Of course this is maddening. It matters not, all of it. My life, and so with your life, is sustained by envisioning consequence, which ipso facto cannot be possessed by one person before the weight of all social ritual and practice. Nonetheless, we should notice that the old left died this year, somewhere in the newly-poured tarmac of Tikrit, or in the carpeted halls of academe with another tenure-protected near-retiree talking past hungover frat children, or in the text messaging of their over-scheduled cyber-progeny. Some of these anti-imperial warriors have lived good and honorable lives, but I don't know them, and I don't imagine them to be the masters of humility that we all need to be before the soft juggernaut of the current agglomeration of semi-ordered institutions.
Why write, or think, or "battle," when you cannot get an honest response to a single line? The main problem in confronting our futility is that we chatter like birds in our modes of speech, unable to find others to perform the give-and-take that would be an evolution of our speech and communication, not a devolving into puerile social obsessions. Books, where one savant goes on at without surcease, without the ennobling intervention of amplifying voices, should become relics, and so should speeches, and so should lectures, and so should pontificating spouses, and all the other Asperger's displays, but we just can't seem to make that leap from atavistic self-involvement to strengthening social interaction. But, hey gang, there's still time and hope - you betcha!