As I stand here looking over the current landscape, trying not to drip with radioactive cynisism, a hot dry breeze blows in that starts to chap my lips. Drying my skin, with the sun baking skin until it boils and blisters due to exposure. Drool starts to fall as all of my muscles begin to seize in a coriography of contempt and anger. My finger nails start to yellow and brittle as I scratch the wood and gather splinters under my nails.
It’s a war to end all wars. And it’s gonna have to be an inside job. It’s going to have to start with the bus boys and garbage men. The high school cheerleaders and the geeks who woke up in wet spots. The bartenders and the waitresses. Posing as white cells, entering the body through any available opening, attaching to the host, and repeat.
The tools they use to exploit will be the tools we choose to implore.The youth are waiting. And they’re becoming impatient. The revolution will be televised. We don’t need inspiration any longer, only support.