Derrida, I ask for your wit.
It is a certainty that I can say little and mean much. Whether I actually mean what little I say is only as certain your thoughts. Derrida was quite sure that any communication, especially typed communication (the very thing you are looking at now) is completely flawed. He was pointing out absurdity. At least I hope so, maybe I misunderstood him. Maybe he really was looking to show us that because you can't be here as I type this, you will never know my real intention. In that vein, I should tell you that there is a hidden code within here. Find it and I shall buy you a beer/pop.
I'm lying.
I'm truthing.
These letters are signs that only have meaning because we know the code. If I could start typing now in greek, I may have no understanding of what I type, but they are letter/signs that had meaning. The delay and decay of that meaning has made them meaningless save that they are pretty little things.
I'm buying a load of bricks.
*Why? I've not given a reason. Infer what you will. Maybe I'm making a wall. Maybe I have a historical reference in there. HINT!*
lord
*What's my inflection?!*
What is my intention
No interference here, I'm coming through crystal clear. Look at the detail of a genuine me! *Look at the photoshopped image I flash at your eyes.* I twist it before it hits the eyes, perverted before it can pass through a synapse.
I'll tattoo my shame, it'll just look cool. Misunderstood like some cultural symbol poplurarized by a society so bent on consumption we've long forgotten something can have meaning without being a fad.
Truth? Is that I don't care. Life is hardly worth living when we can't even figure out how to just simply live! Control control controller, controlee. Hardly an interface. Hardly a doorknob. I grab, I twist, I rule the fucking front door. That's control. That's power. Get off on that.
What a genius. (oooo, who's that about? Who did he mean?! GOD I MUST KNOW!!!) *Deconstruct that bitches*
Fuck it, it's going to be a mystery. Unless you figure it out, then you get a beer/pop. Unless I'm lying to you.
Good day. *Am I lying again?!*
I'm lying.
I'm truthing.
These letters are signs that only have meaning because we know the code. If I could start typing now in greek, I may have no understanding of what I type, but they are letter/signs that had meaning. The delay and decay of that meaning has made them meaningless save that they are pretty little things.
I'm buying a load of bricks.
*Why? I've not given a reason. Infer what you will. Maybe I'm making a wall. Maybe I have a historical reference in there. HINT!*
lord
*What's my inflection?!*
What is my intention
No interference here, I'm coming through crystal clear. Look at the detail of a genuine me! *Look at the photoshopped image I flash at your eyes.* I twist it before it hits the eyes, perverted before it can pass through a synapse.
I'll tattoo my shame, it'll just look cool. Misunderstood like some cultural symbol poplurarized by a society so bent on consumption we've long forgotten something can have meaning without being a fad.
Truth? Is that I don't care. Life is hardly worth living when we can't even figure out how to just simply live! Control control controller, controlee. Hardly an interface. Hardly a doorknob. I grab, I twist, I rule the fucking front door. That's control. That's power. Get off on that.
What a genius. (oooo, who's that about? Who did he mean?! GOD I MUST KNOW!!!) *Deconstruct that bitches*
Fuck it, it's going to be a mystery. Unless you figure it out, then you get a beer/pop. Unless I'm lying to you.
Good day. *Am I lying again?!*
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