“I say that the present state of society is iniquitous and is ready to be destroyed. If it is the work of theatre to preoccupy itself with this, it is even more so that of the machine-gun.”
– Antonin Artaud, Direction and Metaphysics, 1931.
It is a difficult thing: life and production in late stage capitalism. When you turn your attention to a passion-project, you necessarily turn your back on street marches, disruptions, valiant attempts at ungovernability, and desperate screaming recruitment of the suddenly mobilized crisis-reacting masses. To do anything but fight is to normalize the new apex of american exceptionalism, the new white supreme god emperor. What is there in the writing publishing and distribution of a text that can validate itself under such circumstances? Well, this text… everything. 
The Heteropocalypse is a vortex, one that shall suck the clothing off every straight white cishet man on earth and then suck their delicious nude bodies up into a transformative void where they may return in a more pleasing form. The faith of the most faithful among us has been challenged, but one cannot depart from a collection of words that possesses you as completely as these do us. A new effort is underway, another surging attempt to infect our world with Heteropocalypse. The details will remain hazy, but Wading against the current, spitting our words into a gale force wind, ejaculating up a blasting firehose, all these tasks may be easier than making Heteropocalypse as widely read as the xtian bible, but that doesn’t make it not our task.
Our commitment remains, the word shall be made flesh, despair is the harbinger of triumph. Believe. Believe, sad solitary believers. Believe until you weep blood, until hope and anticipation spills uncontrollably from you in thin viscous rivulets down your thighs. Believe. 
