For how long has humanity toiled in the quarries, heaving stone, knocking it into blocks and piling it up into great pyres in service of the lord? How many tons do we take out of the Earth to honour greater beings by carving their own creation into a creation of our own, and has anything come of it? Has he returned and saved us all? We built towers tall, piercing the clouds, such that to stand underneath and look up was not looking to a ceiling, but a weapon against the universe above, beyond our reach, beyond the shame of the greater ape we are.

Now what cathedrals does man make, but the porcelain thrones constructed in angelic white ceramic that man would have dreamed of just a few hundreds years ago, but now sits commonplace. It's an altar to a greater purpose, yet grounded in the connection to the reality of our existence - it's the modern day cathedral of man. And you don't even bow to it.

Modesty is dead, and I'm glad of it. Once upon a time the modest man would be unable to loosen the cloth to dump out in the bowl, now we live in a time of freedom where I can spend my day exposed in full to the elements around, dumping wherever, whenever, on whoever I like. Little other freedoms do I enjoy by virtue of being a 21st-century being but this one, and I try to enjoy every bit of it I can.

We have all but forgotten that decay is holy. The rot of generations is sacred. The return to the mud and swamp and filth is the only honest direction we can make, to confess upon our inferiority and mistake of trying to tame a world that is untamable, we finally acknowledge our limits and can be who we are supposed to be. So far removed from what we have built, for this isn't our vision, but the vision of forces who do not think of, care, love, or hate you - but do what they do because they don't even consider you to be at all. The world, stars and the universe will not end by malice, but by immeasurably large forces without a care performing the greatest act of destruction for all of history before and forever after.

Disappearance is our resurrection.

As the pipe shall exit the forces within, so too shall all be flushed away, metaphoricaly, to the abyss eternal. Not to be transmuted from one force to another, but extinguished forever.

When the time comes, will you accept it, flush, wipe the seat, wash your hands and pray, or will you too deny inevitability, leaving mess and ruin in your wake, for you believe it was all without purpose? The purpose was never the point. The toilet is more honest and intelligent, and understands that, but you never will.

I used to write about angels. Now I write about bowels. And don't believe it's because I've lost faith, it's not that. It's because I finally see it - what is sacred isn’t above. It’s beneath. It’s not in the spires we construct to pierce the sky, but in the release of our humanity we send deep into the hollows of the Earth. That's where God can't see. That's where our innocence can unmask and, at least for now, shed the illusion of false modesty and finally live.