Above all else, the squalor births itself, a place with a little magic and a little compassion, where people give each other’s fingers to caress their sad faces, a transition from a world of love to a world of competition. There is nowhere to run but backwards, a circle of hell has been obliterated from the imagination, all that keeps, all that stays, is a breath, first from the mother, who nurtures what she can, then from the father, who has collapsed under the weight of his own worthlessness, and finally, of the children, who are in the millions, and have played on the dirt, and cut off their toes, and dreamt, inevitably, that things are getting worse.
Worse in the spirit, however, they manage to see above them, hung from the sky, the tall tower of those who are better than them, who possess them, and make their rules. They know what is best and change the world below accordingly. There is a wall that is full of spikes, there is a river that is full of poison, there is a soil, eroded in paper and plastic, and a cross made of iron, clawed itself into a ground, where everyone gathers to sleep under its shadow. All of these, treasures from unknown assailants, heroes, and wanderers, form the basis of a society that has, at last, achieved perfect balance: the people below know they are heard, they are cherished for it is their diversity, in foul dirt, that gives them strength, and it is the soul of the nation, tat which doesn’t divide but unite, that makes them love and sigh wistfully.
The intellectuals, artists, developers, entrepreneurs, and lovers gather together and in unison sing the tune of the pleasure hole:
“Such carefulness, the impeccable timing, the warmth of god, the words of our government, all raining upon us with the wisdom of ages. We savor it, like we savor the ancient rivers of old, all streaming with our sins, and our desires. Such as we, the simple common folk, just, fair, and needed, but also in need of those who we elect. And so we do, and as such, all of this that happens to us, is a reflection of who we are voting for. We want to change, we have to make them change…”
On and on, the drones continue endlessly, and some people hear, some people shoot themselves seven times, and some wrap themselves in the trash that they eat, it all matters in the sense, in the absolute terror, that what they think matters, and they all think similarly, though not all of them say it. Whatever it is they all feel, they feel content, in extreme, salivating hunger, that those from above is doing everything they can to save them, and hold them close, and hug them and tell them everything is going to be okay. A life for a brain, scooped and malnourished, and a laughter for a resignation, the last remnants of triumph, to dig and explore with no conditions.