Something like this:
I am a finite sphere
the center of which is lost
the circumference my ressentiments.
Why is anyone?
You see, I cannot wake myself
from beyond good and evil
from abusing of every gift.
I take my revenge in dreams
of other violent valences prevailing
of course upon my dearest sympathies.
You are a materialist that hates matter
no matter the matter at hand with
no hand in the matter.
Do you worship ideas?
Are you an idea?
Are you anyone?
Even though there are people just downstairs and upstairs
and next door and across the street and down the street
and avatars and aping publics everywhere at hand with nothing
with something like nothing for you: why must you continue?
The book of monsters sits atop my stacks
unread. It is gorgeous, it is given.
An invention of line
and hatch and happy fools
of wounded imagination.
Now dust gathers as if summoned to say:
we are a metaphysical unity
we are insignificant alone and together.
You see, everything culminates in that cruelest of unities:
this is the engine of being.