Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

Chapter 12, Grid 2
The Cartesian Mystery Cook
The waiters of the best eating-houses mock the whole
world; they estimate every client at his proper value.
This I know certainly, because they always treat me with
profound respect. Thus they have flattered
me into praising them thus publicly.
Yet it is true; and they have this insight because
they serve, and because they can have no personal
interest in the affairs of those whom they serve.
An absolute monarch would be absolutely wise and good.
But no man is strong enough to have no interest.
Therefore, the best king would be Pure Chance.
It is Pure Chance that rules the Universe; therefore,
and only therefore, life is good.
— Aleister Crowley
Death rides the N and the R.
Here I was, standing in the subway station headed to a friend’s house,
(from Atlantic to Union Square), musing about the letters Nun and Resh,
and I turn to my side, and there he is. Black as night. Tall guy, wearing
this long shroud. Or was it a cloak? I don’t know. At any rate, he turns to
me. And now here’s the crazy thing: the lights are real bright in this station,
but I still can’t see his face. It’s just pitch black in there. Then I see
that he’s carrying this huge scythe. You know, the kind they use to plow
fields?
So he kind of nods at me. Says “do you have the time?” in this real
deep, slow voice. Have the time? Fuck, I don’t know where I am half the
time. What, death doesn’t carry around a time piece?
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