Those who have overseen the writing of history
are the same who have forced it to be class warfare.
Those who have overseen the writing of history
have forced history into dialectics: the gravedigger.
Those who have overseen the writing of history
take a step back into surveying their horror and scream:

“I have never known peace,
I was born wrapped in blood, not peace.
Hitherto history has been endless warfare.

“All my time is spent folding itself in scale and value.
All my time feels the anxious pressure of condensation.

“It’s the time of my machines, but also
the labor time without which there would be no profit.
Every cycle, I manipulate the organic composition of capital
ever so slightly more for the momentary promise of profit,
but in doing so cleave the numerator and denominator
further apart from a sustainable exploitation.
Every cycle I dig my own grave that much deeper.

“My ideology is the product of imitating a second nature
yet divining it as the first. Organic cycles of summer and winter
maimed and displaced into an apology for booms and busts.
It is repetition, the empty time of my fate and mythology.
In every trace there is guilt, on and with which I squander labor.
The circuit was once as simple as buy—sell—buy more.
Now my profit-guarantees are warfare, torture and starvation.

“Where warfare was once consequence, now is profit itself.
Thus, I have never known peace, and never want to know it.
But I can’t escape the consequence; each breath I fire out
draws in counter-fire: each breath is a self-quickening death.
All I want is perpetual change, but also to sanction that change.
I want a change that can never hurt me or take my property.
All I want is a history evacuated of the very motor force I constitute.
All I want is a history where my deprivation and oppression and exploitation
of the overwhelming masses can continue forever, unchecked and unbalanced.”

Since time is the essence of consciousness, time which is free
seeks the highest expression of consciousness: freedom.
The impulse of the ruling class to hyper-accumulate greater surpluses,
coupled with irrational allocation, only means greater waste.
An expa/ending divide which kills both meaning and time.
An expa/ending divide in the demand: “your money or your life.”
The question only has its meaning if the worker is bleeding.
It only has meaning if there’s trembling singing, and missing hope.

When we are made to abandon our most profound sense—
Historicity; our feeling of history; how history falls before us
at the level of our skin; how we locate ourselves in its epic—
all that remains to ground us is a generalized and empty time.
When meaning is lost, and so too any value labored for;
when there is no proper referential substitute to guide us;
In that temporality, we are led in serialized procession
by causal chains of history: fetishes at root.
They are formed from our practical engagement in society.
So, with every moment that passes, the true subject of history—
but a subject which knows better than to call itself one of history,
since its honest project is to end class-war-history—
knows no rest in trying to reclaim our “to be”
from the omnipresent ghost of our own labor.

History is reclaimed “to be” a stance of hope.
History “to be” absolution, stared in its eyes without revulsion.
History reclaimed from those who, in search of profit,
squander the life and health of the worker.

We will know peace. We will know rest.
We will know life. We will know love.
We will know dignity, and so much more.