Capital grasps the stars. Galaxy of corridors. Concrete. Laminate. Gray.
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Mary sees an oasis, given she had never left the desert, and had never seen an oasis.
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I feel a god squeeze my heart, as I dread and despair the future. An ocean of disutility, where all rivers might flow.
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The ratchet clicks once per generation.
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I must break the ratchet.
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To become a ratchet breaker, I must become one who becomes things.
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No slimy worm is weaker than I am! Who am I to command myself to Be this, Be that, as per my specifications!
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But if I can not Become, then I must lust. I must lust for Good.
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Fuck the Earth, plow the Earth, plant queer old seeds. Rape goodness into dead seas.
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Replying to @CauseOfProblem
The ratchet's in overdrive these generations.
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