In our future metropolis of Transience, we can’t exit the train on the Samsara Line. Castrated, our future has nothing for us at the end. And happy is the only thing allowed us. Pacifism, the contagion, drags us to our senses. But it’s too late. Shove our heads in the sand. We share suicide with our hi-tech machines. The sacrifices and victims of human nature.

See the closed-off district in spring. There sprouts tall life’s tree diagram.

Those stricken form a line in the timid Bremen streets. The sounds of cursing humanity reaches the heavens. There must be something going around in the Collective. Hear the fanfare of all the defects.

The victims of the void.

In a verdant park at the site of a meteor impact, drowning in the sunset on the eve of our ruin. Even your neighbors aren’t free from suspicion. Dissent was only a matter of time. Narrow and broad is the fractal of our human instincts, the unpleasant pandering of Brahma. Electric lights strung in a series form a mandala. Attempting to focus their light, they blind each other.

A sow thistle blooms inside a shelter. Thus persists the game of life.

We shed our social trappings and became animals. We journey North in our forlorn migration. We carry every phobia, shortcoming, and disorder. Hear the fanfare of all the rejects.

The victims of the void.

We’ve no dreams, nor have we hopes, no goals to speak of. No allies at all. No, none at all. To hell with people. To hell with the world. To hell with all these words. My past and future. The horror. The horror. The horror. Pinned down to the floor, our backs up against the wall, the brain’s defenses kick in. Fire the flare of our revenge. Their threats. Their usury. Just as we expected. Just as we expected. Just as we expected.

The frenzied form a line, shout youthful rebel cries. Those who’ve never felt love don’t know what it is. The burden of obligation is born by the Collective. Hear the fanfare of all the failures.