I haven’t talked about myself. Which is normal for people in my position. You see, the thing is as follows: When one deals full time with the surveillance of failed life plans, one very quickly comes to the conclusion that there’s nothing more ridiculous than opinions or life plans or—doesn’t matter—people. With their so-called aspirations and their priorities. Their conversations and actions, which, after all, primarily consist of the fact that people shit someplace. I can’t take anyone seriously. It’s a job-related affliction. No psychological shock over the liquidation of a few subjects, no mourning, just—ridiculousness. I observe myself in every act, in every word, in existence. And can barely stand it. Professionally I know that anything of seeming importance can be terminated in seconds by, for instance, imprisonment. A trial or none, a hearing or then again none, a cell, a little torture, an open pit in the dirt, and that’s all that’s left of us. A helpless pile of biomass. Everyone wants only: sensations they can’t fabricate. And they try so hard. Be it through sex or intellectual work, through murder, brutality, auto racing. They try to relocate the excitement that humans lost when they started settling in place. When they started carrying out duties every day. This much is certain, the sensations they wish to reach will never be attained. If they only knew that I don’t even bother observing them after a while. That is the true penalty, not even being interesting enough to be surveilled. So

I’ll get back to”

DON