I do not blame the mirror because I cannot see in it some physical manifestation of the incessant, horrific terror that lately grips me and numbs my will. So why should I blame you any more than I would blame the needle my doctor cleans after each use of his hoary syringe? You are no doubt counted among those who would tell us that the stars are sweet dabs of light and not the fiery infernos our dreams know them to be. It is, after all, this light, this arc-ing candle, that comes to us reflected off your screens, that silver poison entering through God-knows-what hole, swirling around in us like bile. When I saw your parody of human consciousness, referred to I believe by the single word Hook, I was brought to a state so near that of that I was lifted aloft.

Personally, I would rather have an ax handle supplanted between the halves of my brain than be forced to sit through your so-called entertainment again. Childhood is the greatest subject in the history of Art, a subject which you have now trivialized into something no more important to the furthering of the human mind than an economically-viable dung-removal system for a cow barn.

You have succeeded, therefore, in much the same way my so-called doctors have succeeded, in making my pain, a pain which I have devoted a lifetime to detailing, less bearable. For that I applaud you.

24 frames a second,

A. Artaud