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the final yell isn’t the pain
sleeping deep in the entrails it is the fear of plastic, antennae, and neon lights which lies behind the eyes the fear of the end of the day when immortality is yet again sold to us for peanuts in black boxes with blue light under the rain of pixels which torment our senses with spandex and cardboard words carefully polished and that wide sound meant to cover the hopelessness of remaining unknown the terror inflicted by the abyss of feeling the happiness of finally reaching -at the end of our body’s passage through the treacherous tunnel of history - an age of satiety in which the the escape to the dream has become the ultimate cure
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