We live in a cesspool, a septic tank, a gigantic sewage complex in which runs the dregs, the filth, the misery-laden slop of the race of men: his hatred, prejudices, passions, and violence. And the keeper of this sewer: man. He is a scientifically advanced monkey who walks upright, with eyes wide open into an abyss of his own making. His bombs, fallout, poisons, radioactivity, everything he designs as an art, for dying is his excuse for living. We live in an exquisite bedlam; an insanity. Maybe all the more grotesque by the fact that we don’t recognize it as insanity.
The Twilight Zone 'No Time Like The Past' (1963)
This is the sum total of everything Michael Gira has ever written, in one paragraph.
We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstance we are by ourselves. The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain. By its very nature every embodied spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude.