language is a prison

they entombed god in paper, in the books of men who hated the world, hated the dripping honey of the thigh and all shapeless things and who, in exhaustion, netted it all in excessive reason.

man stood before man, divided by a screen of words like frosted glass.

the pedants saw this and adored it, and so they continued to assault the world with their words, mummifying it until words were all that were left, pallid and inadequate, an empty blossom of paper, beneath which persists mute breath and drinks and smoke that shreds this ever-regenerating origami, laughing in the tatters.

Adam Zivo is a conglomerate of anxiety and faux self-abandonment.