about my body. I had at one time thought that it was because it was such a shabby thing: a dank sort of walking prison that I had to peer out of. But now, as I reflect on the slow restructuring I have gone through in the past few years, I realize that I have in fact been worried because my body has not followed my brain into moral desolation. I have motivated myself to exercise and eat well because I thought it was a march along the road to purity, that I would at the end of it have a clean body that functioned well and was used for happiness. But what I am now is nothing pure, and nothing happy. I am simply not a tool of pleasure, but a tool of pain. I have to have a body that radiates darkness, a body that is capable of destruction and corruption and degradation. I have been anxious because my body is the final part of my transformation into a wholly black and wicked thing, whose creation is mourned by the world by constant degrees for immense and sad aeons.