Years have been invested for nothing more than a few moments of fleeting pleasure. The ethereal ‘wisdom’ – as in singularity

rather than totality – is (inherently) never to be found: she is a wretched wench, we all know. Woe is me (+you+everybody else).

There’s something out there though, something that must be found; it’s only logical: the greatest idea in the world! Oh the euphoria!

(Skepticism abound; lashings of it, swathes of it!)

We want empire: we want all! But, why? These are the plugs that will fill the gaps of fact in our mind with more fact (not to be

confused with truths): to have; to own. More rapture! Imagine the power that one could have? The power!

‘Why?’ persists, though. It is our wish to know all, to have all, and all for nothing more than flexing in the presence of others like a peacock brandishing

it’s beautiful, beautiful plumage. For self esteem; to carry conversations; to make me feel good about me. It is, after all, the very same reason that we

dress up, we go out, we show off: it is ‘us’ that is deserving of such attention and no others.

Leave it all behind then. Imagine; imagine the possibilities! Insecurity abandoned allows space for progress: I didn’t consider my

shoes this morning evening, but that’s O.K.; it gave me time to think about better things! About ignorance. Ignorance is ignorance,

but a bit is good for you.

All this thought of thought leaves me in a state of great despair. The maths is frightening: with pencil and paper, it would take me more years than one

has to get through it all, tenfold! The dark room is increasing in size and there is still only one cat (that isn’t even there). We should all be quivering

at the prospect.

And with the empire…

Together (together, together, together) the challenge is, at very least, quantifiable: for it is the relations between people rather than the people themselves

that matter. All we need now is to create more, find more and create more! Ah, the rapture! She returns!

Wait!

We were damned from the start and we’re even more damned now. We did it to ourselves by even trying and we are beyond fucked. The only respite

comes when we forget, for all but a brief second, about the chase, only for it to kick us back down. Damn. It’s over; all a pipe dream. Never, no more;

again! We do it to ourselves and shall continue on such a course until land is struck, that is if land doesn’t strike us first.

Forget the rapture.

The mornings are but the endings of night.

Pierre Bayard, How To Talk About Books You Haven’t Read (New York: Bloomsbury, 2007