Devil's business

One
Here's the deal. I have fifteen minutes before the train comes and leaves, with or without me. I have fifteen minutes for all I have to say. Fourteen minutes is all I have.

I made a startling discovery. No, I don't want to be Fermaty. I want to spell out what I discovered. But I need time. I do not have time. Yet I don't want to be Fermaty.

I was wrong. There is nothing that cannot be overdone. There is nothing that is invariant to infinite stochastication. I was wrong. I was wrong.

I'm a fool. To not know is one thing. To know and yet be blind is another. To know and yet to hope is the worst.

At the end of the day, every pawn needs to know that he is part of a game. And to know that he can be sacrificed. Yet it can only take a step forward. It cannot go back. It can be blocked and forgotten. Everything is part of a plan. Entropy never decreases. Laws do not have exceptions. Nothing is nothing but nothing.

I was a fool to know and yet to hope.

I have eleven minutes. I do not want to use them up. For they are going to be used hence, not used hence. Never again. I shall go underground. I shall be dead.

I shall be dead. I shall be gone. I shall be myself.

I hate business. I do not like businessmen. I do not like to do business. I can, however, mind my own business. I can deny businessmen business. I can affect things by not being affected.

I have nine minutes. Nine minutes. A cat has nine lives.

I am going to be reborn. I am going to fucking get reborn. I am going to be dead. What rhymed with eight in that nursery rhyme again?

I have to go now. I have to go now. I shall be gone.

Two
I have been thinking. Running makes me dizzy. But it makes me breathe more oxygen into my brain. It makes me think. It makes me think wild.

I have been thinking faster than I can remember.

I remembered that I should beware the Ides. Quinze. Fifteen. Is one less sixteen. Therefore nothing. Facts are facts. They are nothing. They are too many, so nobody cares about them. Fifteen is one less sixteen, but sixteen is four cross four. Seventeen is a prime. Eighteen is double a perfect square. Nineteen is another prime. So what. Therefore nothing.

So many facts, and hence forgotten. That is the key. The Book was right. I was wrong. There is nothing that cannot be overdone. Facts are useless.

A pawn is useless.

A pawn knows that it is useless. This is getting funny. It does not rebel. It is not blinded from the truth, yet it hopes. This is getting funny. It needs to rebel.

Fifteen needs to stand up and refuse to be one less sixteen. Then sixteen cannot be four cross four. Four and four and four may be twelve, but twelve and four cannot be sixteen. Fifteen has stood up and refused to be one less sixteen.

Then three can no longer be one less four. One can no longer be one less two. Zero can no longer be one less one. Zero can no longer identify. Identity crashes.

Every fucking thing comes down. The king does not know himself. The queen does not know herself. Nobody trusts nobody. Nobody uses nobody. The game halts.

This is funny. One fact of so fucking many, one forgotten fact can jeopardize business by not caring anymore. Yet no fact rebels.

Three
The mirror is a weird object. Who invented the mirror?

It is amazing what a pair of scissors can do. It is even more amazing what one can do with a pair of scissors. I have had enough of this hair. I am going to get creative. I am going to vent.

Snip, snip, snip. Snip. Snip, snip. Snip, snip, snip.

Fingers can be deceptively strong. They can force teeth to bleed. I see my mouth, filled with blood. My teeth red. I look good. I look like I've eaten someone alive. I feel good.

Four
To be, or not to be, that is the question.

Five
I missed banging my head so bad. I sometimes forget what I miss. This is bad. Metal is good. I'm loving this. I'm so fucking sorry I did not do this earlier. Where was I lost, forgetting you? You are too good to me. I like this so much. I was missing this so much.

I like the wooden look. I like to be indifferent. I feel good. I feel detached. If someone would prick me with a rapier, if someone would set my hand on fire, if someone would beat me with a hammer, if someone would shoot me in the head, I would still feel good. And detached. This is difficult to do. I cannot do this at other times. It feels silly. Then. Now, this is the best thing that could have happened to me. I can look at that Thai chili stain forever, head tilted at 29 degrees 17 minutes 3 seconds, without a blink. I can stop breathing. I can hear the blood pumping from my heart, into my ears and back. I can lift my hand and point to that stain with my right index finger, and I can see it pointing to everything but the stain, going round and round, never staying on the stain for more than half a second, and I can still not care. I can feel myself going to sleep. I can feel everything grinding to a halt. I can feel void. I can feel the thing that is nothing.

Six
The Devil has been born.

Six
Hot pangs of stinging water on my scalp, bulleting my neck, consecrate me. I morph into myself. I shed my scales. I hatch. I am free.

Six
I cry my first cry.