Time exists only for the oppressed. Whenever we enter paradise, it disappears. I, John the Divine, have witnessed this phenomenon so many, haha, times that I feel almost disgusted talking of it. I have been killed by so many a man, given birth by so many a woman and remember all of them in so many a detail that it has all become a monstrous tattered rug which only the fools could use as a means of transportation; the wise would immediately leave it to a beggar with the shreds of memory attached to it, because the left armpit of Pontius Pilate is still hovering high above, invisible to the naked eye.
I walk an endless road that leads nowhere, I pick spoilt mangoes covered with dust and eat them, I drink from stale ponds deer don’t dare to approach. I can’t write but parrots discuss the typos I haven’t made in the deep of the woods, the leviathan sings the songs I have never composed but no one listens to it down there in the dark. The only one who you might think could, that guy so much bothered by inept prayers, the Wandering Jew who impeccably duped the human race by a fake sacrifice, that treacherous trannie, according to some slim anecdotal evidence, doesn’t give a shit about anything else but punk rock radio stations, whenever in the universe you are lucky to notice him, be it in Moscow, Lima, a Bushman village or the outskirts of a town on the twenty eighth planet circling Betelgeuse.
The sky has been falling on him so many, haha, times under the weight of all those unheard prayers, but he is tuning and tuning in, in love with each and every symptom of anarchy he can get his ears on.
I have his autograph on a crumpled pack of Camels, by the way.