I seem to be inside a kind of artificial environment. Almost like a... a simulacrum of Reiden Lake.
As many truths as men. Occasionally I glimpse a truer Truth hiding in imperfect simulacrums of itself but as I approach it bestirs itself & moves deeper into the thorny swamp of dissent.
What I am I don't know. I am the simulacrum of myself.
Literature itself is a species of code. You line up symbols and create a simulacrum of life.
The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truth--it is the truth which conceals that there is none. The simulacrum is true.
The panorama-city is a 'theoretical' (that is visual) simulacrum in short a picture whose condition of possibility is an oblivion and a misunderstanding of practices.