It isn’t just the vicious disregard for keeping one’s affairs to oneself, outside the realm of two factor authentication. It’s not just the decades’ long saturation with the culture of self-celebrity and pic or it didn’t happen (all those who sat on the bleeding edge 15 years ago repeated that phrase like a kind of self defeating koan). It’s how throughly we all have forgotten the ways in which silence visits violence on the foes and sycophants we’d all do well to vanquish.

We are against content production and those who produce it. First things last, on that account.

We prefer that the tincture of time not be wasted on those who would not withstand having their pupils dilated naturally, as though everything significant has always already happened. Give them the syringe with the drugs that can’t be swallowed.

We are against escaping lives of quiet desperation by increasing the volume of the desperation and the writhing spectacle of those in its throes.

More training reading the ones for whom making a moment is a death-in-life affair. It’s the mark that makes the picture, not the dent in the universe that the picture inflicts. Reception - the consequence of having looked and the effect of having been read - comes to wise fools and ascetics who have not lost an avaricious need for more feasts that hold the gaze.

We find that beauty makes its own argument, collapses its own interior walls, runs the score up doing desire’s blind bidding, and still makes time to strip from every interlocutor the first-person microphone.