conceptual illustration

All of mankind could feel the burning of the world at its end. To some it niggled just scarcely, the urge to drink a little more Jack Daniel’s then usual. The tossing and turning of a night that persists, endless and dreamless and sweaty between the sheets, fleeting images leaving faint impressions of form before fading to the pitch black of mental monologue. Somehow it seems emptier then usual, all of the excuses that have thusfar fueled our busy days and drawn us back to the promises of glamour and wealth which enticed the drudgery we’ve borne to attain it. That shimmering promise, without the pixilation of those low-def monitors. Those which we tossed in the rubbish bin with the aromatic allure of the next best thing to hit the shelves of our local best buy. Suddenly retail profits are down and people are looking at their shadows and wondering what kind of backing does the currency have, or whether it is just paper after all, the stuff of trees.

The promise of tomorrow’s Better world. The legacy we have purchased for so long. It is bought of the hundreds of millions of dollars donated to presidential nominees. We buy them and we buy the salt foundations on which their promises stand. And yet we are perturbed when those pretty words turn to air. We have not followed the trail that leads back to the Dragon’s Hoard, the wanton treasure we have been seeking for so long that is made of smoke and dust.

Rejecting gold we have demanded that our buildings are formed of diamonds and the dreams of a man who has lost the capacity to imagine anything greater then his next sinking tower, sexual conquest that pales as the orgasm begins and it is so overplayed that children can see it and ecstasy fades to jaded repetition at precisely that coveted moment of release.

Feel the ending of an Aeon and the chains as they dissolve from your heel. The liberation of those fetters that feed you static and inject steroids in starch and plastic and try to sell them back to you. The open  eyes are the birthright our ancestors have passed to us and their silhouettes beg us to burst open from the cosmic egg and spread the joy of the free world. It is not in the attaining but in that moment in which zero is equal to two and positive or negative infinity.

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