To Whatever Is Left Of The Bourgeoisie (first letter)

There were millennia.
Build a relationship.
People arrive from nothing, hoping to get a piece of what you’ve got. Newcomers become fixtures. Definitive events and institutions are infiltrated. Who do they think they are? Will they be better at being you?
There were centuries.
Listen first.
Some take over coveted roles despite their novice stature. You’re going to have to deal with them, regardless of their aptitude, shoddy frames of reference and contempt for your seniority and expertise. They keep showing up, from situation to situation, always youthful, keen and ruthless. Eventually (sooner than what seems fair or deserved) they become a part of the establishment. You end up sharing the same corpus. Gestures and regulations change. Different language and concepts threaten to leave you behind. You’re forced to keep up and negotiate as these new colleagues start to complain about the next hangers-on.
There were decades.
Talk money.
Everything solid melted into air generations ago. Nothing has proven sacred enough to be left alone. We know this stuff. We understand the ongoing conditions of our lives and our relations with one another. We post intentionally obfuscating fantasies about them all the time. We don’t need to reach the top or centre to know these rarefied spaces are the same as the ones we’ve left behind. All is emptied by equivalency.
There were years.
Don’t push.
Acquiring knowledge, information and the publicly affirmed appearance of being knowledgeable and possessing information – they’re a lost gambit for control in the face of capital. It doesn’t matter what you believe in. You become a double agent committed to tactics as an end. You proceed against your own being and notions of society. You maintain crisis through the repetition of realpolitik stop-gap measures.
There were months.
Set reasonable expectations.
You’re terrified that an up-and-comer will take your place. There seems to be nowhere else to go and nothing else left to do — except for the alarming possibility of disappearing among the proles.
There were weeks.
Respect time.
I am writing this not sent letter because I believe you should take heart. Please abandon your despondency! Our inherent dignity, intelligence and sensitivity suffer within capitalist relations, and they might remain unknown to others, perhaps even to ourselves at our most atomized, but they can never be cashed in. Monetization schemes, algorithms, the rape of frontiers by elites — they find their limits in both the unquantifiable potential of our originary being and the obliteration of the living world.
There were days.
Deliver on promises.
A beautiful singularity, a future of futures, is held inside the object you’ve become.
There were hours.
Follow up.
Let it out.
There were minutes.
What happens after the sale is as important as the sale.
It’s not too late.
There were seconds.
Build a relationship.
The proles demand it.
There was time.