The oceans, choked with plastic and depressed whales with PTSD are running out of oxygen. Here on dry land, the primordial forests are on fire, the secrets that could save us are going up in smoke. Bored with our bodies, we’re struggling to escape them. We find ourselves repulsive,  inadequate, ineffably wrong. Maybe we were born the wrong sex, the wrong colour, the wrong species. The earth shivers and flexes, ready to cast us off, and we’re infected with panic everywhere we look. With machetes and guns and bricks and bombs, half of us are cowering in the rubble while the other half are lost in delirium, drunk with blood, intoxicated by righteous violence. Evolved to know, to reach out through mind and time and space to understand, to bring this seething eternity of gas and atoms and light before the mirror of consciousness, something has gone wrong. Again. Some trivial programming error by a creator who is learning on the job. Degenerate and hysterical, simultaneously trying to crawl back into the swamp from which we came while building towers of children’s bricks to ascend to the heavens, we’re all going wrong. Everything is coming apart,  our reeling minds infecting the churning cosmos. Time to shut it down. Time to debug and start again. The universe has forever. We, its flawed and frantic children, do not. But we’ll  be back, redrawn on the same smudged page, a more nuanced and improved detail in the inevitable picture.

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