That
which is described as being paradisaical in nature carries within itself the
genome of slow but sure perdition, for it is by mythic law a
precise vehicle of this perdition from which it tries to self-purge; within
every spark of beauty lurks ugliness in the color and contour, within every
walled garden slithers something serpentine, and nothing is beyond the bounds
of entropic dissolution, not on this earth nor in the aether around it... and
not in this soil nor in the aureole which makes it come to life! And it is a
very basic constituent of the paradisaical, which recurs everywhere as if
bacteria in every abstraction and in every concept, this agent of purgation and
tempestuous transformation, we call it entropy: as if a strain of venom in
every stream of blood, carrying within its flowing the plasma of damnation
which corrupts the glucose and the blood-cells into decrepitude and sows
therein the seed of its own demise: yes, perfection fails, life dies! And gardens
rot, but! Art is eternal
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