“So they trust in the deity of the Old Testament, an incontinent dotard who soiled Himself and the universe with his corruption, a low-budget divinity passing itself off as the genuine article. That may be no way to live, but to opt for depression would be to opt out of existence as we consciously know it.” One look at human existence is proof enough that our species will not be released from the stranglehold of emotionalism that anchors it to hallucinations. How advantageous that we are not coerced into choosing one or the other, neither choice being excellent. The alternatives are clear: to live falsely as pawns of affect, or to live factually as depressives, or as individuals who know what is known to the depressive. There would be nothing to do, nowhere to go, nothing to be, and no one to know. Yet what other way is there to live? Without the ever-clanking machinery of emotion, everything would come to a standstill. And to live on our emotions is to live arbitrarily, inaccurately-imparting meaning to what has none of its own. Nothing is either good or bad, desirable or undesirable, or anything else except that it is made so by laboratories inside us producing the emotions on which we live. It is all a vacuous affair with only a chemical prestige. Whatever may be really “out there” cannot project itself as an affective experience. You are cold, my girl, cold like your chastity, which never gave in to the heat of desire.“This is the great lesson the depressive learns: Nothing in the world is inherently compelling. Where could Othello run to? Do you see how you look now? Oh, you woman with an unlucky fate, as pale as your white nightgown! When we meet on Judgment Day, this look of yours will throw my soul out of heaven and into hell, where devils will snatch it. You could strike at me with nothing more than a reed, and I'd draw back. Are you backing off, frightened? You have nothing to fear. This is the end of my journey, the end of the rope, and my final destination.
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Don't worry, even though I am carrying a weapon. But what a pointless boast that is! Who can control his fate? I can't now. I remember times when, with this little arm and good sword of mine, I made my way through obstacles more than twenty times as tough as you. A better sword has never graced a soldier's scabbard. This sorrow is like that of God, who must strike down the creatures he loves. I can't help but weep, but that is not a sign of pity. There was never anything so sweet and yet so deadly as you. If you look like this when you are dead, I will kill you and love you after. Oh, your gentle breath almost persuades Justice herself to put away her sword! One more, one more kiss. When I have plucked the rose of your life, I can't re-plant it again-it must wither. But as for you-you most artfully, excellently fashioned woman-once I put out your light, I don't know of any magical fire that can bring your life back. If I extinguish you, flame, I can light you again if I have second thoughts.
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Extinguish the light, and then extinguish her light. Still, she must die or else she'll betray more men.
WILL I DIE IF I HELP THE NEW TOMORROW BEHOLDER 2 SKIN
But I won't shed her blood, or scar that skin of hers that is whiter than snow and as smooth as alabaster. I won't say the reason to the chaste stars in the sky, but it is the reason. That's the reason for this, that's the reason, my soul. This sorrow’s heavenly, It strikes where it doth love. (kissing her) One more, and that’s the last. Be thus when thou art dead and I will kill thee And love thee after.
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Oh, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword! One more, one more. When I have plucked thy rose I cannot give it vital growth again, It must needs wither. But once put out thy light, Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume. If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore Should I repent me. Put out the light, and then put out the light. Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men. Yet I’ll not shed her blood, Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow And smooth as monumental alabaster. Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars, It is the cause. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.