Some say the worlds on fire, I say its been burning for sometime. Some say we must stay attached to the fetal monitors, I say sometimes enough is enough. Some say you must be involved in the many affairs of this world, I say to be in bed with one mistress is more than we can afford. As if before the daydream theaters were attached to our lungs we negotiated our terms with any better insights. To be of the space we are in, acknowledging a presence vaster than our own, to work within this caulk outline, this mortal hunting ground. To address all the things we would rather stay censored. As we extend our attenuated gaze at all the worlds problems, fear and worry become the thickening blood, as the feeding begins. Your own malevolent tumors are expanding. As you tend to that flicking flame of static, a warmth that never would come, the droning hum begets its lonely passengers at the centre of its passive controls. Its final directive is its capacity to pacify, to reflect back a version of life painfully edited and ended on a live stream, that everybody forgot to watch.
Image by: Unknown Alchemist