(Here is The Fear)
So now I think maybe, this is The End. It’s time to find a beach and smoke a joint and listen to The Doors at volume, and watch your horizons burn and your oceans turn to steam and your face melt off in your hands. Did you see how we got here? We were grazing in the meadow. They, who largely left us alone but always made sure the meadow was sustained and eternal, They who seemed kind, aloof, and benevolent, herded us into wagons. There were bleatings, but we were quietly cooed. Our journey ends in a gaping metallic void. We know it is The End, and we stamp and bleat, but we walk up the ramp, because that is The Way, and we’re never sure exactly what impulse drives The Way, but we need it, because confronting such tensions leads to implosion, and the herd must sustain. How strange that our sense of individual self-preservation isn’t present as a species?

So what we need now is a severing. We need a voice so vital and eloquent that it breaks through the knots of rationalisation and beholds a truth so essential that not even They can deny it. It can’t be said in simple terms. It needs to paralyse with it’s authenticity. It needs to herald a new direction in thought. To reverse complacency. We need William Faulkner. Fused with Bertrand Russell. On acid. Whatever it takes.