The Flood of Philistinism

Dear the Uninitiated.

Corporate communications are the hieroglyph of a botched civilisation. Demands for surrender jingle through your airwaves and are pumped into you through your screen. You get ready for HD. You make the switch to digital. We phase in contactless. With a little luck we’ll forget what contact meant.

We find refuge in the crevices of the carcass of the old toothless bitch. Subsistence is stitched on to sacred dictums: the amount of me you can take determines how well I can live. The less of me there is, the worse I am.

In the digital chasm, we the children, scrap for identity like hounds tearing a fox apart. Identity is a hot commodity but you don’t want to be there when the bubble bursts.
The world trusts you much further than it can throw you. We’re recycling all our empires, dining and singing round a cornucopia full of purple ash heavy with spice. The path to finding love is paved with moments of hatred. It would be worse to suffer from an overabundance of life than a lack thereof. The present is eternal and in your mind you are free.

Tribes are as glib as the Gods they serve. Some truths are universal: things disappear on becoming lucid. You’re safest in the Shadow of the Valley of Death not in the light where you can be preyed upon. The only sense is in compromising your tomorrows because you can only really sell out if you had something to sell in the first place.

Yours again, Dan