July 13, 1994 I sit fifteen feet in the air overlooking the maze of conveyor belts which fill the factory floor. It reminds one of a child's train set multiplied to the realm of nightmare. The sound is deafening. Amid this I try to be poet. But all I feel is violence. I have just hung up the phone after speaking to you on my lunch break. Sasha this violence is for you! Sweet as ever. The near perfect mate. Why do I wish to reach through the phone line and strangle you? I see you doing dishes in the kitchen while your mother cleans the counter. Your father watches television and your brother plays basketball in the driveway. If I could find a way to express the emotions you inspire in me it would split the most complex of atoms and sear the fiber of the material world. Your windows would shatter. The trees would bend. Sirens would wail from coat to coast. Your beautiful long black hair would melt into your flesh and the flesh would melt away from the bones which would disintegrate into dust. Burn the sky. Smother all of humanity in atomic ash if that is what it takes to shake you out of your complacency. I want to live now! I want to bite the most exotic fruit, see foreign lands, explore depravity, converse with the most outlandish bohemians and the simplest peasants, and reach new heights which can only be done in union. I am the most selfish man who has ever walked the firmament and what I want is you. And when you speak I want every word to be straight from the lips of God. I want your every breath to be a sigh of desperation. I want to look into your eyes and see the universe in creation at every moment. Shine for me. Radiate life itself. Do it now because each time I think of you every electron in every atom of my body jumps an orbit emitting a particle become a wave lacquered in the sperm which seeds the void and beckons all of existence into bloom. It may look to you like I'm driving a car, reading Kant, walking on my hands as I jump through a hoop to prove my devotion to you, but you are sorely mistaken. Clear the static and you will plainly see that I am trying to conquer the world. And I plan not just to rule the earth but to displace Godhead with my personal consciousness and hold dominion over all space and time. I can see the future and it is coming quickly. You and I both have gray in our hair. You plan a year with your parents before you break out. So be it. Know that every day of that year I will be bored with life. Let the prostitutes grab at my cock as their torsos hang from the window of my moving car. Let the TV's smash out my windshields on Eighth Ave. Put a knife to my neck in the New Orleans projects. Let Nicole change into something more comfortable which is even more revealing than the mini dress as she holds my arm on Monica's couch. Let Robin, Angie, and Krista proclaim that they were always ready. Give me every object of desire on a silver platter and no strings attached. Let meditation expand my internal peace and quiet my chaotic thoughts. Give me it all with streamers and fireworks and I will still be that river turned unto itself which you so eloquently warned of, and don't ask me to be otherwise because I am a man in love. I will wait for the possibility of that union of souls which will breathe life with fire and serenity co-existent and ever enlarging. But for me waiting means anger, laughter, insanity, vanity, insecurities, broken mirrors, swollen phone bills, mother's vacillations, factories, New York squatting, jealousy, lies, sneaking, masturbation, doubt, fidelity, asceticism, dreams of cannibalism, chanting in my car under the full moon to ease my pain, bodies piled on couches at 522 College Ave, and struggles which take the most subtle and deceptive forms. I love your strength. And every day I yearn to destroy it. To run from you. To hurt you. To tell you it's over. I demand to see a crack in your composure. Until you hand me the scepter of your unconditional love I will be at war. Until you submit to our eternal love I will be filled with violence. The violence of the most selfish man who ever lived. The man who wants it all. The man who wants you by his side. 
The Apologia is a part of Caeser Pink's novel The Murder Of The Holly King. To get your copy and read the full story click here 
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