SOCIAL THEORY 2

He was love. He knew this was the cursed program for his multitude of footsteps. He would add
love to the photos he saw…he would add expectation to the phone calls that he got. He would
see aesthetics and pleasure in the food they would find…might find. He would see beauty in his
demise perhaps with metal exploding though his body or the coughing up of the last grasp and
avoiding the panic that he hadn’t done all that there is to do. Hell is a type of frustration but it
is the only recipe for paradise. The sliver of moments can only emerge through the monad of
entropy. Collapse. And then witness. His father? Where? He looked at the women…their
father? Where? They were two women clearly off a pedestal and preconception. They walked
and moved. Fast. He could barely keep up with the rest because eye needed to feel the sun…to
hold the camera before him since he lacked a mirror…to wonder if and when the beta male
would throw a bomb and the next society if it were tranquil and unjust.
His own death was that thing that awoke him with a love of inventory every morning. Inventory.
Most of the things to do in a hell where a type of witnessing for the next generation and a hope
that somebody would see the bottle without the bomb attached. If Freud wanted to fix the bald
deficient patriarchy with a splint Reich wanted to avoid the wound all together.