Chore for the Lost

An exhausted fall into disgrace, famished for peace, for a mere moment 
of respite in dying eternities, on the verge of being deprived of all 
humanity: non-sense is the [bad word] of every possible sens, it is the start of 
transcendence, the dissolution that spreads without limits and the critical 
violation; what pleasure of inconceivable purity there is in being an object 
of abhorrence for the sole being to whom destiny links my life! [bad word] 
is too profound to stand up, nothing remains but a terrified consolation in 
a laughable renunciation that is not the one of a single man, thou art not 
dead to the devoration of sin! 

Every human being not going to the extreme limit is the servant or the 
enemy of man and the [bad word] of a nameless obscenity. 

Let us be a blight on the orchard, on all orchards of this world, even the 
least of these words will be judged during the times of reckoning, bearing 
a latent damnation a feverish seduction exasperated in death, every letter 
is a code to extreme horror, utter contempt and divine conflict; it is lethal 
to speak the language of resistance, every gasp exhales a particle of the 
remission of Golgotha, as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of a fragile power just above annihilation, the one of a harmony [bad word]  it is a 
task for a man who cannot bear any longer to be, a chore for the lost in the 
denial of free will: perinde ac cadaver! 

God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thou brought us...