There is something wrong with this place. It's infected with capital. Alice’s east end looking glass hipster adventure. The spiteful visciousness of irrationality’s pretence of objectivity. It’s gloating mimickry of the creative act. I have tried to leave but still it pursues me. This wrongness. This zoneness. Ah game flow onanism. It’s psychological so therefore very reputable. Do me and everyone else here a favour and do one.

So begins the earliest fragment of deadend speak. Known widely as We are the deadends.  Or Wir sind das Deadends depending on whom you’re speaking to.

No-one seems to have any idea how the scrap came into being but there is some suggestion that it may have been a relic from a house clearance in Gerrards Cross.

The Deadends seem to mumble like miscreant school children from a culture that has become trapped in the closed signals of self-advertising. Each deadend artefact is an advert for the next.  Take a trip into the wilds of the deadends they scream into a cushion smelling of spit in the front room of a senior deadend councillor.

There is one theory that perhaps casts the darkest shadow of all over all deadend research to date. This being that the deadends are not dead at all and are openly playing dead in order to survive the skin searing blasts of rationality they had begun to inflict upon themselves some time in their not too distant future. Put that in your pipe and smoke it granddad.

They can be “seen,” obtusely, in circuits and failed relays, in jumpy moves and the layered textures of a scene. 

K. Stewart
 
 
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Our Beginning