Object (n.) are merely a pretext for light.
The Object (n.) we create thinks us, sometimes better and faster than we do, thinking us before we have thought it.
Object (n.) and its destiny, not the subject, are what matter now: you become the destiny of the other.
The Object (n.) supposed to resemble itself escapes every attempt to rebuild it, since the attempt ignores its shadow, the hidden face where the object crumbles, its secret.
The Object (n.) has taken over the critical post once held by the subject, but plays it as irony: products and signs mock themselves simply by existing.
The Object (n.) made by industry holds a god for the Japanese; for us that divine presence has dwindled to a faint ironic glow, though it is still a spiritual form.
Object (n.) in a hypermarket are no longer commodities, nor even signs; they are tests that interrogate us, with the answer already included in the question.