The atmosphere changes, quickly.
Beams of light filter through gaps in passing clouds. Moments of buttery
optimism followed by twilight gloom. Feet rooted in the ground, I look up at the flowing gasses that boil
in moody turbulence. A wave of blue ions passing overhead, through my head, brushing across my cerebellum,
a tingling taste of sweet sadness. The smell of an almost forgotten song or maybe the sound of a color so
deep... Something grinding, everpresent, shrouded in the murkyness of the changing reality that flows over
us, swirling away memories like sand drawn away with the foamy edge of a receding tide. A high pressure
center somewhere a long way from here applies steady force. Run, boy, tow the line, mold yourself into a
useful unit or get crunched in the gears, an anachronism. Beware the dangerous optimism of rennaisance past.
That is all gone. In fact, it was only a dream. See? It's fading already. The only truth is the law of supply
and demand. Design out the artistry. No time left to carve a stone gargoyle or hand-cut a joint. Who needs it
when we've got styrofoam and synthetic stucco? Times change, boy, forget what your grandad taught you. Too old
fashioned. Retrain, adapt to the modern workforce. You answer now to the god of green stuff. No, not the
Jolly Green Giant, you fool! MONEY, and the strings that wrap around your wrists every time you lay your
hands on it. Strings that Fatcat's lackeys got the other ends of.
And they pull a little piece of you away each time. Pieces of skin to be weaved into a rug that will end up
in a dumpster when it goes out of style. And the fashions are so fickle these days, Daaling! No don't throw
them those scraps. We gotta keep em hungry, hatin' each other, fightin' each other like dogs. Life's cruel,
son, we can't be coddlin' ye, now can we? Drop and give me twenty. We've got to keep you fit to fight the clan
wars.
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