Dangerous, dangerous are the noises of our discontent, the disconnect of your souls from the greater world’s milieu. Losing the closeness of company to the joy of machinery (says the one typing away at a keyboard, alone in a room) built with the mined material of a resource drained wasteland. Worlds within worlds, one burning the rest with rocket jets and rotting binbags. Cut-up cardboard sits at a street corner, waiting to be taken delicately by a creature with diesel in its veins, crushed and spat out with the rest on piles of broken glass. Children cut their fingers to pull gems from jungle death camps, gun at their side.
Change? Maybe. The ideas of the world all spent, idealism swinging
from its own tail, its last heart beats driving erratic, disorganised spasms. History
watches on with a smirk.
Gather round the shrine and dance to the Cult of the One, each
member lost to their own tune. Each divide themselves into chunks, smaller and
smaller and smaller until they become atoms, drifting alone, unable to face the
other. The Ticketmaster counts them all together.
More material more, more, more. Never find it, never find it
in all the material, never. Must look. Look on and look again. Don’t deserve to
find it, weren’t designed to find it, weren’t designed to get this far. Design to
improve? Or design around the design? Find a way, or fall away into a material dementia,
a pit into which even the ringside will slip.
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