the cold winds of the interregnum

The northern winds churn their charmed ice palaces in the womb of winter. As the terrible news of civil war freezes the face into a hollow ghost like howl, I sit listening to industrial odes to my own wrestling with the angels of annihilation. ...

The politicians pick the bones of the language games whose wreck they have engineered. Whether the terror and ethnic and religious strife whose images they abhor and keep from reaching us, they bicker about civil war just to save their imperial asses.

If there's any truth to contextual historical accounts, it's that those who control the language games do so not in the search for confessional truthfulness but out of a despairing clammer up the dung hill where they play king of the hill.

I hear many on all sides of this clash of civilizations triangulate the amount of suffering that is or is not meaningful in this war. Not only this, they also say that one death equals so many more of the other side's dead. They thereby implicitly condone an algebra of human suffering that crazily skews and cravenly sears the mind with despair.

For those who hope to inoculate themselves against the sickness unto death with reason, all is caught in the intransigent antinomies that honest Kant once descried. Though he later betrayed his own thought with paeans to Reason, he eventually came to his sense when he saw the heart of darkness called radical evil.

No politician would dare touch such a notion though some on the right try to marshal its theological cousin original sin to their propaganda. The Left of course is simply caught in visions various forms of u/dys-topic meanderings that any true revolutionary has too much salt int their bowels to believe.
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