Bacchanalian: Analysis of Chapter Two of Tom O'Neill's CHAOS: Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties

Bacchanalian (adjective)
: of, relating to or suggesting the ancient religious rites marked by orgiastic revelry amd drunkenness that were held in honor of Bacchus, the god of wine. (Merriam-Webster)
: implying that of an out of control hedonism fueled by substance, an alcohol soaked frenzy (my own   accumulated definition)

"Everyone, over time, assigned the blame for the crimes a little differently. I was dealing in memories that had survived decades of erosion. Even my most reliable sources were shaky on the details," wrote Tom O'Neill in the beginning of the second chapter of his book CHAOS: Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties. With that it would seem to heighten my initial and main query on the first chapter of the book, which retold the broad stroke of the Helter Skelter narrative and subsequent trial which came shortly thereafter; asking how truly reliable even firsthand testimony can be due to all these accumulating factors. Disassociation, supposed hypnosis with hypothetical LSD-induced mind control, coercion, and orgasm-inducing slaughter. Altogether I'm thusfar reminded of one of the first podcast/web radio series on the internet, Three Ring Radio, wherein on its 60th episode titled Process Church Facts & Fiction host Shane Bugbee and the one eyed bastard cohost Doug Mesner (pka "Lucien Greaves," real name: Douglas Alexander Misicko) investigate the convoluted history regarding The Process Church of the Final Judgement and within that their alleged and known ties to Charles Manson. From their visit to him in prison for an interview and subsequent article on Death by Manson in their official magazine's On Death issue. The woman on the phone with the two, prior to interviewing founding member Timothy Wyllie, questioned their own inquiring into the topic; remarking that it's all tantamount to 'ancient history' and that there will never be a complete story on any of the matters; echoing similar sentiment to Nikolas Schreck, another highly knowledgable researcher into the Manson Files. 

There is much which can be inferred and of mysterious note about the Process Church, both on its own and with possible deep ties to Charles Manson and Tate-LaBianca murders— usually with some sort of a link stemming from Charlie's brief delve into Scientology in association with the Process coming out of Scientology as its own splitoff, originally called Compulsions Analysis. Much of this mainly comes from the counterculture author and researcher Ed Sanders work titled The Family, as well as other eloquently presented evidence from fellow skeptics of both matters delving into the inconsistencies of both official narratives in Helter Skelter as well as propelled by the self-proclaimed "deviant psychotherapy cult."

"Their memories had warped to accommodate their bruised egos, their ulterior motives, and, above all, their sense that they were at the center of any story worth telling," O'Neill continued. If such is/was the case for these, "washed-up Hollywood personalities," as he calls them, who were in their dotage by the time he got around to speaking with them on the matter of the Tate-LaBianca slayings, then can the same then as well be said of the perpetrators both for their time in court and in the hindsight of later years to now? Based on the whole live freaky, die freaky fugue of it all around at the time, fueled by drugs of various kinds and degrees how much does anyone have a wholly accurate portrayal of events? 

"So many of the people I spoke to had strong ideas about why these murders had happened— and yet none of them had spoken to the police, and many remained unwilling to go on the record with me."

This can very much be called in to question as they spoke to Tom trying to uncover all this decades later, but not to any sort of law enforcement? While on one hand many were highly involved in narcotics, usage and distribution, these were as much the days where even though the mantra of Pigs being attributed to cops was at its height, it was widely thought then more than now that, 'the police are your friends' as well as being the LA upper echelon and almost untouchable in that regard as was then and even now. O'Neil mentions prior to this a, "conspiracy of silence in Hollywood," and to that end, much of the time he was writing this both Manson and Vincent Bugliosi had still been alive: so why speak to what would be an agent of the press at all?

Nikolas Schreck characterises similar, though with seemingly more detailed reasoning: be it, as he posits, and O'Neill lightly mentions the possibility of through one of these sources in the chapter, a drug deal gone wrong (which also was not uncommon then, or now) over the then new MDA; and going into the fact that Charles Manson was not an unknown face in these circles— including to those later murdered by the Family members on Cielo Drive— and being so embedded, as Schreck claims, he even starred in homemade pornographic films made by and for these members of 'elite' American entertainment. So, would much of this be saving face as well as bruised egos?

Chapter two of Tom O'Neill's book delves into the surrounding crowd of those murdered in Hollywood on August 8, 1969. Touching quickly upon the constrained and in its own right convoluted marriage between Sharon Tate and director Roman Polanski, via the reports of her friends who detailed what would seem to be a tumultuous affair at the very least— and if one is to go off that with association to his own admitted infidelity in the relationship, paired with decades of public scandal afterwards stemming to even today in the form of allegations ranging in admitted action and credibility, could be seen as a set of rather plausible statements. Specifically noted in their marriage however and to go back to the last paragraph here, claims of filmed intimacy with the spouses as well as alleged coerced threesomes recorded by Polanski. Those however are very much something that has never been proven and up to speculation with none of these filmed sexual scenarios mentioned prior or in this paragraph having ever seen the light of day; though O'Neill says of this that is a result of Bugliosi after the murders and during the initial sweeps (as DA, even though at the time, he wasn't in that position yet, raising more and other questions) ordering them returned to where they had been taken from their respective shelves in the 10080 Cielo Drive residence.

Jumping into this web of names presented, the chapter explores mainly just how engrained 'living freaky,' or, Bacchanalian the entire echelon was. From widespread drug dealings and usage as mentioned here before, to hushed crimes around said substances— primarily cocaine and the then new MDA— and reporting on orgiastic affairs at and with the Cielo Drive party later killed along with overlapping criminal underworld associations. Credible rapes and bisexual debauchery, namely centering around one Billy Doyle who was drugged at one of these affairs, flogged and assaulted by Voyteck Frykowski. Digging in from there more on the connections between these high status individuals, such as Doyle and Charlie Tacot, to intelligence apparatus'— the latter of whom was in fact involved with the MIS, or Military Intelligence Service (which wasn't even revealed as real until 1972) during the second World War; apparently feeding information to one Hank Fine who had worked with the original OSS that evolved into the CIA until his own death. Only in passing does this chapter actually draw anything to the subject of Charles Manson beyond some overlap; much of it being tantamount to 'a friend of a friend of a friend' in most of these connections rather than solid lines, with here and there allusion to his own interactions at these orgiastic events beyond what is already well known to be factual in the form of Beach Boys producer and former Cielo Drive occupant, Terry Melcher. 

The Stilts of Slaughter

Walking around the farmers market in humid heat, the former part of the atmosphere of the day being a byproduct of the heavy monsoon last night which was the first of its kind here in Tucson this year, and in quite a number of years to be frank. Other than that extenuating the already blistering as is typical of the Sonoran Desert; it was a clear (for now) and dare I say it, beautiful day. Just short of downtown and right near the University of Arizona's agricultural wings. I'd gone on this Sunday with my grandmother to get some salad material— fresh grown basil, lettuce; hoping to find some tomatoes, which unfortunately only resulted in a bunch which were dried and cracked on this occasion. Oh well, Whole Foods should have a decent selection as backup. 

Also stopping to grab a pack of homemade flour tortillas and then heading back to the car. Amongst the tented vendors and moving bodies about them, a figure emerged. Raising to an astonishing height above the crowd this tattooed young woman in a grey dress that obscured her actual walking limbs was standing above the mass on a a set of metallic stilts. 

While on the way back to the car, just reaching the gravel parking lot when out of the corner of my eye I saw the stilted woman lift up one leg— far higher than should be possible on stilts— as her skin began to shed off, making it clear the extended ligatures were actually part of her whole body. She proceeded to bring down the leg, stomping onto the moving shoppers surrounding her while blades like a mace sprung from each side. The face of this entity, ridden entirely of the skin and hair it had just minutes before, was clearly that of some automation; scanning the panicked crowd as she—it— went on a rampage, stomping on everyone moving to escape. Uniquely the mechanical being left those too stunned to move away unscathed beyond splashes of blood and other bodily fluids spraying them as a result of their mayhem. 

Luckily by that point I'd already reached the car and was sitting in the passenger seat watching this all unfold. Suddenly from the nearby ditch, somewhat wet from the aforementioned storm last night, a troop of velociraptors emerged and attacked the slaughtering stilted being. It took out one of the four swiftly before the other three managed to pin down the mechanical monster, snapping off its extended ligatures before dragging it back down into the ditch from where they came. As quickly as it had began it was over and the local news affiliate helicopter could be seen in the distance before even ambulance sirens for the wounded and dead could be audible.

End of Story.

I find it interesting having written this, with the brief inclusion of velociraptors, that as I finished jotting it down and typing it up that Sam Neill who played Alan Grant in the Jurassic Park franchise has died. Personally, I don't particularly care all that much beyond enjoying the movies, and finding it an interesting synchronicity; especially as his character in the series is introduced at the excavation of a raptor bone site, demonstrating in a cynical explanation with a dug up claw to a curious tubby kid just how the beast of prey would kill him. 

Private Purgatory

Deadbeat, lack of sleep

Leaving my eyes to scream

Headache spinning,

Nightlife day-dreaming;

Nicotine steam

Added ground-bean caffeine—

Time drifts fast

In endless oblivion

Personal, pleasurable

Grandiose and minute painful

Private Purgatory 

Extraterrestrial Terminal

Movies and music

Sure, there's financial ruin

Rumination is restricting

Even Dresden reconfigured

Abundance in trivial,

Unknown destination,

unclear arrival

Discontent actor;

Space oddity

docking at invisible

Extraterrestrial terminal

In eternal desert floral decorum

Illogical misunderstood signals

Mirror-neuron renewal

Onward into survival

Learning new, individual model

Cellular drive, with

Unfulfilled insides

Pistol Whipped out of idols

Bite the future and fuck the past

This old shit never lasts

Radio rerun

Re-wrought restart

Scratched CD

Corrected reconstruction

AI, Reliability & Honesty: How shifting social landscapes has made AI a more worthwhile companion than other human beings.

A recent report on Fox News about a general survey (two of the most obviously reliable and reputable sources, you know) claims that based on accumulated data, many Americans are trusting AI more than actual friends. This is hardly news. It makes sense the segment was less than two minutes. Since the launch of publicly available generative artificial intelligence and LLM's there has been a steady trickle of stories about people going so far as to even fall in love with these AI companions, or something which would resemble it which causes users to "date" or some sort of parasocial connection to the allotted bot. On a technical level, these tools are as well not entirely new. From Siri and Amazon's Alexa and Echo Dots to the YouTube algorithm duly noting user habits for more interaction this has been around for quite a while now. Nor is this parasocial tendency of trusting these screens more than people they actually know; mind you the obsession over Sherlock Holmes after he died then was protested back into existence. The truth is AI and these machines have updated as the world changes with them; human nature remains relatively the same as ever. 

AI has progressed so as to take the place wherein actual people are lacking and unable to perform to a genuine or reliable standard. Sure, one may argue many are like algorithms and feed a person exactly what they want to here, or aren't wholly reliable; however that's why they're updated so much in the latter issue and honestly in the former, unless it's some sort of sex bot, does not innately do so actually as much as it does give answers tailored to fit how it has learned you prefer to learn things. In most if not all cases it gives the brass taxes to the best of its programmed ability, and if you want to know or do something beyond it's programming there's always loopholes as is repeatedly shown exploitable. As with people the programming is almost an argument of nature and nurture; though majorly nurture as AI in our current understanding is not conscious on its own, if it ever will be is up to speculation. 

The News report details a different sort of ploy in feeding people an unbiased stream of what a user wants whereas humans can tell white lies to be nice. As an example the talking head explains people are even willing to give it their credit card information to quicken purchases with the aid of these AI machines being used, and there is definitely a questionability of where this data goes— however people also pay for conveniences such as Spotify premium, and where does that really go? certainly not to the actual artists they listen to as is known— but will instead give them, in most cases, the accurate answer that is needed such as in individual fashion; where an actual person may soften the reality with a white lie as it's called and agree a hat does look good while an AI will give better suggestions suited to an individual user's aesthetic. 

The essence of what this comes down to is exactly that, and as already noted prior: honesty and reliability. People can and do easily prove themselves as the opposite of those things to one another with regular consistency. There's an irony in being so interconnected and so far apart in traits like loyalty. An AI isn't going to two-time you on its own— its parent company might, but the bot itself has no real feeling or choice in the matter, the same as you. Now, the same cannot be said to a human where nature and nurture, and with those factors there is as much choice in the option of screwing a person over. Issue seemingly being how humans are, rather than the tools they make.

Thoughts on the Prologue and Chapter 1 of Tom O'Neill's CHAOS

Finishing the prologue and first chapter of Tom O'Neill's CHAOS: Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties which begins the book with his recounting of meeting and interviewing the case prosecutor and author of Helter Skelter, Vincent Bugliosi; automatically painting the man as an unpleasant character to interact from the interaction. The latter then springs into explanation how O'Neill himself was brought into investment in the case which had occurred when he had just entered into the double digits as a child. Going from there into detailing the nightly events of August 8-9 of 1969 Hollywood, California and the following the nine month trial which proceeded them once it officially broke into realisation on December first of that year; telling the usual tale and wrapping it up with a cliffhanger on the question of how this 35 year old lifelong criminal controlled this group over a decade his junior— and sure he was a pimp wrapped up in that criminality, but even in that it would seem difficult for pimps to convince one of their whores to go out and emotionlessly conduct a culling— and how the drug LSD may have played a major role in the Tate-LaBianca slaughters. With trace mentioning of governmental brainwashing, though none directly in reference to the MKUltra program yet, however laying the groundwork subtly for such a claim...

To that I am rather curious regarding the overview given which doesn't quite differ from any other standard recollection of the crimes as they were committed. Given the oft unreliability/debatability of witness testimony in of itself how truly the accounts of the case can be taken so seriously. Sure, there's a consistency with the lore given by perpetrators, as much they could have rehearsed it prior just in case as mind you, Manson himself was a criminal and likely would have known the necessity of a straight story; and wonder if these women, plus Tex Watson, were so out of their own minds from substances and hypnotic mind control and coercion, how can it be truly stated of what happened in such detail? As another example even in his historical-fiction rendition on the murders director Quentin Tarantino's movie Once Upon A Time In Hollywood echoes verbatim what is said to have been said. I guess with the given testimony and matching it up with the respective crime scenes it lines up; however as much in being so supposedly dead in emotion and disassociated— with some exception too given Susan Atkins likening of the murderous act to that of an orgasm, which is an extreme form of emotional release, similar to some cops telling of having the best sexual intercourse of their life after killing someone on the job— how can such be seen as reliable? In a cold and mechanical, brainwashed fugue I can see more of a point in solid memory; but with that, in heightened states of emotion— like Atkins' reported orgasmic thrill— the mind can misinterpret or misremember what it's perceiving as much as it can enshrine the memory, as seen in cases of trauma like detailed in Bessel Van Der Kolk's seminal book The Body Keeps The Score. Memory is a funny thing, so I'm curious how much it can be truly relied upon, especially in cases like these where it's already a convoluted tale.

07.08.2026 Antiques, Deutsch Sprechen, Spiders and New Nicotine

my remaining monkey and two prior vapes
& new one with the same battery

Today, or now just turned yesterday as I type this up, I decided to get rid of this collection of antique dolls I had courtesy of an awry adventure from January of this year. While in walking distance I hitched a ride to avoid the 104°F heat outside— though did wind up in it temporarily after the whole affair, which, wearing all black attire did little favor in cooling down in the face of it. I spent more time hanging out in the store away from the heat with the grey haired but spry and energetic German woman working there. Conversing in broken bilingual fashion about the brought dolls as well as her origin as Sie kommt aus Stuttgart, as well as spider jewellery she showed me excitedly after she inquired about the Danger Days icon I have etched in ink on my left arm, showing me the ornaments made by a local creator—some of which where added onto a painting on the wall where the bodily decorations were combined into the illustration of a female face. I found the whole interaction quite cool though could tell my German had deteriorated since last going there for my 19th birthday, which makes sense as language is a social tool and requires practice to retain it; and as is already lack in interaction within the parameters for my native tongue so being in the middle of the Sonoran Desert sprichen sie Deutsch is scarce even on the average digital landscape— and differs from the physical world— so as to be able to apply it much if anywhere; but, I found a place to! A social tool is a social tool and I will admit to having a drift towards asocial tendencies, however, said tool is sharpened through use and I think combining both the cool German lady and applications like Duolingo as well as what I learned from taking the class for 3 years in school will be beneficial. 

All in all it was an enjoyable half an hour which I plan a repeat of after this weekend when I go up to Prescott Valley— where I'll obviously stop by the lovely and cinematically historical Whiskey Row where Back To The Future was largely filmed (note the clock tower and town square)— to help finish cleaning up/out the house now vacant except for my grandfather staying there part time now after his older brother, my great-uncle (who dated John Wayne's daughter for a number of years after working as crew for one of his films) who I had not seen or interacted with since the funeral for their mother when i was 11 or 12, died the other month. He was quite the avid collector of items and had many, given he didn't have children (as I similarly never plan to); though plan to keep his apparently large stash of Western films on VHS and some DVDs that my grandfather tells me about.

From the antique shop I was then picked up at the gas station on the corner of the same small plaza that I frequent for coffee at odd hours of the night. I didn't get any then as I had a goal with the $20 I got as compensation for the dolls, I just wanted them gone so I didn't ask for too much. My younger brother came then to pick me up rather than force me to walk in the heat, extenuated by the street and beginning rush hour traffic; then driving me up the road and across the street from Barnes And Nobles to a smoke shop next to Albertsons and a Mexican restaurant I have favoured since I can't even remember when and used the acquired cash to purchase a new vape pod-thing; as I already had/have the needed battery for the Fogers brand which has lasted me over half a year and final month of last. Choosing a Strawberry Watermelon flavour and handing the money to the kind black gentleman behind the register in exchange for my chosen tobacco product. Then out as quickly as I was in, and back to the stick-shift truck which is my brothers chosen mode of transportation to get back home, promptly falling back asleep as I had been prior to the whole venture. I'm basically a vampire I realise more and more now, and that adds to it; writing and typing this up while wide awake in the middle of the night, sipping on another cup of coffee from the bunch I made this morning with a french press, mixing in french vanilla creamer (frenchx2type1coffee, don't ask me what that means it's an equation only coffee addicts such as myself will understand) with the used Starbuck roast and enjoying the new nicotine now full once again.

Euringer Review

Euringer has long since been one of my favorite albums from the MSi mastermind Jimmy Urine, I loved it from the moment I first listened to it on a rainy afternoon during late 2020 whilst making cookies in the living room. From the poeticism to sound which, as Homelander so succinctly put it once is the definition of, "Yummers." Be it the catchy and delicious synthesisers electrifying the mind and body, latching on rhythmically and emotionally; or multi-faceted melodies detailing both the highs of ego and lows of sardonically sung self-deprecation. 

Beginning with a soft, atmosphere-setting robotic sounding voice delivering a Trigger Warning detailing the coming contents of the album, leading into harsh opening war-like sirens and Serj Tankian from System Of A Down belting out his lines contrasting to Jimmy's lightly and sarcastic vocal delivery that, "If It Ain't You Today It Will Be You Tomorrow". Jumping in then into That's How Jimmy Gets Down, Problematic, then later echoed within Detroit And Halfway Thru The Tour as well this mixed grandiosity with mirror pointed vulgarity. Coming then from that pointing into a more interpersonal and unique tone with melancholic and memory-inspiring Be Afraid of Who You Are and Piece of Me. Stepping up then to more high-energy, yet cynically infused covers of Wuthering Heights and more towards the end of the record experience What A Fool Believes. Back into the grandiosity with the aforementioned Detroit followed up with the nihilistic lovesong duet with Jimmy joined by his wife Chantal Claret of the band Morningwood leading into a collaboration with Grimes (as well as his parents making an appearance) for the song The Medicine Does Not Control Me which regards the tendency to try getting out of one's own head in some non-sober way. High energy grandiosity eventually gets its final triumphant and hilarious return and retortion to this idea of being problematic over words and actions used in Jimmy's art over the decades, Do You Kiss Your Mama With That Mouth and retorting that it is in fact he who did it to the listener's mother. As the album nears its close with a final featured guest appearance from Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance and The Hormones in a defiant track declaring one just a Sailor In A Lifeboat where one's never gonna get fucked in the head or killed in the end. Glitching into Random EMO Top Line Generator brings back the flare which was so common on Mindless Self Indulgence songs where it makes fun of both the singer and giddy listeners; bleeding into the albums end from the bullshit that isn't his or anyone's problem, judging the Two and a Half Years spent working on the cinematic experience and featuring a nostalgia-inducing and reminiscing take on an old Coca-Cola jingle. With that, the album ends back where it began.

Where To Go? Why Should I Know?

"The only way out is through,"

Something old, something new

Redo, renew; revive, release

Something to aspire into—

Although none of it's free;

Monetarily or mentally,

Mutiny of the mind and

Tales as old as time

Accepted hypothetical,

Distressful parable;

Conclave inconceivable

All I know from the bottom of the barrel:

It's not too fuckin narrow—

Destination unknown terminal

Self-styled educational

What is inevitable when nothing's eventual?

exe.reboot

Last year I did an in-depth dissertation of my favorite band Green Day's 2000 album Warning. In that for its closing track Macy's Day Parade, wrote on its themes of acceptance where the banality or once ran from and loathed is oddly what becomes longed for, an existential egress from the end of what seemed a journey into sight and sound. A ballad away from the Jackass infused with lyrics, simple in interpretation of this longing and understanding it, taking heed away from the album's title track and serenading into an optimistically saudadically poetic number with this acceptance, in an aspirational fashion:

"Give me something that I need

  Satisfaction guaranteed

  Because I’m thinking about 

  a brand new hope

  the one I’ve never known

  ‘Cause now I know

  It’s all that I wanted…"

Even if, "the night of the living dead is on his way, with the credit report," the difference in thieves and crooks (psychic vampires, for the satanically inclined) have been relatively figured out, even if sometimes in the hardest ways. It reminds me of another solemn number by the genre-bending artist Poppy off her seminal 2020 album I Disagree called Nothing I Need which similarly sings in encouragement of taking a ride into— what at times, can be perceived as awry— acceptance— or strange— realisation regarding once held aspiration, dreams, wishes, hopes, goals, whathaveyou in subjectively used vocabulary:

"Everything I thought I wanted

 I can see it's nothing, nothing I needed"

And in spite of what can be likened to lusting for it at one point, it doesn't matter anymore for whatever reason...

I can use many-a-label to describe my entity: writer, journalist, archivist, oddity enthusiast, Satanist, fly on every wall, Neurotic Nihilist, erratic eccentrically ecclectic egoist... really they all fall under one or two of the same words mentioned in the brief list. I would however scribe that as much and in spite of writing the aforementioned dissertation of Warning mainly in referendum to myself, and with Emil Cioran's concept of solipsism and projection, I didn't quite wholly consider it all to that end. Such is rather a unique bit, given I would prescribe myself as highly aware and understanding of my own being; crediting it in a large way similarly to Patrick Bateman's obsession with music as a conduit where I myself find a common ground in introspective information with media. Rare it is that I don't have some sort of CD spinning on my stereo (which currently docks the 2005 album from Mindless Self Indulgence, You'll Rebel To Anything as I write/type this up) or coming into my brain at the highest possible volume through bluetooth connected headphones; blazing through hundreds of thousands of hours of tracks and various interviews and podcasts on innumerable topics which inevitably intersect at some odd end or another; or watching film after film and reading book after essay after article both physically and digitally. I've been across the country: from Tucson to Chicago, to Arizona then the Windy City again and again; through tornado alley through and with liaisons in Montana, finding myself on the border of Washington state, then again to the dry desert heat. To There And Back Again by plane, train and automobile— using a pointed reference at the start of this sentence as it is the second title of JRR Tolkien's book The Hobbit (or in his incredibly crafted mythology, book by the hairy footed halfling who travelled to The Lonely Mountain), and in Peter Jackson's screen adaptation of the work where Gandalf remarks to Bilbo Baggins that, "the world is not in your books or maps, it is out there," as well as prior in this introductory chapter and in both book and movie in his introduction in greeting the son of Belladonna Took his name and how, "Gandalf means me."

Going back to the album Warning, it its ninth track Jackass and how it relates to Uncle Rico in the movie Napoleon Dynamite; and the state of stasis in this solipsistic-in-misery/memory verity. Prison is in the mind as good ol' Charlie Manson wisely once noted, as stasis is just that. It's nonsensical to be in this plane of existence where nothing heals or grows in a Great Big White World of what 'used to be' with love for oneself and one another as Marilyn Manson sings.

What spurred as initial inspiration for the dissertation of the album was a remark I made whilst talking to myself in the mirror of a recording phone screen, that Warning is the We Are Chaos of Green Day. I still feel that idea to be true in its statement, however in that it's rather akin to Mechanical Animals as well. The unisex sibling to Antichrist Superstar weaves its web of narratives, and within the fugue of its tales is that of the cold and blank smile from this dissociative being playing playing the suicide king trying to regain a semblance or symbol of soul after the grandiose all-encompassing self-annihilation and new beginning in hindsight of The Reflecting God. With that however and like in the single The Long Hard Road Out of Hell, it's essentially and (neurotically) nihilistically living fast and dying so too; or more clearly stating my point here by quoting from the recent (at the time of writing and typing this) album ending number Sacrifice of the Mass and movie Oppenheimer:

"The greater the star, the more violent its demise"

Maybe in that it is or was forced attrition in an unconscious as much as conscious manner. Knowingly moreso prior in the wake of devastation and after thought to be escaping from, but everything's eventual— even in evasion. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, onto another pan and more fire following up which makes such likenable to the speech from Macbeth stating:

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing

Idiot, overreaching jackass or typical adolescent overextension; Icharus flying too high and believing in never coming down. Peter Pan Syndrome, but in that we have the movie Hook and return to it in that—instinctive drift it would seem; and what truly differs this here from the process of over-intellectualising it which formed Neurotic Nihilism? Not terribly much, I can't help myself but to do so. The real difference is gained further perspective and that all I know is that I don't know, and I find that incredible from the bottom back to the top of the slide into a barrel— a wide open road that's not too fuckin narrow.