How you dream of better days. There's a din on the horizon, a haze of speculation, of unfulfilled catastrophes that wait out there for your arrival. How did prevarication bloat to such cyclopean proportions?
Despair is on the dry lips of the masses, a thirst which is worsened day by day by the arid diffusion of mass delusion, folie a deux.
Who can deter it? Who can beat back the frenzy of entropy and ruin, of deceptions without end? It the mirage of the inevitable, of sorrowful, angry resignation to the power of corrupt men and the cacophony of truthlessness posted hundreds of millions of times a day.
All in the name of Power.
Somehow, we sank backwards, propelled by our dread of doom. We gave way to the anonymous acrimonious spread of lies. We purposefully gave in, looking elsewhere at prettier things while misinformation splashed everything with the sickening spurt of blue ichor. Someone will stop it. Someone else. It will be contained. Fantastic vistas of wellness and harmony carried the would-be righteous away. Soon only the sick and the twisted held time at the podium, filling the air with vaporous smoke and belched mendacity.
The lies. The lies upon lies. The digital dream is a funhouse of cracked, deceptive mirrors. Rectangular slave collars keep us shackled to the WIFI and the stream of feces being churned out as a buffet.
Their numbers are without limit, these mists of falsehood through which we travail. Everyone is false; everyone disseminates for selfish causes. The worst of us spread our madness across the 4 and 5g, and the rest ingest them without so much as a poisoned gag.
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