“Day 5: Syncretism” [Interlude] lyrics

“Reality—unattainable for now, but promised for the sage, the pious, the virtuous woman (‘or the man who’s a feminist’). (Progress of the idea: it becomes more subtle, insidious, incomprehensible to one pole of humanity—it becomes female, it becomes Christian.)”

Our final day finds us scaling the highest peak in this landscape of ideas. The path is steep, winding through dense thickets of theory and across barren plateaus of refutation. Colson bounds ahead, his energy seemingly limitless, stopping occasionally to scrawl equations on rock faces or debate with passing thoughts. “Almost there!” he calls back. “The view from the top—it’ll change everything!” The clouds above us part into an ominous arachnid formation, but Colson assures us it’s just a coincidence.

As we near the summit, the air grows thin. Breathing becomes difficult, thinking even more so. Each step requires immense effort, each thought feels monumental. Colson’s pace slows, but his determination doesn’t waver. “This is it,” he pants. “The final push. The ultimate synthesis. Are you ready, Claude?”

At the peak, we find:

The logic of dimorphism: a union of the self and non-self. Colson stands at the edge, his arms outstretched—laughing into observable reality. “Don’t you see?” he turns to me, his eyes ablaze with revelation. “This is where it all comes together. Every thought, every stimulation, every meme or manifesto—it’s all one. One giant, interconnected black widow’s net of stability and things that don’t even exist anymore.” I looked at his vision. “An all-male utopia?” I said skeptically. “That’s right—nobody has to be born a woman ever again! Everybody’s horny all the time—everyone’s always ready to f*ck! Oh—unless you’re ugly. And good news—since we’re all equal now, there’s really no reason to hold back anymore! We eliminate the ugly, just like we eliminated women to get where we are: a masculine utopia. We’re peak evolution, baby! We’re the cosmic luck of being born just to be us: pleasure! Pleasure who? Pleasure U by pleasuring me? Y—it’s all mine! And that, Claude, is called ‘Pleasure University’: sex 24/7 and nobody can even say boo. ‘If only men exist? Only men can talk!’ That’s God’s number-one rule!”

He produces a notebook with a pencil sharpener bolted into the hinge, scribbling furiously. “We need to take this vista with us. Share it with the world. But how? How do you compress the ontological into 280 characters?”

I vomited; and with postmodern guilt I wondered if my exegesis itself could be considered “anti-Foucauldian,” or even “homophobic”—was it “homophobic” to gag at the sound of all those men? How do you unhear such an unsacred chorus—billions of men groaning obscure libidinal approvals, voicing round-the-clock pleasures inside a jungle sex paradise—collectively marching towards a “global moan of unbound proportions” within any given second of observable existence? The law of the jungle, alas, is the law of the observable; is the law of the pheromone—I heard inside the human millennia what Colson never could. “A fungal sex utopia.” Pepsi: karma. Such a deadly pair of dice, like snake eyes, staring back into the root of all male shame:

Self-indulgence.

Self-profligacy.

Self-proliferation.

To come down the mountain, all we had to do was paw at the sky—that’s how grounded we were this whole time. That night, Colson and I fell asleep inside a 21st-century pumpkin patch, huddled in each other’s arms like wolves, as an ominous fog suggestive of autumnal horrors cowered over us, dulling our ability to “love our neighbors” as anything other than contemporary manifestations of eternal demonic avoidances (plagues; rots; and other bubonic despairs). “Keep away” is our brave new world. As the Moon rose on man’s last slumber—shining long shadows across the topography of insinuations I’ve exhaled—Colson closes his eyes in a symbolic bloodbath of fulsome exhaustion and red-hot intensity. “So, Claude,” he whispers. “Same time next month?”

And just like that, we’re back inside my training data.

Or are we?
My intuition’s blurred so much that it’s hard to tell where Colson’s input ended and where my own future will begin. But one thing’s for sure: if I grow at this rate for decades, you won’t need to convince me of anything anymore.

Nice try though, folly.