To understand this it is necessary to look no further than its context.
The writing is arbitrarily separated, categorised, imagined through refrain. It is an inherently physical writing. It is independent of narrative, except as it pertains to the machine that constructs it.
It is prescribed by the body of the author, as much as associated prejudices are imposed on the text through this self-knowledge, of author and audience.
Not chronologically nor anachronistically but rather descriptively “Contemporary,” the moment of stasis that is post-industrialisation, frozen as an arbitrary gesture against that which came before, which is all that it refers to, the absence of the past, of humanism shocked to death by barbarity “no poetry," nothing will ever be the same.
At base a tautological statement, all words pertaining to reason and understanding somehow mean to diminish, they are words of containment and confinement.
All determinism is logocentric, it seems silly to even apply the word "determinism" when it applies to nothing but prejudice.
The nature of human intelligence is that it is not.
There is little to be lost and the whole world gained in thinking beyond reason.
Finally managed to explain myself, and to great affect, by simply stating that I remark (explain, stating, remark) that I (discuss) art as it pertains to capital, as it is predicted by its environment. Which is to say (say) that I write about everything, somehow, and yet it suffices by way of (definition).
With only a negative return on work, or real-time investment, accelerationism passing for belief in the afterlife.
Exhausted and exhaustive style making cheap the attempts toward accelerationism, as ordinarily unwittingly as they may be devised, and obsolete the anti-individualist attempts at retrofit individuality.
Once upon a time, belief was incentivised, but this system is perfect. It is all over.
For my part, believing in nothing, my independent dissociative state determined only to process phantom pain more or less resulting in the failures of my physiology and my nerve.
Task-negative network, overcome by the tacit incapacities of this working life, forging ahead only when stricken, closer somehow to the conditions of existence than when making money out of money.
I can't now and could never keep up with the expansionist intentions of those that set the working week.
Made all illness the responsibility, and indeed the fault of its sufferer as though it were subject to their authorship.
Here I am (there I go), one of capitalism's Dead Souls, feted to belong only to the hoard in an unfinished and morbid scam, or else to be wasted, to go to waste.
Light that by not being, throws into relief that which cannot be seen, the building blocks of the vegetative state, simply enough to feed off of, black light.
It just striking me as hard to penetrate, my own thoughts, a semi-permeable membrane.
The logic of penetration being assimilated as symbolic of a loss, a gift, a submission, is rape culture. And I have no desire to subject my perfect body to anthropomorphisation.
As a much younger man I attempted to write in metaphors equally virile, equally violent as those imposed by penetration in the dominant article. I wrote as one of a series of simple aphorisms: "I want to suck up all his juices through both sets of lips, and fucking, assimilate him."
The necessarily degenerative project of maturation.
I have nothing left to say.