Where the nothing expectation, necessitates machines creating nothing
Money finds its source no matter what is done with it. The creation of stories to manifest money and give it a life. It needs multiple narratives, a house, a god, some high priests and a hidden houses of the holy where the ever spawning narrative of endlessness manufactures the source of this holy grail monetary numbers and meaning forever like an endless spring, it never ceases. People and believers have a temple they can place their money in while narratives are written by Gucci suit clad word organizers and number painters. The digital gossimer of images painted in the ideal of riches for those who risk on the great wheel of society. The feed of wants and wants in lusting against the suffering of loss. Manufacturing of loss to feel more need in a time of excess. We hate live music but love buying the way to listen to it. Even the art of rebellion is sold and gentrified and carved into the great etching of the digital masters projection room. This holographic atmosphere pulses through the libido and parts of the body once ruled by a sense of duty and morality, now in loss of tradition has become a commodity based religion. Every symbol and picture and number through a screen the barbed hook of our lack of heroism and fear of anything harder than existential suffering. A sponsored ideology of guilt easily mediated into the solution based credits, the pills of choice, the job of meaning, the media feed you consume through a digital rectangle feedbag in a frictionless male and female moment induced by the closing of ones circuits formed by a heavily sponsored advertisement budget that spawns from the fore-mentioned houses of the holy, printing and pressing meaningful paper, plastic and digital to entries to gates opening your minds mouth. Ravenous to gorge on saccharine fats proteins with pseudo religious sexual fever. The sickness is never far from allowing us to see us as broken and needs in pill and vaccine fixing. There is an app for that! With only a monthly subscription. The algorithms that auto generate a school shooting, a terrorist attack, the actor who divorced after two years of marriage to the model, rockstar, politician of your choice. Everything is fat free, reduces wrinkles. younger better and shocking in its drip feel across the filthy calcified third eye of perception that once allowed you to love in risk and vulnerability, to take risks as if it were one life and not just a choose your own digital adventure, where you could undo or redo or skip pages to bypass the entropy of our divine rights. The digital Eunuch loves the position within the Forbidden city, happy to have lost the ability to have sex with another, to have lost gender and redefined themselves within the well fed text walls of graphic security that never allows a walk outside the digital culture protected by guardians of the pixelated server.
The demo-holographracy of the internal body politic submits without rebellion. Waves flags in the correct protest way, writes distinct complaints for the system to attend to the blips of the cult in the capitalistic commune where all things are always pointed out as unfair and nothing as the philosophical redux. We can not go back to Nietzsche or Shoppetnhauer or Descartes. The Gods allow only the scrawling of madmen. Our Republic a thumb or index finger swiping right or left. An on off constancy demanding we never stop. Not Now. Not ever...
The Meditation to endless apocryphal texts that guide our machine like eschaton.
Entropy salivates in blue and red pulses from the power dug from earth to machine to the air into your meditations on how to save the world that was never dying nor was it ever born.
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