If every man of ideas is an idealist then the sum of every part is capable of situating a form to every thought that has no description apart from the emptiness it is said to be, as a thought. Undressed, addressed. A calculation may be a thought, an idea, an idealism, or a form. If a part then a part away from every part. Apart in the past. Like literalism or common sense qualifications of quality. Not in the past, but apart, there, in part. As a part of what it is, emptied to receive the historiography of its name. The demographics of name idealism. The man and the sense of his ideas, a form of writing about not-writing. To fit things in to the time it still takes.
Every man who is an idealist thinks that he is an idea.
Every idea that looked like a man was thought to be an idealist
Every idealist that thought he was nothing but an idea believed he was a word.
Every word that was ever spoken imprinted upon the man’s soul and looked back from the past.
Every image from the past is a nothing but from a something there.
Every man that confused himself with an idea that was a nothing but, was nevertheless an image of a something there.
Tom’s foibles are an image of something there.
The intersection of systems T & E an interesting proposition of which R feels at little liberty to comment upon. Although, beneath the semi-erectile haze the two systems do somewhat mingle. Despite the one sailing off from the other and the other sailing off from the one they still collide on the flip side sharing a brief reconciliatory gaze before setting off again on another monotonous tirade.
To have an ideal is to be an idea,
An undressed address, a continuation of success.
A manifestation of present shortcomings.
Yet, all these clarifications can only be assigned retrospectively
“What is an idea?”
-“Fuck off Socrates”
They just are and I don’t want to be