“Man is a self-conscious Nothing.” Julius Bahnsen. 
To tell you everything. Everything that is on my mind. The most burdensome demand placed on my head. Did the Gods ever tell Atlas to describe what he sees from above? Can you not be satisfied with my keeping the ceiling from crumbling?
Or do you want it to crumble because your self-consciousness is not good enough?
You became frantic when you saw the nicotine stains on my fingers; and the keyboard was clicking weirdly. And my teeth were yellow. And my toes stubbed. How about the time when I started bleeding, from my gum, from my nose. My eyes were red and I was nonchalantly still standing up, indifferent to the senseless suffering of my system.
And you asked me to tell you everything. The question is a persecution.
You haven’t seen me for two years, let me remind you of that little valuable fact.
“What do you believe in?” You asked me. And I answered with impassioned clarity that I believe in nothing.
“How can you believe in nothing?”
You pressed the hot iron on my chest and forced me to give you an answer.
“My big toe,” I answered, immediately wishing I had said, “my brown, corn-filled faeces.”
Does it matter?
I know for a fact that I am not the only one who believes this, but the masses do not matter.
You took me as being insincere, cynical at best, and you looked at me, disgustingly sneering, facial muscles suddenly existing.
I held the cigarette, my first cigarette of the day—you had woken me up, remember? You had come to my house with sage sandwiches, expecting a jaunty good morning, and then you found me still in bed, not yet willing to relent to a rude awakening.
I held the first cigarette of the day, ignoring the sage sandwiches dripping oil and stinking of ideal morning routines. The first cigarette is bound to be the best. You had decided to make some tea, still believing that I cared for some. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth.
The spark will become a flame and angels will weep. A small flame trickling towards me by the power of my own suction and each drag decreasing my life-span by minutes, or maybe hours. Who knows? But even angels do not know, all real knowledge is obscure.
The future is an empty pickle jar. I’m pickled to mere energy by the holy sucking wind that finds its source in my slowly eroding lungs.
You poured tea for me and you; you started talking about what you’re planning to do after summer.
“And you?” you asked.
“Nothing in particular. Same old same old,” You took a bite from one of the sandwiches and chewed on it, hatefully. My honesty was not to your liking. You remained silent, as if you were waiting for me to give you a reason to stay.
“Don’t you have a goal?” your retort comes as a declaration of victory, but too soon, still-born.
I sucked on the fiery straw in my hand. The muscles of Atlas loosened and rebellion beat me down and overcame me with its creeping velvet. The astounding fire travelled through capillaries and arteries, opening up and transforming my cells into something other.
You saw the fire and the smoke change me; my eyes went dreamy again; it was then when you noticed the nicotine stains, my yellow teeth and my stubbed big toe.
“What’s happening to you?” You asked me.
“Selma ya Salama,” I joked around.
Atlas changed to Prometheus, and Prometheus unbound, who stole and swallowed fire, sat in front of you spiking his still cup of tea with whisky.
“Don’t you think you shouldn’t drink as much as you do?” Who can blame you for asking such a question? I once stood before you like a piece of art, a canvas in a brightly lit exhibition. My white skin was impeccable; my white teeth were radiant; and my clothes talked of money.
But you still view and read me through the impoverished lens of a spectral spectator; feeling obliged with judgement. Do you ever go to an art exhibition for pleasure.
I want you to stumble upon the shared misery that I represent. I want you to take off my winter coat and lick the scabs with your rough feline tongue. I want you to feel my liver being corroded by drug abuse. I want you to crumble your foundations upon the explosion of the sun from within me. I want you to stamp on my big toe as if its all-too-human form disturbs you. I believe in my big toe like you believe in your Nazarene; and I need it mutilated and crucified.
My body is all that I have; and I’m rich because of it. Luxury demands that I defile it through the brilliance of explosive loss.
“I began reading a book the other day which started with a sentence of grave magnitude.” I told you, your eyes sparkled at this chance for a conversation. “Its words grew like tall cypress trees from the page, only to fall on me, tying me still to the ground.” I got up and picked up a book lying on the floor at the other end of the room. I flipped through it while you munched ferociously on your sandwich, with the easiness of a lover. I read, For ages they had been without heads. Headless they lived, and headless they died. How long they had thus flourished none of them knew. Then something began to change.
“Ages without a head and then a change. How could we not see some kind of motive in that? And then how could we not see a kind of motive in nature as a whole; in us?” my facial muscles tighten as if smelling something vile. “How could we not make ourselves conspiracy theorists and say ‘there is a goal to all of that; it’s supernatural. We just have to believe.’” I closed the book and looked at you with murderous eyes, smirking, without a tinge of mercy or decorum. My words disturbed you more. Your left eye twitched You got up and headed for the door.
I lit another cigarette and followed you to the door, and screamed at your lovely wavy hair and your slender back, “Fuck off you stupid cunt! Go and give me no head!”
Go and give me no head, no reason. I believe in my big toe which stomps on the ground like the feet of any other mammal; dwelling in the dust and mud of our base existence.