“I am not concerned with the trivialities of Christmas. I am concerned with the terrible consequences we must face as the war drums beat ever stronger,” the Queen said.
We are the last analog representatives on our planet. Retrograde Mercury took away the remains of life in motion, so we arranged an event in the middle of nowhere. We met the other within an insular territory of the endless return. The black gut, leading the posthuman to the abandoned isolated dance-floor, is a wormhole, an error of time and space, the last reminiscence of a mother's amniotic sac that had nurtured us long before the arrow of time appeared. On a threshold there lay a superman, had passed the warrior’s way, lifeless and unnecessary. Behind the console stood a lean bearded DJ, lighting up afterpulses of life inside our bodies. Coagulates the room, coagulates the milk, smolder beslobbered butts. Flowing from one to another a quality ceases functioning, it is gone with the black polyethylene and vanishes, leaving only a chirper sense of the anxiety.
We are a sovereign community. We have two legs, two arms, one head. Two eyes – to see, two ears — to hear, a nose — we smell danger. The regular triangle of our habitat is paradoxical: the vertex of it is a putrid invariant. We chanted of "destabilization". We beat it rhapsodically, spreading ourselves beyond the outside.
”One must now make the necessary preparations to say goodbye to loved ones as one cannot assume who will live and who will die. Many will die in these final days.”
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