Sooner or later everyone has to come back to themselves; the postponed re-arrival to the same contradiction, the same deficit, the same bag of bones.
The blank fascia gives away nothing; no hint of the thunderstuck machine, raging and broken, that spews out facsimile after facsimile of itself in the night. Whilst the return was inevitable, it is still greeted with the weariness of one who has carved the same furrow in perpetuity.
Violence is the answer to everything, the nucleus of creation and destruction, old superceded by new not in stria but in upheaval. Upheaval, it goes without saying, possesses the structureless and absurd mark of violence, the surprising boot in the face that sends a person crashing five feet six inches from head height to ground, confused.
Nobody is surprised anymore when I suffer with altitude sickness and need to descend because the air is too thin for me. Parents, friends, shrug their shoulders and declare that there's never been much oxygen up there, and you must have been crazy to think otherwise.
In this case, the altitude is named L, the altitude is named existence, the altitude is named fear. The latter two must be overcome, the first one must be submitted to entirely.
