I thought to myself, after getting home from another shift, after driving the same route home over the isolated graveyard streets, I thought to myself, why is the the world so sick? Such a vast and yet common thing to think. An idea so thought upon by history. Why is the world so sick? And I knew it was the human race that had to be responsible. There’s no other way.
So then I thought, why is the human race so sick? And that seemed better. And the world is taxed with the sickness of us and must be the backdrop (the beauty of its physiology), for illness to play out. And then I thought, what do we do about it? And came to nothing other than writing it down. And that has done nothing but turn the pages into a backdrop. The trees that the pages were made from. The plastic of the pen, of the billions of pens. The factory smoke of pens. The background of exploitation in factories. The electric light that lets me see my way over the lines, across the rummaging of thought.
And then back to the gas used to shuttle me across the dead night streets. And back to my own exploitation. My engine always being run so a business can run. The darkness it brings to light. But I sit here now in embrace of hatred. My questions have no answers, only the acknowledgement of the rising sun now just hours away.