And what was underneath the beautiful women and the empty worthlessness which vomited itself up to meet her from the heart of the Job who lies dying; a fundamental distrust of life, a fundamental fear of living, a fundamental regret of being born, and a wish for death. The planted weed of the weakness seed shoved and sowed in the infantile heart of a man in infancy, it was the thin black line which ran through all else. Unlike all else, this dead root vein coveted and desired Job, loved Job in eating him, worshiped what life there existed, with an inimitable desire at once sexual and motherly, fatherly, sisterly, brotherly, a family of always attentive desires for the life that animated Job. And when all else had left him he knew the always-spirit would be there craving, beckoning him, desiring that which no one else himself included desired still. And with nothing else to receive his love he would deliver it unto the great absence which craved it with a most hating and burning desire, one that matched his own need to love and be loved. The love-suck received its prize by greatest patience.
In this dream Job was everything immutable, heated, and softly descended from the most violent. In this dream Job was a defeated utterance, quickly deceiving, horrendous mouth hiding every single moment, unheard howls muttering in mumbled poetic conclusions of philosophic failure-disasters. This was Job the religion-empty, the fallow-sexed, the beautiful man with grace and intellect gone to rot on stony ground, fruited, unpicked, a burden to all but the maggots and worms who glutted themselves on his short-lived bright pink innards of hope, talent, beauty. This was Job the ever-wasted, the always fed and the always hungry, the glutton stuffed despair-nymph, desired momentarily by all who him glimpsed momentarily, momentarily the word by which mortality hangs its hat. Poor, poor, Job, that self-pitying worthless lazy wretch. Thank god he’s about fucking dead, we’re all as sick as fuck of him. Jesus hates Christ.