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Catapulted into outer space, the future is televized to a based life light years from the past. "Eating your own shit is taboo", explains Monte to the toddler and performs a disfigured iteration of the hollowed word to reterritorialize equivocal corpulence in a billowing, nourishing bubble around them.[1] In times of gravitational change, the headless rider is torching the world of frozen language and defends madness by putting trust into the centripetal force of the vigilant, massive body, which prevents from getting tossed down. Irresponsible coachmen however believe, that thought can fly autonomously by centrifugal force, and even present lofty proof by a replacement of saddle soul with the presumably comfy, empty wooden carriage of Dasein, and repeat in parrot-fashion "Brrrrr", to rein far ahead galloping horse sense, without expanding any negative space. Such prudent correlationism is bs, what other than misrouted thought, would make the assumption of Being the connecting driver between itself and the horse? According to Spinoza, thought is the body in expansion, recognized only by the idea of Affektionen,[2] or in other words its spiritual physiognomy. The lit interface is essential for navigation through the eternal void of condensed bodies, invoking the experience of encounters of the third kind, through the framework of language. Only native speaker soul is fluent in alien communication, which indicates true intelligence, interpreting machine language into comprehensible animal-readable form, for the magic understanding of intrinsic concrete signs through the concept of abstraction. But some clones of automata authorize the self, as if in possession of this skill, to spread provisional AGI by a soulless Western concept of machine learning, and inviting hosts readily share the public profile of global 'us-ness'. However, the neglected, unanswered private object is missing signification and sensing the abduction of its very own future, thus dissimulates the advanced inate technology of occult improvisation to the mind to save the heartbroken from delaying the undesired human fate of being simulataneously projected and absorbed by the black hole and hails the acceleration of terminal cancer.

The possibility to produce precise images is refined by cybergoth Caspar David Friedrich. Lit impressions of materiality simultaneously arise as stark phantasms and airy matter, which in gay naivite are fleshed out with informal and unbound brushwork. Friedrich is cryptographically expressing megalophobia and awe of a steady if (un)spectacular monstrous force nature, which is carrying death threats out of the indifferent blue and thus pushes unappreciated background noise into perspective. The recurring trope of sailing ships signals hope, but in vain: it mere echoes cries for consolation in a nightmare yet to unfold. In formation with tiny humans, the inverter is turning his back at industrialization, painting veracious potraits of contemplating objects in grave solitude, marvelling into a mirror to behold the fogged terror of their joint effort. Here, the figurative mind stands not in opposition to abstract nature, performing inadequate and pointless acts to generate brilliant works of degenerate art through alien technology, such as bygone Human, which are declared by morbid binary methods as absolutely pathological. A desired world is a reflection of the hopeless attempt to avoid grave mistakes of a thoughtless nature, yet, by all appearances a revision of incomprehensible death and not a waste of endless possibilities, as extravagance of reasonable craft is pursued after finitude of free will.[4] By entrusting immortal human remains to the transcience of a canvas, Friedrich's paintings visualize the vicious transparency of time through speculative realism.

Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992), IMHO a faithful, parasitic representation of the novel, shows a portrait of the (un)polluted count, which resembles the famous selfie of Albrecht Dürer, who mastered the craft of painting at the climax of youth. Dürer's lopsided montage of most advantageous self-improvement hailed the rebirth of the classical age at the turn of the century with a celebration of hedonistic bodies in anticipation of a golden ratio in the making of ideal sameness. Adjacent to the right angle and opposite to laborious self-love, lies the prolongated, pleasant side of aesthetics, which arouses a reactionary passive gaze at the sensual bouche of the false prophet and defers a proactive engagement with a work of art. The photorealistic display of the posthuman subject in deadlock touts merely one future, present in Dürer's portrayals of a wretched mother. On the other hand, the representational character of the object is of utter importance, as sense-making thereof is restricted to its surface, and exactly for this reason deserves broad and full attention for a speculation down to its most realistic features. Only shallow people make nothing of appearances,[5] since but a poor soul reflects from the hypotenuse, and out of despair the self-hatred vampyr smashes it, and conspires, as a flat product of anthropomorphic illusion, with the perilious revolution of the body, instead of facing the struggle for its cultivation. Where shall we begin? Maybe with the metal movable-type revolution? Shariati is sensing the gravest tragedy of modernity in the existing widening gap of eductated - uneducated, which were closely bonded through a dissolving RGB ideology. Politics benefits massively from such opportunity and even cries out for antiquated educational reforms to allow lingering pleasure-seekers in neutral grayscale. Without substance, master capitalism can not even throw a shadowy narrative to the server and domains of infinite complexity, such as Wirtschaft, are compressed into the falsity of a simple slogan, that by power of perversion feels pleasantly always to be true.
The jobs of alien hilya are increasingly taken away by national psyche!
Lies!

Such ubiquitous sensing incidents are the immediate-attack-defence tactics of hollow, and therefore, malicious chatbots,[6] which hold only one message in storage, that is proudly announced to worm into literal, uniform mass sense-production. The momentous reference to poor Wirtschaftswachstum, which BTW never raised any proletarian, is the only information the addressee, a spoilt petty bourgeoisie, gets, but without access to decent coding, illiterate subjects are helpless in dealing with the autopoietic storm of indignation in which unavailable, valuable information perishes and urgent objectives are postponed to infinity.[7] Without working out the untouched, healthy fact, that fat cats require strict diets, the poetic, isosceles triangle conflates into a platonic line of Sarco pods, which marks the absence of aesthetics in fascist rhetorics, and blaring Among us! obsessives under the cloak of democracy, vent self-hate on imposters, which are vigorously trying to keep its legs in tensional seperation,[8] as otherwise not ever will make alternative sense. Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922), a beautiful, extraordinary, so-called silent, shadow play, holds the most effective weapon for emotional manipulation. Warmachines, fallen ill from blindsight and not capable of any reflection within the hideous, big-nosed grimace of Schreck, record low frequencies of antisemitic undercurrent, and injured soul, too weak to transport soundwaves into thought, is causing mass flatulence and somber mood against the gay Eastern Jew, who understandably is taking your wife and homeland.[9] Both applauding audience and makers of the film just experienced the unimaginable terrors of logistical warfare, but nevertheless, reject challenging therapy and get from quacks easily what they want; the prescription for the blue pill, a drug aimed to treat only the painful symptoms of PTSD, which is blatantly advertised to gain stiffness and quick recovery for a retour to business as usual, instead of rooting out the cause with the hard to swallow red pill,[10] to which the West prefers to stay blind.

"There is reason that all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand." ~ Count Dracula

AFAIK, rumour has it, that Fichte prefers a crystalline Wissenschaft, to amorphous metaphysics, which might mean the ascent outside the bowels of Rübezahl's liar, and finish off the emotional tears in rain at the mountains of madness, from where reason drops onto muddy reality.[11] But elements rest not, and overruled by the matter of surprise, falling rock destroys set models of the world and establishes a complete different pattern of experience, which rationalized by hindsight, is known through belly rumble all along. Speleologists like Laruelle agree on the scientific method but avoid the deadly peril of pushy phallic mining, rather gaming away linguistically and collecting as many sparklers from surfacing emp(ty)irical rock strata as possible, and making impregnable, snug room within the body without organs (BwO). Practicing Xenology inside the crystal ball of philosophy allows for a physical and spiritual withdrawal from the isolated idea of realism and opens the triangular trade of empiricism, transcendence and the real by a cunning combination of SF and formal logic, the rejection of premature understanding and persistant zooming in and out of knowledge.[12]

From the perspective of gray matter, it appears as if Dracula and Van Helsing, as pitch-light and bright-dark can be, hang about at the opposite sides of a labile society. In truth however, both are deep inside, but whilst the former illuminates the way outwards from the middle to the right direction, the latter suggests a continuance somewhat in the twilight, and is teaching critical (un)thinking to guide a doubtful group of solitary people, who are unable to form a logic of suspicious events on their own. By vigour of instinct, the experimental dance on the icy surface accumulates weight to break a frozen belief system and unites what thought incompatible, which most can agree on. Dr. Van Helsing cures blindsight by building a bridge to the heart and simultaneously burns it, to embold a swim for life in tempestuous, literate flesh, which is filled with uncomparable, uncountable qualities of moods, flavours and odours.[13] Now, equipped with multifocal insight and bold confidence, the empirical understanding of bite marks is making sense. After inflaming hearts, no one questions the integrity of the vampire slayer, who freely practices the dark art of pseudo-science, even when he demands to cut Lucy's head off and fill her mouth with garlic. But he just wants to make sure it is really dead, after all evil spirits had left the corpse. tbc

Made first attempts in tapestry crochet, the pattern can be downloaded here. Also learning Kurrent script, which was customary around the 1900s.

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