You win some, you lose some.
Why do I feel no joy at a half win? Ideas offered on a plate, twisted and used
as bullets in an assassination.
Progress, bloody progress. To gain something, always seems to mean loss of
something special, unique.
The worship of the motor vehicle goes on.
I feel gutted and my writhing corpse left out to dry. Not to worry, the birds of
death will pick it clean, the bones, bare bones will be white and sanitized, all will
be tarred over in time.
Civilisation, as transitory as a landscape reworked and rebuilt by an army of ants.
The beating heart was not valued, and without care, died. The smug lords, drunk
and arrogant on power and greed, bare their fangs.
I hope their comeuppance is brutal, and with much suffering, so finally their eyes
are opened, and made aware of the damage they must pay for.
Yet it will come too late, the behemoth is booked, awaiting it's grim task. It will
be efficient.
One day ...
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