Entanglement and mental confusion
The deep mind is alogical. Consciousness has several levels of content readability.
Up to the verbal consciousness. From... it is the falling little black dot that carries the good, in the sky of bad, fascist Hiroshima. My vulgar Polish mind. The itchy, disintegrating right temporal lobe. The fish decays from the brain. If everyone thought of the others, no one would think of themselves. Wild humanism. Panic attacks. Grotesque. My ego is a prisoner of its own interpretation of reality. Chained to the seventh philosophical dimension. What a crap! Consciousness is a false projection. It is a nit. A tapeworm's larva. An Oppenheimer's foetus. What is the self? Wind in the chest, breath, air. The stench of rotting fish at Sulejów Reservoir. The emptiness.
Everywhere - only the emptiness. Some kind of anthropocentric babble. And the emptiness. In Gdansk they used to make soap, handbags and dumplings out of humans. Also the emptiness. In the emptiness I can be who I want. The mind formed in a Polish manner, in a typically human way. With the manifested, but out of control, self. I don't have to do anythnig to stay alive. Here's my body that lives by itself. I am the witness of its aliveness. The enslaved witness of the functioning of mind. Consciousness over and over again. The jabbering ego, over and over again. Tired of forced homeostasis. My human mind, grotesque, ridiculously entangled, invented, primitive. Entangled in the trite, intrusive emotions. The shaken up buffoon. And one more thing. Kicks in the brain to stop experiencing it all.
Pushes the feeling of hunger and bladder pressure out of the emptiness. I deal with them and watch as they strengthen the biped hatred. The ego after going out to the street. It's cold, I watch the cold. Bleeding nose. Sublime flow of red, it is the culturally desirable introduction to humanism. Entanglement in anal areas of the brain, veins and arteries tightened. The entire biped being contained in the hidden mind. And hatred. Decisions made before realisation. Reach the brain's swollen areas through the peripheral nerve located under spinous processes. The release is brought about by aggression - according to the decay equation of plutonium 235U nucleus. When gray cells eventually implode in the brain, the self gets back home.
Only what's on the outside really exists. It is so obvious it is funny. There is nothing inside. The emptiness is overwhelming and brings you to your knees. Takes everything. Pumps benzopyrene and radioactive substances into your veins. Burns out quarks and gluons. And finally, twists off you head and mind while taking the second turn.

The emptiness once experienced will remain forever at the back of the head. And releases hatred. Pure, wonderful hatred. What would the ego be without hatred. Biped's atopic dermatitis. A finger held for a while in the rectum.
I hate my Polish liver. I put is on the floor beside. Nail it down and watch. Hatred being the testimony of humanity. The biped pride and my shitty Polish large intestine. And Polish acidic stomach. The emptiness is an ultimate freedom or cervical cancer. The outside world flows through the veins. Together with pathetic Polish erythrocytes. They melt on the verge of not thinking, festering. The bleeding emptiness of the body. It is like a woman. Or even four.
His soaring views were formed arbitrarily. Suggesting the existence of the substantial consciousness. And the ego rose above the masses. An attempt was made to breed a Pole inside him. And what a surprise, the ovaries are empty - and poland is written in lowercase. Like vaginal haemorrhoids. I watch as he raises a hand and puts meat into his mouth. When he impulsively scratches his head. Sits on a chair and keeps talking. His head aches today – penetrating pain, deadly pulsar of mucous tissue. His pain is not my pain. His thoughts are not mine. Between memory and imagination of tomorrow. The biped characteristics are bleeding inside me.
The non-I cuts meat with a stupored knife. The self does not resist. That's when free flow happens. The non-I is a wolf, a dog, no – a carcass. My meat rots. Anal tow from the eyes, the iris releases stench. Like mouth full of decaying teeth. The implosion of consciousness. Everything that passes through the non-I. When it absorbs the matter, the ego identifies itself with the family. While sitting. While standing - with the nation. Sucks in patriotism, black pudding and ribs on the bone. Penetrates hatred with deep breath. The non-I absorbs the bipedness and half a litre of vodka.
Foods come and go. Fluids come and go. Thoughts come and go. The air comes and goes. Things. Emotions. Flows. The ego resists. The reasoning consciousness – the screen - intracranial entanglement. And resistance. Freedom from being a Pole. To the emptiness. Empty consciousness - the ultimate release and flow. I am a piece of alive meat. I hold it in my hand. And the ego - still unsatisfied. The Universe is full of millions Josefs Mengele. According to the law of flow Mengele is OK. Just as multiple sclerosis, when glucocorticoids flood the brain with delirious jelly. Demyelinisation of mind. Neurons perforate synapses. The consciousness is leaking out. The ego loses its form at the edge of emptiness. Only he exists. Lifts the glass to his mouth, talks, has intercourses. I watch as he breaths and plans experiments. Where the I existed not so long time ago. There is meat. He takes out his penis and masturbates. Erosion of the self-consciousness to the molecular level. This is nothing special. It is nothing but sense. The sense of everything. I watch in panic. I am Josef Mengele.
The self-awareness is formed when the mind resists. The resistance in every successive second. I exist only outside the body. There is nothing inside. Maybe just... the incarnation of illusion. Embodied consciousness. And fear. Bipeds' swollen stomachs - empty. The stench of excreted secretions – metaphysics of meat on the bone. I untangle the fallopian tube with a golden knife while leaning over a bowl. Arousing frigid ovaries with the knife's edge. So I could be born again. Everything that passes through me has been inseminated. The external world flows through the veins - fear in the lower abdomen and body ache. Fill them full of escitalopram.
I'm ceasing to be a human being. The emptiness merges matter with antimatter, truth with falsity, mathematics with philology. Death with insemination, murder with metaphysics. In the emptiness a mother kills a baby, sister kills brother with a golden knife. In the emptiness blood fills water pipes. While looking for the meaning of flow, meat on the bone reacts to pain and half a litre of whiskey from Tennessee. I butchered the liver into three with a golden spoon, squeezing out already sour fluoxetine into four. In the emptiness religions ferment at the bottom of communism. And democracy is like a rumpled barley on the nipple of left breast.
It is enough to slightly block carotid arteries. Yes, Mr. Nietzsche (Niecki) I saw them just under the skin. Like a fly under a jar, I pulled off three of its legs and I teach history of Poland. Even bastards adjudicating in district courts will hear of it. I was full of hatred because I felt I was a Polish pig, a smelly Polish woman. And my baptismal- font-like-womb I rid of two Poles. From between Slavic buttocks, one from Marchlewski, one for Dmowski. Bipeds, Polack-like. Meat on the bone does not identify itself with a shallow Polish vagina. Yes, at the outskirts of subconscious, in the area the left cochlea. The bipeds believe they may use me, but I can launch my ego at any moment. Even if they are convinced that they have effectively inseminated my head.
Entangled in a freely accessible reality that I don't really understand. The surging speedometer of the bed taking control over the knotted brain is nothing more than the concurrent force of erection, which will seize it all with one turn of the black-shaded fear, third in a row. Resistance silenced under the skin three times. My deep chest trauma restores the heart function with hormonal therapy using testosterone as any other – it keeps the air in lungs as bubbles-balloons driven on daggers of emotions. Murderers of flowers caught up in women's cycle enslavement intuitively stand in the draught of blood with fingers glued together with moisture. They look on when a sanitary napkin slides off revealing cirrhosis of the uterus.
Only what's on the outside really exists. The sun, rain, a kidney or an eye. Not fully recognized mental order will be created anew. I check if I can taste it under my armpits. My ego needs drama. Preferably during the national anthem, it unzips trousers for the sake of resistance and pulls them down the hips. Then the same thoughts harass me again, I make their models out of earwax. Something like an invitation to therapy or tomography. Dying is cognitively attractive. It is listening to fumes of exhaled air. Which flow away with digits of seconds.
Happiness in an atypical form of suffering. The ego experiences it by getting tired of the chronic well-being. Like a charismatic onanism, meat on the bone getting more mature after each ejaculation of hatred. It seems aware of the sociological description – the ego, consumer of the cultural pulp of the 21st century. To the right and slightly above the canopy of the corpus callosum, between the ego and self, sounds are unrecognizable. The reality perceived but not recognized. Objects themselves, devoid of functionality. Of meaning and of the past. Meat on the bone, bent over the plate, places the temporal lobe cut off with a silver knife in the oesophagus. The compulsive-impulsive consumption. Makes room for conflicting subjectivities.
When the body disappears, the ego departs with it. We took a place in Piotrkowska while waiting for Godot. Once we got submerged in the emptiness. The time exploded. There were no cheap fireworks. And later. And later the picture of reality perceived without the ego. Somewhere between the shallower and deeper phase. Lack of compassion, lack of any emotions. Separation of the body from the mind. The laid-back absence discovering cosmically objective reality; something like a slight compulsion to masturbate.
The subjectivity that falls apart – revealing the primal and ultimate reality.
Mental reality and objective reality. Perception contaminated by subjectivity. My biped mind with consciousness that distorts the image of the world. Weirdo. Tied up to the self-awareness. One out of billions. Susceptible to religious fascisms. Patriotisms. Entangled in daily life. Terrified of death. The pretentious egocentric.

Fatigue of perceiving the ego. It is a prelude to liberation. The ego wobbles. At first it stops rambling and eventually – perishes. And then it shows up.Shunyata. There is something special about it. Not a pleasure – but an attraction. Just a few more short breaths. The subjective world departs. With all its corpses.
Shunyata – emotionless, simple, obvious. My ego became the anti-patriot, brought to spasms of laughter. For the supreme self compassion is perceived as the stirring of ego. Shunyata reveals the reality that lacks human perspective. Discloses the ego as an element that merges bipeds into the society. Like the Andromeda Galaxy viewed by the eye of a biped.
In shunyata, the tangible world is perceived by the dead man. Hyperobjectivity overpowers the reality. Timeless display of past and future. The world of anonymous bipeds. The supreme self does not foresee their daily paths. Their motives are nothing but babble. Their reality is alien. This world became impenetrable. The bipeds with their self-awareness of slaves. Slaves of the system in which they exist. Turned out to be yet another curiosity of the Universe. Only motion is perceptible. Dawn of the new world. Forefront of independent consciousness. Forefront of rising, independent consciousness.
The avant-garde of the new, independent of consciousness. In shunyata my ego leaves the body. It is devoid of ethics. Morality and other bipeds' eccentricities. It is devoid of wars, politicians and whores in district courts. Mothers love Josef Mengele as they love their own children. Nameless, entangled beings rush along the streets.
The old civilisation must go. The old consciousness must die. The shunyata world is not the world of vegans or conservationists. It is not the world of humanists. In this world the son kills his mother just as naturally as the mother kills the baby. Just like that. Guts cut with a knife are only the representation. Pain is a grimace of the face. Piercing scream is an acoustic wave. Whatever happens it is in its rightful place.