The flesh is sin.
The flesh is at war.
The flesh is inherited.
From the first man.
From the first liar.
From the first to fall.
I had the most unholy thoughts in the perfect light of day. I could not fathom how sickening and bitter they were. Why would I confess this to you? Will I describe these craven visions of rot, malice, and Sodom and Gomorrah to you, Adam? No, but I will share that I beat them back, bludgeoned them, shoved them down into the agitating abyss where they continue the unconsecrated debate, where these hobgoblin deliberations negotiate and simmer and stew, the table set.
I am dinner for two, a black kettle, a searing skillet. I smell smoke. I am smoke, a spirit.
What to do next? The cruelest and kindest thing of all is my obligation. I will conjure my profane alliance with the past, cherish it one last time, and then behead it—as the Sun is my witness. I will hold my skull aloft, sliced clean from me, and splinter the heavens with my maniac joy. I will murder the old man so that the new man may live. And then I will kill my old self again and again because the flesh is never sated, subjugated.
I will do all that killing tomorrow with a grateful heart.
With the liar in my ear still condemning me.