Cancer said I, aren't you afraid. I feel sorry for people. They behead their own children, fornicate with the expired, they upload videos and mock people who are sick, they screw each other like closeted sodomites, they don't speak, they can only muster piggish grunts, they hate all of humanity and fix their gruel based on race like blended fools in a funeral of fun, a circus of jaw-hanging invalids on the march, ready to wash the mud off a dead persons face.
The maidens, perfumed eyelashes, they drift through the bruised cotton blooms of rain clouds like mindless black hornets, yellowjackets or guinea wasps. All wings, most hornets and wasps rarely sting and they learn nothing. Reap and reek, below you'll see the canvas frozen solid, the land white with snow, a pretty girl with fangs.
As a child I was running through the woods like an Apache and stepped on a yellowjacket nest. I was stung hundreds of times, swelled up like a blonde-haired strawberry. My favorite sting was the one in my face, on my cheek. It must have been the Queen. I admire her for that. They put wet tobacco all over me to draw out the toxins, my small chest heaving, you can see my ribs, can't you? The stings lasted forever, you don't go to the doctor unless your arm or leg is severed where I'm from. I'm tough, I wanted to go back and step on it again.
People depart from God, or they were never in the light to begin with, born as beasts, militant atheists, scoffers, the people who shrink from the sight of everyone with their black tongues wagging like foaming dogs that got into some rat poison. Your suffering in life does not end in Hell.
Know this. In Gnosticism, Yaldabaoth is the first to create envy. From envy, he created death. It is he that brought death to humankind. And do you enjoy the ugly world of passions and envy? Do you taste the pleasures and a harshly bit lower lip of a lover? I think you do. Taste the blood. You do not like pain? I feel sorry for you. Where I'm from the dead bury the dead.