The political, which is neither wholly real nor wholly imaginary, however you want to take it, has the distinction of being immortal, and in that sense belongs to the realm of the gods or the undead. It demands blood sacrifice, endless appeasement, and never forgets. In this sense it is hard to distinguish from the unconscious, both personal and collective. What we see is an endless affray from which voices and faces emerge, fleetingly mostly, but also in horrific ascendancy. Nothing is ever finished with, ideologies are the scarred and vengeful angels that repeatedly rise from the ashes. The unconscious is never emptied out, the system of things that bears a paradiso also bears an inferno, tightly interlinked. The entire system is imperfectly reflected in every node and data and noise cannot be separated, it is the bad infinity behind every good infinity.