In their swooning twilight reverie, the author attempts to hit us over the head with a vague political analogy by drawing on Deleuze and Guattari with a direct quotation from Anti-Oedipus. This pseudointellectual nod, camouflaged by the citation “AO,” could be read as a confirmation of the initiated reader’s “superior intelligence” (assuming they don’t read it as cloyingly try-hard), but to a scant few will reveal as a signalling towards a lost, “pure” alterity. This sentiment may hold some weight in a time of pornsick inanity, but we, too, must admit that it could just as easily be viewed as a histrionic requiem, a bleary-eyed gaze into the past evoking Kant’s desperate plea to his servants to bind him to his own bed lest he accidentally masturbate in his sleep. It most likely goes over the heads of the average dull alternative comics reader, lost in their desire to read the most anodyne personal anecdotes relayed by an artist of equal stupidity to themselves.

We hold that the real meat of the story is not in an infantile attempt at a sort of weird fiction “Sous les pavés, la plage,” but in the sublime beauty of a shaky, terrified glimpse into the unknowable. Our goal is not to cloud this with analogy, with the endless ritualized repetition of references for those “in the know”, but to push towards a world beyond restriction, beyond language, beyond the real.

Your devoted servant,