Purple prose turned violet.
The mechanical hum of the future reverberates in my ears. I hear the world of tomorrow.
It is cold, dead, androidic. We are all cyborgs in the wake of these fluorescent lights
marked by the neon gas solidified into a wristband.
Who signs up for a concert like this?
So many different people, some with masks you can see, come and talk about things that seem vital,
could be pertinent. I listen to it all. It reminds me of telephone and the whisper game.
This chain of command is so easily broken.
My discharge.
Honorable or dishonorable. That is the question. It is not to be or not.
The similarities are not lost on me:
You wait in line
for someone to tell you
you can enter.
They put something on your wrist
and tell you where you can go
while they watch your every move.
Grandmaster.
They say this is where
you can see this or that,
you can wait if you want,
or you can take it all in
and hear the music.
I wonder.
What about those who want to leave but can't?
Who don't want to answer the questions but are forced?
Who deal with the oncoming storm of storms that floods cities and tears down houses,
that displaces a population, a people? Strangers in a strange land. 400 years isn't enough.
For those that this is everyday?
How do they escape?
Under the microscope.
Under the knife.
You try to live.
But what is your life?
Is it?
All the touchpoints.
The charts.
People become numbers.
You become a readability score.
Dataclysm.
Where is the relationship?
Who can relate?
Who is the judge?
Who watches the watchmen?
Sitting here under the steel curtain, iron wall frankensteined out of synthetic fabrics covered in an overgrowth of plant and leaf plastic molds of the natural world. A secret life beyond patience, alive behind the scenes dividing one from another. The minus one.
I only see what is here and hear what is to be said. The walls are washi, your room is the next room over and all rooms have no doors. A fly on every wall. Stuck.
You drop your eaves while the curtains foil.
They move with such imitation you consider them a real thing that cannot replicate the real thing.
The same thoughts you think when something is referred to as a replicant.
The wind here is conditioning and climate control.
The sun never sets or rises.
Photo-synthesis finds home in unsuspecting lungs.
There is no green ‘cept for what may be in wallets.
A memory of a land before the time of the one true currency.
Give them credit for this. The business of biology. The branding of it all. Your peripheral windows can see the logos. But only if you care enough or are bored enough to pay attention.
It's not for me; if I wasn't here, would there be much of a difference? One could say I don't exist in this moment. The revolving doors do not stop spinning.
It is not closing time.
It is not a concert you want to attend. There are no artists you seek here. They come and tell you things one after another. They are the professionals, and you are their practice.
Consent.
Sign.
Agree.
The stakes are high. No limit. Everyone has moved to Texas.
The hum is ever present.
Oh, what a sound it is.
Life is semisonic here.