The determinations of this substance are only attributes that do not attain to self subsistence, but remain merely names of the many named One. This One is clothed with the manifold powers of existence and with the “shapes” of reality as with an adornment that lacks a self; they are merely messengers, having no will of their own, messengers of its might, visions of its glory, voices in its praise.

Initially this was a dream realized. Derrida wrote fiction, well, a “fiction” anyway. Like many Freudian escapes, it soon proved terrorizing. I’m not sure what the hell happened in or after that first section. Letters sent undermine communication, it is an absence delayed. I scratched my head, but only after the fact. Such despair. We leave the Envois, we have the Pleasure Principle and the apposite unpleasure. Where does it end? Derrida offers something: life death. I then began to skim. I am defeated albeit with a hope for a more completed future.
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12/12/21