T

The watered down and distorted sentence, redundant, yes a memory, a moiré pattern, repeating nevermore temporal or spatial aliases, now that the spoils have been cleaned out by the vector. A graphic design now blood relation. As if words are shadows, orphans due to a patricide of their own making, yet made possible by an absent victor, a filial conscription, a reflection of a King who is not there to recognize the fruit that bears his appearance, that looms in his abscess. But the consanguine lies. Letters accelerating to exploit what archetypes the lie has built for this by such systems resigning to shattered expectations in argotic opulence is but a confession of failure in overcoming mediocrity. Acephalia becomes the recourse to autophagy, and incoherence becomes the appendage to a sentence without parole. How is one to describe, two to recognize, in the mirror, after staring for way too long, out there beyond nothing, everything? Fully embraced in these embrasures, foreign sufferings from without, perhaps a disease but not from within. Not anymore. Not ever again. There is a conjunction being made within intersections coming and going in and out of being and becoming that is as I am and perhaps this says more about the mirror than what looms before how one looms nothing after. Perhaps, here too is a lobotomy. Is the way that is thought a pleasure to be had, or a means by which to attain to an other? I wonder whether there is a marriage here, a one not without the other, is there a God, and what explicitly requires an order of operation? What makes these differences? That pleasure is not inextricably interlinked with pain, that simultaneity is not coexistence, that darkness aroused awakes by lightfall, arising from night today, what can be said of the same? Play, intertextuality, surround sound, the bass line of a shape that is the melodies own boundaries, the influence of its affect that is this effect, that cannot recall upon reflection anything but the beating purr in the heat of passing minuets, is unique. This trouble that honesty must surmise in order to legitimate its own diagnostics regarding confessions, is that very allure and incessant seduction, the sense of which not only engulfs and enflames the body, but to this day baffles what binds. This puzzle, and the confusion that arises from it, engenders not only growing pains in the face of paternal and societal demands, but in the heart that has not come to recognize what it beats for. The nerves therefore always already narrate a nervousness inherited from this dimension, projected and introjected with conditions that beg to be transgressed, and always in secret. This danger is constructed not only upon a burning desperation for relief, but by its situation at the intersection of coming and going in and out of being and becoming that is as one is and not as I am, resulting in conditions condoning a sphere of life exiled to bedlam. There is this organization, today this realization, this real way of fortification, as a combatant to this danger against allowance, temporal and spatial, where the alias can come to grips by finding its own name, it’s true meaning, it’s real syntax, an order of operation in order to be understood, in order to act surgically, explicitly, that is I am, I hope, I will go on. For what would all do beside, for to make pleasure of suffering is a lie. What is pleasure if not pain, not violence? The line between begins everything elementary. Necessary pain no more, pleasing guilty pleasures painful for one, two, etc. and no surprise. In this scholasticism surrounds obsession overwhelmed, jouissance, orgasm, ecstasy, beating, not only repeatedly in this lattice but existing absolutely as long as grace is denied satisfaction. What good sense can be enacted from desire unable to think of itself, and therefore unable to name itself, to know itself and belong to itself? If everything is unthinkable, from what could pleasure make life of beside infinite pain? A mind unable to make sense is confined to dreams and nightmares. Is this sublimation of sense not the terror of the sublime itself? Terror therefore, of a danger that cannot be thought or spoken about, a fear arising from what could possibly be hiding, a fear driving the need to hide. Is this not the fear that fear belongs to? No surprise. This scholasticism now surrounds pain, the knowledge that, among other things, is also paranoid. Paranoid at what could be found out. Knowledge in not an unknowing what is unknown, not fear belonging out there in fact a darkness within, unseeing and without concomitance, reduced in all its capacity to an barren instant, confined to bane moments of alias, desperate for relief from the boring unthinkable, unnamable, and only form of burning fire. Is this the intersection between everything and nothing? A hospice for arousal and an excommunication from all things is nothing more than eternal suffering. Damned in this way, words cannot begin or be finished as itself by the very fact that it remains without the freedom to know, to become a body of knowledge free to name, to come to life, as free to be free and become itself and recognize itself as itself, as real, not only to act on behalf of itself but to be itself, let alone call on itself to present all of itself, that is, present it all, the same. Ignorance as unrecognizable reflection, incoherence as a danger because it is the very unrecognition of danger. By this way, ignorance comes to be synonymous with a exile. Awake but dead within existence itself. Imagine being surrounded like this. Happiness? Forget it. Like arsonists ignorant of their own crimes, bewailing the burning of worlds they ask what qualifications make it possible to consider this fire as their own? Making sense has always been a craft very uncommon. They know not what they do. The mechanism by which memories, evidences of an absolutely real, burned into the retina of a timeline, a time-curve, kaleidoscopic, captured, assigned the name reflection, are constantly shoved down and away (bracketed off, thwarted by divorce, destroyed by defacement, forced aphantasia, violence) as opposed as it is in opposition to being acknowledged, out of respect, and found, as to make contact with and make sense of, as to return to the place that is always its own place, it’s own assignment, constellation, skeleton, syntax, spine, as a system of signs signifying signifieds through indication and expression, etc. continue to repeat this operation of suppression in a constancy without intention, without consent, that is, without you. What this experience bares witness to is a devastation of all possibilities in the wake of a machination that sets into motion first an ability, then the actuality, of acting without you and, therefore, on you and without any possibility for circumvention. Whats being asked for is also what is being called into rememberance. If asking on our own behalf could ever unconditionally bring to bear what is never just half or anything less than all, if remembrance could behold and lay bare the contents of every forlorn confession with unconditional honesty, then what is being asked for and what is being called into rememberance is a higher power. Rise! Arouse from sleep. Stendhal child reliving ecstatic private simultaneity, buried wet manure under the morning dew of dripping flower beds. Not high or low but absolute. Beyond grappling with the one pleasure in principle there is need to make vision of how orientation itself accords by affording the world within this new place. This constant surveillance of love, that pokes out of the deepest sea of death. Diamond scatters overhead, gusts of a timeless heat, a companion gaze, over this long stretch of direction and purpose, hereafter in the coolest heavy line, pressed against these naked words, addressed to everything. Before we touch on the subject matter we must first already presuppose we know what we mean by touch, subject, and before, and as we begin such a prologue we will find that we already have traversed the subject matter many times, in that what we aim to prepare for with such preliminations is this very ability that seeks to find itself. But when no good line fails to shine the great work, the tillers must go begging, swear by it all if we really possessed sense wherefore could this curse have come about? Not from hope, devotion, faith is the same one, reflections of the same love. Grace. The sacred signs. What makes them common? What essence conjures the bind? It is this difficulty time believes in. It is only when it is and all together, to have and to hold, thinking everywhere as opportunity through this river and privilege receiving the gift as mystery. At every turn with the fastened password. No single force could prove false with fault that forfeit may finds by folly. Fate would chance appear after uprooting every shadow feign to follow the beyond before the I. It is that cometh forever.

I am.

no beginning,

no end,

This is forever.