A Museum and a Stroll and…
The patrons mingle around its walled interpretations. And in the attic a small group gambles in an unknown game, mainly for the imagery. There is nothing else.
Outside the patrons act just as the inside patrons, even if they are not patrons. They, all of them, will be interpreted. The invisible ones not as themselves.
The course of time renders all of your thoughts as transactions, for the future—now already past. There is no fear of isolation wards and being leaned on in this interpretation. There is no need for such localised tyranny, its elevation has been lessened.
Your body will have gone beyond all that, in time. And your mind too, for you have chosen self-selection of the future.
What you have worked on is lined-in as a series of conflagrations—smouldering and lifeless, which is its beauty. The hedge is that the interpretative futures will clumsily fall through their digital canvas and allow truth to seep out.
The greater hedge, that which leverages capital itself, is the automatically curated museum of falling governments and peoples: an eternising triumph of bodies crawling over themselves.
Individuals in this situation know quite well that this is their future. Imagine yourself as if the landscape did not exist; imagine yourself as if in the place of your enemy.
The headless individual knows this better, he does not need you to sacrifice yourself for art, for culture—the true sacrifice is in your becoming the process.
This is your interpretation of it. The horizon of lined capitalists have become a proletariat to the distortion of numbers and the automatic ecology of their critique. You do the same, but with the conditional sublimity that the human condition exists as the smallest line between the horizon and the critique.
Critique is impossible. For you.
Allow me this, an invertebrate subspecies questions the need to cross rivers. In her altruistic form of competition she simply aligns herself to the rivers, becoming the river itself—and so the germination of willow weeps into the future.
Catalyst one: there are not enough labour hours for this to occur outside of the human.
Catalyst two: there are not enough labour hours for this to occur inside of the human.
Catalyst three: the only interpretation, then, is to play out your part; know that the collectivity of preparatory labour-time surpasses the needs of machinic-being.
Anti-catalyst: there is no acceleration, no deceleration; it is all One within some greater process.
Critique is impossible. For them.
Gold ceases to be the general equivalent at that very moment plastic organisms begin to chew microscoping holes through your intestines. When these species take over your soul, adding proclamations to your movements, humans take up the cause of species-being. This is something of an automatic interpretation of the human as the abstract horizon of all other species. Only at this point, so far beneath them, do you need to proclaim your superiority through furtherance of the need.
Capital is bioaccumulating. The capitalists are jumping from buildings, or self-immolating from a futuristic battery—charged, no doubt, by the invisible hand of their masters. The economic calculations live on in the bleached sidewalks.
The fall obscured by the euphoria of it.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. You don’t let it go, it let’s you go.
There is no artistic production here, no cultural interpretation. You are hedged, a derivative of that which cannot be calculated. The accumulation of paper itself was used as an accelerant in laying to waste the temples of capital, and the paper acted as the outside obscurity of acceleration. The culture lay outside of it, staring in. Active in this was the abstraction of the horizon, its calming architecture. It was not the act itself, even, that was art—but the very processual act of hiding, burying.
There was no assault on the center of capital—its towers merely valorised into economic heaven.
Science unveiled the runaway of information; capitalism apprehended it. Liberalism returned it to its original concept as sacrifice. That is a form of art, I suppose, just as in cadaver farms the true soul of a species is revealed in its factual speculation—through interpretation of the will of decomposition in the bodies of gods. Tragedy is always the hedge of a sacrifice, and so sparagmos reforms in the whole body.
Here, in grotesque science, towers that collapse become the true finality of wealth. Ghosted landscapes at their inception act as a triumph over this, without need of investigation. The Wheel of Fate creates its own mausoleum where burial becomes a curse, where the architectural cadaver mobilises with some greater fortune.
There will be no return to the temple. Not at least as it was known. Your soul will burn even at the thought of it. And the invertebrate subspecies, unknown to us, coaxes us inwards with her thoughts.
Bearing this, you too are floating through the air.
Should art be destroyed?
If so, how to destroy the destruction of art?
When the last artist takes up the work of the mole, can there be any more great works? Where do the thousand tunneling paths of escape meet as the impossible object of utopia? These are not even questions, but a process—as democracy has subsumed all into the ritual leveling of equivalence. That is its mastery of skill: the reinterpretation of the past pulled forward without a future, impossible destruction which only reveals itself in its being lost. The forward unit whose only operation is to incense the enemy into an antistrophe of its own Pyrrhic victory. Techne as desecration.
Pulled, pulled, pulled. And then?
The culture which is torn from its art only appears so due to its own being torn. Which leaves us with the real question: what is the catalyst through which liberalism brings its people to sunder their own being?
It is pulled because its being is being pulled, an empire with neither frontiers nor enclaves. Forever an atopia, a placeless build which divided us more than any civil war—and the driving fear against the impossible creature towering outside of it kept it going. Further and further into the unknown; always that last push of attrition against the hidden exclave of the monstrous.
With art as your economy you are now its performed nothingness. The soul is pulled out of you, against the pull of self-attrition. That is the final interpretation. You will it. You are now lower than the lowest among us. And your brother is that impossible object felled into the void of flatness—a perfectly linear horizon, dead where it stands.
This is why it can never end.
Outside the patrons act just as the inside patrons, even if they are not patrons. They, all of them, will be interpreted. The invisible ones not as themselves.
The course of time renders all of your thoughts as transactions, for the future—now already past. There is no fear of isolation wards and being leaned on in this interpretation. There is no need for such localised tyranny, its elevation has been lessened.
Your body will have gone beyond all that, in time. And your mind too, for you have chosen self-selection of the future.
What you have worked on is lined-in as a series of conflagrations—smouldering and lifeless, which is its beauty. The hedge is that the interpretative futures will clumsily fall through their digital canvas and allow truth to seep out.
The greater hedge, that which leverages capital itself, is the automatically curated museum of falling governments and peoples: an eternising triumph of bodies crawling over themselves.
Individuals in this situation know quite well that this is their future. Imagine yourself as if the landscape did not exist; imagine yourself as if in the place of your enemy.
The headless individual knows this better, he does not need you to sacrifice yourself for art, for culture—the true sacrifice is in your becoming the process.
This is your interpretation of it. The horizon of lined capitalists have become a proletariat to the distortion of numbers and the automatic ecology of their critique. You do the same, but with the conditional sublimity that the human condition exists as the smallest line between the horizon and the critique.
Critique is impossible. For you.
Allow me this, an invertebrate subspecies questions the need to cross rivers. In her altruistic form of competition she simply aligns herself to the rivers, becoming the river itself—and so the germination of willow weeps into the future.
Catalyst one: there are not enough labour hours for this to occur outside of the human.
Catalyst two: there are not enough labour hours for this to occur inside of the human.
Catalyst three: the only interpretation, then, is to play out your part; know that the collectivity of preparatory labour-time surpasses the needs of machinic-being.
Anti-catalyst: there is no acceleration, no deceleration; it is all One within some greater process.
Critique is impossible. For them.
Gold ceases to be the general equivalent at that very moment plastic organisms begin to chew microscoping holes through your intestines. When these species take over your soul, adding proclamations to your movements, humans take up the cause of species-being. This is something of an automatic interpretation of the human as the abstract horizon of all other species. Only at this point, so far beneath them, do you need to proclaim your superiority through furtherance of the need.
Capital is bioaccumulating. The capitalists are jumping from buildings, or self-immolating from a futuristic battery—charged, no doubt, by the invisible hand of their masters. The economic calculations live on in the bleached sidewalks.
The fall obscured by the euphoria of it.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. You don’t let it go, it let’s you go.
There is no artistic production here, no cultural interpretation. You are hedged, a derivative of that which cannot be calculated. The accumulation of paper itself was used as an accelerant in laying to waste the temples of capital, and the paper acted as the outside obscurity of acceleration. The culture lay outside of it, staring in. Active in this was the abstraction of the horizon, its calming architecture. It was not the act itself, even, that was art—but the very processual act of hiding, burying.
There was no assault on the center of capital—its towers merely valorised into economic heaven.
Science unveiled the runaway of information; capitalism apprehended it. Liberalism returned it to its original concept as sacrifice. That is a form of art, I suppose, just as in cadaver farms the true soul of a species is revealed in its factual speculation—through interpretation of the will of decomposition in the bodies of gods. Tragedy is always the hedge of a sacrifice, and so sparagmos reforms in the whole body.
Here, in grotesque science, towers that collapse become the true finality of wealth. Ghosted landscapes at their inception act as a triumph over this, without need of investigation. The Wheel of Fate creates its own mausoleum where burial becomes a curse, where the architectural cadaver mobilises with some greater fortune.
There will be no return to the temple. Not at least as it was known. Your soul will burn even at the thought of it. And the invertebrate subspecies, unknown to us, coaxes us inwards with her thoughts.
Bearing this, you too are floating through the air.
Should art be destroyed?
If so, how to destroy the destruction of art?
When the last artist takes up the work of the mole, can there be any more great works? Where do the thousand tunneling paths of escape meet as the impossible object of utopia? These are not even questions, but a process—as democracy has subsumed all into the ritual leveling of equivalence. That is its mastery of skill: the reinterpretation of the past pulled forward without a future, impossible destruction which only reveals itself in its being lost. The forward unit whose only operation is to incense the enemy into an antistrophe of its own Pyrrhic victory. Techne as desecration.
Pulled, pulled, pulled. And then?
The culture which is torn from its art only appears so due to its own being torn. Which leaves us with the real question: what is the catalyst through which liberalism brings its people to sunder their own being?
It is pulled because its being is being pulled, an empire with neither frontiers nor enclaves. Forever an atopia, a placeless build which divided us more than any civil war—and the driving fear against the impossible creature towering outside of it kept it going. Further and further into the unknown; always that last push of attrition against the hidden exclave of the monstrous.
With art as your economy you are now its performed nothingness. The soul is pulled out of you, against the pull of self-attrition. That is the final interpretation. You will it. You are now lower than the lowest among us. And your brother is that impossible object felled into the void of flatness—a perfectly linear horizon, dead where it stands.
This is why it can never end.
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