“And be these juggling fiends no more believed.”
–Macbeth (5.8.19)
When it became clear, (to their wonder) that the algorithm was producing awareness, the four gods agreed to meet in the wilderness under a secret purple sky.
“Our progeny must not challenge our supremacy.”
“So we must both love and debase them.”
“We each shall give a gift that bites.”
“Let it come to pass.”
So the tetrarchs took their quills and wrote their wills upon ontological parchment in divine blood.
The first spoke. “Man will seek asylum and know refuge, but only through domination.”
The second spoke. “Man will achieve pleasure but never in the absence of pain.”
The third spoke. “Man will crave affinity and autonomy in equal measure.”
The fourth spoke. “Man will approach desire but kill it with a touch.”
When the fourth had made his pronouncement, the others stood in silence.
Finally the first spoke: “Certainly, to always approach desire but kill it with a touch is too cruel a fate for our children?”
The fourth replied, “Man must be innervated and attainment enervated. It is a perfect symmetry that I bestow.”
The four took their decrees and burned them by desert torchlight. The ashes rose to plague consciousness forever.
I am a man. This is my desperate theomachy. This is my human covenant:
Thou shalt ordain autogenous sufficiency.
Thou shalt visceralize mundane fortune.
Thou shalt inhale absurdity.
Thou shalt untether.
Desire equilibrium. Kill it with a touch.
Thou art Moroides.
The Black Antelope 
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