History repeats itself. [Somebody said this.]
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
History is a little man in a brown suit
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history ...
But none of them are ours.
Thinking is forgetting. Only in forgetting can thought be born. 
We think because we forget. 
Thinking generalizes, synthesizes, eliminates peculiarities, but only as forgetting enables it.
Forgetting traverses thought with the same intensity as memory. 
Neither forgetting nor memory is absolute; the capacity for thinking rests upon this notion. 
Both forgetting and memory must counteract one another through their interaction in thinking, so neither one may overcome the other. 
Thus as there can be no thought without forgetting, there too cannot be thought without memory, without its flashes. 
Memory coats our every thought, our every generalized remembrance with that personal, individual, unique fragrance that makes it our own. 
Forgetting may engender thought, thought may be subordinated to the arbitrariness of forgetfulness, but the senses are devoted to memory, to the preservation of that which logical thought, subservient to forgetting, attempts to suppress. 
It is out of this interaction, in this interaction itself, between a forgetting that spurs logical thought as surrogate memory and the memory of the senses that resist generalization, that thinking proper occurs, individual thinking, creative thinking, free thinking, thinking in itself, unbridled and innocent like a child.
[...so, what did the letter say?]
If the mind, while imagining non-existent things as present to it, is at the same time conscious that they do not really exist,
...this power of imagination must be set down to the efficacy of its nature, and not to a fault, especially if this faculty of imagination depend solely on its own nature— that is if this faculty of imagination be free. 
[In light of this previous statement I present to you the question: Why do we not protest the incarceration of our own imaginations, yet demand vociferously the liberation of things like "trade" and "the market"; things which ultimately rob us of our imaginations?]
“…in all probability, the virtual is now more powerful than the actual, and the conceptual possible more real than the real. The brain has surpassed the world and, in the antagonistic fashion, is making another out of it.”
Irony looks cute on no one anymore. [He said so]
It is a distancing technique meant to be used to highten the impact of what is being presented through counterpoint; it is not an affectation meant to adorn the presenter with an appearance of disaffected boredom, disengaged ennui.
This has cheapened our lives and has shrunk our authentic experiences into molecules of ridicule. 
Are these wolves of condescension the brutal monsters of inherent human evils or merely the products of starved intellectual reasoning. 
Does the body become rabid when starved of it's right to it's own psychological responses? 
Is naked, paranoid aggression the outcome of increased constriction of variation within our social norms? 
Do we become aggressive, contemptuous, scornful, with inhibited cultural freedoms?
80s ephemera; B-movie stars; and the under-tongued mocking of disaffected, arrested/perpetual adolescents have usurped any real emotion and dismissed it as banal. 
This usurper of the 'real' is it's sibling, the 'hyper-real' in the form of paranoia. Through this militant cynicism it instructs our experience of being and transforms the norms of social exchange into boredom and mockery.
There are tales of a wandering bandit bringing meaning back to our exchanges, but in the end the rightful king "Sincerity" the Lionheart won't ever return to the throne. [BTW]
It is a testament to the true power of the late stages of capitalism that we are ashamed to express our true emotions and desires, however it is thoroughly acceptable -even preferable- for us to simply cynically mock the entirity of 'being' with our 'cool adoration'. Nothing is that can interest me. [I think that is the next line]
We are paralyzed by our own fear of ridicule. We walk in the hum of our own deteriorated being. The experiential half-life of a civilization denied its right to cultural exchange beyond the structured role of docility; the obedient and passive receiver.
It isn't something as spectactular as THE END TIMES that is coming- it will just be droning.
Not the bang
Just the whimper.
-or- You could only bring yourself to love money; my love was poor and couldn't buy the dirt to bury you.
Comprehension of the watchworks behind the capital-circuit only explains the non-livability of life under these terms. We can participate only in willful ignorance.
We consume on an ever-increasing schedule, that is the only permitted manner of existance.
That first symptom of knowledge and "survival sickness" is severe depression; a consistant and enveloping disillusionment with what was once perceived as the magic of the world.
Dogs must find a place to shit, but finches don't share that concern. 
Hebbel, in a surprising entry in his diary, asks what takes away "life’s magic in later years.’ 
It is because in all the brightly-coloured contorted marionettes, we see the revolving cylinder that sets them in motion, 
and because for this very reason the captivating variety of life is reduced to wooden monotony. 
A child seeing the tightrope-walkers singing, the pipers playing, the girls fetching water, the coachmen driving, thinks all this is happening for the joy of doing so;
he can’t imagine that these people also have to eat and drink, go to bed and get up again
We, however, know what is at stake."
Namely, earning a living, which commandeers all those activities as mere means towards an end not of our own. It reduces these daily actions to interchangeable, abstract labour-time incriments, the benefits from which are only ever fractionally our own. MinimaMoralia
An appearance of enjoyment is the primary, and to no small extent necessary, attribute required for all of our successful social exchanges and yet that very illusion is empty, fabricated. This deceit of joy is how we convince others (and to extent ourselves) that we experience life fully; that we have transcended the role of mere subsistance-existing machines.
This saccharin happiness is the only acceptable emotion with a positive social cache as it is proof that we are doing this whole "life" thing correctly.
No- there is no attribution. Assume everything here (images, video, music, writings) is stolen and re-applied.
