Q.: Elujah, Elujah. Let’s do the Marchant again. The third pillar of your sonar template is adroitly installed.  
      After the declaration and the imperative here comes the question mark to confront its abstract subject. 
       A cause for celebration indeed. The Summer of Return can officially begin. My little verb victoriously
       expressed itself through her choice substantives. Are you happy with the bad news? 
A.: The conclusion may be bad but the good news is that it’s put down in words. I could reduce the inquiry 
       to its liturgic basics. It couldn’t be simpler and I’m very grateful for that. Without the spirit’s help 
       I couldn’t have been so objective. This trilogy ought to compose a perfect triangle of the three
       modalities. They are the divine symmetry of my negation.
Q.: It’s amazing how scarcely you know yourself, Spiel! An imbecile child has more self-consciousness. You 
       are as subjective as anything can be. Nobody would opt for such a pretentious candidate. Your naivist 
       queries subsume their own answer. I really don’t like the way you manipulate. The blind don’t want to  
       see. Poetic hoaxes won’t dazzle illuminated existentialists. Your veiled reflection is flagrantly transparent. 
      888 is your camouflage. Not an art project. Once a spy, always a spy. But to lie you haven’t learned.
A.: Our Cross-file is also a temporal account of dead time’s decomposing body. As “Petition.” predicts an 
      imaginary future, so does “Trivia?” revisit the past we live in. With ‘Credo!” in the middle addressing the
      passing present. The best is to play them in inverse sequences. The unholy ternion of our absolute mass.
Q.: Hip Hip Hurray! Vlad Imir is running into the counterrevolution. We’ll cross by, I suppose.
A.: Don’t be such an urchin vulgate, Gina. This troika is made for one epic standard of the elitarian
       operetta. Mantras to protest by. They’ve got a tremendous appeal both alone and together. They could 
       make a hit single if so promoted.
Q.: If there was someone behind them perhaps. Unlike your subhuman majesty confined to a hundred years 
       of solitude for trying to save the nature from itself.  I don’t want to hurt your abeyant pride but that’s 
       what it all comes down to in the sorry end. The way we are written. You’re a frozen shadow of the 
       Zeitgeist lazy to raise his arm. A degenerate memory of the will once lost. What a colossal effort it 
       took to find someone to collaborate with you on a demo for the gay parade!  It is the thing that’ll 
       shake the world in ten days, you said for convincibility’s sake. I had to kick your ankle. Whoever should
       accept the dreadful style of a beggared traitor? The Sphynx couldn’t tell.
A.: I have no energy left to convince someone about palpabilities. I’m too shy to preach and teach. The 
      ‘‘Cross’ tells it  all. To minimalize the damage has been my admonition. Let the devil talk about it. I’m
      not gonna give no interviews.
Q.: That would be a pity if it came to that. You’ve got a lot to explain thereupon. Behind their simulated
       innocence, your elemental texts would depress a visigoth. They’re like suicide notes for the Z-generation.  
       Always looking for the negative in the twilight. Do you think it’ll prevent the oncoming peril?
A.: Total refuse is our only chance. Even Canadian avant-gardists knew it. If you can believe in None you’ll 
      feel much better. In us we trust. No message has ever been more reconstructive.


Q.: You could have been an honorary Quaker if weren’t a spawn of Baphomet. Let’s see the Bride, hey hey,  
       for a pragmatic moment! Is there anything in your second-handbag she should get engaged with? 
      Fame or fortune do not matter. Everybody ends up in the morgue. There is no detectable providence.
      Who the heck wanted to hear that bull again? You talk like Ezekiel at his worst. A non-profit prophet. 
      Are you comfortable with doommongering or just playing your deadhead off?
A.: It strongly depends on your angle of reading. At this point of the black Sun’s obscurity doom and boom 
       are indistinguishable. The news is only bad for the enemy. The elect’s got nothing to worry about.
Q.: There’s something fundamentally askance in your view from below. The picture you invite your 
      reviewers to enter is a kitchy reproduction of the original bluff. Infringing ancient copyrights of the
       apocalyptic apocripha. Twelve gates, ten commandos, seven seals, 144.000 couples and so on. No
       lovecraftsmanship at all.
A.: I do not have the right to invent anything unprecedented. My capacity is restricted to the quintessential.
      I’m using the best, I’m using the rest since the beginning of my rock’n’roll suicide. Nothing’s gonna 
      change my world.
Q.: Could you at least elaborate a wee bit about your marriage proposal to a virgin prune? The global
       takeover of the mutant class under the novus ordo seclorum of The Party you are most indiscreetly 
       publicizing on your photocopies. Whom are you eventually targeting to recruit by these rebellious
       manifestos of the inverted Pentagram? 
A.: My impression is that the coming race is here. I call them the U.R. They exist. Just don’t know what
       they are yet. I am instigating RaceRiot ever since incorporated. The Ten Commandos aren’t just a 
       fashion statement. They are magic spells of a painless purification. You’ve got to have them always on 
       your mind. They are your supreme being above the polar battlefield. Deliverance is conditioned by
        your everyday behaviour in the deconcentration camp. No external rituals required. They will know 
       you by your soul solely. You may wear different disguises but nothing may stay in the closet. The 
       elitcult of Eden will rejuvenate the aging face of the Earth. 
Q.: You’re telling me. A disqualified bachelor machine with no idea about what women really want. Your 
       exhibitionist maneuvers won’t enchant valiant daughters of sin. You’d better go for a penis enlargement
       if wanna gain some influence.
A.: There is nothing shocking on my ballot. It’s a meter on Calvin Klein’s bed.
Q.: The Atheist Altar is gilded trash by my humble opinion. No width, no depth, just the ugly surface. Yours
       sincerely is the dumbest vampire ever sent.
A.: I don’t know what’s the matter with you tonight. You are distorting my imago with an odious vehemence.
      I am not pessimistic in any aspect. I’m a great admirer of every technology and an ardent transhumanist.
      All I am looking for is a safer way to depart. A nuclear reincarnation.
Q.: “Down with the sickness” is a silly cry to rally against an epidemy. You ought to attack the government 
       response if wanna be a popular champion of the cause. People with AIDS won’t espouse you.
A.: We are openly advocating the human right to die. Calling out all traitors to the settlement. And consider
       vanity the greatest virtue of the homosapien. Does all that not suffice for the credentials of a genuine
       Antichrist?
Q.: Your gratuitous heresy is repugnantly scholastic from a self-anointed nobody. Any edifying it is meant to 
       be for pagan neophytes, it is but a blunt recapitulation of an antediluvian disaster-politics. Fishing for 
       supermen with a poison bait is a vile strategy that’ll only make you banned from the demonstration. 
       You’re digging your own shallow grave the most untowardly. No one will save you from the coyotes.
A.: Just on the contrary, I am pleading for an instant improvement of the human condition. Prevention and
       retribution. Free visa to eternity and controlled procreation, like every sane lad should.


Q.: More often than not I wonder whether you know what you’re daresaying. What’s obvious for your 
      endarkened nonentity is unspeakable horror for humanitarian liberals. No ignorance can overcome the 
       tyranny of gnosis in absence of the law. No telecommunication could alter the character of the beast. 
      There is no progress on the killing field. Can you name why is that?
A.: The process is mishandled by the Elohim’s nonchalance. Their astronomic agenda is an idealistic 
      miscalculation. A total flop of chaos management. Quantitative expansion won’t lead to quality leap. Nor
      will wild mutations restore moral supremacy. Science may be greater than the church but all it can vouch 
      for is a more spectacular end. There ain’t no future without a complete overhaul. A sisterhood of men.
Q.: Aren’t you the least diplomatic animal of the farm? To know you is to hate you. And that’s from witch
       to bitch with no exception in-between. For this crucial moment of our time, I am your only follower.
      A dog you’re keeping on a leash. An archetype of nothing.
A.: Since Pater Noster disowned us, it is our god-forsaken challenge to do forever away with mythomaniac
       determinism. Humanity’s inbreed fascination with horror is prime evidence for the perversion of the
       immortal genius. The Adversary is a formidable tempter. Sol Invictus scorches the sand but the infraction
       of beauties is coming from the black heat. The more you want the gold the downer you must descend for 
       it. In New Jerusalem explorers take the precedence. 
Q.: It’s strange to hear that from someone who’s pathologically frightened from any action. Adventure is next
       to torture on your dilapidated mind. Visibility is your real prison, that’s what you’re hiding from. You
       prefer to linger as a frustrated hermit envious of everybody out there. Not the triumph of the wish as you 
      promised to me just eight years ago. From fake Russian agent into a global recluse the transition went.
      That’s no home on the range. The man who couldn’t buy a vote. 
A.: That’s enough, Gina! You trivialize everything. It is none of my pleasures to be cast out of the process.
       Rejected by both sides I’m wonted to unify. I am a self-made antecessor of the final man. The first 
       overnational socialist. Bound by many spells but purged of tongue and bloodline. I’ve changed my genes, 
       killed my ego. Did everything I supposed to be told. I’m a black star in their hall of shame. Fully identical
       with the neverlasting Nonad.


Q.: You’d better stop lamenting and act up as an ordinary citizen. You very well know that this is our last
       card. The Iceland Rally. There won’t be another summer like this. It is now or never. Same as it ever was.
      You must take a high jump and drop in the system no matter how awkwardly. That you have no guts is no 
       excuse to abstain. The Judges won’t be affected by your lonely teardrops. You’ll be sentenced to another 
       life if failed to beat this rap. Maybe an elephant.
A.:  The Socialist Kingdom is based upon a proscriptive genealogy. It combines Wilhelm Reich with Alfred 
       Rosenberg. My two favorite martyrs.
Q.: Your infantile cynicism would only make blue blood boil. If you want her hand you have to seduce the 
       Bride and that’s the last thing you would whack. You sooner slap her face if doesn’t understand. What 
        slut would fall for such an ungentle man? Your membership will never extend your four loyal 
        compatriots who don’t care what you mean.
A.: I’m not a renaissance man, honey. Have no faculty whatsoever.  Only good for a slogan or two. Save Sex
       and Kill The Crime is all I can repeat. The Altar is consecrated to the ultimate sacrifice.
Q.: Any sly you try it, you hardly are a propitious pretender of the empty throne, son of None. No hope for the
       hopeless - that’s your entire testimony in one sequitur. Such a messenger should be shot.
A.: You’re a great negotiator but dearly misinterpret my paradigm. Rejection itself is the hope factor. The 
       evergreen conditional tense. The more radical, the less impossible by all sacred logistics. You must say 
       yes to another excess.
Q.: I can’t fully agree with your positivism either. The cosmic bargain looks like a very dirty business to me. 
      We the people are a lost sheep rounded up by sleuths. Whilst the shepherds are sleeping in the shade…
A.: How can you say that? Everybody’s more creative than ever. And steeply growing in number. All they 
       are missing is an identity. We have to come up with a uniform before September.
Q.: Every generation believes to be the last. It’s the innate ambition of the mortal youth eager to feel 
       important and dangerous. Whether you’re right or wrong only time will tell.
A.: Time won’t tell anything any more, I’m afraid. Time is dead. Everything depends on what we’re gonna 
       do. It is a kind of freedom man hadn’t had before. To screw it up would be fatal. We need divine terror
       and moral dictatorship. Those who don’t remember the past are condemned to repeat it. 
Q.: Beware of whom you quote. You’ll be put on the FBI’s watch list before anyone would join the uprising.
      You’re a born anarchist yearning for order. A split personality. An asocial warrior against the democratic 
       republic. A threat to the imperialist capital. You have to lighten up your rhetoric if wanna avenge the 
       murder of the Rose. Only humor can authenticate the wrath of the lamb. 
A.: This pastoral tryptichon is my song of songs. Open for every style and arrangement. It is a maquette of 
       The City. I’ve got nothing to reveal or presage. No code, no cypher. Plain as English. Intelligence works.