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The city shits corpses
> … what freedoms will ever make up for the existence of this pain anchored in all our bowels, this original sin against ourselves, the clay out of which every single brick in history has been made?
In the beginning was not word but order, for the tree of life preceded that of knowledge; only a fallen age has any need of law. This first order born of primordial debt, a mortgage inevitable. Life that shape which maintains itself against time. Thus we live by toil and exploitation, eating publicly we hide excretion. Here lies the little death by which each day is paid.
The corpse too hidden, here the futility of every little murder that had preserved us. We say these yet somehow worthwhile, all for this or that—none know, of course, nor return that way. Each sees someday what this means. Death is the dissolution of order, at which man returns to sea as the land of life at last erodes entire.
The city shits corpses. These are disposed of carefully, carried away to be buried by sewers made of men or more often incinerated alike with any trash. Man cannot be recycled, though some seek overcome even this inefficiency. Soylent a slop one step removed from handsome solution. Green grass grows with worms below and bodies of long burnt trees. The circle of life continues spinning apace while men cling above.
At bottom, therefore, is a mystification; that order is maintained only by way of violence—blood carries energy and excreta alike. The final form of man is waste.