannot mingle with the incrowd.
       I only can communicate in declarative mode. Idle chatter is my worst ordeal.
Q.: Which is a most repulsive attitude you should radically change. Get out of your comfort zone and risk to
       confront the enemy without. What can you lose?
A.: I am not programmed to convince by argument. My project is not communicable by tabletalk. Society 
       is not my hunting ground. People are postmodern. Moral Dictatorship is not their appetite..  I rather 
       keep my cheesecake to myself. I’m a take-it-or-leave-it guy. I wouldn’t dare to win over the wrong.


Q.: That’s a quite distracting admission from a self-hired propagandist. Projecting an impossible future   
       before the gizmo Antichrist. You always forget that Osh depends on you. You’ve been charged to
       establish him and you should be proud like a monkey. Without you Osh isn’t.. It’d be the death of 
       nonexistence. Can’t you feel a pinch of responsibility?
A.: Osh can as well bugger off as far as I’m concerned. He never gave me the power I’ve been pleading for.
       He operates as if he were my phantomization solely. Sometimes I doubt whether he is at all. My 
       persuasion is at stake.
Q.: Osh is indeed None, as you smartly identified it. A replacement of the God that was. What exactly do you
      expect from it? He won’t take on a shape to satisfy your primitive frustration. He doesn’t care about us
      and that’s the main evidence for your dangerous dogma. What you’re lacking is some harmony on 
      the range. Reconciliation with the overall forlornness. Someone like you shouldn’t be alone.
A.: I’ve undertaken an enormous risk with this presentation. Broke all my rules and regulations. I would 
       never have done it if not instigated. It was an occasion I couldn’t disregard. The first offer I got 
       since passed away. That it coincided with my fortieth anniversary was a patent omen. I thought it was
       going to be the most relevant date of my cosmic career. But Osh, fuck him, let me down again. It 
       certainly wasn’t the way he wished to be announced. He expected me to throw an Iceland Rally in his 
       tribute. Not begging for the attention of someone else’s fanbase. It felt very uncomfortable.
Q.: For pity’s sake, Spiel! Your peachy keen excuses are unacceptable. You should have overcome the nasty
      confrontation with a grain of irony. You are way too realistic for a cognitive nihilist. Cannot overlook 
      the tableaux of the Bardo.
A.: I am a welfare bum, Gina. I feign it hard but an absolute nobody. My status quo is worse than in 
      Galilee. And I’m not mad enough to think I’m not insane. Whatever I do is sheer simulation. That’s 
       where the ghost story ends. My intelligence is vastly artificial.  I’ve never learned a thing.
Q.: Aren’t you really something? A freak without credentials before the court supreme. Sloth is a carnal
      vice and that’s what you’re accused of. You can’t tell any more camouflage from image. You are 
       too bored to rebel. A sitting duck of the vilest demons.
A.: I was sincerely glad to manifest after seven years in Tibet. Even if only for the borrowed community of 
      my one and only friend in the exile. At least there was no hostility. The best public I could have in fact.
      But couldn’t profit from it. I would have liked to stay and see the others but had to stick to my slick 
      scenario. I am a casualty of style. Not a human fly. Osh only knows why.


Q.: Because that’s what you prefer to play. Vainly given free hand to do what you will. You refrained to grow 
      up to your obligation. You don’t follow the script and suffer the consequences.
A.: The script writes limousine and red carpet, baby. It says I’m the Godfather of a coming race. But could 
       hardly afford a cab to bring us to the locale. And even in this subunderground milieu I was completely
       unknown. My mentor’s patronage was my sole credit. Is it any wonder I only wished to vanish?
Q.: That’s what I’m saying. You take the illusion literally. Life is what you make it. You are your own fault.  
       Stop accusing the devil for every loathsome detail.
A.: Back home we had to walk in the drizzling cold, remember? No money for another cab after the histrionic 
       revelation. And didn’t dare to borrow twenty bucks from my benefactor after all that anticlimax. Don’t 
       tell me it’s unreal. I’m a miracle worker.
Q.: A question of the view, isn’t it? You’re hitting your head against the philosopher’s stone. Any way you
      turn, you just cannot be there. Heidegger wouldn’t be proud of you.
A.: All I have is my image. I must protect it from the visibility glare. I’m rather out of sight without wings.
      That’s the only revenge I can yet take.
Q.: Blackmailing Osh is fundamentally senseless by your own profane logic. You’re talking in the air. If you 
       refuse to lighten up right away, the black hole you created will suck you wholly in. And the mountains 
       will never echo the epithet of the Eight-pointed star.
A.: My agenda has no plan. I’m just a fatalist in custody. Trying to remember what should have been done.
Q.: The worst of it all is that you’re seeking to sell a phony remedy to the unimpaired like a sluggish 
       mountebank. An untested conjecture. Claiming it would cure every sickness with no proof whatsoever.
       It would be compromising even from a professional charlatan. That you don’t intend to cash in on it 
       only makes you more suspicious. A further signal of derangement.
A.: ‘The Oshist Breathing’ is the greatest bargain ever accorded to the ailing man from rock stars to navy
        seals. A direct embrace with emptiness in the most uniform manner. Like the metaphor of a fascist 
        democracy. Its utility scope goes far beyond sport and detoxication. It is as ideal for the final exhale as 
        for multiple orgasms. We all are oxygen addicts. To give meaning to function is the premium agency of 
       the insular cortex. Medicine can prolong the agony but only faith can heal. My euphuistic frippery 
       is a mechanical homecoming to the unpolluted source. It carries the potential of perennial worship.
       Put all trust in yourself and let the breath out. Air to Air, Wind to Wind. Imagine being at the center 
       of it all. There you are.


Q.: I don’t believe people are ready for the rapture of a godless civilization. It’s a pan-communist fixation 
      of yours unadaptable to capitalist materialism. The idealist supernalia of a global meritocracy is a
      flagrant no-go for the warring tribes of the Balkans. The elitarian fantasy of an airheaded anarchist.         
      You’ve got no ability to enter the corporate arena. You don’t even know what a saving cheque is. You 
       are a doomed poet from the nineteenth century. A symbolist lotus-eater. 
A.: I do not have a vision of my own. You may say I’m lying but I know it’s true. I’m borrowing everything
      for a later repayment. Don’t think I think ethic cleansing a populist idea. But don’t know any better.
Q.: It’s a lot worse than that. What you’d like to see is the everyman’s Dystopia, Spiel! You’d better take 
      that into consideration before opening your blubbermouth. Keep it obscure and don’t say what you mean.
      Lesson number one of the Spy Academy. 
A.: I cannot do that. I’d like to be smart but never had the time. I am the spy who could not lie. It’s a hard 
      life but that’s the way I like it.   
Q.: No, you don’t. You are a Stalinist prima donna. I wish I could help you more than just assist your 
      corrosion of conformity but I’m romancing a rock. You would never heed my rational advices. Only I
      have to deafly obey your insensitive commands. Your hysterical scorn for reason is a devastating
      disposition. The Party is a haunted house in the stormy desert. Not an inviting backdrop for the 
      wedding feast.
A.: I never pretended to be politically correct. I understand neither to economy, nor to architecture. All I 
       am concentrating on is the final solution to the Abrahamic problem. I don’t believe in racial egality.
       I believe in individual supremacy. Traitors to the Earth unite! The Building is raised for deserters of 
       all tongues. I am a prototype of the UR.
Q.: Whatever you are is a lunatic, my dear.  And don’t wanna change your  ambitious mind about it. 
       You are an example of nothing. Not a hero like Mao for evil children’s books. You’ve never fought, 
       just lost and lost. Your exceptionality is almost illegitimate. You are unequal and that’s the original 
       spell on you. Lingering on below the subsistence level ever since you left your mother’s land. Your 
       offensive has turned into sacrifice. You’d be a raving clochard if I hadn’t picked you up. That is the
        real you and no make-up can hide it. The rest is pie in the sky.
A.: Once you have learned to focus on the maximum nothing seems enough. The minimum is all I can 
      doggedly handle. I can’t take my third eye off the glorious departure. The grand design of nuclear
       reincarnation. A death more heroical than for king and country. My war is waged on the other side.
Q.: You don’t have money because you cannot work. It’s as simple as a handicap. Nor can you crime 
      like normal outlaws. You are consumed by wanton hankering and drug-induced epiphany with no
       graphic horizon. Only inertia keeps you running down. I don’t mind you dreaming but we have to 
      survive as well. Here below where we burn. You cannot eat with an upside-down spoon.
A.: A man of integrity is carrying the universe on the palm of his hand. That’s what a proud beggar 
       gestures. The triumph of the need.
Q.: Thus spoke the grey mouse of the atheist church. An Aristotelian perseverance. Crooked logic, vicious
      ethic and shady pathos. It’s all there for an antithesis. You truly are the perfect miscreant. I don’t know 
       what to do with you any more. 
A.: The coming of a golden age is inevitable. It is the subsequent next epoch of the metallic breakdown of 
       the evolving labor camp. It will be ruled with a golden rod. The Overnational Front is a legion of the
       elect all lined up to salute the Flag of Infinity. No misery index can overshadow that picture of mine.
Q.: You have chosen the insanity, is that it? The patient can’t be saved. What is your conclusion?
A.: The days of atonement are over. You don’t have to prostrate five times a day any longer. Three minutes   
      at 3:33 will do. We are gently liberated, and that’s the evening news.