Blood cells mutate in the global corporate state while mutants investigate the messages that silently scream at them from their handheld screens.
Secret music trickles into their brains through earbuds. Everything’s under control. They’re bought and sold.
No danger exists that any of these underground consumers of digital data and miniature images will be a Good Samaritan today and break through the mirage, let alone join their neighbors in a vast and noisy insurrection against their mass neurosis.
No time to stop and smell the advertisements. No sense of smell remains among memories buried under endless waves of information that spread their mental manure in the segmented sewer that rockets through the tunnel of loveless light, delivering each insect to his or her temporary destination as the commuters disperse and separate as easily as their ephemeral thoughts, in search of brighter prison cells in which to contain themselves as they proceed internally and eternally to fall apart and disappear like a waterfall made of stars or the tidal wave of data flying down a screen as fingers fidget and eyeballs stare in silent appraisal of the rest of the undercover aliens who hover alert and aloof, attached only to what’s unreal and immortally unnatural–
–the mass-produced delusion of progress in the preposterous fiasco called the 21st Century.