The Drive (n.) in Freud is the paradox of wanting unhappiness — finding excess pleasure in suffering itself, the pursuit of unhappiness.
A Drive (n.) is the closed circular palpitation that finds satisfaction in endlessly repeating the same failed gesture.
A Drive (n.) is Prešeren's unputrefied heart: the poet's corpse exhumed years later, everything decayed except the heart, still full of red blood and palpitating in a mad rhythm.
A Drive (n.) is meta-physical not by being beyond the physical but by involving another, sublime materiality beneath spatio-temporal reality — the primordial Other of our bodies is not Spirit but undead matter.
A Drive (n.) is acephalous knowledge that brings satisfaction — without any relation to truth or a subject who speaks it.
A Drive (n.) does not take the whole person into account, only the partial object it circles; desire aims at the subject, the void at the core of the other's subjectivity.
A Drive (n.) is where the loss itself is lost: no more infinite longing for the lost object — which is why Humoresque is strangely joyous and exuberant, free of flabby romantic longing.
A Drive (n.) is what lies beyond fantasy: no sublime yearning there, only the pulsation around the sinthome.
The Drive (n.) is desire turned from the object that masks the void to the object that stands in for it.
The Drive (n.) separates aim from goal: fed through a drip, my hunger is satisfied but not my oral drive; a child sucking a comforter gets only the drive.