The people toil upwards without much choice under heavy
yokes of addiction, constrained by copper fetters, masked
with the blackest, a most coarse leather as not to speak, not
to impress with humility and destitution whatever folk will
pity them along their pitiful way. Masters of the various arts
of morphinism and alcoholism, of every kind of vice and
addiction under this sun, hungover from the unearned
privilege, choleric and spiritually malnourished, hollowed
out, like voided shells, from the empty ejaculations of many
sad, bestial moments and from the spiritual destitution
present in the hearts of every person construing the eternal
as temporal; the Sacred as Profane, the sinful as liberating,
and the fear of God as some form of superstitious
decrepitude or impotence. From the foothills of the world to
nauseous heights of elation the procession proceeds, along
vertiginious trails of failed hedonia snaking upward through
velvet fields and through the gate of diamonds only to fall
from grace, from the top, and to repeat the chore again and
again and again, as soon as they hit the ground.
A procession of Sisyphean morons stuck like the hamster in
its loop, like slavefolk pining for their very bondage to be
eternal.
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