Then something emerges which makes sense of itself: a final thought nested within the original, and unpersuasive or thought. Poetry lives on, outside of verse, as a kind of originary cognition—or potential for cognition to shock, surprise, and cause wonder in itself; it is the sick soul’s mercy towards itself… prayer bent into the arrow of self-recognition.
There is nothing that is un-manipulated by flows of money and coercive, surveilling power; we are the great great grandchildren of biopower’s early modern Adams and Eves.
I don’t like being on the map—so I disseminate fake maps with fake locations, alternate selves which could be anywhere at any time (symbolically).
The eager PMC performing cognitive labor in service and praise of the governing apparatus are no different than the aristocrats haunting Versailles for a glimpse of the Sun King, falling to their knees to gobble a scrap of his dinner.