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The hours, days, eventual years wasted glaring at screens. What horror. That we seal ourselves into such limited confines for so long. While rivers run and lonely people count the hours. What a pointless web we wove for ourselves, a space textured by the limited parameters of graphic design, language and a thin crust of culture. A simulacra. A cipher of the world.
A human hiding place, safe from storms and rockfalls; nothing secret or unknown, just a confluence of signs, a maelstrom of language and culture. The ultimate divorce from that running river.
Red in tooth and claw.
Ten billion pixels worth of safety.
Whole lives not lived.
And you wonder why so many want another war? A call to arms? A blast of creative destruction?
We're mere ciphers. Descriptions of the dust we become.
