I awoke before dawn on the first day, full of vim and vigor; this was a new beginning. By sunrise, I had summited a small peak and gazed down upon the tapestry of the world, filled with the knowledge of my own potential. From my knapsack, I took out a dog-eared copy of The State and Revolution which had been passed down from hand to hand, from leftist to leftist, and finally to me. Before, I was too busy posting to take up this legacy, but now, here on top of the world, I knew it was time. I read the book from cover to cover, and felt myself fill with revolutionary optimism as the path ahead became clear. This was only the beginning. I went to bed that night, feeling perhaps for the first time ever, righteous and just. And yet, something remained unresolved, some tiny splinter working its way into my mind. It was many hours before I sank into an exhausted sleep, although I couldn’t have told you why.

On the second day, the weather outside was like a snarling dog. Sleet beat monotonously at my window. When I looked in the mirror, I could see how my skin stretched over my skull. I found myself slowly pacing the room, muttering to myself a looping mantra, “Based. Cringe. Shit out your doo doo ass. Read theory. Tankies. Terf Island. Please Mr. Xi” I caught myself and realized I hadn’t eaten all day. I prepared myself a healthy meal that would surely give me the energy I needed to get myself out of this funk but, when I sat down to eat it, the food was ashes in my mouth. I choked it down anyway. Determined to recapture the spirit of the first day, I sat down with Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism. The words seemed to skitter across the page like roaches when the light is turned on. Increasingly frantic, I went to the door, weather be damned, I would go outside. As I reached for the doorknob, my hand spasmed and seized; I could not make it obey my orders and I collapsed against my door, weeping uncontrollably. I was trapped here. I broke every mirror in the house, and arranged the shards in a mosaic. I didn’t notice the blood until after I had finished, and I didn’t mind.

On the third day, I drew a circle of salt upon my floor. At its edges I placed seven precious things, which cannot be replaced: my eyes, my tongue. Other things. I spoke seven names. I broke seven seals. I sang seven songs and their words were embers at the moment they fade into blackness. I learned seven truths that cannot be unlearned. I saw the seven faces that hide behind masks. The seven deadly fetishes were revealed to me. I knew seven charms, any one of which would buy a princely kingdom. My delight was unholy agony. My agony was unholy delight. My blood was the river that rushes over the cliff. My breath was the breeze that is exhaled from an opened tomb. With trembling hands I cracked open the skin of the world and feasted on the flesh within.

Of the fourth day, we do not speak.

Anyway, I highly recommend taking a Chapo break if it’s getting to be too much. Certainly it did me a world of good. What’d I miss?