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  • Dear nephews,

    I would love to chat around the pettiness, however meaningful, of summertime. Its delicious elbows, its delicious knees. I must not, though, not today, for the master of my genius impatiently demands great hight, great depth, great amount of truth and great magnitude for every thought-fixing activity, writing included. So yes, my love affair with the snappiest brunet I met on a breezing summer night in lower Granada will have to wait. And this is what you get, managed despair, or pure text, from this very much and self-engaged observer. A gloomy report, you might say. Well, why not?

    Everyday, within the massive load of crap the internet brings, we learn about a few new ways to go and build the recollection of our taste. It is supposed to be complex, daring, frightening, and often apparently cruel not letting yourself go where familiarity is not, but you have to, for the sake of rice and beans, you have to go and, if necessary, be viciously disrespectful to anyone who tries to interrupt you.

    The more you look at contemporary social life in big cities, the more reactionary it proves to be. Trying to interrupt the new with one hand while faking the new with the other. Part of the secret to the sacred action of choosing yourself what to praise, then, is being as throughly blind and deaf to feedback as possible. It means not caring with your guts. Not caring like an evil, unwilling God. There.

    (And being, I repeat, viciously disrespectful to anyone who tries to interrupt you)

    Don't trust things like a socially constructed behaving consentience. It's a lie, to be dead. There is, yes, the bloody urge to prove your power and defy otherness, and this we accomplish from a simple, un-crafted burp on the face of the other or a spit on the sidewalk of others, to a captivating drum beat, an academic-like thesis, the cooking of a meal, or the making of a novel. There are law-like codes, too, some agreed upon signs, some fears and some things on your way to be ignored, even destroyed. Make it summer or winter, don't leave much, I say, and don't go far. Avoidance.

    Avoidance's got it all to be THE word of the century. Exiting your internal and precious miracle world as little as economy allows, for instance, to eat and respirate, not engaging, not participating, and most wisely, not sharing. May the forces on the outside work the cleaning and organization they are indebted with, oh, the constructed chaos, may the nations all regress to cold armies, sweating for what, on their planetary derby. We will always have sound-proof apparel, and the prospect of playing one beautiful music after another, kind of nonstop.
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