Wallowing in the toilet-depth of the misconstrued, we pledge allegiance to the “super” man, the idol of the transcendent Promised Land, for he assures that there must be a reason, a purpose, a meaning. Along the way we have committed one simple yet willful error in judgment and mistaken the superman for a lowly, impotent priest. Our motto: any Shepard will do so long as we have our congregation. Press on friends, don't linger, and please keep the bleating to a minimum as you nose into the heard. Shuffling along we must take our lumps and inscribe into text the hero of our off-world ideal. In his image the ascetic Ideal is propagated everywhere, the heroic of denial, perpetually coupled with an aesthetic that belongs to the flipside of the same coin: to the permanent, festering wound that ressentiment keeps vigil over, tenderizing the sore with a cudgel. Near to us we hold the spirit of revenge, near to us, piercing our flesh, we will never have done with the injuries that we’ve suffered. Near to us, and yet far… Far from us in the sense that we live for a better day, somewhere contained in a far away place that holds transcendent promise of a perfect life. Near, near and dear to our hearts we will destroy you… Far, far from our grasp the redemption for our shallow, empty existence… Near, keep it near by and it won’t get away, let's not have done with it, and yet the more near, the more far, so very far away, off world, in another dimension, an existence less blame-worthy, distilled of all suffering. Ladies and Gentlemen, this… is near… and this, this… is Far… You got that? No? Well ok then, watch closely, ... This is Near
… and this, this is Far!
