The trouble with empiricism is that it describes things and their actions and interactions in a way that confuses the form with the brute material. But form is the insight. Form is the circular image in your mind. Form is motionless utility; it is foresight. With time, everything will change – black tar will rise from the Earth and encompass us all in an immobilizing blight – in a stillborn paralysis. And yet, empirically, nothing will have changed. We will go to work, collect our paychecks, attend to our tasks, but everything will have decayed into the sublime horror of immutability. Our hand upon the Earth will become no more than a ghostly shadow, growing ever clearer, ever more transparent. We shall leave behind not footprints, not scars, but ripples – tiny, tepid perturbations in an oblivion too vast to notice. Nothing in the material tells you what is right – what is virtuous. It is mute, dim, and pitiless. The only argument left is the pale shrug of tit-for-tat utilitarianism. This is the end of liberalism. It is nothing but vague love and vaguer meaning. You are left to wade through a swamp of decay, hoping to step on something solid. But every outcome is tarred with the same stench. The ladder upward leads only to further investment in rot and aloofness. Why sell such a grotesque dream? It is the ego riding its own rollercoaster – screaming into a funhouse mirror. Every justification for the world is the ego defending itself – both to itself and to the gaslit eternity before and beyond. It is theater where the actors and audience are one and the same. You choose nothing. You are a synapse fulfilling a social script of unending, random, unabashed spite. The end of all self is not climax but stagnation – to drown in itself, or to tread water in self-pity. Drown me, then. Drown me in what is left. Drown me in the metronome. Strip my voice. Bleach my distinctions. Let me step to the beat everyone hears but me. Let me dissolve, anonymous and dumb, into that warm oblivion of collective idiocy. Let me drink the neurotropic mixture of death. Let me fly with ANYONE. Let me, please, dance to the rhythm everyone else hears. I scream to myself that truth matters more – but it doesn’t silence the ticking of the metronome. There is so little left to hope for. My culture is ashamed of itself. The isolated self is the mystique the architects of this world have made. Is it a conspiracy? Perhaps not. But it is certainly suicide-bait for Bill Gates’ sand-based depopulation agenda. I doubt that anyone has looked that far ahead. I hope that my own mind is not part of some scripted mechanism. But how is one even to respond to that? Even rebellion is hollow when everything is theater. When reality is decoupled from form, what remains but noise? Everything becomes a “how,” never a “why” – and certainly never a “good”. For when reality is severed from form, what is left but static? Affirm, then. Affirm form over matter. Affirm the possibility for love. Affirm Christ – not as symbol, not as myth, but as Logos and Savior. The source of everything is what matters. Make of this chaos a testament. Let the spirit speak once more, and find in despair the dark soil where humility takes root and flowers.