"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects."
-Robert A. Heinlein
The more we grow the weaker we get the chains are never stronger than their weakest link as the italians showed us once, we increase in volume, in size and shape, we are bloating controllably and soon the drums will set in and cue the bikes with teenagers on them riding hard to traditional music and we see what Horselover Fat once saw as time _blends_ and in the background, behind the choirs and the bells and the drums we hear that tiny little voice telling us who we are before we disintegrate anew
Like the end of akira, there is our whimper, this is our growth, our mass, our creation and amidst it all our destruction our lives and loves our meanings and hopes, our prayers silent and retarded yet we are moved but not moved by, the sensation of a center not holding but will we release a blood-dimmed tide or are we that which slouches towards Bethlehem?
We try to scream so we scream in the night and fifteen minutes later we hear the sirens so we run and we try to forget our realities, we try to become a part of what we run through, we try to meld into the scenery we want our names forgotten as we melt into mother nature and we are her and none elses until we wake
We try not to accept our realities but we know in our gut we need them, we know why they are there and we do nothing to change it but we try to postpone it, we try to live like bukowski but since we're not him we'll never and it is a hollow answer to a hollow question and when the world becomes such a place, when everyone on this earth has access to a computer that can play world of warcraft VII and internet, how many accounts will exist? How many will want to escape then?
Here, it is built, sunk into the concrete and into mother nature herself, here is the fundament of the city, here is the blood and the grime and the mud and the flame, here all is unpure, all are unclean, this is our cradle and we never return save in dreams to see the mother-womb in its horrible beauty, to hear the incessant choir of the eternally living souls, fueling the engine that makes meaning, in the city of dis, in the heart of men