Frater Scatophagium made a final wipe with the toilet paper, looking down at its streaked surface before throwing it down the bowl. A wrist thick log bobbed in the water, studded with what looked like sweetcorn or peanuts, neither of which he could remember eating during the past few days.
He wondered briefly if he should make a record of its consistency, amount and quality, like in the diaries of Aleister Crowley. What great mysteries might be revealed by meditation upon all that has been rejected?
It seemed an apt metaphor for the transgressive philosophy of the Left Hand Path. Perhaps he should write a blog about it, with footnotes and quotes.
With that thought he pulled up his trousers and flushed.