The Surgeons

I adore the surgeons as they stand above me, with their instruments in a state of equipoise. Those instruments - cold and sterile, ready to spring to an action of healing at any moment, yet chambered close to their pectorals, safe by the warmth inside of their chests - of one, one could say I adore him, but him is truly hymn, a manufactured elegy to the sickness and pestilence that prevents us from living productive and efficient lives. If we were robots one could say that they fix our malfunctions, but because we are human one could say that through healing us they make us truly human - they bathe us in the concrete culmination of that gentle morality and goodness which is the mark of humanity itself through the path of initiation of healing that they have undertaken. They are in fact in nature concrete; it is important to regard their bodies as concrete coagulation as they form a relationship to the concrete coagulation within ourselves - the physical processes that cause us to live productive and efficient lives. The tendons between their coagulation, and ours, are more sacred than the Filioque.

I supplicate myself to thy sublime mastery of my biomechanical machine, O Holy Surgeon, and I make my skin transparent and my physical processes evident to you so that you may ply it open with your instruments and heal them with your Holy Tendons.

Godspeed.