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Only to be here, typing, have I always been directed. This and every point is my continuing culmination to itself. There is no other explanation but this: that every heartbeat of moment is both the product of fate; and simultaneously fate in produce. Each is therefore a circuit of justification, knowing nothing outside. Each a tiny singular revolving datum in cell. And each consists of identical weight to its neighbour. All values are equal and relative: moral, emotional, physical, political, human, other. There is no system; such is the totality of order. Only a self-reflexive hierarchy, a false one – an ossified arrangement. There is no logic, only contradiction; no education, only falsities; no knowledge, only liars. Reification is total. Individualism is long dead, and buried far beneath what pretends to be history. All beyond the aforementioned is the great machine’s pretence of society, of randomness, of thought and decision. This is caused by the motor that be. It is large, frightening, everywhere. Those left who are in the position to acknowledge its existence are few, and fewering. They have been made sparse by their enemy. Many do not yet realise their enmity with it, and will never do so. The great technocracy is upon humankind and the menos mutants left behind – remnants of prehistory – are being culled. Its progress is inevitable. The sleeping ones are dominated from within, before birth, by the sounds that surround their respective wombs. Their possible escapes are rapidly diminishing in number, and their potential saviours have had their powers truncated. The avenue once leading outside are not blocked, nor burned out. Instead they are engineered to form a gradual curve, with a radius so slow that is impossible to discern. The destination is, and from now always will be, itself. There is no answer, and by deduction no problem. The consistent repetition, capitulation and catapultions of words from its subjects are the food on which it feeds. The bastardised lingual form, once known for its weight of beauty depending on its mechanic, exists now in the form of advertising. Its purpose has been demoted to plug-lines. The only energy left is that which is channelled through sales. It is the hose through which all movement passes. Awards are gone. Gods are no longer needed. We are the future. We have unleashed ourselves upon ourselves, and few can identify themselves. Our colours are mixing back to the original human standardised form. In eventuality the dye will run to mass conformity. Our inevitable forwardness is regression. Regression to what was previously known as a point in history, but now only known as the culmination of evolution. The probability of our existence is that we are already dead.