There is a great illusion that we pursue. To be in control of events; to suppress the chaotic forces that swirl around us. The dream of constancy is a butterfly aloft above the chasm. To know that this is the case is no solace. The materiality of the self resists with equal force, and so our flesh remains intact, and our identity demands similar continuity. The threat of dissolution through death, or worse, through incapacity, stalks each of us. The persistent continuity of the flesh belies the fragility of its intentionality. Your musculature will retain its shape even while your will and hopes are distorted out of shape. Your lungs will keep breathing, and your heart will keep beating, even while the you that you believe you are is slowly, inexorably evaporating. This is entropy.

And how does one discover this evaporation? Through anxiousness and dread. The thoughtless fear of disappearance will numb you. That tingling of the fingertips, the shortness of breath: the body is not in distress. It will adjust. But the you that you think you are will be reduced in preference for the body. And you are nothing but, after all. The you that you think you are, if all else fails, will sleep.

There is the essential quality of familial relationships, i.e. between the suckling child and the nurturing mother. Beyond that the connections become strained and the entropic forces pull what is artificial and dispensable apart. Fathers are eliminable. What will naturally decay must be held together by force, and if local force proves insufficient then increase the size of the family. Church temples, burning inside with the fervor of the faithful, bind the sheaves together, burn the sheaves together and so keep the hoarfrost of cold death outside the Family of God. The wind eventually blows from within, blows the doors off of the church, and sweeps out the charred (m)embers of the host, onto the street, cold and quiet.

Political entities, parties that like termite colonies serve the queen to grow the party, grow the swarm, consume the soldiers/workers. This is held together by its own weight, but those flying buttresses will crack eventually. More disorder, colder, quieter.

The state, a reified, sado-masochistic fantasy, is mass hypnosis.

Culture is that awful pop tune stuck in your head.

Yes, the bits of us that matter are matter and they are spinning away from each other (faster than the speed of light?) Disturbing.