If we are indeed doomed to the comically convergent task of dismantling the universe, and fabricating from its stuff an artifact called The Universe, it is reasonable to suppose that such an artifact will resemble the vaults of an endless film archive built to house, in eternal cold storage, the infinite film.
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As for jouissance, be it of language, meaning, or transcendence grasped from within, in pure literary style, you are barking up the wrong tree… All that remains is the tune, without notes… Not even the worship of Death… The three dots… Less than nothing, or more… Something else… The consuming of Everything, of Nothing, through style… The greatest homage to the Word that was not made flesh in order to hoist itself up into Man with a capital letter but to join, body and language being mingled, those intermediate states, those, non-states, neither subject nor object, where you is alone, singular, untouchable, unsociable, discredited, at the end of a night that is as particular as it is incommensurable.
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Julia Kristeva | Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection