The 100-step quest to say nothing continues, in the form of a paragraph, which charts the dramatic twists and turns of ostensibly saying something, which leads, perforce, to a position, since it will be perceived as such, inevitably inviting opposition, some of which will assume a loftier position, such as “his prose, while impressive, suffers from poor characterisation”, and some of which, cloaked in anonymity, will fight out ancient logomachies borne of the bipolar disorder Our Lord, the Word, bequeathed us, through a self-conflict formed over millennia, but here fashioned within a mere 47 years, in Worcester, say, where Last Man Standing opines “I’ll RAPE you mother and take a DUMP on her corpse before I GUT you like the DISGUSTING and USELESS aborted foetus you are, you PATHETIC excuse of a man”, an extreme position, you might think, but one whose limited discourse of targeted hatred (its arsenal only has a few dozen expletives) has moved towards the mainstream, helpfully nudged along by an army of sexually frustrated troglodytes and state-sponsored hackers whose mission is nothing less than the destabilization of language itself, it is getting hard to keep up with the forces furtively shaping it, where it resides within the ideologically porous borders of Europe, which only a few decades ago was a place of languorous hedonism and recreational ennui, where keys were placed in ceremonial bowls, before bored partners swapped each other around, and Scandinavian-produced porn afforded an intimate knowledge of the anatomy of the vagina, buffeted by a thick pubis like a lonely juniper bush on an undulating, windswept landscape, fuck, I just spilled coffee on my duvet, as I was getting back into bed, I always break around this time (8:37am) for coffee and a slice of rye bread with cheese and sliced avocado, followed by a chocolate bickie, perhaps my indignation unbalanced me, having just heard on the radio a Goldman Sachs spokesman gleefully announce a sharp rise in the value of shares, which is little surprise given that former Goldman Sachs employees are a major part of Trump’s administration, including his chief strategist, a man who believes ‘an’ apocalypse is coming, and I share his cyclical view of history, albeit for radically different reasons, but I will not fight or resist whatever trite tragedy is coming, for the sake of a better tomorrow, or for my non-children’s non-children, because I am sick to death of humanity, with its painfully limited repertoire of histories (war waged on deceptive premises followed by periods of shaky peace in which culture and politics temporarily vent our growing restlessness), it doesn’t deserve the gift of consciousness (myself included), let it cull itself, let it consume itself, it infuriates me that it can’t be satisfied with the extraordinary level of comfort we have, that it has to be “growthier” as the Goldman Sachs spokesman put it, that malignant orange lump that spread to the heart of power fed off our worst instincts, there are places in cyberspace that make the public squares where justice used to be meted out look quaint in comparison, and this may sound horribly exaggerated, but I feel a little bit like Stefan Zweig did in February 1942, but it is Friday, and I do not wish to depress you, who are surely looking forward to a lovely weekend (there is a sale on at Panorama), so I will conclude my paragraph here, its spikey outrage will level out, the text will temporarily flatline, and another small step will have been taken in the 100-step quest to say nothing.



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