« on: July 02, 2015, 04:19:32 am »
A more-or-less typical Wednesday evening conversation:
"I am getting tired of the word craft. Craft cocktails, craft scotch eggs, craft craft. Craft pussy on the wood fired Avenue of Roses," Charley said.
"That's so beautiful. I am wearing a craft sweatshop dress made by a hand-crafted Chinese adolescent," I replied.
"Smoking craft-made water hash with a craft-made craftless glass pipe," he said.
"I think the next big trend is uniformity. The mass-produced anonymous look."
"Totally. Gap. Assembly-line, factory-produced couture..."
"Maybe no. So many folk must wear socks."
I continued, "...reassuring. Stable. A functional cog in a social machine that is larger than all of us. A look that says 'I believe in the Collective.'"
"'And all the humans are dead,'" Charley blurted.
"So moving. Graceful. Scintillating," I broke out my rusty poetry review skills.
"I touched one. They're dead," he repeated.
Florid. My imagination was captured. "Warm in the summer sun, bloating. Soon the haciendas come."
"The Goddess Rebecca and her dusty brood of minions," he referred to our cupboard moths.
"In the aftermath the shining robot workers of the Collective will place offerings of grain in the cupboards that once held human food," I finished triumphantly.