What is the body which is not the question. The body, any body, is just a premature carcase-which certainly places secondary any argument of age, space or history.
Judgment becomes, when it is true, subliminal.
It almost never is of course that, but that is the matter. It calls these truth or hands, there is no other name for them. But what the plex of sublime judgment defines to be, like music under the earth and beneath the moon, for the first time and for the lunatic selvage, that which is the only truly known condition of the real. The rest is dressed. And of course inevitably, inevitably we love dressed.