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.