words

On the one TV, a gaggle of thick-necked maniacs spewing smoke and profanity, grease and emptiness. Swine rooting in a mess of precoital ritual, liquor, drama, unsubstantiated claims, the truth and lies. Fucking and flinging subtitled [EXPLETIVES] through the black silence of closed captioning, the tone captured as “club music” followed by two generic musical notes. To the deaf, club music must be how they expect hell to sound.

On the other, the world ends. This world, the same world that houses you, the maniacs and I, ends slowly. We note the daily countdown with a passive indifference, not seeing it. We are too occupied with the maniacs to see the mayhem that exists in our own hearts. The reflection against the TV screen that bounces back the same principles, old world but somehow more present, Shakespeare for speedfreaks and idiots.

Everywhere, distractions everywhere. A pornographic onslaught of information that never ends. Like the horrid red neon awakening of the 20th century night, never again will there be darkness here. Here it comes, more, more. Glimpses of a world expanding rapidly, moving on before it has even arrived. No way to still the motion of its mechanism.

More pertinent tragedies exist, here in the smaller collective. The circles more vehicular to our blossoming need for the slow drift, moving away under the guise of other, more cluttered networks.

This is all just a TV show. You’re in it, and it’s terrible. But the maniacs love it, and I’ve got nothing else to do, so.