Do they express the violence of their owners; do they long for the appropriation starved of their wand'ring fathers; do their overfull bellies store anguish, and rot—all in compensation? Is our inheritance infinite—must we die to its negation—are we nothing but spiritual saters, satiators; are we simple satan longing, hunger for heaven? "Was he not born to destroy the world?" Yes—to digest, to shit out, to analyze; and when none is left to eat we will eat our sin. Sow self to ground—sod of Sodom, bear an uneaten fruit; we are the same in life, seeking death having been born to unholy Time. Seek, sacred bastard child, bear unholiest seed—speed in the only direction you know, outward like the Sufis, centrifugal from center; "Unto us a child is born"—come Eschaton, come Christ.