"The species has a catadromous life cycle, that is: at different stages of development migrating between inland waterways and the deep ocean ...
Because fishermen never caught anything they recognized as young eels, the life cycle of the eel was a mystery for a very long period of scientific history.
[Aristotle] speculated that they were born of 'earth worms', which he believed were formed of mud, growing from the 'guts of wet soi' rather than through sexual reproduction. Many centuries passed before scientists were able to demonstrate that such spontaneous generation does not occur in nature."
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Spontaneous generation was found unholy the day you were born, when guts of wet soil gave way to scientific fact, because you were delivered by a decaying, unidentifiable form, created to destroy the neo-worlds left with every footfall of the Man, created to embrace loss and rebirth, created to answer every question on earth and take it all to the grave, to wake up knowing naught but serenity in the whole consumption of yourself,
for you were bred to kill all those who fuck the blessed march of Time, slowly and painfully, and watch them crawl out of their own bloodied corpses again and again, so they can forget again, and make the same mistakes until it kills them—never for good, only for 9 months—
and blessed art thou who wields the scythe of time and sees its love (through breathing lungs) and knows its wisdom (through blinking eyes), for thou art the ticking salvation sent from Objectivity, a mechanical, traceable form of rightness desired by human hearts for as long as any living creature can remember; thou art the final word.
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The nursery is a dead cow. Her glass eyes bear more children than her mother ever could. The skin is spotted, whites and blacks becoming reds and yellows throbbing inside her with a warm aliveness. She gives birth everyday, each time easier than the last. She's getting used to her consumption.
The pieces are scattered and few and contradictions in their own right, contradictions that turn left and right down your head until it's nestled safely out of sight and in your mind and wh-
The pieces are few and contrarian, oral fascism that vomits war and eats it again till it's sick, drinks it again till it's sick, shoots it again till it's sick, kills i-
The pieces are lost under river stones and in seasonal lakes that dry slow until it's a prison, a glue trap and you'll never grow into the man you were supposed to be-
The pieces are throbbing and glowing red-
The pieces are cool and wet-
The pieces are immaculate conception in a mud bank, life from a horse's tail one miracle per second till the world's bursting with angels and prices go up 25% since last year ...