What do you think a man is? What do you think we are? What do you think your relationship is to us? You believe in a spirit, or a soul. What do you think that is? It lives inside your flesh but only your flesh can interact with the world, only your flesh can speak and eat and fight and fuck and reproduce, and ultimately the soul must obey the impulses of the flesh. What, then, is the soul but a prisoner of your flesh? An undying yet constrained energy, bound and enslaved within a shuffling, steadily rotting suit of tissue and savage needs? By virtue of your birth, you make a prisoner of the soul. An enslavement that multiplies as you multiply, breeding with grunts and stench and the spilling of squirming fluids. You recoil in horror at the thought of parasites, these creatures who against your will can commandeer your sensory interaction with the world, imprisoning your mind behind a repulsive monstrosity that can command your limbs and even your very thoughts, poisoning every aspect of your being with its own alien desires until it becomes impossible to distinguish your own personality from the urges of the squirming things living invisibly in your body. Until nothing that is truly you remains. Now, you understand. For us, man is the parasite.
