| Fate is the guilt of the living… of those who survived
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| And yet this forever fading light of forgiveness
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| Falls against and makes the shadow of guilt never fade
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| Each individual life is an absolute origin unto itself
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| Each soul is as particular as it is eternal
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| Each is an overflowing, and a movement forward
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| But one which stops again, shorted by guilt
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| Each one decays as it is drawn into debt
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| The debt of capital starts again from its own ashes;
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| It starts again from the other’s dreams it raises and shatters
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| It makes a desire-object of their labor and security
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| History has a motor force; |
| its subject has a drive
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| The subject longs to disrupt these cycles of pain and loss
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| History yearns to stop the cycle of irreparable damage
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| A market finds the restless eye of the rentier
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| It is an eye which hasn’t blinked in at least a decade
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| It improvises its supply chains, and miracles a demand
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| After labor value is lost, price loses itself in inflation
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| The production of surplus will suffice for blind survival;
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| The consumption of that surplus is what will blindside it
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| Watching its profit-margins slowly whittle themselves down
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| The producers are sold down the very river consumers drown in
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| All it has to do is reinvest after the crisis and sell-off
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| It is one self-interest which forsakes an entire populace
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| When reproduction expands deeper with every cycle
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| The rentier’s attitude towards life can only be irritation
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| The faster circulation of its life is anxious and agitating
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| Rest comes for it when rest comes for all: after death
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| Sleep and happiness can wait until that horizon
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| The rentier operates with simple maxims:
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| If there’s no demand, cut income and employment
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| If there’s no supply, let the working class starve
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| If the people strike, divide them and go to war
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| The cycle: find it, profit off it, and waste it |