The hand causeth thee to stumble—it’s better to enter maimed. Cut it off and cast it away. 

The hand causes me to stumble. I haphazardly commit adultery in my heart, and my newest object is a class alien (design, the fallout of images). What does the desire to possess it mean? “For the shame of my homeless ancestors?” Maybe that’s it. To screw myself into the body of comfort through (proletarian?) despondency.

At this point we have to offer an Oedipal curtsey: my very first tactile passion was playing with my grandfather’s ball-bearings—he worked at a ball-bearings factory. But this prolesploitation is a lie. There is no difference between us. There is class hatred gone missing, a kind of confused distaste toward the affluent. They are aliens not by virtue of their standing but because they have merged with it, because of the pleasure of being and having. For me prosperity is possible only through cutting things off. Satiety means turning into bread, to feed while diminishing oneself.

There is no hinterland in the class war. Nothing to grope for behind you, so you just cut off your hand and cast it away.

But also—hair. The hair of the object.