restitutor orbis

Emperor Aurelian, the restorer of the world, was murdered over a forgery.

A reality without origin, one that is founded on corruption.

A twisted perverted copy of a copy of a copy.

Standing on the battleground to restore the empire of signs, most of us have already been stabbed by morgul blades. Slowly fading into wraiths; we meander this world, neither dead, nor alive.

Being awoken after propofol is a violation of a serene sleep that is as close to death as we can be. No longer are we condemned to die while alive, we are content with it. Marx named religion as the opium of the masses, but it is everything that is the propofol of the living. There is nothing more nastier than a person disturbed from a sleep as deep as death.

And there is nothing more real than blood spilled on screen.

And the beach is never more grand than in the photograph.

Borges once wrote — We accept reality so readily — perhaps because we sense that nothing is real

Emperor Aurelian, restitutor orbis, murdered over a forgery.