To be filed under things one cannot anoint by clicking a small picture of a heart. A thing powerful enough, so full of moment, as to have dropped [resist temptation here to speak of bursts] from our expected history-kitsch axes into the realm of things about which too much might be too easily said and so nothing must be said. An image/object poised at the event horizon of symbology; we can see it there, know what it represents, but it has fallen into itself under its own weight and so no longer represents anything at all, really, so long as we maintain that representation is tied, however tenuously, to a use value. We cannot say anything about it. It cannot be used. If Benjamin’s allegorical objects in trauerspiel have an antimony, this must be it. They are vectors approaching the same point of silence, one burst open [ah well, there it is] one, this one, crushed in.