There is no history we could write outside the concrete devastated desert of the financialized mechanics of gaze and groin, of grunts and grins. The smoke of a million burned cigarettes never sets on the plains of freedom of the dirty floor, the dirty ceiling and the very dirty four walls of the favorite bar with the others. Is this history an echo of thoughts, a landscape of words, or really just a grammar for grunts, a grimace for grins? We have heard it all, the drum, the bass, the non-music. We have listened to every single record, to every single beat, to every single sample in a million folders on a million servers on seven continents of planet Earth. It was not work, all this, it was a love for noise, any noise, any correction in the system of conformation. We have taken a million wrong turns, we have stepped into the garden when searching for a door, finding ourselves in a wave of a crowd, a formation of conformation to love. A dance of floating grins and folds at the corner of sunglasses and sinking lids. Waves waving back and forth and back inside, in shadows and fog and artificial light. It turns around itself in crews and clews and knots. Entangled in a classic ravel, the most common and not really spectacular experience. The maze of freedom in the abyss of free time. There is of course no such thing as free time, the fact that we are all online all the time is just an electronic metaphor for the fact of the leash that ties us into this wealth and misery of capitalogenic cities. Is the club sound in fact the city sound, as was the concert sound the sound of the quarter, of the spatial order of the bourgeoisie? The rhythm of gentrification is the staccato of noise complaints, the clicks of lightswitches when clubs close, the re-installation of bars and concerts. The club sound is the city sound insofar as it is the sound against the city, against the gentries, the dark anti-gentry. Clubs are only in cities because we sleep in cities after work. So we leave cities to go to the outside of the inside of the club. We like to use a bar like a club, squeezed into a corner, sink into a sofa, burning a firework of crystal gaze nets, floating on the buzzing and humming sound of a crowd, talking in autopilot while reaching out to that crowd, slowly most slowly sipping, or not even sipping, but taking a nip, or having the lip touch the liquid of our drink, not consuming anything but the crowd. Swimming in the crowd like a fish in water. Our view of the crowd is floating above the crowd. The crowd has an outer body experience, it accumulates sociability, it wrecks the capitalogenic city. The only good thing about a club is not the quality of the culture, of the music connoisseurship of the diskjockey, of the alcohol connoisseurship of the barkeeper or the habitus connoisseurship of the bouncer, it is the fact that the city is dissolved there. And then, now look at the headphoners listening to techno in order to capsule themselves off against fellow travelers in trains. Instead, you’ll have to hear everyone breath and talk, this is your revolutionary duty from now on. We will drag the dirty life of the in between through and to the whole, we will shatter the whole in our eyes and ears, open up to the catastrophy of everything, continue our research. Float and rave and riot on every surface, through all space, in every touch, frequency, shimmering, glint, wink, echo, and rub ourselves against it, soak it in, smell it, hear it. The history is 10 years, 1000 days, 1000000 hours, 10000000000 minutes, 100000000000000 seconds of a concept of active participation in the creation of contact. To ten more years, to friendship, to the movement of sublation of all the shit, to: Shituationism Will Win. May only love tear us apart.