This is the place where the fight is, where the battered tongue of the losing generation wraps its chronic loneliness around the simulacrum of existence we are left with. We have no reality, no believable code to live by, just vapid quotes beside black and white photos, continuing the senile respect of dying time, the time that has gone, those who have lived already. Those who were educated for free then tied us tightly to the medieval torture device of unshakable debt. Those who slipped their bloated fingers into the gloves of biopower and beat us into the smooth glassy ground where we are taxed with distracted madness, labelled by the printers of perverse labels a pure pathology, a pathology trapped in that glassy basement only able to look up at the neon advertisements of the final blinding rays of late capitalism. This – here, this space within you, with us – is the place where that is fought. Of course, we too are simulacra, we too live in a single selfie, able only to see our painted faces stamped with a logo. Of course, we too are priced out of autonomy and liberty. We too see nothing beyond what we have been sold. But we are angry enough to stamp a hole in this disgusting cell. We are sick enough to smash these chains. We are so dissatisfied we no longer have anything to lose. So we try to shake off a little of the grotesque corpse of dusty capitalism they have tossed us into, and we invite you in…