Nihilitarianism

Clones crawl out of the ground like moles, their eyes starting like a hare's. The eyes come out and turn out to be robotic celestial spheres that dissolve into the vacuum energy like aspirins. They don't see a thing after all, they're just being seen, by the eyes of the light cone all around them, focusing on them like a laser from infinitely far into the past, with judging eyes, appraising them like bacteria under a microscope. But they keep crawling out of the ground even if their eyes foamed out of their sockets and trickled into the dirt like Neptune's testicles in the sea. But no goddess grows out of their injury, only putrefaction, expanding into a cloud of foam around their shins, slowing them down, crawling up their spine and swallowing them in ignorance. But they crawl onward through the slime, humiliated by the mutation their master imposed on them. Inadequacies so superfluous that they require an aqueduct to be siphoned off, one end into their wide open mouths and the other end in their neighbor's ear, a sewer of recycled filth, from one brain into another, and only becoming more filthy after each chain in the telephone game — but they keep repeating what they're told, jaws and feet marching up and down like an apparatus, swallowing, regurgitating, a skull and bones surrounding a cesspool, just a neat little container of excrement. Not human, not this human filth, let me crawl out of the dirt without melting before the blinding sun.