Culture is dead. It committed suicide because it had become successful. The liberation of language, a poetics of freedom of the word, the Futurists' parole in liberta, the jouissance of schizophrenic discourse, the transrational zaum of the Russians, all fit perfectly into their preordained boxes, gagging them forever. The violence of pure heterology runs rampant in the streets.
Poetry has no impact on people.
Right when they think it does, they are furthest from its transmuting power, to which the weak look back in nostalgia. Personhood is fictional. There is no synaesthesia right around the corner to bail us out. Only the foolish believe that technology has an autonomous status. They rush into its arms expecting salvation and find only their own asphyxiation.