Our kind … So ill-fitting. So maladjusted.
Why did we appear? What’s are we for? Attitudes like ours … The thoughts that we have …
Our pathologies. Our maladies. Our disturbances. Our fantasies …
We’re a type that only appears at the end, as a sign of the end. Of the sickness of the end.
We indulge it in each other. We multiply it in each other. It’s accelerated. Given wings. Made to echo.
Our living fever … Which we have in common. Which we share.
What were we brought to Newcastle to do? What would Cicero have us do?
This excess energy … This extra darkness … this force of negativity … but what’s it for? What are we for?
What’s wrong with a time that produces people like us?
And philosophy’s only made it worse. Philosophy’s only given us a vocabulary.
Yet what we express isn’t philosophy. We express it through philosophy, it’s true, but it’s not philosophy. We’re using philosophy to do something else.
What for? Religious purposes? Apocalyptic purposes? To express our peculiar … personalities? Our living fever …
There are whole philosophies that we’re ransacking. That we’re selling for parts.
Our kind … our type … Harbingers. Preparers.
There’s a reason for this. There’s a reason for us.
Will we find out what we’re for? Will there be a special role for us that we’ll discover at the end?
Dreamers of disaster: why are they needed? Living death drives.
Work in Progress 