A walk among trees. The desert, there hasn't ever been an instant, a mitochondrial engine of time. You stand in the dark (A kinder surprise egg). I love you, but you contain something that I desire, so I tear you apart and consume you. Politics concerns itself with a plane of thought that does not concern itself with thought, at a discursive level that precludes any possible model of change. Aphoristic journalism, the shorter the better, twenty four two twenty. Imagine standing on the shore of a lake, and in the depths, past the weeds and scum, submerged, you can make out stalks of light. It will never rain again. The lights are attached to posts suspended by undisturbed surface tension. The forest that surrounded the lake is absent, a dull, post-consumer aporia. The submerged city respires, slowly drowning in the last oasis on the surface of the earth.