Leaving class, I strolled along one of the campus’s back roads. Since it lacked a heavy flow of traffic, the groundskeepers allowed the fallen foliage to gather, dry, and rot. I used to like leaves. Autumn always ranked as my favorite season. Now, however, something strikes me as different. I am no longer moved by the beauty of the crispy, motley-colored leaves. I see trash and rubbish. I see the biology of the world, which disgusts me.
Random, indiscernible thoughts bombard me. Similar to a dream or a difficult book in which meaning always seems just out of grasp, I cannot explain this disgust. I see bacteria, virus, hair, sweat, filth and ooze. A decayed tooth bites into me. Its slimy gums gnaw on my neck like a homeless, filthy vampire. A thunderstorm of snot-rain and cum pour down from the jelly-like sunset and lions surround me on the plains as mud-soaked golems ascend from the Earth to drag me down into is muck and mire.
I see my awkward, feigned smile emerging from the damp clump of leaves clinging to the pavement as oil-streaked rainwater tries to carry them into the bowels of the sewer. I see the nasty mess that is life and I hate these fucking leaves. I want a shit-less, piss-less, inorganic digital concrete of a non-blood-soaked world—free from saliva and vomit and eggs, afterbirth, earwax, and anal grease. I want sleek-silicon curves and infinite expanses of pure white backdrops—an army of cybernetic minimalists to come scour the filth away and to build anew—forests of Serra sculptures sitting solemn under Ellsworth-painted skies. Buildings by Ando and everywhere a satellite.
And fuck breathing. I don’t want that stank-rot air pouring wretched little microbes and pollution into my soft, spongy lungs. I want SWAT-like gas masks from the year 2025 dispensing pure, uncut oxygen to my pretty, aluminum enameled bronchi. Turn my DNA into a fiber optic motherboard and launch me into a universe of drab, gray galleries. Just don’t turn me into a God-damned leaf. And that’s when I realized why I had loved fall all along. It’s the precession of biological death.
The ooze begins to desiccate. The creepy-crawlers descend into hibernation. Passions are quelled. The fiery, bastard sun of the galaxy eludes our grasp. The gray finally comes. Everything solemn, approaching the civilized front of a new horizon. Then the freeze—that beautiful, crystal-white landscape that always brings me so much hope, but then spring returns. That Gaia-loving bitch. And the ooze puddles again and the worms begin to crawl and I feel myself swirling in this giant, festering toilet bowl.
Come, please, ye angelic robots and take me away. I have no taste for the womb.