Libertarianism

A Novel

David W. Pritchard

Libertarianism: A Novel
by David W. Pritchard
with a new introduction by Ludwig von Mises
2011

Introduction
With the successful application of our justificationalist epistemology onto all the free,
rationally self-interested subjects, we have at last tied the final chapter concerning the
understanding of human action to a close. Humans act, therefore everything. All the mysteries of
means and ends have been demystified with an ever unassailable finality. We are not wrong.
This project will persist, despite the throes of petulant resistance put forth by those who wish to
shackle the intractable Ego to inauthentic sentiment. But we do not believe in sentiment; for we
have reason to suspect it is the enemy of Liberty.
What is Liberty? Leave me to do as I please. There is no Other. There is only I. Who can
still claim the subject is not the ontological apex, without a grimace escaping them? Who can
still suppress their chagrin upon propounding the legitimacy of obligation? Those who still insist,
nefariously and insincerely, to confiscate that which is most natural to I; namely, pursuing the
unlimited possession of All (there is to own). Do not mistake any mention of a we as a
reference to coalition. We do not coalesce, our ideas merely convene; for, I repeat, there is no
Other. Wherein claims are lain about such an existence, of the Other, therein evil lies too.
Precisely this is why the works here written possess an import of such magnitude, thus far
unparalleled by any other, vis--vis the beneficence of Man (with the most gold). All the myths
of altruicity, debunked; any notion of rapport, dismisseddiscarded. It will indeed prove
difficult, grating even, to reenter the world after the I's divestiture from the mythological Other;
but this is the nature of enlightenment. For we claim: Those who artificially boom, shall bust,
they must. Thus our ontological cycle dismisses intervention.
The weakest links need breaking, for they hinder our project of Progress (are there even
any more gold mines?). The empirics are in, and they unequivocally substantiate all the
arguments here enclosed. It is up to them, now, those with the shackles, to refute our doctrine
(except they actually can't because our axioms are true by definition).
L.V. Mises

"Glorify me!"
- Vladimir Mayakovsky

Argument
My prose style is smaller than yours,
and faster, and thus more likely
to succeed in the long run. If
we are going to constitute ourselves
we are going to constitute ourselves
without admitting I exist: you will
get angry and love will be
impossibly becoming. We all know
parking lots destroyed the romance.
Where now do we go, the intersection
of sentiments waiting to be quashed
by reason? I'm not me. I just am.

I. Statement of Purpose
I am the audience.
I am the free market.
I am the scaffolding of days.
I am the future.
I am not sure you understand.
I am the noble soul.
I am reverence itself.
I am Robot.
I am winning an award for freedom.
I am very interested in the movie Metropolis.
I am the movie Metropolis.

II. Prolegomena To A Philosophy Of Fiction

And so everything makes sense. The desk, the chair, the trees, the ulcer, the
sweatshirt, the lamp. But what about the lamp on the desk in the study? Even in a
crazy, cold world, I heard it said on a corner of a street where Christmas music
best could be heard, the dates adorn the tops of pages, commas never lose their
potential, and ingots of gold transform you, taking the place of Emerson and car
batteries. The world got cold; this naming happens in the past without me. I'm
unconcerned. I have a soul and a vision comprised of the uncompromising. A red
coat. One night, and then another, spent at a desk pushing back against the trauma
of others. Other people aren't hell, but they made it up. I want to smash somebody
with the wicker furniture from the porch. I want to have sex, so I will. All this talk
of reading comprehension I'll leave aside. The ocean swirls up and around me.
Obliterate the boulder and the hill and the trees and do laundry.
The only white dove for miles just shit on my car. That telescope with a knife
I'm repeating art. The world got cold. You wanted music to be cold. The fist of
the world covered in paper and offered to me. All those angles make it work. All
this laughing scores you points. Set the nearest nursing home on fire with a gold
lighter, read the pamphlet handed out among the red caps on the platform in my
heart, dedicated to abolishing the problem of shit from metaphysics like
Christmas. One night the lights blinked so I go downstairs and what do I find but
more furniture. I am minding my own everything, which is everything.

III. Colloquy On Subjectivity

I wish it weren't so, so it won't be. Prove it, I reply. I'm sitting. I'm a desk. I am set
in my ways. I am always already right. The organizing principle of objective
reasoning. For instance, if you drop a thimble and it lands you're doing it right. If
not, you can't just start making wishes, you have to fight me for it. The smell of
camphor, the breeze of ErosI beats up yours and takes its lunch money. A beast
in the position of the subject. There are things we live among, and to know them
is to know ourselves until they disappear, imbibed as from a thimble or it itself.
Note to self: acting like art song again.
The thimble itself, the world itself. The clown mask scooting down State Street in
disarray. I watched from the window as the green shirt and red nose beckoned
comparisons to the previous chapters, allusions to what will develop later into
full-scale adulation of the enterprise of Christmas from an ontological standpoint.
It seems morally suspect to respond with such subtleties. I pay in gold. I dress in
desire. What is fabric? I'm not telling. Hell is a stamp dropped between the desk
and the wall. I was going to mail a check, to participate in a revolution, but it
turned out my subject was red. It takes a special kind of bastard.

IV. A Knight At The Opera

He's just a poor boy from a poor family
so I smashed him with a chair, and them.
It was easy as an image of the self in repose.
It was faster than the monster movie
standing in a crowd. Let's talk about batteries.
Let's order stamps and flip over desks.
Let's not forget it was so easy to dream
spooky repetitions of the month of October.
Songs are good excuses for the content of dreams.
Twenty thousand leagues created by me
as the ocean builds itself another taxicab from
the sauce of the world. The fist called me
from a mobile phone, I've got your paper it said.
The situation concerning bubble bath
objectively sucks. Like, it's crazy, isn't it, how
one minute you've got a cold and the next
you are cold, I mean, the ways we talk about things
don't leave much room for logic. Then again,
singing all the time gives you a nice purple ulcer;
here's a sweatshirt to hide the bruises from
the outside world. The virtues of discursive prose:
it sure as hell ain't communism. The bars
on the windows are different colors.

V. Logic In An Age Without Hats

1.
A polka of rational self-interest, pills that clatter as the dresser moves, the
earthquake surprising all those involved. Talk louder! On the subject of Sir Philip
Sidney: I have nothing to apologize for. You've missed the point, confrere. After
two hours of this Henry admitted to hating the discussion, having only staged it to
prove a point about the emptiness of post-Romantic theories relying on dialectics
of continuous truth. Thinking it was fire, a new list of rules emerged:
1.
2.
3.
4.

You are in danger.

It is too dark to swim.
Resolve the antinomy between reason and madness.
I'll make one up.

This would explain the categories painted on flags that, according to the
instructions, we were to hold at ninety-degree angles for the sake of historical
accuracy as we barreled forward in the name of unrest, hoping to come out on the
other side looking real good. But I can explain. I disagree. Dogmatism as
sympathetic response to the errant movements in the field. You better.
2.
The world is cheating at cards, and how. My kingdom for a game of Uno; perhaps
the hurricane was a good reason to stay indoors after all. I take it out on girls who
don't even deserve it, but we're not an infinite progression of careful ironists here,
so keep up and skip everything. Everything comes with a set of politics, from
silverware to the Coke machine spitting out all manner of sodas, attempting to
exemplify the gift economy, instantiating the unintended burden of the incurred
debt. But thankfully we've removed the kickstand from the subject position. In
order to live in a world of pure difference with the movement painted on, you
can't depend on your private sorrows. All that I could do, then upset the ground:
the limit at which the marching bands originate a new ethic of obsessive gestural
repetition.
3.
She threw away the list of reasons to go to football games. So much for the
cataphatic, which actually has nothing to do with morning rituals but still give a
sense of pleasure. This realization that three of the four burners on the range will
no longer function without a New Critical approach emerges as a new list. Buy
toothbrushes. Get tired and get a job. Thankfully, says the latest issue of Critical
Inquiry, the plan has caught itself like a baseball in a new system of resistance.
Movement in both directions! But what does that mean? Something whistles and
winks from the desk in the other room.

Postscript: Logic
Waiting for the train
to take us to Ikea, you turn
to kiss me. I am wearing a hat.
The scene falls away. The door
falls down. I am Cthulu and you
are the narwhal. We are twenty
thousand leagues away from our
luggage. Ethics feels like corduroy.

VI. The Moral Point Of View

I can't help being nuanced by default. I know shat is the past tense of shit.
Defamiliarization of the art object, but only a little bit. This is why I chose the
novel as a form. It comes with a free set of mirrors and all the dialogue tags in
plastic bags too small to reuse, encouraging one to throw them away as one might
the detritus of a boat one has smashed with one's left fist, or one's former
orientation toward the sad shuffle of everyone who isn't one. We aren't being
killed because we're rich and free. I'm repeating art. Fucking in gold is a greater
threat than terrorism because we're rich and free. You are the Beautiful Soul, or
will be after Chapter VII.

VII. A Conversation With Ayn Rand

You can't spell revolution without "Tainted Love." No one understands but we
sing it anyway because of preexisting obligations to the disease of the world. To
smash the walls giving vent to the swoon of others: an obligatory mode. In the
south of France, there was this nice cafit's mine now. I built it on the backs of
thimbles. My moral responsibility has always kept me somewhat taller than the
rest of the world. If the universe begins in logic it should end in a fabric store, not
with a bag but a hot sale for one day only. Just look at me: I'm so frighteningly
lovely and all because of this desk I have built and made significant. The very
naming of it makes it so.
The cold was canoeing through everything I loved. I smashed it. The costumes
clearly better than boats in the modern experience. We need a tactic for revolting.
To wear the veil again. Come downstairs and see, I've fixed the door. Intricacy
has its place among the five-grain breads and exotic cheeses you put down on the
pavement instead of my meaning. Variorum edition: Give it back. The clarion call
of the world was sifting through the rocking chairs when nihilism came knocking.
Who would believe any of this?
This hearkens back to a time when the Hegelian dialectic was on everyone's mind,
that windswept hour when the trees shook you by the neck and sonnet sequences
fit on the insides of thimblesI think it was a Tuesday. And then there were the
children! Beautiful as in some kind of storybook; I recall reading one to my
mother before I fell in love with her. The idea, the very fixation, makes me want
to pour seltzer over an entire crater of other ideas, smaller ones, insignificant
ones, because Iyou know the rest of the story. Thinking dead thoughts was the
only way not to die of shame. Shouldn't I have flowers? I was a white dovethis
could have gone a lot of different ways and each was its own performance in a
way. Radiation poisoning has got the better of the way we delineate values. I want
to punch a wall as hard as I can but they're all afraid of me, as well it should be.
Give it back. Give it back. Give it back.
Let's move on.
I don't believe in veils. I only deal in novels made of gold. She's not just the
woman who's made into the man. She's me. And here is a key to our argument.
You'll recall I have been getting sleepier and sleepier throughout the conversation,
that earlier we laid out distinctions to guideif not guide, then to shape, maybe
that's a better wordour constructive principle! That's what I was trying to say,
the thing around which my argument is organized is precisely a constructive
principle.

Images avail themselves of us. I am the only image I can remember, that is, I
exist. Don't you know anything about language? I invented it. It makes me look
good. I've been making speeches since the day I was born, using every word in
every proper way. Signification therefore has to do with protracted enunciations,
not in the name of excess but of clarity. This is where it differs from love, which
is merely an exchange of property written at the level of the body. I can give you
this toe as a symbol of my devotion, but in exchange you have to do exactly what
I say.
This is what I mean, too, by a constructive principle: I'm thinking of writing an
opera one day, in which a manangular, brooding, rugged, individualistic
named Andy confronts the ruthless, exploitative demon that is the government
allegorically obscured so that they don't come and take me away by a character
named something like Allstate Jonesall while grappling with the fundamental
human problem of why it is exactly that "love" exists. It doesn't, of course, if I
may ruin the ending for you. And what we learn is that the state invented this
savage notion of "companionship" to make money. This theme presents itself in
many ways in the rest of my work, so no one should be surprised, but I hope to
use the form of opera to prove that not only have I thought this through enough to
make it musical but that the world itself is an instrument waiting to be played,
named and tuned and all ready to go as soon as someone wraps his fingers around
it and pries out the melodies hidden within screaming RELEASE ME! BRING
ME INTO YOUR GLORIOUS FOLD OF HUMANITY! that is the ideal. But of
course nature cannot be human. The final moment will be Andy alone onstage
with a mirror, crying from the sheer beauty of it all in a Starbucks, that he and he
alone has had the strength to triumph above all else.

VIII. A 75 Page Sex Scene

Don't you touch my bootstrap.
You pull on yours, I'll pull on mine.
That said, give me your fucking bootstrap.
It's mine.

Interlude
My working title broke epiphany.
I was a robot turned landscape painter
turned genuine alterity moving across
sensations, feelings, the interior.
I'm talking about wearing new shoes and
combing my hair and moving across the
country on a whim. You no me,
I will be inviting everyone to a really
invisible party and riding a train home.
Can't we get tired? Can't we be apart?
Come to these colder shores
to claim your prose. This, it goes
without saying, is allegory.

IX. John Galt Rides Again

No time for making distinctions, I'm leading an ethical life! Give me your hand.
Give me a sandwich. Give me a cold on the yacht as we circle the world. Take
this leaf in exchange. Give me more of a chance to control the globe. I ate all the
vegetables on my plate, what more do you want? Give me no taxes at all. Don't
take them, either. A thimble or a sluice between us. The more edges, the better.
Did I mention I invented brutalism? It's too cold to slow down: the factory chutes
the train the common sense the dog. He ran by dragging the dogma of old
fishsticks out into the snow to beat them in my best shirt. Did I mention moral
courage makes me hot? I ought to write a cover letter for the Aphorisms below: if
my pen stops working do I get a free image of a duck to build around this
perspectival linchpin? Fire is one of many responses to dogmaI mean,
wellmore on this later.

X. Scenes Of German Expressionism

I, A FIGURE OF AN ARTIST IN AND OF HERSELF. Technical instruction
overflows like logic into the annals of capital. This is a good thing. I'm so happy I
want to drink this thimble! What needs analysis is the second half of the triptych.
It is a work of the most galvanizing and scintillating specificity, perhaps the
greatest essay ever put to paint. Or I am weeping larks. My project involves
building a museum out of the natural world so you can admire it. Iyes. Living
in the dark, you will not understand. Breasts are the precondition for all poetry;
thus, I am writing a novel. Awareness is everything. You stood on my throat,
hence my heart. Remember before, I wanted to jump off the seventh bridge I
encountered in the space of the everyday. I will survive, even if beauty smashes at
the end.
Photographs! Lively colors! The dogma of specific shocks! Getting cold now, but
I closed my locker and put on this new bra. Don't worry; I'm not performing
anything except to prove I understand biological difference as constitutive of,
well, everything. The pen and the dish and the tree and the disk and a dialectic.
Now give me that hat. We are locating spaces and cutting them up. 1942: first
letter. My fingers are falling off from climbing theories in the woods. Implements
in all their places, I think you say. How do you stand anywhere without getting
sad and having to topple clocktowers? Second letter: everything was lost, except
an envelope on which I had identified plans for a fancy mountain and then
actually completely made the mountain only to kick it down and replace it with a
new couch.

XI. Critical Inquiry: Intimacy

After a seventy-five page sex scene one needs a break. And one has eaten and one
walks past the doors one has always chosen to kick down. It is time to work. The
cold becomes a bigger problem when one doesn't have any money to burn. I am
free. This doily and this foghorn. Impressionism was an excuse to kiss poor
people. For this one blames Walt Whitman, pushed up against the field from
which your bookshelf was built. The characters are not believable. One wishes
one's illness.
I have just conquered the last history of essences. I am the answer one has
searched for longingly, wishing against whales in darkness with only a lighter to
stay alive. This is not a structure of feeling. It is just, unfair. Maybe we'll return
for round two at the end to distract you from the lengthy disquisition on the
formal representation of this liberty one finds impossible to question without
being smacked by one or several fish in the face. Her hand sank down into the
broken off hand. Everything is marvelous. What does it mean to be
contemporary? The following essays seek to address these shortcomings and
redirect all complaints accordingly. Please follow the thimbles on the desk.

XII. A Theory of the Avant-Garde

Literature should make only sense. A juxtaposition of a whole bunch of difference
bodes badly for the reader, especially he who, sitting in the clocktower, has
proceeded to eat his lunch wearing a hat like the minute hand. Images should be
like reasonable droplets, thimble-sized at most, and batten down in gold the roofs
of nations. To go forward is to go backward, and I am tired of your bullshit, she
said. I'll never reread that. Quick. Having so done, I wish to quibble with your
description of the Angel of History as standing in the foyer looking fetching. He
is seizing the movement and buying a condo, you should have explained. Where
can we be violent anymore? Don't answer that. The expurgation of all dialogue
from the novel actually purifies the form, so we can converseyes, yes! We can
read the old showdowns in big piles! This excites you. Need I say all literature
should be erotic? The sounding of the clock should punctuate each stanza when
you are drawing the human form. Do not conflate economics and this nail file
literary movement of the past. Now everything is made of gold. You are bursting
with boredom; I love you, today. I think I'll kick down the door.

XIII. Bildungsroman
Yeah.
Yeah.
I quit.

XIV. Romantic Manifesto

The versification is so fucked up.
This much you know, can verify
by the sounds of voices in and over
the older prejudices around which
you have structured every revolution
since age fifteen. The same age
incidentally finds you holding a knife
instead of cutting onions. This has implications.
I just don't know what they are. He'll never believe
you were beautiful, literally lovely, a lizard
one has to see to believe and then to devour.
"Man is a confirmation of the world first of all,
and second he is a punch in the throat to Immanuel Kant."
How I have missed your lectures on subjectivity.
*
Resting on a thimble, the world got called
to breakfast. There is no cover charge for
brunch, but we can do as we please. Mauled
behind a desk, by a stamp, all because your
"Convictions" were not really useful or pleasurable
in the long run. We have to stop flitting
from moment to moment, undermining measurable
change in the world that I can seize. Getting
used, a means for fancy ends, I just might
otherwise smash into a wall, to break
all the old archetypes: nice car, the white
paint, the extremities of Being, the rake
who runs Clarissa to her doom. Etcetera.
Having said all this, I hope you feel better.
*
A tree is not a tree, only a tree
can wrap its arms around the center of
desireme, dressed in tight pants
and angular and brooding (metaphysics)
the rest is history, therefore it is not a concern
of mine. Singular apparitions move into place

with furrowed brows, kneading bread and asking

if they shouldn't just be taking it after all. Yes.
A roiled subject, positioned over the void of
not being right, has only to reach out
with a tender fist to carefully smash everything
that ever was that said "now hold on a minute"
in a figurative way. I've got to get away from affect.
I'm going to Austria for a few thousand years.
*
Don't touch me, please: I'll do the touching here.
I'm going to put everything in a nice suitcase.
Desire is furniture made of wicker on a summer's day.
Desire furnishes pain, which I will make clear anon.
No, that is not a reference to the late work of Rilke.
No, that is not a reference to anything you've heard of.
I made it up. The whole thing. All that remains
reality, that is, the thing outside the things I can think
feels insane and beautiful, a competition to be won,
a tree to be pulled down and made my own.
I think I'll tame this corner, after having sex with inclinations
too lofty and erudite to contain in just one couplet.
The world will never seem the same, but it is.
This is the condition on which the novel hinges.
*

I have left these pages blank for photographs:

The train.

The ocean.

A crystal.

A dog.

Freedom.

XV. Present Mythologies

I put myself inside an apple. I put myself inside a river. I process myself. I
celebrate with myself. I don't know how to sing. I have a dollar and laugh until I
have more. This involves overthrowing your only hope for the future. The door
kicks itself down. I'm ready. Gold fleece for a broke-down car lighting everything
on fire. I am the world on a biological level. Thus the ethics of holding things
underwater and selling them for twice as much as I love you. You are more than
an other; you invented value and the cold hand that I can't see. I was a textile;
knitting was a bad habit; and the world going blank. I don't mind tires and I don't
know how to sleep. The ruts reveal I've gotten distracted from my initial project:
to affirm singularity and try not to get too angry by it. The text inside the
paintings; the swirl of alcohol; I'd get rid of everything and end up alone. I'll call
it victory if haunting stops being so goddamn passive. It's not an innovation at all.
I'm not an innovation. I am innovation. I am an impact and a really big hammer.
To have done with sickles.

XVI. The Rustle Of Freedom

The theory of the world put
on hold for awhile as we
talked about the only individuation left:
they are taking my money and
I am thrown out to the
mercy of cold hard mediation. Desks
attached to their chairssome fucking
nanny state or another with a
blackboard and a cake. Soon it
will have been 1913 for 1,000 years.

XVII. Letter To The Editor

You aren't smart enough to read this poem.
It is completely beyond you. You don't understand
liberty, the simplest fucking concept of all,
and so when I say "freedom is the delicious juice
of the world's name echoing on the tongues of babes
in the promised kingdom I am building from all
these trees I kicked down and burned before I knew
they weren't doors" you tip your head to one side and
wonder how the weather used to be.

XVIII. Libidinal Invisible Hand

You can't haunt the world. I only
believe in things I can touch, and so ghosts
are out of the question; all you
are allowed to believe in is desire
which is shaped like the world
which is shaped like a thimble
which is shaped like a door
which is shaped like gold
which is real.
You were always there anyway.

XIX. Building Inspection

I think about the world
shaped exactly like the thought
of the world's shape.
This can only be true.
There is no such thing as a contradiction.
As the architect who invented the world and everything
around, in, on,
perhaps even adjacent to it,
I can say this with some certainty.
Every little thing,
and I mean this as seriously as I can, has been
carefully vetted so that you understand nothing
clashes with anything else.
Love means love, for example,
this building stands nicely next to the facts, its building- and built-ness, a thimble
in a field
of other thimbles if I may speak metaphysically for a moment and
metaphorically.
This is to say, all things are only and always only in the world. Check the syntax
of the foundations:
you can't change
the forces of the world
that are coming together to give you a clear depiction of sense,
an external state of affairs,
a door. Reality itself has long been vetted and explicated
for anyone who doesn't mind kicking a rock or lighting a fire or buying a stamp,
anything
to demonstrate the infallibility of what it means to be.

XX. Love Song

In order to say "I love you,"
one must first be able to say the "I."
Tell me why
you've got no choice!
I never want to hear you say I want it that way.
In the end you know it's gonna be me.

XXI. To The Nave Socialist In The Wilderness

You are a little shit of a poet
standing across the field thinking
about lines like "I was a fascist bullet
in 1982/Oh Hegelian dialectic please/Do
not steal from me in/My sleep
again!"
I want nothing
more than
Liberty!
And all the things that come with it:
chairs, desks, thimbles, railroads, lighters,
apples, rivers, cars, doves, fists, doors,
stamps!
(Oh but who will need to write letters
when all subsumes itself into the speed
of self-determination!)
There will be no more fields
in the future; we do not need fields
when there is nothing but a system
of values implemented only by
an individual!
Values
fast and strong and
most of all
true
because they can be held
in a fist
or smashed by one!
So, sickening poet, stand far away
from the weight of history crashing
down
like a building whose foundations have been
destroyed by the pull of Logic
you are too weak to understand how great
the future can be!

XXII. Total Denegation Of The Senses

The ideal book would need no words. I tore all the pictures out last Saturday. You
had been a danger to yourself because of me, that is, I was still in control and here
you were whining about the world without even smoking the cigarette I lit for
you. It was hell, but the world remained intact. I do not have time to do anything
except be free. This much should be obvious, after studying how to throw light
into a trashcan from an unprovoked distance. Desire, the biggest buzz-kill of them
all, is only human nature. What I am after is a forlorn positivity, to achieve LIFE
and avoid DEATH like an afternoon in January, Fascist-Free! This is why I can't
really stoop to the level of the meaning of the text. I mean, it has none. Everything
can be explained in terms of an idea of things in order that it make more sense.
This is not a definition, therefore, your questions make no sense.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Despite the fact that such a novel, as in the cases of those vaunted texts which
establish its precedent, could only come from a staggeringly individual effort,
a number of other staggering individuals contributed to its becoming such that it
would be an affront to their respective self-determinations were I not to single
them out:
Evelyn Pappas
Sam Stein
Kevin Grijalva
Maysam Taher
Christopher Schneck
Christopher Schaeffer
Brandon Lopez
Gary Patrick Norris
Nyusha Samiei
Luis Villa
and always
Jacob J. Billingsley.
Of course there are others who contributed, intellectually and otherwise, but
given the ideological and spatiotemporal constraints of list-making they will have
to find satisfaction implicitly, or simply write their own novels.

NOTES
In "Colloquy On Subjectivity," the line "there are things we live among, and to
know them is to know ourselves" comes from George Oppen's "Of Being
Numerous."
"A Knight At The Opera" interpolates sections of "Bohemian Rhapsody" by
Queen.
"A Conversation With Ayn Rand" takes its formal cues from the book Dialogues
by Gilles Deleuze and Claire Parnet.
"A Seventy Five Page Sex Scene" is an adaptation of text written by Gary Patrick
Norris.
"Love Song" interpolates a quote from Ayn Rand.

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