When an internet activist decided to hang himself, did he hang himself out of sheet pressure of acephalous drives, impersonal rhizomes that desire no end except to replicate the Ur-drive of the great Spinozan universe? Or, did he do it because his was an act to apply the breaks on infinite becomings of germs at least on his side of existing, granting it is still right to call it existing when conatus is all there is to it?
Indeed, it can be everything until a human decides to die, quash an intense flux to live free, or run fast ahead of light.
A blasphemous inversion follows.
Nature is belched out. And back she goes to a dark precursor of any new beginning, any new chasing after germs.
She becomes artificial and death laughs like a cheerful soul.
On most occasions, still, when there is grave incapacity for suicide belching is a tough choice to make where nature is at its best, hungry for likeness.