The U.S. you fight for is dead. In fact, it probably never existed. Why try and save the veritably fatally ill? To extend suffering? Are we not prepared to die? Fight worthless battles, ignore creative possibility; bemoan parasite museum gift shops, but billow in and with the infinite, complimentary space of imagination, thus anulled from future wall-gallows? The Modern is a pillaged tomb. And you’ll never know what’s been removed. Oh, visionary famine, they feed as dogs upon corpses. Cry out, "unfair," crushed like flowers beneath boots of a universe who exstinguishes distinction, flowers and earth. Children suffer for love from a laboratory culpable only of incapababilty. The thesis, you ask? Haven’t we developed the idea properly? Have we been denied admission to the university of your understanding? So be it.
Two children
Red halos
Wide eyes
Upward fixed
Ecstatic
Dead
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