Mortality is messy—there ought to be a better way to get through life. Because imperfection abounds, in ourselves and in nature, some have concluded that the Creation itself was a colossal mistake.
Accounting for evil and imperfection has been the task of philosophers and prophets. Finding faith to keep going is the challenge for all of us. Whether we blame ourselves, God, the devil, or Nature for our shortcomings, the outcome’s the same. We suffer, we die.
That some might prefer the perfection of Nothing to the imperfection of Something should cause no surprise—nihilism attracts the mind, resentful in its physical fetters.
A Satanic paean to Nothingness winds through these messy mortal poems, like the coils of a snake. The result is a contrast between what often occurs in life, and what Satan wishes had never happened.
The Serpent doesn’t have the last word here, or the first; but in between he has some great lines, and causes no end of trouble.
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