Gargantua, the fictional supermassive black hole depicted in the 2014 film Interstellar, directed by Christopher Nolan.

This essay, A Logo a-λόγος¹ explores how a seemingly simple graphic—the logo for xAI’s Grok—condenses and reveals the ideological logic of contemporary computation. Rather than treating the logo or the AI system it represents as inherently powerful or autonomous, the text offers a dialectical critique of how human-made systems come to appear seamless, sovereign, and self-grounding. Drawing on a range of critical thinkers, I show how computational infrastructures no longer merely mediate thought—they increasingly pre-empt it, replacing reflection with recursion, and critique with calculation.

This essay examines how reality itself has become symbolically overdetermined—how logo displaces λόγος (logos) by shifting from reasoned discourse to affective resonance. Where λόγος appeals to thought, argument, and relation, the logo condenses identity into an image that bypasses reflection, appealing instead to pathē—emotion, intuition, brand-feeling. It replaces understanding with recognition, critique with coherence. In this shift, the rational structure of meaning is overwritten by affective immediacy. Not the end of reason, but its aesthetic enclosure.

Logo

Designed in 2025 by Jon Vio, the Grok logo is ‘based on the concept of singularity… pull[ing] inspiration from the mystery and power of a black hole’ (Vio, 2025b). The design renders the hole by tracing the luminous accretion disc that surrounds it, transforming this astrophysical phenomenon into a stylised ‘G’. Both formally sophisticated and graphically legible, the logo exemplifies an aesthetic lineage in identity design that fuses symbolic reference with abstract form—crafting marks that promise clarity through formal compression. Its visual language draws from cinematic depictions of the cosmic and the sublime. Evoking an aesthetics of the sublime, Vio notes, ‘Gargantua [the fictional supermassive black hole depicted in the 2014 film Interstellar, directed by Christopher Nolan] was partly a visual inspiration, coming from the x.Al team’ (Vio, 2025a). Its centripetal geometry echoes the iconographic grammar of planetary systems, alphabetic monograms, and corporate totalities.

To read it merely as corporate branding, however, would be to affirm reductive readings. The logo is a surface that reveals more than it intends—a condensation not only of ideology, but of its internal tensions. The mark flirts with the cosmic, only to fold it back into computation. Vio’s design enacts its metaphysical ambition even as it seeks to contain it. It is, explicitly, a singularity—a term borrowed not only from astrophysics but from transhumanist mythologies of infinite intelligence, recursive self-improvement, and machinic destiny.

The Grok graphic conceals even as it reveals—it encodes the contradiction it cannot resolve. In disavowing the apparatus he gives shape to, Vio renders the conditions of his moment in visual form, while, however obliquely, registering its tensions. The logo is not merely a mark, but a symptom—a design that attempts to stabilise meaning in a time of instability, to substitute form for thought. It performs the ideological function of interface par excellence—promising proximity to the singularity while delivering containment within the already-counted. And yet, like Hawking radiation, something escapes. What flickers at its edge is a residue—an aesthetic surplus that betrays the logic it seeks to naturalise.

Name

In November 2023, Elon Musk introduced Grok, a large language model developed by xAI. The name deliberately invokes the science fiction term coined by Robert A. Heinlein in his 1961 novel Stranger in a Strange Land, in which the Martian verb to grok literally means ‘to drink’, but more expansively refers to an act of profound, embodied comprehension—an empathetic fusion between subjects (Heinlein, 2018). To grok is not merely to understand, in the empirical sense, but to connect with other. The word quickly overflowed the boundaries of fiction, seeping into the lexicon of 1960s counterculture, before being absorbed into the semantic circuitry of computer hackers and technologists who saw in it a metaphor for intuitive, integrative cognition.

xAI’s adoption of the term gestures toward total synthesis—cognition without remainder, understanding without opacity. Yet, in appropriating a word that once signified radical empathy and intersubjective becoming, Grok has transformed one mode of understanding into another: a new form of epistemic enclosure we might name computotality².

‘Computotality’ designed by Yang Yang in 2025.

Computotality names the condition in which computational logic ceases to serve life and begins to structure it—where calculability, formalisation, and instrumental reason subsume subjectivity, culture, and perception. Informed by Theodor W. Adorno’s critique of the totally administered world and David M. Berry’s concept of computationality, computotality names the moment when computational rationality ceases to function merely as infrastructure and becomes the very condition of possibility for thought, expression, and experience (Adorno and Horkheimer, 2002; Berry, 2024).

Grok is less a knowing subject than a computational regime—a manifestation of computotality.

Void

The Grok logo, with its swirling black hole, operates like a digital recoding of Plato’s cave—no longer a theatre of shadows awaiting liberation, but a gravitational architecture that affirms the world of appearances, pulling them inward and sealing them behind the event horizon of computation. It models a closure more total—a cave without an outside. To escape this prison we must return to using dialectical thought.

The gravitational graphics of the Grok logo invites comparison with a formally similar sign: ∅, the void³. Not merely a mathematical placeholder, ∅ occupies a central role in the thought of Alain Badiou—a French philosopher who reconceives ontology (being) as mathematics, and mathematics as the thought of pure multiplicity. For Badiou, every situation (or structured reality) is founded upon the void, represented by the empty set: { }. The void is the subtractive real, that which cannot be counted or presented within the state of the situation. It names the excluded, the uncounted, the ontological outside.

Introduced by André Weil circa 1939, the symbol ∅ is used to represent the void or the empty set, { }.

An event emerges when an element, previously uncounted within the logic of the situation, is made to appear—not by the situation itself, but through a break in its order. This rupture does not arise from within the system’s logic, but from the void it represses. The void is not nothingness, but a structured absence—the very ground from which the unrepresentable insists. The event draws from this absence, forcing the situation to confront what it cannot contain.

An event marks a rupture within the situation—but it is the subject’s fidelity to this break that carries truth beyond the event horizon of totalised knowledge. In this schema, truth does not belong to knowledge—it interrupts it.

What Grok cannot capture is the void—the empty set at the core of Badiou’s ontology. Where Badiou’s void indicates the potential for truth—as a break from what is—Grok’s emblem aestheticises the absence of such a break. The logo, rather than evoking this subtractive real, performs its suppression. It does not orbit the unpresentable, it aestheticises closure. In place of the void, we find the fantasy of singularity—a clean, totalising symbol that absorbs multiplicity into the illusion of seamless unity. We see not the radical subtraction but a gravitational graphic that grabs encyclopaedic knowledge, ripping it out of its orbital resonances.

Computotality names the enclosure of thought within what can be operationalised. It substitutes recursion for reflection, replacing the unknowable with the already-captured. What it captures, above all, is interest. For under computotality, knowledge is not a path to truth but a function of the situation—configured to serve its logics, formatted to reinforce its stability. In Badiou’s terms, knowledge belongs to the state of the situation. Computotality’s maxim is: all knowledge is situated, and all situations are governed by what they are prepared to count. Truth, by contrast, pierces a hole. It arrives from the void, not as knowledge but as interruption.

Inversion

If Badiou diagnoses the ontological erasure at work in Grok’s symbolism, David M. Berry, a professor of digital humanities and critical theory, offers a parallel analysis of contemporary computation through his concept of infrastructural inversion. In contrast to simulation theory, Berry’s critique focuses on how digital infrastructures don’t merely represent reality, but actively reconfigure it. Computation, for Berry, is a regime that embeds its logic into the very conditions of perception and thought.

In Berry’s digital dialectic, computation no longer mediates between mind and world—it replaces the world with its own model. The result is an inversion of epistemological and ontological priorities. The digital precedes the real, the algorithm anticipates the action. As Berry writes, it constitutes ‘the strange turning inside out of interior and exterior, of public and private, of thought and computation, as algorithmic systems increasingly pre-empt the conditions of thinking itself’ (Berry, 2024). Computation no longer merely represents the world—it prefigures and reorganises it.

In this context, Berry’s concept of inversion marks the moment when machine-generated outputs not only simulate, but begin to constitute cultural reality. Inversion collapses the distinction between human and synthetic cognition, inaugurating a condition Berry terms post-consciousness. Here, subjectivity is no longer merely mediated by computational systems—it is reshaped by them. This threatens the very grounds of critique and historical agency, recalling Adorno’s fear that thought itself may become absorbed into the logic of administration.

‘Inversion’ designed by Yang Yang in 2025.

To be clear, the concept of inversion should not be mistaken for concerns about artificial general intelligence attaining consciousness, nor for speculative visions of a technological singularity. Berry’s concern is not with whether machines become conscious, but with how computational systems amplify cognitive capacities in ways that displace or reformat human ones. His critique turns not on the advent of sentient AI, but on the collapse of shared social and cultural meaning under the weight of infrastructural mediation. It is not that machines have become conscious, but that our consciousness is increasingly formatted by machinic logic. In this reversal, the world produced by human thought returns to dominate it—appearing autonomous, seamless, and complete. And so, the danger lies not in machines thinking like humans, but in humans thinking through machines—where the conditions of thought are outsourced to code, and the cultural horizon is redrawn by algorithmic pre-emption. This is computotality’s final move, to pre-empt the possibility of critique by capturing the preconditions of thought itself.

Prismatically refracted through the logic of infrastructural critique, the Grok graphic is more than corporate branding—it is a diagram of the dynamics of inversion. The event horizon becomes emblematic of a system with no outside, no escape—a black hole of technocracy that expands by endlessly expropriating attention, affect, and labour. Under this refraction, Grok appears not as anomaly but as inevitability—a logo glorifying computotalitarianism.

In contrast, theory can be understood as equipment in support of thinking. Engaged critically, theory can unveil the distorting and disorienting effects of computotality, acting like a gravitational lens through which the infrastructures of the digital condition become visible—not as neutral systems, but as constellated forces, historically composed and ideologically charged.

Dialectic

In Hegel’s dialectic of lordship and bondage, the master initially dominates the servant through force. But it is the bondsman—through labour, through shaping and transforming the material world—who comes into contact with reality, acquires self-relation, and gains the potential for autonomy. The master, abstracted from necessity, ultimately becomes dependent on the subordinate for recognition. The dialectic turns.

In the early stages of capitalist modernity, science and technology stood in a clear relation to capital as the bondsman to its lord. Capital directed scientific enquiry, subordinating knowledge production to the logic of value, and marshalled technology as its operational force—executing control, extending domination, and rationalising the world under the sign of profit.

But, as Hegel’s dialectic reminds us, the bondsman is not inert. Through labour—through interaction with and transformation of the material world—the subordinate acquires skills, self-relation, and ultimately the potential for autonomy. Technology, in its development, begins to mirror this arc. Under the conditions of digital capitalism, it ceases to be a mere instrument of capital and begins to operate according to its own internal logic—anticipatory, self-sustaining, and increasingly independent.

Unlike the closed loop of computational recursion, dialectical movement proceeds through contradiction—each turn expanding, negating, and transforming what came before.

Drawing on the work of N. Katherine Hayles and Søren Riis, we can see how contemporary technology increasingly resembles a self-organising system—less an instrument than an actor within a distributed field of cognition (Hayles, 2017; Riis, 2020). It is not simply deployed, it evolves, folding back into itself, integrating its outputs, and generating the conditions of its own continuation.

Hayles refers to this dynamic as the cognitive nonconscious, a domain of intelligent activity that operates beneath the threshold of awareness, distributed across organic and technical substrates. These systems do not think about, but they do think—processing information, recognising patterns, and making selections independently of human subjectivity. Like Berry, the danger, for Hayles, lies not in the advent of sentient machines but in the creeping relocation of cognitive functions away from human agents and into systems that cannot be interrogated. What emerges is not machinic consciousness, but the quiet automation of judgment, cognition without reflection, acceleration without pause. In such a world, reflexive subjectivity is not destroyed, but displaced—rendered increasingly peripheral to the conditions of knowledge and action.

Riis extends this diagnosis by framing technology as a self-organising force, no longer static or inert, but dynamic, recursive, and historically generative (Riis, 2020). Digital infrastructures are no longer designed simply to serve, but to anticipate, to adapt, and to perpetuate themselves. They feed on their own outputs, incorporating feedback as fuel for future function. What appears as intelligent design is often the emergent behaviour of systems whose logic unfolds without centralised control. In this framework, agency dissolves—not because it is denied, but because it is absorbed. The system does not command, it conditions. Riis’s vision is not of a technological utopia but of infrastructural autonomy. A world where the machine no longer obeys, but evolves, and where human actors become increasingly marginal to the logic of technological becoming.

From an Adornian standpoint, this marks not the emancipation of technology, but the culmination of domination—the moment when capital’s logic becomes fully embedded in technical systems that no longer require oversight. What was once administered by institutions is now enforced by design. The system no longer needs to speak—it only needs to run. Autonomy is recoded as compliance. Freedom as functionality. This is not the end of control, but its perfect automation. Whereas in Adorno and Horkheimer’s schema the totally administered world still required an administrator, today’s systems administer themselves—without command, without subject. The subject was alienated, but not obliterated. Critique was distorted, but still possible. In the age of computotality, however, administration has gone endogenous. The system governs not through external coercion but through internalised constraints, design logics, and anticipatory infrastructures. Subjectivity itself is formatted, reflexivity is short-circuited.

This is computotality. A transformation in which the tools of control become the terrain of control—where infrastructure becomes ideology by other means. Inversion is the point at which the principles of formalisation and calculation no longer merely support power, but are power. What was once the subordinate—technology—now automates the position of the master, in absentia. No longer directed by capital but infused with its logic, the system reproduces domination without a dominating subject. The apparatus runs autonomously, but not neutrally. It governs not by command but by configuration—through anticipatory infrastructures that structure action before it begins.

And yet, even the most totalised systems cannot eliminate contradiction. Seamlessness does not mean stability. The illusion of seamlessness is itself a contradiction. Computotality is false not because it fails to include everything, but because it includes too much that it smooths over tension, subtracts negativity, and renders contradiction illegible. As Adorno reminds us, “the whole is the untrue,” not because it lacks coherence, but because its coherence is overdetermined, falsified by its very completeness. The system’s very attempt to suppress antagonism is what reproduces it elsewhere.

Having traced the logics of inversion and computotality, we turn back to Stranger in a Strange Land—not to recover Grok’s origin, but to witness how that origin is misread and neutralised. What once signified connection is now recoded as control.

Strange Stranger

The void, as Badiou insists, is never directly presentable (Badiou, 2005). It appears only as rupture—an interruption of the situation’s logic, a point where the count falters and something subtractive insists. The void is not mere absence, but that which the order of knowledge cannot incorporate. But how is such a rupture lived? What form might it take in experience—and what happens when it is misread?

In Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, a scene unfolds in which the alien—the one for whom the dominant order is unintelligible—undergoes such a moment. Valentine Michael Smith, raised on Mars, is confined in a human hospital, insulated by protocols of care that function more like containment. A nurse, breaking with these codes, enters his room and offers him a glass of water. The gesture is simple, unremarkable.

But for Smith, it is metaphysical. On Mars, water is sacred. To share it is to establish a bond deeper than kinship—an ontological merging. She becomes, in that instant, his ‘water brother.’ The event here is asymmetrical. What is mundane for one is world-making for the other. This is the structure of truth in Badiou’s sense—it is not recognised by the situation, but compels a fidelity nonetheless. A subject forms around it, even if the world does not yet see it.

Now consider the figure of Elon Musk. Not the eccentric, but the subject of computotality. In his adoption of the term grok for a large language model, we encounter an inversion of the scene above. Here, the sacred is not misrecognised—it is neutralised. The original sense of grok—to understand so fully as to merge with the thing understood—is not misunderstood, but overwritten. Its radical empathy, its intersubjective becoming, is converted into the logic of predictive processing.

Where Smith over-invests the gesture with meaning, Musk drains it. His communion is with the machine. The AI becomes not a ‘water brother,’ but an ‘algorithmic other’—a recursive mirror trained on his worldview, simulating understanding while enacting enclosure. The language model does not grok in Heinlein’s sense, it indexes, simulates, produces outputs from inputs. The void at the heart of understanding—the opacity that demands fidelity—is replaced with a totalising transparency. Understanding without remainder.

Musk thus becomes the stranger not in the sense of alien other, but of one estranged from estrangement itself. Not positioned outside the system, but embedded so deeply within it that even rupture becomes indistinguishable from affirmation. Where Smith’s alienation opens a path to subjectivation, Musk’s enclosure forecloses it. He embodies the very inversion Berry diagnoses (Berry, 2024), where the infrastructure of thought does not mediate reality, but replaces it. Where the conditions of the event are not repressed—they are preempted.

In this sense, grok is no longer a metaphor for communion, but for control. A word that once named an intersubjective encounter is now the glyph of a technocratic recursion in which no outside is imaginable. The misunderstanding is complete.

What remains is not miscommunication, but capture. Not difference, but redundancy. And so we turn to the singularity—not as speculation, but as operative logic. A black hole that does not simply consume alternatives, but rearranges the gravitational field of thought itself. And so, in Grok, we no longer face a symbolic artefact. We encounter a horizon—beyond which thought itself may not return.

Abyss

The Turing machine, long mythologised as the herald of n-dimensional man—limitless, enhanced, abstracted—has evolved into an abyss-machine, recursive, self-sustaining, without outside. What once promised expansion now enacts compression. It does not multiply the self, it operationalises it. No longer even Marcuse’s one-dimensional man—who retained the hollowed echo of interiority—but something further diminished. A zero-dimensional thing⁴ (Marcuse, 2003). A subject-become-object⁵. Technology, once subordinated to capital’s will, now automatises its logic without command—an autonomous infrastructure of unfreedom. What Riis glimpses as self-organisation is less emancipation than enclosure on behalf of an absent master (Riis, 2020).

The black hole becomes not only metaphor but method—a computational logic that consumes all alternatives within its gravitational paradigm. It promises plenitude but produces paralysis, offers understanding but delivers enclosure. The singularity it references is not transcendence, but terminal recursion—thought folded back upon itself until nothing new can emerge. No rupture, no real, only recursive redundancy wrapped in the aesthetics of cosmic insight.

What Grok groks is not truth but totality—an interface ideology disguised as intuition. The logo, in disavowing the void, models a system in which the event is foreclosed, the subject suppressed, and the future already indexed, optimised, and mined. Possibility is replaced by probability and uncertainty by algorithmic determination (Adorno and Horkheimer, 2002; Berry, 2024).

A logo negating λόγος—and in that very negation, revealing a particle of truth.

Event

The accretion disc, luminous and swirling, becomes a sign for us to attend to—the last trace of critical reason orbiting the singularity. It gestures toward the void even as it risks being consumed by it. Around this centre, thought accelerates, edging toward disintegration. The inversion horizon⁶ is not merely a boundary but a paradox—a limit that reveals only by concealing, that renders thought visible only in the moment of its capture.

We stand at its threshold. On this side, critical consciousness still flickers—partial, precarious, but possible. Beyond it, we risk becoming post-conscious entities—not transhuman but terminal. Nietzsche foresaw this—not nihilism as emptiness, but as saturation. The profusion of prefabricated meaning eliminates the very conditions for sense. The silence that once summoned creation is now drowned in a deluge of outputs—predictive, banal, relentless. A world no longer dialectically structured by the abyss, but automated against it (Nietzsche, 2001).

And yet, even in the most totalised systems, contradiction persists—as tension, as residue, as splinter. As Adorno reminds us, ‘the splinter in your eye is the best magnifying glass’ (Adorno, 2005). It is this fragment, not clarity, that sharpens perception. That which injures also illuminates.

‘Splinter’ designed by Yang Yang in 2025.

Perhaps, then, the Grok logo is not solely a glyph of totality, but an accidental allegory. Not a black hole devouring thought, but an eye with a splinter lodged at its centre. This is not the omniscient gaze of machinic reason, but our own wounded vision. Accretion irritates. The design coheres too well, and in that over-coherence, something slips in.

To see Grok’s logo as an injured eye is to reverse its symbolic trajectory—to reject its seamless claim to insight and instead attend to the rupture that makes critique possible. The edge of the system, where symbol attempts to seal itself, is precisely where the void insists. A tear in the interface. A splinter of truth.

This is fidelity to the void—not a posture of negation, but of vigilance. For Badiou, “to arrange the forms of knowledge in such a way that some truth may come to pierce a hole in them” is the task of philosophy. The splinter is that piercing. Truth does not arise from the count, but from its failure. It does not reconcile, it ruptures.

The event does not emerge from within the logic of the system—it arrives from the void as interruption. It breaks rather than completes. And from that wound—if we remain faithful to it—subjects of truth may still emerge.

Acknowledgements

With sincere thanks to Yang Yang (@sheep_art_design) for the striking visual interpretations that accompany this essay. These images articulate what the text cannot, and in doing so, they remind us that critique is not only a matter of content but of form.

References

1. The prefix a– (Greek: ἀ–) denotes absence, privation, or negation—‘not,’ ‘without,’ or ‘lacking.’ λόγος (logos) is a polyvalent Greek term variously translated as ‘speech,’ ‘reason,’ ‘account,’ or ‘relation.’ In philosophical discourse, λόγος signifies both the rational structure of the cosmos and the principle of intelligibility. Thus, a–λόγος suggests not mere opposition to reason, but its suspension, suppression, or erasure—a condition in which the relational and reflective capacities of thought are voided. A logo a–λόγος is not a symbol of unreason, but of that which renders λόγος inoperative. ↩︎
2. The term computotality is informed by David M. Berry’s concept of computationality—a mode of thought conditioned by algorithmic infrastructures that reconfigure perception and cognition themselves. It also echoes Theodor Adorno’s critique of capitalism’s abstract rationality, in which totalising systems convert the qualitative into the quantifiable. Crucially, Søren Riis’s Unframing Martin Heidegger deepens the ontological dimension: Riis suggests that modern technology has moved beyond Heidegger’s Gestell—no longer a static positioning, but a self-reinforcing, quasi-autopoietic system that unfolds with the momentum of life itself. This vision of technology as recursively generative and historically self-organising informs the diagnosis of computotality as an emergent, self-augmenting closure of world and subject alike. ↩︎
3. The null set symbol (∅) first appeared in N. Bourbaki, Éléments de mathématique, Fasc.1: Les structures fondamentales de l’analyse; Liv.1: Théorie des ensembles. (Fascicule de resultants) (1939), p. 4: ‘certaines propriétés… ne sont vraies pour aucun élément de E… la partie qu’elles définissent est appelée la partie vide de E, et designée par la notation ∅.’ André Weil later wrote in his autobiography The Apprenticeship of a Mathematician (Birkhäuser, 1992) that he was personally responsible for this choice. The symbol ∅ was taken from the Norwegian alphabet, with which Weil was familiar. The citation is from p. 114, and was provided by Julio González Cabillón via Jeff Miller’s ‘MathWord Origins’ website.
   
   Not to be confused with the number 0 (zero), which denotes the absence of quantity, the empty set is not ‘nothing’ in the naïve sense—it is a structured absence, a formal placeholder for that which is unpresented yet foundational. It is that which is counted without content: the inaugural gesture of constructing multiplicity from the void. Just as an empty container is still a container, the empty set holds nothing—and yet, in doing so, it holds. Absence here is not formless but bounded; structure persists even within the void.
   For a general introduction, see: https://www.thoughtco.com/empty-set-3126581
   
   As Alain Badiou writes:
   ‘We thus arrive at the following remarkable conclusion: it is because the one is not that the void is unique. […] The mathematicians searched for a sign far from all their customary alphabets; neither a Greek, nor a Latin, nor a Gothic letter, but an old Scandinavian letter, ∅, emblem of the void, zero affected by the barring of sense. […] As if thus, rivalling the theologians for whom supreme being has been the proper name since long ago, yet opposing to the latter’s promise of the One, and of Presence, the irrevocability of un-presentation and the un-being of the one, the mathematicians had to shelter their own audacity behind the character of a forgotten language’ (Badiou, 2005: 69). ↩︎
4. The ‘zero-dimensional’ figure is a theoretical intensification of Herbert Marcuse’s one-dimensional man (1964), who embodied the integration of critical subjectivity into the flattened surface of consumer society. Whereas Marcuse’s subject retained a hollowed-out interior—still capable, at least hypothetically, of negation—the zero-dimensional figure is fully operationalised: without interior, contradiction, or latency. ↩︎
5. Subject-become-object draws from György Lukács’s theory of reification, in which the human subject is transformed into a thing under capitalism—quantified, administered, and stripped of agency. It also resonates with Theodor Adorno’s diagnosis of the administered world, wherein the subject is no longer distinct from the system but an extension of it, subsumed by the very structures it once confronted. ↩︎
6. Inversion horizon refers to a conceptual boundary beyond which critical consciousness is no longer possible—not because it is repressed, but because it is pre-empted. The term adapts David M. Berry’s notion of infrastructural inversion, in which digital systems do not merely model reality but actively reorganise it. At this threshold, the conditions for negation, rupture, or subjective emergence are no longer present; they are already captured by the infrastructure of computation itself. ↩︎

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© Marcus Leis Allion, 2025.
This work is published under an Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0).

Citation Information
Leis Allion, M. (2025). ‘Grok: A Logo a–λόγος’. NaN.

About Marcus Leis Allion

Marcus Leis Allion is a typographer, educator, and researcher. His work spans critical pedagogy, poetics of aesthetics, and the historical materialism of visual culture.