You feel the war on consciousness and at large against anything that moves outside the tangent of the last transient memory manufactured by a mindless industry, marketed by its national and inter-imperial morbid prostitutes. In this disorder, no one needs a revolutionary poet. Alas, too bad, that’s exactly what’s going to hit the screen-glow… with some grace, but, mostly, with the sheer power of the grand dictator; the child, assassinated inside the undefended with the old weapon of narrow identity, that marrow devouring maggot. The revolution being synthesised is not of political descent. It’s a spiritual one that removes the attributes of human from the divine. It’s what the doctor ordered. The doctor of our evolution from ape to ape shit.
— 9, Corpus Enigma