It is no longer a question of imitation, nor duplication, nor even parody. It is a question of substituting the signs of the real for the real, that is to say of an operation of deterring every real process via its operational double, a programmatic, metastable, perfectly descriptive machine that offers all the signs of the real and shortcircuits all its vicissitudes.

The tale of our mimicry can be subtle and gradual, a slow alienation from the gestures of our own mothers, from the features of our own faces. A discomfort that breaks out like a cold sweat. This terrible fear thrums in the pit of our stomach, knowing that we have to imitate others to get anywhere near the good life.