"Our Apocalypse won't be caused by nuclear arms or outer space comets, or pollution or extinction or any of the thousands of daggers we have placed over our heads. Our apocalypse will be caused by overpopulation, but we won't run out of resources or food or water or minerals or glass or steel. No, the clever little trap that God lay before us was free will, which makes us unique. But when the world is full of every choice, and everyone else has made all the choices laid out before you, why should you choose? What do you choose? How can you choose? We our bound to our free will and in its denial we will surely perish from the earth. We can only survive by looking beyond choice, to the next freedom."
-Hakim Manzceti
Friday, March 25, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
A tower of thundering phrases
collection bins and bottle caps
Twisted hunks of screeching metal
Frozen and rusting on the sun bleached plain
Dirt bleached white, like snow
A great scar on the earth.
This is what I am becoming.
To the thousand huddled masses.
I'll tell a thousand lies and words,
careful and true sound and solid,
but always full of this decay.
We're all full of this decay.
collection bins and bottle caps
Twisted hunks of screeching metal
Frozen and rusting on the sun bleached plain
Dirt bleached white, like snow
A great scar on the earth.
This is what I am becoming.
To the thousand huddled masses.
I'll tell a thousand lies and words,
careful and true sound and solid,
but always full of this decay.
We're all full of this decay.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Apathetic At Three AM
Oh we're all so meaningless,
And so very very fragile.
I wish my lungs drew lead,
Instead of breath and then,
Maybe once in a great great while
I would feel accomplished and whole,
Instead of weak and weary,
And sick and domestic and tired
And smelling of petroleum and oil slicks
I am a baby seal. Gentle on the shore.
I am a tortoise shell on the ocean floor.
I am old and used and empty now.
But who cares about my wrinkles and farts.
Because we all die alone.
And so very very fragile.
I wish my lungs drew lead,
Instead of breath and then,
Maybe once in a great great while
I would feel accomplished and whole,
Instead of weak and weary,
And sick and domestic and tired
And smelling of petroleum and oil slicks
I am a baby seal. Gentle on the shore.
I am a tortoise shell on the ocean floor.
I am old and used and empty now.
But who cares about my wrinkles and farts.
Because we all die alone.
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