What do you call this future? The one at the end of the rat run you’ve built out of today and into tomorrow? The one we can see as a pin-prick at the end of the tunnel, a pin-prick of grey light and confinement. Why do you want us to go there? Really, why? What motivates you to shepherd us with threats, prods and promises of milk and honey which sound bitter even as you speak them? We’re still playing in yesterday’s rubbish after all. Our attentions are all hooked on sun faded Tango cans and empty crisp wrappers we left as a legacy from our childhood to remind us of the way home. Maps formed of artifacts from our own antiquity which we’re more than happy to struggle to decipher because at least we know the juvenile cartographers drew those lines without guile or malice.
Why should we, why would we dash into a clean and compressed passage which leads to nothing more than sterile light and a dream you can’t explain? A dream where all the rest has been swept away?
How are you going to make us?
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