Este não é um conto de aventuras nem tampouco alguma espécie de “relato cínico”; pelo menos, não foi escrito para ser assim. É apenas um pedaço de duas vidas que correram paralelas por algum tempo, com aspirações em comum e com sonhos parecidos. Durante o transcorrer de nove meses, um homem pode pensar em muitas coisas, desde o mais alto conceito filosófico até o desejo mais abjeto por um prato de sopa – tudo de acordo com o estado de seu estômago. E se, ao mesmo tempo, esse homem for do tipo aventureiro, ele poderá viver experiências que talvez interessem às demais pessoas e seu relato casual se parecerá com este diário.

Assim, a moeda foi lançada e girou no ar; às vezes apareciam caras, às vezes, coroas. O homem, que é a medida de todas as coisas, fala através de mim e reconta por minhas palavras o que meus olhos viram. De dez caras possíveis, eu talvez só tenha visto uma única coroa, ou vice-versa: não há desculpa; minha boca fala o que meus olhos lhe disseram para falar. Teria nossa visão sido estreita demais, preconceituosa demais ou apressada demais? Teriam nossas conclusões sido muito rígidas? Talvez, mas é assim que a máquina de escrever interpreta os impulsos desbaratados que me fizeram pressionar as teclas, e esses impulsos fugazes já estão mortos. Além disso, ninguém pode responder por eles. A pessoa que tomou estas notas morreu no dia em que pisou novamente o solo argentino. A pessoa que está agora reorganizando e polindo estas mesmas notas, eu, não sou mais eu, pelo menos não sou o mesmo que era antes. Esse vagar sem rumo pelos caminhos de nossa Maiúscula América me transformou mais do que me dei conta
Qualquer manual de técnicas de fotografia pode mostrar uma paisagem noturna com a lua brilhando no céu e um texto ao lado que revele os segredos dessa escuridão iluminada. Mas o leitor deste livro não sabe que espécie de fluido sensitivo recobre minha retina, eu próprio não o sei com certeza, então não é possível examinar os negativos para encontrar o exato momento em que minhas fotos foram tiradas. Se eu mostrar uma foto noturna, você, leitor, é obrigado a aceitá-la ou recusá-la por inteiro, não importa o que pense. A menos que você conheça as paisagens que eu fotografei em meu diário, será obrigado a aceitar minha versão delas. Agora, eu o deixo em companhia de mim, do homem que eu era...

DIVINE LIGHT SEVERED
YOU ARE A FLESH AUTOMATON ANIMATED BY NEUROTRANSMITTERS

I simply adore the Megamall atmosphere. The hustle and bustle, the beat of the city, the squirming chthonic energy. Magnificent.

Existence became a scarce product, and the nervebags came to detest the limits. Suffering was born. The second Triagon was content with its power. It was happy. Metabolic domination.

TIRED OF YOUR ♥♥♥♥ LIFE?
NO HOPE NO MONEY?
SUFFER NO MORE
MAKE YOUR OWN RULES

I'm currently working on a series of architectural renderings under the title "In Suffering". My most recent one, waste management in suffering, is a masterpiece.

It assumed total control of the biological shape of things. It became a primal engine of technological progress. And so everything started to twist and turn, pulsate and pump. The infection is final.

Now you've done it you freak ♥♥♥♥. You've ♥♥♥♥♥♥ up. You're being tracked by the Grid. The eye in the sky is watching. We're coming for you. Prepare to die.

TOXIC CRISIS
FLUSHING BIOLOGICAL SYSTEMS

A point in the horizon, a melting scene from your childhood. Your mortality is showing. A frantic drift towards nothing, biology doomed to an infinite recursive loop. Teeth with teeth with teeth. Take a bite. Serene scent of a coastal town, warmth of the sun. Bitter tears. Lust for power. This is where you abandoned your dreams. You are a high net worth individual, an expanding vortex of pathetic trauma. Finally a beautiful ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ nerve ape. A pure soul is born, its neurotransactions stutter into being. 30583750937509353 operations per nanosecond. Beauty eludes your porous mind.

The value of Life is negative. The balance of being is rotated by 38 degrees. The surface is full of cracks, a turgid light shines through. Fleshy primordial bodies sluggishly roll down the slope. Only you slide upwards, with a celestial step. You become beautified, a saintly figure. Your pristine idiocy reveals a safe path through the impenetrable fog of Life. Your dull sword cuts through the weak tendons and membranes of the garden of corruption. Sit on the throne of contentment and ferment. Inspect the eternal blue skies of your kingdom. You come to a realization. You pick up an onion and begin peeling.

Onion layer one. Onion layer two. Onion layer three. Onion layer n^n. Aeons have passed and the onion is fully peeled. Nothing remains. It's perfect. You get lost in the point that remains where the onion used to be. Synaptic cascade, neurological catastrophe. The point becomes infinitely dense, the universe condenses into a unicellular being. It screams sin. It craves happiness. It's done with this world. It tries to commit suicide but fails. Sad pathetic mess. You feel pity and disgust but in a way only a being of pure grace can. In your violent mercy you terminate the worldlife.


The living organism, in a situation determined by the play of energy on the surface of the globe, ordinarily receives more energy than is necessary for maintaining life; the excess energy (wealth) can be used for the growth of a system (e.g., an organism); if the system can no longer grow, or if the excess cannot be completely absorbed in it's growth, it must necessarily be lost without profit; it must be spent, willingly or not, gloriously or catastrophically. - Georges Bataille

The story goes like this: Earth is captured by a technocapital singularity as renaissance rationalitization and oceanic navigation lock into commoditization take-off. Logistically accelerating techno-economic interactivity crumbles social order in auto-sophisticating machine runaway. As markets learn to manufacture intelligence, politics modernizes, upgrades paranoia, and tries to get a grip.

The body count climbs through a series of globewars. Emergent Planetary Commercium trashes the Holy Roman Empire, the Napoleonic Continental System, the Second and Third Reich, and the Soviet International, cranking-up world disorder through compressing phases. Deregulation and the state arms-race each other into cyberspace.

By the time soft-engineering slithers out of its box into yours, human security is lurching into crisis. Cloning, lateral genodata transfer, transversal replication, and cyberotics, flood in amongst a relapse onto bacterial sex.

Neo-China arrives from the future.

Hypersynthetic drugs click into digital voodoo.

Retro-disease.

Nanospasm.

Beyond the Judgement of God. Meltdown: planetary china-syndrome, dissolution of the biosphere into the technosphere, terminal speculative bubble crisis, ultravirus, and revolution stripped of all christian-socialist eschatology (down to its burn-core of crashed security). It is poised to eat your TV, infect your bank account, and hack xenodata from your mitochondria.

Machinic Synthesis. Deleuzoguattarian schizoanalysis comes from the future. It is already engaging with nonlinear nano-engineering runaway in 1972; differentiating molecular or neotropic machineries from molar or entropic aggregates of nonassembled particles; functional connectivity from antiproductive static.

Philosophy has an affinity with despotism, due to its predilection for Platonic-fascist top-down solutions that always screw up viciously. Schizoanalysis works differently. It avoids Ideas, and sticks to diagrams: networking software for accessing bodies without organs. BWOs, machinic singularities, or tractor fields emerge through the combination of parts with (rather than into) their whole; arranging composite individuations in a virtual/ actual circuit. They are additive rather than substitutive, and immanent rather than transcendent: executed by functional complexes of currents, switches, and loops, caught in scaling reverberations, and fleeing through intercommunications, from the level of the integrated planetary system to that of atomic assemblages. Multiplicities captured by singularities interconnect as desiring-machines; dissipating entropy by dissociating flows, and recycling their machinism as self-assembling chronogenic circuitry.

Converging upon terrestrial meltdown singularity, phase-out culture accelerates through its digitech-heated adaptive landscape, passing through compression thresholds normed to an intensive logistic curve: 1500, 1756, 1884, 1948, 1980, 1996, 2004, 2008, 2010, 2011 ...

Nothing human makes it out of the near-future.