it’s not that philosophy’s dead, more of a deceased estate – and there are more. We its unwilling executors.

neither politics, nor history either – the more – dead: unwelcome dead letters, yet legible, not yet crumbling in our hands.

it is not philosophy that is bankrupt. We – overdrawn – are exhausted like Beckett’s characters. Carrying…

is it not a Sisyphean task to drag the great rock of negation up the hill only so it may crush us on its way back down

in its groove …?

with these deceased estates, what must be done? honour the letters? live for the dead? their lives? their hollow heaviness?

and in execution of their last words, the will, what betrayal of life?

we are not supposed to receive in the spirit in which what is given is given – there is no will and contestation will only ever be that. Before the law.

the symbolic act, the sign, that is just what it amounts to.

now, what is the

where is the matter

to be found.