In the trick of poli­tics we are insuf­fi­cient, scarce, wai­ting in pockets of resis­tance, in stair­wells, in alleys, in vain. The false image and its cri­tique threa­ten the com­mon with demo­cra­cy, which is only ever to come, so that one day, which is only never to come, we will be more than what we are. But we alrea­dy are. We’re alrea­dy here, moving. We’ve been around. We’re more than poli­tics, more than set­tled, more than demo­cra­tic. We sur­round democracy’s false image in order to unset­tle it. Every time it tries to enclose us in a deci­sion, we’re unde­ci­ded. Every time it tries to represent our will, we’re unwilling. Every time it tries to take root, we’re gone (because we’re alrea­dy here, moving). We ask and we tell and we cast the spell that we are under, which tells us what to do and how we shall be moved, here, where we dance the war of appo­si­tion. We’re in a trance that’s under and around us. We move through it and it moves with us, out beyond the set­tle­ments, out beyond the rede­ve­lop­ment, where black night is fal­ling, where we hate to be alone, back inside to sleep till mor­ning, drink till mor­ning, plan till mor­ning, as the com­mon embrace, right inside, and around, in the sur­round.