Sunday, 31 January 2010
DERANGED: IN DEFENCE OF ABNORMALITY (BY Deranged. A publication on mental health and revolt).
In defense of abnormality
To my beloved anarchists,
and unending verses
For my loved ones of Bocanegra.
It is a fine virtue, that of not judging.
“I want to feel something that smacks of life”
“He’s probably an imbecile since he was born, a complete idiot...
Let us pray to God so it be that way”
The doctor’s comment in The Elephant Man (a film by David Lynch)
[ This Manifesto does not seek to generate aesthetic judgements, interpretative lucubrations nor any sort of enjoyment whatsoever for the reader.
The act of contemplating assumes that the effort to tackle change has failed: Overthrowing reality has nothing to do with clumsily playing at giving it an interpretation. All that is sought is a jolt, a sudden blaze.
These pages are happily condemned to catch fire... And whatever this fire-raiser will drag along with it, is yet unwritten. ]
 In order to begin a third assault on class-society, we need to clear the field. The theoretical task that we take on, lies in determining our position in this assault, studying all the abilities, movements and tactics that will be necessary. All in all, we are aware of the fact that each and every one of us must carry out this chore by his or her own means. Nobody is going to come and do it for us.
We are sectioned people in struggle and we believe that society hinges on the Norm. Ever since we were little, we were taught to follow the guidelines, not only through institutions like families and schools but also, increasingly, through medication. It isn't surprising to see doctors prescribing tranquillizers as if they were sweets to the most “unruly” of children. None the less, we realize there is a key turning point that usually, although not necessarily, takes place close to adolescence. There comes a point when most people realize that there's some thing or other in Reality that doesn’t fully convince them. Often enough, we come to this conclusion by means of our own parents’ view... This new outlook usually goes to show that this world is not as terrific as we are told, that life is not necessarily that beautiful gift they had told us over and over again. When suffering disillusionments, beatings and the loss of hope start to give shape to this doubt, we make a choice between two very different paths:
On the one hand, we may choose self-destruction, with its many variants, ranging from drugs and suicide to voluntary ostracism... On the other hand, we might opt for plunging, one way or the other, into the networks of the Mental Health System.
This is how you come to be suddenly seeing yourself, not knowing very well how, sitting in an examination room of the public health system, in the office of some therapist (there are a thousand different sorts of the like in the market), or either directly tied to a stretcher in the psychiatry section of any public hospital. And you never knew what hit you...
Once you're here, two things can happen: Either they reduce you medically in order to rejoin social behaviour as if almost nothing had happened, (which is usually more difficult the stronger the impact you generate against the Norm), or you manage to worm your way into the chronic spiral of suffering one relapse after another and of being medicated and involuntarily confined. The doctors are in charge of reminding us of this in the following way:
“Given his characteristics, we should not get obsessed about speaking of a recovery, but only about reaching the most pleasant standard of living as can be attained”.
At this point, when you reflect on the need to wage war on society and its tyrannical concept of normality, when you declare yourself a warrior thanks to nobody, and you wrestle with medicines, judicial orders and filthy scientific authority, you assert yourself as an individual in this desert of homogeneity and disenchantment.
The struggling sectioned finds himself as a living contradiction in this Little Game of theirs. He is the one that states:
“The masters sometimes make mistakes, their forecasts and their scientific theories aren’t worth a shit: here I am, I'm not dead nor drugged, I've suffered and I'm damned in the hell of this Machine. Now I want to settle the score. The system has lost its air of innocence, and it will never recover it. Now it has nothing to seduce me with. Democracy presents herself as the old toothless whore that she's always been, covered in make-up. Once my health has been stolen, I do not want knick-knack commodities: What I seek is merely revenge.”
Here we behold the possibility of bringing back a conflict free from all reformist yearning, from citizenly and social-democratic reasonings, so in fashion nowadays.
A battlefield as old as the world itself is inaugurated: It's the Norm against the Madman who doesn't want to bloody well lay down and die. This Society that's so perfect, so invulnerable and seducing has, nevertheless, an enemy. Her adversary has seen her from both the inside and the outside, and he doesn't reproduce the commonly regarded guidelines of behaviour. It's a ghost that awaits at the roadside clenching its teeth.
We know pretty well how the gears of our misery work. Now all we have to do is make a strategist out of every single one of us. We find ourselves, of course, in a privileged situation: They can't buy us by increasing our salaries. They won't silence us by lending us spaces and infrastructures. They cannot negotiate with us simply because they can’t even see us. Our hate is too deep, and it will not be easy to eradicate.
We don’t want to make false promises of a better world. We want Something Else, and this involves setting fire to the present. Until then, we find it meaningless to speculate. We have nothing to sell. We don’t want to convince anybody.
We didn’t get into this painful situation by ourselves: we fell because they pushed us. A whole world dragged us into the hole, and that same world will pay for it.
 In order to be able to understand anything these days, it is absolutely essential to get hold of what is concealed from us.
 The need for a strategy is more evident now than ever before... Lightning doesn’t travel in a straight line.
 We have been swallowing all the crap they’ve made us believe since we were kids. We have reproduced the subtle mechanism of power by which imposition becomes a value... But since we are able to guess how this mechanism works, we are aware that making up a name does not solve the problem. We are the live example of it. Imbeciles, deranged people, idiots, madmen, weak minded...
We declare war on the world that declared war on us such a long time ago!
 Can you remember when we were kids? Can you recall when we were at school and every day there was a child that threw up? The caretaker always had a bucket of sawdust at hand. How many of you throw up now at your workplace, in the classrooms, at the doctor’s? Don’t you see?
We've got used to living in a nausea.
 Pain engineering: They’ve built a Reality with no loose nuts...
 We are better off if we win a different world, rather than living in this rubbish dump of dreams. We're better off waging war than being atrophied by living a life of dead and empty hours. We're better off in a delirium than in this daily nightmare. We're better off opening breaches than dozing off in niches. We're better off being mad than being zombies.
 Order becomes necessary. Not an order understood as an imposition, but as a determination, as a strategic construction. Stop swimming in the middle of the ocean. It's all about attacking, about living.
 The meaning of subversion comes down to facing up to Normality. Subversion is the mother of all sorts of pains and pleasures, and they are hardly ever balanced. In order to not fall over and over again, it is necessary to know where we are and sketch a plan of the plot we are standing in. Unfolding the maps that will allow us to recognize our enemies will help keeping us alive, and not becoming a part of the kingdom of objects that surround us.
 The owners of the world and their spokesmen tell us to obey the rules of their board game. This means nothing to us. Now we realize that they never let us decide whether we wanted to play in the first place. It takes up everything that exists, even what could potentially be. Such are the disproportionate capabilities of power. Now that we are in Orwell's era, we can assert that our dreams are being watched over. We hide them, we sharpen them... That's why we can't get close to following the Norm. That's why we can't give them up. We just can't betray ourselves... because otherwise we will be absolutely dominated.
 It’s our game: Madness is not easy to retrieve, because you can't understand it. Aren’t all the Sciences of Modern Man, like a smoke screen, playing at dissecting it? Isn’t it the sewer where they hide everything they can’t understand?
Madness makes you look precisely where you didn’t want to look. That's the reason why the madman exhales art and hostility, why he can’t help it and why he's alone. It's a risk.
 A war is always begun if it's to be won. It wouldn't make sense if the warrior had any other idea on his mind.
 In the insurrection against the domination of the homo normalis, it is necessary to study the different acts of power that give shape to our lives. It's not about building great theories or systematizing totalities (or global-ities), but rather about analyzing the specific mechanisms of domination. It’s all about pulling at the thread in order to take the stitches out of the web that sustains this Mess. It’s looking for tools, running away from the systems, shouting at our enemies in the face and discovering the(ir) truth and other lies.
 When we take a close-up of the psychiatrisation of daily lifestyle, we disclose the invisibility of power. If we can’t put forward a judgment in terms of good or bad, it is expressed in terms of normal and abnormal. This difference, wrought in the heart of society, is justified by resorting to what is positive and what is harmful for the individual. The homo normalis perpetuates and reproduces itself and its dominions with the help of power modeling our lifestyle (from our bodies to our gestures, attitudes and reasonings) together with the technologies that operate in the society of standardization. We stress two of them: The medical technology and the penal technology. In the dark tasks of the psychiatrists, both of them come together, going to show how medicine is interrelated to the legal arrangement of our ways of life.
As these psychiatric approaches are unleashed, human behaviour is placed under the scope of medicine. This is easily proved by the fact that psychiatry is an auxiliary technology in the courthouse, and that Valium is a fundamental part of common occidental culture.
 Medical diagnosis is nothing but a qualified lie, a cogwheel that guarantees the correct running of the spectacle.
Doctors are cops. They are the military wing of an imposed way of life. They even have a uniform. We should be as scared of tablets, scalpels, straps and electrodes as much as we fear guns, and they should evidently disgust us. Their impunity, the social prestige that they enjoy, continuously feed our rage.
We wish the same darn luck to both henchmen, no matter what Heaven’s Door they may guard. Pain is never for free. That is a lesson we've learnt.
In that case we are not interested in peace. Turning the other cheek is for mediocre spirits who are unable to understand anything. And anyway, there would be nothing left for us to do but letting them beat us up if we weren't to respond. There is no way out, they smashed us to smithereens a long time ago. This is how intolerant we can get: We are not accepting their drugs, nor our confinements, nor their electro-convulsive therapies, nor their attractive and scientific jargon. We have survived once, and now we are back to put our enemies to the sword.
Does it offend anyone? We invite them to take a walk through a Mental Hospital.
Should we try to understand them? Why not see ourselves in the shoes of our class enemies? We will obviously not do so. If they had done so just once, they wouldn’t be able to sleep at night either.
 Pain was materialized some time ago. We've all got eyes to see it, even torturers can. Each one of us should reconsider their place in the Machine. Psychologists and psychiatrists, have no fear of losing your status! If you carry on annihilating and denying us, you'll risk losing a bit more than your safe position in this reality.
 We're going to make a place for ourselves in History, and we shall not stand under a state of emergency.
 No matter what happens, our values have never been and will never be those of the market. There is no way back. We reject once and for all this perfectly organized world of disappointment where the market and technique walk hand in hand, (and, in our case, together with medicine). They draw their pay in human material according to the demands that our own social (market) configuration requires. The pain we suffer as “mentally deranged” is still a necessary element floating in the stream of capitalism that flows across all occidental democracies. The spectacle of our suffering entails gigantic economic benefits, in a cruel social peace. Who could possibly be interested in ending it? The pharmacists? The businessmen-like therapists? The university's researchers? The judges? The police? ... The struggle against the Mental Health System does not question partialities. On the contrary, it must be aware of what it puts forward in the first place: The destruction of this world.
 Democracy took off its mask the first day we went into that white coat’s surgery.
 We know that what we think is dangerous. We make clear the obvious fragility of lies... Someday we will have to fight in the open daylight against the manufacturers of disgust!
 Mental disorder is not a mere consequence of the existing social structure, but rather its estimation. It is imperative that we become aware of this in order to recognize our enemies. There will no longer be any innocent executioners.
Going insane, living in a permanent state of make-believe, between the coming and going of unending empty images, with absolutely nothing behind them, so loudly mute. Madness is not just about standing here and killing time. It may not be as evident, but it also takes part in the Producing and Consuming Clockwork.
 We admit that there is a real conflict between the way our heads work and how our lives are presently organized. This is the point where we agree with the specialists in charge of safeguarding society’s mental health. Nevertheless, our reality and theirs are miles away. And we're not precisely thinking in walking all the way up to their’s. We're not going to accept any sort of reinstatement, we don't want to get used to their lifestyle, nor learn how to breath under their watchwords.. in the reign of merchandise. In this war of powers the world consists in, we opt decisively in favour of ourselves and our desires. Do we owe anyone anything? Pain isn't to be paid for with submission. We take part in a constant revolution opposed to meekness and submissiveness.
Autonomy and self-esteem are our weapons against democratic alienation. It’s madness versus mercantile sanity. It’s rage and despair unleashed against money and infamy.
 The Machine has weakened our Truth (the denial of this society) in excess. It's impossible to defend her gracefully. Hard times. The moment has come to attack.
 Fear gives way to pain. Or... pain incarnates fear, and fear always has an origin. It doesn’t matter if it's irrational, unexpected or if our heads can hardly cope with thinking about it. It's difficult and sometimes impossible to understand fear, but this doesn't mean it appeared out of thin air. Fear isn't a God, although it sometimes behaves that way: It doesn't grant existence to itself. This is where our hope lies. Pain is an essential condition of our truths. I don't care if truth is legitimized by a majority. In our days, truth is built on lies. In fact, we can't even say these days are ours in the first place. It's a spectacle, a performance, the empire of the complete denial of life, the non-life. Now we can defend our thoughts. You can't talk to someone who is unable to hear. It's taken us a long time to understand that screaming and stamping about are useless. The dialogue has been torn off. We must stop bashing our heads against a concrete wall or otherwise we might disappear, giving our enemy the absolute victory. We must take the offensive. Why does our behaviour have to work according to some rules we don’t believe in? We’re playing at someone else’s game where everything is given in advance. A homicidal game.
 Defeat. Once we've managed to move on, dragging ourselves beyond the limit, our new strength is outside the laws of logic. When we get to this unknown space, what is impossible acquires the surprising ability of becoming possible.
No, nobody will be able to judge our actions under the watchful eye of common sense. Only homo normalis’ Power of Reason can guarantee that one particular step goes after another.. And it turns out that Reason is a toy that has exploded in our hands.
 As a last resort, the only thing we have to say against all that exists is NO.
 A dialogue with the masters cannot and should not take place. Merchandise doesn’t fancy us playing down its absolutist position It makes it impossible to communicate, because every refutation crashes into the system itself. That's why there are only two possibilities: Attraction or conflict When democracy tries to seduce us with the her mermaids and their songs fail, a repressive shooting party is unleashed.
Capital doesn’t doubt, it grows on fanaticism. The incredibility of capitalism’s social, economic and ecologic balance, entails the infallibility of the system: Absolute and unquestionable, and completely unreconstructible. A bloody nonsense.
Capital still remains, but it doesn’t convince. Internal coherence does not safeguard the system from its barbarity.
 Man has become a work-beast that has given himself over to the giddiness of his own manufacture... Damned humanity, we curse its rights and values. We are Something Else. What will they call us? Who are we? We're the mentally deranged ones that should be dead but never get to be killed, that should give in at last, and stop making a fuss. Could it be that we belong to a family of unmentionables? Is it that this madness of ours, that this anti-capitalist delirium, may be the key to invisibility? Where shall we stand, then? In what cupboard? Is there a place for us, the struggling sectioned, in the spiderweb of oppositions with which the system has conquered human life?
Here's a secret: The uncertainty with which the system discarded us, is actually our most powerful weapon... Because we mean nothing to them, we can be it all. And that is precisely what we’re looking for.
 What is more alien to systematic nature than a madman searching for self-esteem in a merciless battle against the system itself?
We are the enemy they didn’t bargain for, the war machine that power never took account of as a threat, and threw into its rubbish-dump. That's why we don’t go into the distressing dialectic in which the opposing parties give life to each other (criticism becomes part of what is criticized). The circle of perdition is closed one and for all. We are and we bring about the suspicion of chaos.
 And who do we like? Who can guide us? Who will want to set himself up as our new master? Will they want to convince us that they too can orientate us and clarify a territory that we are almost certain they completely ignore?
We must look for weapons that the enemy won’t be able to retrieve.
 UBI LEONES (an ancient inscription sketched on the border of maps in Rome)
Where are the boundaries -from where danger really lies- in occidental civilization?
We have surpassed them. Come and get us, come and see.
 Without tablets, electrodes, straps, bolts... how will society assume that difference it will have to live with? The mere presence of a world, of a complexity that isn’t structured like their own, will induce disturbance and terror.
(Is it that we are aspirants to terrorists? It’s for you to decide).
 Nobody has invited us. We have crawled out of the “never-never-land” they confined us to. The reality of the homo normalis is built upon artificial foundations so fragile that the mere sight of us already unmasks its vulnerability. Our presence is the first step in the destruction of the world.
The revolution that never ended, is back.
 In the heart of the battle, where will they look for us?
Will the upholders of the Standard ever think about playing at the old game of getting inside their opponent’s head and thinking the way he thinks? No, they aren’t so foolish. They know too well that they’d never last.
 Are we close or far off? We have the advantage that they still haven’t got it very clear.
 Long live crazy anomaly, wild anomaly!
We evoke the great contradiction of a rancid capitalism and its own democratic propaganda that has been here for too long. This contradiction implies the existence of anomalies. How can the unity of social organization be protected against this strange and stigmatized madman, and at the same time keep up the appearance of a liberal position that assumes a vile belief in “human” justice and equality?
 We want it all, but we’re not covetous.
Nothing taken by force will quench our thirst. Only destruction will. Only the possibility of confronting an instant and expecting nothing in exchange, will. Because then, everything can happen. We embrace dignity.
 If we don’t swallow their tablets, how will they calm us down?
 Not knowing, not seeing, not finding out... Just surviving, not living, lethargic, vegetating. Be careful so that nothing unexplainable disturbs you... What would they do, then? Live, maybe?
The earth is cram-full of zombies. Homo normalis stinks.
 “Hate is the antithesis of altruism, a feeling that regulates the economy of the relationships between subject and object, protecting the identity of the Self. In order to live with self-respect, we not only have to love, but to hate as well, in an effort to destroy whatever discredits our dignity”.
 Fully-equipped misery makes us sick. Illness seems to be the only way to exist we've got left under the aegis of organized lie. And it hurts.
 Decision: Either we dissolve ourselves in history or we get to be the main characters. The second choice can only be fully understood from the point of view of risk. We can die... or we can survive behind bars, or they can leave us all alone, or we can go as mad as a hatter. We can’t deny this possibility. But then again, we must be aware that the first choice, the acceptance of a misery equipped with commodities, means nothing but death.
In consequence: if we decide, we must arouse fear in those who have to be frightened.
[Maybe this is the only point we declare ourselves democrats in: we are sick and tired of fear belonging only to a portion of population. We support the democratization of fear. We want to hunt them down viciously, in the same way they've been persecuting us. We want them to know how terribly real our pain is. We want to turn upside down the things that looked eternal... and have a bit of fun.]
•Life presented as a tablet that anesthetizes us till the end of our days.
•Playing and fire, a power that opens our eyes, and lets us come into contact with the meaning of not-being-dead.
•Discovering the Others, those undesirables that we love so much. Solidarity, smuggling.
•Lets look for weapons, open the ways out. May the homo normalis choke on normality and pathology. Lets let them know that we too can make him cry.
 It's not true. Drugs don't help you escape from reality. If so, we would all walk around like zombies without hesitation. Its aim is rather to make life inside the system a bit more bearable. Draw your own conclusions...
 To understand. Understanding is how we forge the definite weapons to see this way of life off. Once we've realised that we either assimilate their reality bit by bit, -avoiding asking ourselves why things are like they are-, or we swallow it up and burst, we can't walk backwards. Time is left open, like a fresh woundcut by a bold cutting edge. That's when anything can happen.
 This world can only be assimilated in tiny portions. This fact is so lethal to the eyes of those who have sensed how it works, that a great Nothing becomes embedded in their eyeballs. This perspective may become a military privilege, and those who looked had to pay the price of disenchantment: Something was torn inside them.
 We must learn not to run away until we're certain that we're being followed. It makes getting trapped more difficult. “Fear can be your ally, because it makes you more wary and cunning. But if you're shit-scared, the enemy will easily find you merely following the stink”.
 Some children are playing hide-and-seek. One of them has been caught unaware in his hideout. He covers his eyes with his tiny hands. He thinks that if he can't see, maybe the hunter won't be able to see him either. Wrongly enough, he believes in the invisibility of blindness, although deep inside he knows he's been caught. Nevertheless, he repeats that powerless sign: he hides his face, he refuses to look. Fair enough. We can't be subversive until we've learnt to get over this.
 No more consolations, thank you.
Awareness is the spark that lights the wick. Once ignition has begun, the curtains begin to rise, one by one. We can decode the language of the world because we have begun to see, and we've found out that it's not all a bad dream: That it's a neverending nightmare. Homo normalis doesn't live. He just waits. We know it, and he doesn't. That is what makes us different. Different worlds, different pedigrees. Evidently, we can see who holds the position of superiority. It all comes down to honesty, in the end. This civilisation of hypocrisy has endured too many winters. The lies must give way to Something Else. Insanity is our candidate. To understand means to see things as they are and to stop being mislead. It means discovering a mercantile hand fondling every portion of reality.It's learning what it all means, and making it fall.
Once we've split off this society and we've begun to conspire with our equals underneath the moon, dreams and rage begin to bloom in our hearts. In order to follow our dreams, we need the fury. Without anger against what there exists, one is a zombie: He shits, he sleeps, he works, he drinks, he fucks, he buys, he prays... He lives in a graveyard and he surrounds himself with carrion. His days are unending mortuary rituals that praise annihilation. Wrath without dreams is an arbitrary stripping. Dreams without the savagery of denial to spice them up, are nothing but pipe dreams, fantasies. We hold them both, one in each hand, like knives made out of starry nights. They are our treasure, our threat.
 It is necessary to risk everything, from the beginning and for ever on, in order to face Homo Normalis' hygienic point of view.
 Human rights are grants. We have nothing to do with the bloody humanity. We're Something Else. The secret of our endurance lies in this certainty. Human Being has ended up being Normal Being, and we know well what sort of life he has designed for people of our stock.
 We're not trying to save anyone, for zombies are usually happy being dead. Come nearer to your friends, discover them between the shadows. Breathe with them, make a gang, assault the cities.
 Fraud: That's how we explain the show that current human relationships put on. It's a stage full of smoke. It's a rough trick, badly schemed. We wish to master heresy.
 Opening your eyes: enduring acid rain. We have to be able to see her coming, and take arms in consequence. Nothing to offer, nothing in exchange. This is how communication works in the bloody city. It doesn't matter how much you believe in or what they've made you believe. Disappointment is the only valid formula.The demolition is repeated over and over again. However, nothing falls. The dirty globe goes round and round. Burn down in flames!
 The Norm is everywhere.
Yes, it also lives in those “anticapitalist” collectives, in the “revolutionary” trade unions, in the redeeming “organizations”, in squats, in diffuse and informal groups, in the bosom of nocturnal saboteurs, in “affinity groups”.. Disillusionment. It was really stupid to think that it's basically the same saying one is opposed to something and really being opposed to something. We therefore search for refuge in empty militancies only to discover that Homo Normalis' discourse had already reached the guts of his presumed rivals. There is no liberated territory we can start with. We have to fight for it.
Homo Normalisis an administrator, an accountant that takes stock of the investments. This activity flourishes everywhere. Labels don't mean a thing anymore. We have nothing left to offer and although this is the reason for our downfall, we prefer to celebrate this scarcity of ours rather than crying our hearts out.
 It's a capital mistake that stings, and it stings for life, having looked for friends where there were only acquintances.
Appearance is not qualitative, and neither is the gesture it generates.
The behaviour we criticize from this society is reproduced in the antagonist political ghetto. A series of roles, rules and standards are set up. Some exclusion mechanisms often appear: They're but bastards of the social construction system. In this context, we prefer being excluded-dropouts (marginal squared) rather than excluding-dropouts. It all comes down to a question of revolutionary elegance. It comes down to honesty.
 In a reality organized as a T.V. show, images by themselves are crap. Homo normalis may make himself look like a revolutionary, he may live in a squat or dress in black and even wear a hood. But deep down, it's the same shit: Marketing administrates the world, the arithmetic of profitability rules life. Illness has nothing to offer, there is no possible barter with normality's smile, whoever it may come from. We place our cards on the table. A poker of spite is all we have. We're eager for a good old fight: We've been building this desire on the ruins of our pain.
We're struggling against the psychological war broken loose by this society. Practically nobody wants to see it. There are no martyrs, no grand heroic exploits to narrate in the “alternative media”. The battle is underground, daily and unto death. When people start falling and you carry the prison inside, when the blue uniform is swapped for a white coat, everyone else looks the other way. It's as if the illness was more revolting than the world itself. In their filthy war, the first of our enemies' military objectives is fulfilled: Isolation.
 We've wasted days searching for the power in the scrap yard, but finally we've realised that its not there where we'll find it. What we're looking for can't possibly live in this miserable world that doesn't belong to us: Its backdrop is a snuff movie, always on play. There's a draft of this power in the star about to explode we've all got on top of our shoulders. Now that we've lost a whole world and we curse it with all the might of our hearts, we're ready to conquer a new one, one of our own.
 A few thoughts on the assault:
•Attack in such a way that when you strike at your enemy, he realises what's going on only when you've been at it for quite a while. This is the only way his possibilities of response may vanish. It takes him by surprise... There's some advantage for you.
•The enemy is hardly ever obvious, or at least not in such a long-lasting war as this, where paradoxically striking at our opponent may even confort him. We must dissect its body in order to discover his weak points, weak but not innocent. That's where we are to attack.
 We're shrewd enough so as to understand how the world works, but there's still a long way to go if we want to be able to live our life. That is our one and only intention. A conflict arises.
 Let's assume our contradictions and, therefore, let's assume the pain of having to live with them. That which we feel deep inside can never vanish completely. There will always be a gleaming live coal, willing to burn it all down. At any bloody price. It makes no concessions. The tension smashes our nerves to pieces, it dooms us to loneliness. It drives us crazy.
In the meanwhile, it makes no difference to us whether we burst.or not. The worldand its values have given us the boot, and now it's the end of the line. They always knew what they were at.
 A way of life has failed. Standardization is the name of coercion, a modern version of concentration camps. Democratic uniformity. The concept of existence results in obedience. See the streets, the television sets. Take a look at the weak-willed offal that man has become. Our disease is the witness, it's the judge, and so it passes judgement: Yes, a way of life has failed.
 We're not selling a new way of managing reality. We're not offering a messianic alternative. We demand this infamy to cease, we demand the decline of western civilisation. Death to a way of life (or un-life, rather) and to the man who built it. The era of Homo Normalis must be over and done with before its stupidity makes the whole planet burst. From our illness we're screaming for an anthropological mutation, the only revolution we can truly name Revolution. It's simple: We just want to live our lives.
 Homo Normalis is a cowardly being, in essence. He's a slaughterer hiding behind an obscene smile faking good intentions. Let's unmask him..
 The revolutionary is someone suicidal that hasn't fully managed to understand the fate that the Machine had dictated for him. It's merely about asking for a life that's worth living. He who denies this society, already faces risking death. The struggle against what exists implies an armed goodbye. It's either war or suicide.
 We're not waiting for anything in return, but that doesn't mean that we're getting ourselves used to the idea of losing.
 We'll bring the storm in the name of our love. May nobody try to diagnose it: he'd never work it out.
We got lost in madness. We just went to have a walk in that forest, and it swallowed us up. A few days ago, a few months ago, we found a little path buried under the Autumn leaves. We're still on our way. We're getting closer to the boundary. We can assure you that we're not going to fall. Get ready. Here we come.
Long live those little warriors,
long life to bellicose children!
March, year 19th of the Orwell Era.