An Oresteia

SLAVE : You won’t kill me?
ORESTES : Go.
SLAVE : Fabulous.
ORESTES : Unless I reconsider.
SLAVE : Not fabulous.

Evil that calls itself virtue
is the paranoia
of men whose minds have broken down.

Death itself is not the worst thing.
Worse is to live when you want to die.

Not long now:
the blazing dream of my head is crawling out.

Strange.
I don’t think of you as mother at all.
You are some sort of punishment cage locked around my life.

Evil is a pressure that shapes us to itself.

Why are you so in love with things unbearable?

I ask this one thing: let me go mad in my own way.

...marriage beds that stink of life gone wrong