At Dark, I Become Loathsome

by Eric LaRocca

I’ve never been able to envision myself beyond a certain age—as if I were marked with an invisible expiration date long before old age could claim me; as if I were undeserving of such luxury, such refinement.

The world is nothing more than a carnivorous plant that devours the things that are the softest and most delicate.

You see, when we begin our lives in this world, we begin as creators. We are constantly building. Our lives are spent creating, inventing, designing. I always knew I was building something, starting when I was very little. I only wish I had known it was a grave. My grave.” I soften, realizing exactly what she means.

Christianity has made sycophants of most of us—lobotomized zombies who will suckle at any available teat even if it’s leaking lighter fluid and we’re holding a torch.

It’s exceptionally humorous how Christianity often condemns things that openly embrace the art form of magic, the espousal of the absurd, the advocacy of the farcical, considering how senselessly its sacred literature conveys its alleged truth.

like trying to crawl into one another and make their body your home.