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This is both the product of love's labor and a reflection on that labor. A reminder that utopia is a stone's throw away. Utopia, not the vacant dream of poets, is the incarnation of another time, a present engulfed by shadows, and alcohol, the darkness of bedrooms, mortality faced with its own non-meaning. Immanent alterities arise from bodies once anchored to themselves. We are destroyed by ghosts from other worlds. It strikes the flesh with lips and breath. Love is always violet, like lightning. Love and love as the only form as labor is what will be found in this labyrinth. The world has detached working from desiring,from desiring the joy of others, fulfilling the needs of others, being loved by others. In love, there is the labor of mutual production, mutual distribution, mutual use. It is the social life, the intimacy of immanence that we wish the whole world to radiate with. Its smallest demands, if listened to rend the misty fabric of time, spawner reality. Its laziness is contagious, its dreaming mind knows no cynicism: the thousand cosmoses expand before it. Whatever clocks once grinded their hands fall limp and useless. The boundary of thought, of memory and expectation, of language is love. In the end, every piece of technology must be turned towards the designs of beauty, towards love no matter which atrocious labors the world originally forces upon it. This is a step to turn a technology made hostile to the furthest reaches of longing towards the ends of utopia. To create and magnify the instances where utopian time unites with our own. One of these instances is love. Love is the way that history will end. Not with a bang, not with a whimper: rather, with the sound of a thousand stones breaking the windows of this world. We hold those stones in each other's hands already.