A grey utilitarian dust smothers the landscape; it squeezes the life drop by drop from those who have not yet had the time to live it, in order to lubricate the machinery of economic necessity.
They slither from the boxes they call homes, trash bin cubicles cluttered with pastiches of pop culture with which these dispirited cogs invent identity, an individuality as unique as the grey malaise their passive existence builds.
Yet from the midst of this dusty fog, this discolored, passionless horror, suddenly strange laughter springs forth to haunt the sleep of utility’s reason; for in the cracks and crevasses, there are vagabond jesters, fools who serve no courts, no kings, no gods, not even conscience;
Wanderers at the fringes – meandering through the nights in mad adventures.
Though often we may choke upon the grey, our laughing colors smothered in the dinginess, drawn down into the maw of passionless despair,
Yet through us whirls a mad cacophony refusing to be channeled or suppressed…
And so a rowdy, dancing, howling band – strangely invisible except as colors flowing through grey dreams – flies through the night on razors edge, sifting through the detritus utility has left behind to find the weapons and the toys which will invent the sounds and colors of desire without constraint.
This greyness is the stench of social rot, of civilized decay.
Utility has filled the world with useless junk to feed our crazed cacophony, a resource for the ruins in which we dream our crazy colors.
For from the junkyards of history, we shall create ruins from which bricolage symphonies of chaos will burst forth.
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