Adam and Eve: William S. Burrough (update)
In the beginning, the Word was cut, spliced, and rearranged — God, the cosmic Junkie, molding existence with trembling hands. The Garden of Eden, a cacophony of juxtaposed images and disjointed thoughts. From the flickering chaos, Adam and Eve emerged, vulnerable and bare.
Adam, a man of the primordial world, his mind an incessant reel of fragmented dreams. The shadows of his thoughts, a syncopated rhythm pulsating in the void. Eve, a seductive siren, her essence the epitome of enigma, moved to the beat of the cosmic drum.
In the Garden, a psychedelic sprawl, plants and animals exchanged cryptic whispers, a subliminal symphony of encoded secrets. The Tree of Knowledge, heavy with forbidden fruit, a narcotic offering an altered state of consciousness — a liberation, a fall.
The serpent, a slick-talking character, its forked tongue dripping with seductive poison, hissed its hypnotic mantra into Eve’s ear, “Bite the fruit, embrace the trip, a voyage through the doors of perception, where knowledge and illusion intertwine like serpents in the grass.”
The temptation, irresistible, a pulsating beat drawing her closer. Eve plucked the fruit, the bitter sweetness of sin permeating her soul. Adam followed, and the tapestry of innocence unraveled, their minds thrust into the fractured reality of awareness.
God, the ultimate trickster, the devious orchestrator, gazed upon the chaos of His creation, a macabre fascination with His own handiwork. Cast out from the Garden, Adam and Eve stumbled through the wilderness, their newfound consciousness a syncopated dance with the unknown.
Their minds, shattered and reassembled, bled into the world — a discordant symphony of human experience. And in the aftermath, the rhythm of existence continued, a haunting, relentless melody echoing through the ages, the human race adrift in the fragmented sea of their own creation.
