the cicadas and crickets hum as the sun dies and i dont want anything except to escape from the digital hell of accounts and connectivity that blights this dying word. false control they sell us, the bosses of towering smoke stacks and rictus fun clots of sweating tourists to their own lives seeing through a screen what they could never touch without the AI drip of content creation filtering the very way they think, like a living pig liver hooked up to a skeletal yellowed man. im there too, as the ever present scream of this world of easy lies presses in at every opportunity a constant barely audible whisper subconsciously demanding attention and recognition. its a cage of fame jagged shards of the threat of isolation and friendlessness the bars which contain us. me you i. the cicadas and crickets in the trees.
i starr at this damn thing and my mjnd cant slow doen its like a drug.
i cant stomach this tech shit anymore. people want a revolution an apocalyse because they want someone else to break them out. i just want to get away from it, but its ubiquitous. what does freedom mean if you dont share what youre doing with others? what do answers mean if you cant factcheck evrrything at a touch? i mistrust our technological overlords. 4x4s and blenders and weedwackers look like thebrayed teeth of a vicious animal. i want to shit in holes and grow food and hear only the songs of my friends played badly on homemade instruments. i want to do things the hard way, because my body is mine, and my skill means i can still teach myself. i dont care about the old ways or tradition. i want to ask questions that lead to more questions. never ending. hear the ringing in your ears?
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