Peace Report (TL)

This is a report on Report on stumbling across things in moments where peace no longer holds at all except perhaps as reported differences so shattered they can at least potentially be puzzled together again. It’s so obvious and indiscernible who is writing about what the disregard for individuation it makes the identification all the more troubling that is the wrong word, trouble, the wrong movement, identification. Better, the problem of deindividuation this is all plagiarized not all intimacy is an open book words and experiences enter and exit at will nothing belongs, you and we think to ourselves as another chance date opens a file on an all too familiar experience written by some somebodys we may or may not know. Correspondance can’t break down as it becomes redundant looks like a bygone from a time when writing was seen and said to come from a single thing with its capacity to single itself out for no longer single diffusion: the writing of the me thing. There’s no capacity for diffusion where there is no peace, where there are only more reports of shards of pieces proper nouns and psychotropics coursing ineffectively through the proverbial blood stream, the centralizing nervous system of the links their chains their unwanted associations they will continue to exist you aren’t capable of anything else which is not a style a form or a mood not an aesthetic claim it’s a little piece of you and you might be anyone you are never alone in the locked door of the apartment you are not alone inside your head and outdoors on the internet you become the not you of everyone else who is never alone especially when the reliable ones have gone, somewhere else, to a me world of administration and of bills and of knowing where me and you are stopgapped. There’s rumour that they exist. They have their ass out in your face in populous spaces with loud music where people pay to share a part of themselves like their ass in your face in the welfare room you sit down in to try to concentrate away the separation. It’s not the privatization of this experience that matters anymore. Old news. But no there is no stopgap no there is no point paying to compose in shared space you have plenty of company indoors in the apartment and outside on the internet. You open Report by mistake and it’s full of epigraphs and dedications and who cares whose words they are anymore we recognize the proper nouns others are everywhere for free in the report alone in the apartment we are outdoors on the internet there is no virus no ass in our body no difference between the pieces there is no peace there is work to be done the outdoors offers the words of others in the experience of a language which could be yours or ours it could be mine lol the proper nouns are the same the experience is so close to the triangle of minimum experience wage late and clear-cut a muddle of who is behind this and the wonder we enjoy the laughter, or worrying if this is making it worse. I have become so suspicious of the promise of comfort that I am not alone. There are people everywhere. Fears do not become less so by addition. But it’s impossible to stop. Reading, some of it sometimes in the wrong time always the wrong time you know in the apartment alone we are outside on the internet and there are others too they are so close yet you can handle you can touch and feel the experiences because no-one has their ass in your face in the welfare room in the paid ecology of people and music there is no ass out there on the internet alone in the apartment there’s osmosis of beauty and familiarity which is maybe making it worse although everything is in common gathered together in one tiny place where experiences shoot into your veins like estrangement falling into the other apartment from where the offer of something other than an ass has appeared like a report on an experience written by a clumsy doctor seizing the fundamentals while fudging the details if not the proper nouns. It isn’t, it also helps, it makes it possible to laugh. Medication, perhaps, how it always fails, how it knows only deferral how deferral is desolation how scared we are to have to ask when there will be peace enough to exit the outdoors on the internet and move outside without the speed of terror as it inevitably descends to populate the welfare room. If only this was a story of hedonism. If only this was not a practical report on why you and we why we and me on why outside is not safe like outdoors on the internet where you can be hurt and laugh with the others who are somewhere always in you not only when you seek them out they knock unannounced they speak through translucent repetition no one can know, everyone is already too everywhere for there to be perspective enough to know more than presupposition x, propadeutic y, absence z. Plug in there is not you and I or we there is no they or them or us. There is synchronism which destroys the point of the old subjects and it didn’t go according to the utopian plan the past evangelists of the moving beyond of things like subjects and egos ye those ones they thought presumably that fear was collective, confusing registers, category error, perhaps they weren’t fearful enough, so they had time to publish books. Now: don’t ignore everything that’s just been said but there is nothing as lonely as fear which fear the fear of never being alone on our own in the apartment fear for it all and for loved ones and yourself who cares. Rehabiltation does not mean anything bla bla we are all ill etc. No. This is not a book with an author and some publicity: there’s too much fear for it to be more than a piece Report. No thought went into this, there were no more heads in the apartments to be able to articulate like-minds but a stomach reacts to its surroundings and a stomach became a rock to defend against all that reality threatened. Gut ourself, become peace, report back.