What could possibly represent modernity more than the one who revolts against it? One isolates a set of behaviors as degenerative, bound for self-destruction, and nevertheless counts them as necessary and inevitable. An individual consciousness may not be in the position to count itself on the right side of physics, though being on the wrong side of history could in itself indicate that one is, in fact, on the right path. Nevertheless, one is always on the right side of one's own metaphysic. It is easy, not only for one revolting against the modern world to forget that even those forces they consider to be degenerations are the cause of deep conviction, but it is often easy for them to forget that these very convictions were born out of an experience which held the same potential for a certain didactic mode of experience as one revolting against the modern world. What books one reads, where one was born, where one was or wasn't educated, in whom one found great hope, an antinomian messiah, a patriarch of counterweight to the current system; all of these create an animosity to what is before one, namely, against everything not purchased with one's own taste. One picks a Marx, another picks an Evola. The finish line is moved to the point just after which the greatest effect might favor the positions perceived to run most counter to anything common, anything which the very one holding these beliefs might participate in, any reminder that, in the end, it is only the one participating in society who needs to revolt. To liberate oneself to the outside is then an act of masochism, with faith in the destruction of one's self for the sake of gesturing to the world, and proclaiming, ‘Marked here is the space where a man could not be justified by any recognizable value.' In a way, it is a form of suicide, though it is one which cancels its own self-destruction if it means resting for a moment to watch the self-destruction of the earth. One who rejects the whole world could likely be one to accept the whole world too, or at least, a particular Golden Age, a certain epoch of humanity in which what is good was clearly measured only by those very mechanisms, inevitable in their unstoppable movement by which that goodness could descend. Organicity is a strange myth, in that one believes it is the default position at which nature operates, revealing itself at a point when the synthetic breaks down and just before the rise of a new synthetic. We look away as that which occurs to us as being the most forced, the most cunning, the most soulless, is revealed in its function to be as natural acting as anything we wanted to call organic. What is then needed, at the end of the day, is a morality, no matter how fictional one renders it. The necessary evils and the moral masks are ever playing out, burning up on the fuel of the oh so temporary bodies of which their mass is made and which the greatest tragedy of all has been built into their narratives surreptitiously and that is this: that ultimately, the mold and the accompanied condition of our highest hope rests, not in any model we can possibly apprehend through a time worn platitude or a beloved platonic model, but in the very space of impossibility, which is to say, the future beyond the imaginable, in a dark space beyond the stars, where one can create a cauldron into which any possible form may take shape and mold into a perfection, which the universe is surely big enough to contain.