The paras are only ever passing through. All this is only ever part of the burrow to them. Like, the world burrow, spreading through everything.
You should see their tattoos. What they have written across their bodies. Emblazoned across them.
There’s a code to their tats. It’s like the Russian mafia. It’s not about who they’ve killed, but what they’ve read. And not only read, but internalised. When The Visible and the Invisible is part of you, then you get the tat. Once the Critique of Cynical Reason shows itself in your every gesture, then it’s tat time.
The opposite of a hive mind, where it’s not about conformity. Where it’s not about towing the line. Each paragrad is a different blossoming. Unexpected. Unique. Irreplaceable.
They’ve read everything, but it’s like they’ve read nothing. The whole European tradition remembers itself in them. Comes to itself. Repeats itself, each time anew. Differently, each time.
Each inflecting it differently, the whole of philosophy. Each one living it differently. Each one, a thought-school unto themselves.
They live philosophy. Philosophy runs in their veins. They laugh philosophy. They love philosophy. Philosophy’s gone naïve in them. They’d bleed philosophy, if you cut them.
They’re philosophy incarnate. Living a life – carnally, concretely, really. In the world.
They’re the fruit of philosophy. Hanging from its branches, philosophy.
It’s like they’ve been through philosophy and come out the other side.
Twenty-seven words for study.
Work in Progress 