It is but one organ among many The ego is the speaking organ. It says I, but that's not me. It names and recognizes all while misrecognizing it's limit. It is but one organ among many detached from the depth of self always an-other, already frustrated. It is detached from the very feeling which it's enthroned to organize. The ego is the seat of the libido, taken from us and put into signs. Drifting on the surface of language lamenting how terrifying its depths have become in the afterlife of Adam's paradise. Eden: where Name and Thing walk at all times holding hands in blissful simultaneity. From the Fall, we've been barred from our sight of categories the eye for all. Attempting to explore the depths of embodiment by conjuring ever-more valences, ever-specialized vocabulary. I conjure them up and itself away from the core: was it there before it was lost? Use a language to express what is I but this language is a gift older than I and will far outlive the intentions of I It is what is other in I, the resenting I with taken-away center placed at the end. I cannot be the final word of social being. The final word of social being is happiness. To the lack of imagination, unhappy consciousness, all is vanity, all is metaphor, all is not. All is lost, and its shadow writhes metonymically. All objects come to decenter and decay the I because object(ivity) is a function of language. I fall feet-first into language, in search of the object. Its chains and labyrinths captivate me in desire, yet I am disenchanted by a lack of imaginary unity. Even if the words we describe ourselves are given blood, they never truly become our body simply a plural I. But if I were to try leaving the word in object's search? If I were to protest the mechanism which puts All behind a bar, at a remove in the very act of naming and totalizing? Such a tantrum takes I even further away from subject (and) matter. I leave language for the object, and become a total object: a corpse. Outside of language is no paradise there is only a body less unified. Extreme situations push us there. It is our blood-curdling screams and cries. To signifying an outside of signs is to put a shackling name on laughter. Speaking without meaning does not draw us closer to paradisiac language. Such speech is but a further fracture into maddening and babbling tongues. Negative spaces are all I know, since I am an-other. But these spaces are given they signify us arbitrarily. All We want is forever elsewhere. We want ourselves towards somewhere where pain is no longer useful. Where the spaces between us still feel full. Somewhere abandoned By god up to freedom and the good faith of each other. All we want came from what we can't say whether because we lacked the courage or the language, or because it was better left unsaid and off the colony's altar. All we want came from what we can't say, because it's is guided by the same impulse of Naming which has ruined every object in advance. Yet we want. What was said is terror. What is meant is hope. What will be is liberation.

The writer of history, or rather history's philosophy, once said with the tranquility that befits an executioner the history of the World is not the theater of happiness. Periods of happiness are blank pages in it, for they are periods of harmony periods when the antithesis is in abeyance. As writing was instituted as a tool of social control and oppression, so too is the accounting of history: politics is war by other means. (There was once a time where freedom and bondage could each be purchased at the same cost as the other.) We import our own marginal comfort from our neo-colonies when we export the crisis of capitalism from center to periphery. Colonization skews the valorization process by undervaluing labor and the unequal values of labor time impoverishes the colony. Technology is withheld to drive down the organic composition of capital. What we reap the seed of our investments is a mirror image of this hell. Fascistic institutions are our policing policies abroad brought back home. The commodity receives its price post festum, like the meaning of a sentence conferred retroactively by its period. In the greater context, this meaning is displaced and found anew with another reading a new market after self-destruction. Standardization of the valorization process inevitably lowers the rate of profit. Undervaluing the labor of the colony helps to overexploit its resources. Abroad as at home, while the wage gap continues to increase, the health and life of workers is wasted and squandered. Late capitalism requires a bottomless surplus, so commodities are at all times overproduced, and yet there's still starvation. Because late capitalism cannot consume this surplus rationally, unproductivity becomes the preferred method of combating our tendentially falling rate of profit. (There was a time where for the same cost, for the same unreserved sacrifice, the pain of western history would end. Or perhaps it would have never even occurred.) Upon the colony's alter, I offer our regret of never being able to achieve mass comfort, as well as the fear that the cruelty of hitherto history has not even reached its apex. The unfaithful project of Enlightenment is exported in exchange with the importing of my own underproduced imagination for liberation. Upon my altar is the future. How to alter a future which has hitherto only been the expanded reproduction of its past? The blank pages are to be filled with war. Only anti-imperialist class war will close the book. The altar of the colony the alter-ego of Enlightenment will mirror our immiseration. What was written was terror. What is read is hope. What will be is liberation.