Simon Taylor

The weightless singularity does not presuppose any sense, nor does it discover any sense through its experience in the world.Sense unfolds as creation, as a connecting desire, as the delirium that illuminates the event.For the members of the virtual class, who produce value by investing their cognitive labour,

So much of the performance of conventional NZ masculinity – what it means to be a man – can be summed up as false effort. The voice lowers, even to shuddering in its lowest registers. Speech is halting. It is a machine that stalls, turns over, starts up again with a cough,

unyielding insularity takes itself tothe arena of its own closure, the quasi-incantatory expending of the ‘I’ towards thecrossroads of its own necessary undoing, an over-exhaustion of the Self to the point of itsirrelevance, its self-excising, its reflexive desolation. Moreover, annihilation would by rightrepresent the most volatile engagement with sacrifice by

Am I speaking with Mr. Taylor? Yes. Mr. Tony Taylor? No, his son. Can I please speak with Mr. Tony Taylor? No. I’m afraid Mr. Tony Taylor is no longer with us. Has he got like a divorce? A what? A di-v-horse? No. He passed away. So who is