A final attempt to get my braincrush on Ligotti out of my system

Because when your influences show, it’s worse than showing your panties.

Did it never occur to you
people that this place may be too awful to be random? A mean retarded Maker
gloats over your strange seductive minds, these bitter conscious soap bubbles
he’s trapped in his weak meat soup. Why would the godshead sentence itself to
so many centuries of such bad gruel? Is this joke so funny it’s worth the taste
of raw blood forever? How bitter to be the ultimate butt—a “person”—to
ride, awake, within the gross blood pudding, wishing only to be immortal—and
yet you cry to see God grin and drool as he gorges your flesh down, idiocy
omnipotent. So pleased to have made a walking joke that never stops begging for
mercy! How nightmarish, to always know he will have the last bite. Do I want
morphine when I die? Which is worse? To be awake to feel this obscene bully
tear the last of you from your shell, or to be spared the last of your
memories? What’s the worth of a memory that can only be held for never? For
whose benefit would you savor that last beautiful sunset drenched in pain? The
moment it happens, the personality stew you’re so disgustingly proud of is

Or perhaps there is no god. Perhaps,
as is possible with all questions, there is no answer. But doesn’t it all seem
too elaborately perverse to be an accident? Perhaps the best comfort is to
think that we really are in hell and we truly enjoyed our mortal sins in a
former life. I hope they were more delicious than we here can imagine.


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