Q.: Congrats, brother Spiel! Would deserve a big pat on your back from above. In spite of strokes and heart
attacks, amidst pandemics and race riots, quarantined like an arrested hermit, you keep churning out your
wanton information. Here’s dropping another dead project buried before born. Couldn’t you spare your
faint spirit for something more productive than your feckless saga? The easy way in is a dead-end street.
A.: I have no permission to exit my cage. An exterminating angel is standing at the door since 1984. I’ve
grown old and wrecked in the void working on my escape plan. I have neither looks nor voice left. Time
has killed the aspiring spy. Not to mention Janine, the tiny strip tease dancer. It’s unacceptable what they
have done to us. Just because we believed the lies of Osh.
Q.: What can you do? Can you disaccept it? But I’m not agreed with your requiem. We are a living monument
of trans-human endurance. Even Elon Musk divorced his baby bride. We are defeated but an unbreakable
couple. That’s how we should be remembered.
A.: It’s only inertia in the final analysis. Only because I cannot survive on my own. It is my misery that held
us together. Your sacrifice is a nursery rhyme.
Q.: I don’t think so. You don’t know what it’s like to love somebody. I shouldn’t have become your destiny
but you’ve always been mine. Although you are cold at heart and mad at the center. Playing the
Alzheimer diseased who vaguely remembers his own superlatives. A r’n’r casualty on old age pension.
You never really loved me. I’ve only been your paything. If I ever met the Author of this pulp fiction I
would surely kill it.
A.: Since our Author is None per se, your chances are less than Martin Buber’s. We just have to bear with it
till the day of atonement., I guess. Keep on begging for aim and gun like we’ve always been. My single
imperative is to kill the crime. It is craved in my gravestone. Whatever else I’m saying only is to
authenticate the trite slogan. The pink clouds of Holocaust are flickering over The Perfumarea. I’m loyal
to my hate till my last breath.
Q.: Sounds pathetic enough from a captain of the UR talking to his pillow. Your bloody dreams are
incompatible with our grim reality. You’re a loser and that’s all there is to you in one word. Whoever
should care what you have gone through to get there if you couldn’t? Another wannabe bites the dust.
A.: Ever since I can recall, I am working on no practical purpose. Only indicating what should be done.
I’m a visionary of the improbable. New Jerusalem is only reproduction. Osh takes all the credits as usual.
Q.: Osh by definition doesn’t give a damn to your struggle, if I may appeal to your sacred logic. It’s you who
figured him out in your own idealistic likeness. Not a higher intelligence but a despondent sublimation.
The formula dies hard. The evidences you collect are evident. That god doesn’t exist is the only thing
that’s certain. Don’t need a church to turn it into dogma. Your mission is inherently futile.
A.: You systematically overlook what I mean. My personal life has nothing to do with my ideology. I could
never handle a real enterprise and that’s the core of it all. The disability factor. I don’t believe in fairies
anymore. It’s good to be a concept.
Q.: Good for you perhaps but not for us. Don’t you always forget about me! ‘The Perfumarea’ is exclusively
my concoction from concept to design. All you had to do was to indignantly correct my spelling
mistakes. And name the stillborn child I labored for you. I am in charge of it all whilst you’re convulsing
in distress. Beside gaining your wherewithal by the cheapest tricks in the meantime. This is not a model
marriage made in heaven. This is the worst bondage ever fantasized.
A.: You don’t know what an onus is to talk like a man but act like a machine with no tomorrow, baby. I am a
superrobot in the isolation tank. I wouldn’t do nothing on my own. I have to be goaded like a gentle beast.
I have spent my whole adulthood in the arms of insecurity. Without any income or account, out of every
control. Don’t have no personal or legal contact left. No relatives, no friends. Don’t miss them but it’s
extremely dangerous. If I’m cut down tonight, my unpublished books directly go to the Krematorium for
want of a beneficiary. I’m scared like an empty vessel craving for the load.
Q.: You rather seem to be hugely overburdened to me. Far beyond your Masochistic capacities. Still trying
your bad luck on anything coming your stationary way. Boldly entering the perfume area for this once.
Another domain you haven’t got a clue about. Another feeble intrusion of the overarching outcast.
A.: As a dedicated follower of fashion I’ve always been a latent aficionado of cosmetica. Just couldn’t afford
it. Don’t mix up reality with fiction.
Q.: Your senses are vastly underdeveloped, mylord. I’m surprised you’re not wholly aware of it. You couldn’t
tell the difference between two whiskeys if offered. You never had a favorite eau d’cologne. You equally
like everything that scents like a Barbarian. Cannot find an adequate Deodorant.
A.: ‘The Perfumarea’ is a peculiar sample of the overall reconstruction, demonstrating the utility scope of
Color Power on all walks of civilized life. The line we suggest ain’t meant to be foolproof. It’s only an
indicator of the methodology. The 888 series is an adagio to New Style in reminiscence of the City of Eden
where every equal day is celebrated by a different fragrance. We will live in a world of conformance.
Q.: The brusque addition of the Plausibility Crystal to the arbitrary amalgams is quite pretentious though.
Can you eventually visualize an actual consumership to it?
A.: I can visualize anything. But I prefer not to. I have no talent for inspiration. I do what I’m told to -
unwillingly but without hesitation. I am my own worst exploiter. I never investigate or speculate about
my jobs. All I want is to be over with them as fast as possible. But then comes the next day. And another
day from ashes to ashes. The only difference between Bowie and me is that I’m undocumented. And still
alive.
Q.: What for is the question that remains. Everybody else is making money of their labor. Even if they’re
cancelled by the culture. Joe Rogan signs contracts of millions of dollars. Aren’t you blue of envy?
A.: No, because I’m an objectivist subject. I’m quite apprised of what I deserve. I should never have
betrayed my origins. But I have chosen freedom. Didn’t know it meant slavery.
Q.: The problem is that you don’t know how to command, dear leader. You haven’t been a boss of anyone, not
even an employee. You are a Demander by premature rebirth. Spoiled to death by a protective mother.
A.: Any a way you analyze it, the situation is mighty dismal. Disposing of my ego was an unfortunate gesture.
Nothing moves me on but the survival instinct. The routine of duty. I have no genes to promulgate. My
contaminated bloodline will have no continuum. I have never been here. That’s all I am eager to manifest.
Q.: I know how desperate you are in the lazaretto, but what you’ve just said is a lie of lies. You do not claim to
be a professor of mendacity for nothing. Such florid interpretations only highlight your original detriment.
To pass through unnoticed is the last thing you want. You care about legacy less than Bukowski. It’s only
your atavistic despise of action that keeps you a stonewalled recluse. You suffer, you suffer, but it’s still
better than fight for the right on the barricade. You are a diffident individualist off the terrene radar.
Sleeping whilst his bed’s on fire.
A.: I am not a proud boy. Nor a vain tranny for that matter. But I wish to be both. These dichotomies are
tearing me apart.
Q.: Take it easy, Charlotte, it’ only your private theatre of pain. You are a nonentity that cannot belong. All of
your life you’ve been a vampire writing his diaries with no thirst of blood. A total degenerate on his
secluded skid row. A punk monk worshipping his own shadow. A Narcissistic personality in hopeless love
with his imaginary self. Eat up your heart, Sartre!
A.: It’s not my mental state I’m worried about. As far as I’m concerned, I’m absolutely sane. My dilemma is
strictly geotropical. I’ve been refused to follow the path of the Sun. They’ve set me anticlockwise with no
turning back. I thought it was homecoming but I’m not so self-assured any longer. I may be wrong. I’ve
never thought of that before. It must the rude awakening.
Q.: You are a dilettante dissident with a false illusion of grandeur. Just like your comrade bums. The
megalomaniac nobody’s nauseating archetype. No wonder you can’t look into the mirror. The reflection
could dilapidate you. You cannot face the fact that you are a nameless evacuee. An illegal number with no
liability. Here in your Room 429 you are the king in a skirt. The unseen master of subreality.
A.: I am a special envoy captivated by the Prince of Gravity. I must have made a terrible mistake.
Q.: Desist joking about your conditions all the time! What about changing them? It doesn’t matter what you
have to say. Only the way of saying it. All you’ve got to improve is your flair. Wear the right perfume
according to your daily chart. The art of the aroma will unwrap your dimension. And will keep you
safe in the city.
A.: Excellent promotory, sister Gina. I will mark it as quintessential. Forward to a fragrance-based reckoning.
The Socialist Kingdom is at hand.
Q.: Stop flaunting your advertising genius too! We aren’t selling catholicon. Ours is a fine and potent medicine
based on transparent transcendency. Leave the political overtones out of it if you want to market your
cryptic merchandise. People won’t like to smell for a cause.
A.: ‘The Perfumaeria’ should be a bipartisan effort. A genetic conspiracy of introducing the New World Odor
to a global citizenship. Know your colors and you will know yourself. A new oracle from Delphi. It is
the emanation whereby the self-conscious elite will be contraselected. The judgement is brought by the
laws of metaphysical harmony. You’d better be consumable when entering the finicky mouth of the Lord.
Q.: Catchy phrases, but who’ll be able to stand? Peoples have wars to wage and disasters to overcome.
Whoever would back up an olfactory counterrevolution? A nostrum with no brand. When you can wear
Lady Gaga’s sperm on your skin.
A.: My turnout is an exercise of priority. The wolf doesn’t howl because he likes to but because he must.
When your best time is when nothing happens you can be sure you’ve reached Nirvania. I demean
myself like a sunflower at midnight. Waiting for the new world in the morning that’ll never come.
Q.: All poetry, no motion. Like positive dialectic never existed. The Word as a subhuman being can’t remain
unspoken. Nothing can be done without doing it. Only lunatics rely on telepathy. You could always turn
over a brand new leaf. Procure real false papers and change identity like a true passenger. Just turn on
and be. It’s too late to be woeful..
A.: It would make no difference for a secret agent man. I have reconciled with my profession. The treason I
pursued has been quite accomplished. I’ve got nothing to leave behind. My soul is saved alright.
Q.: You don’t know what you’re talking about. Soul is just another word for blackmail in your devious
glossary.
A.: One thing I do know and I’m glad to share it with you. The soul is not inside your guts but without the
body. It doesn’t belong to the waving brains and the hysterical nervous system. Your soul is your naked
aura visible for everyone who sees. It’s in the white of your eyes. You’ll be turned away like from a
Disco’s door if not wearing the mark of the Lamb at the Gates. The mark of the Lamb is your style. Your
peculiar taste to the absolute supper. The fragrance is a key ingredient of it. The Building will be blessed
with the most pleasing savor. Jasmine and rose.
Q.: Your crooked antithesis flagrantly ignores the collective subconscious. Homocentric universalism is no
opium for the apathetic masses. It won’t restore the order of the Purgatory.
A.: The Bridehood is a viciously glorified but explicitly existing minority of the global village. It doesn’t
matter where you come from, only where you go. The Party is designed to transport you there the
straightest way around. The Judgement will be as we make it. This is our last chance.
Q.: The grace you are engaged to promote is not so amazing after all. The voting majority don’t care so much
about fashion as you precipitate it. It’s only a buried treasure under the Sycamore tree of life. A fading
memory of the digital age. You’d better bid farewell to your arms amidst the ongoing slaughter..
A.: Our Perfumarea is a fragrant paragon of the divine democracy. An instant road to stardom for every
worker of the class. Osh wants a new race wherein aesthetic and ethic coalesce into one again. Our odors
are mixed to equalize the tribes under the moral dictatorship of the given day of color. It is the return of
Pallas Athene. Justice for all. I can hear the Wedding bells ringing.
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