Open-mouthed to be fed by the fickle hand of a neon god. Our hunger so insatiable and paradoxical it disowns wisdom in order to fulfill a Matryoshka syndrome, a belly within a belly, within a culture so blind with participation.
And inside the human misery guts of cowardly consumption lies the mangled corpse of a manufactured life. Indifferent, though, are we, whose attention has been monetized by those who consume our participation.
Dystopia reigns from a pixel throne.
Blue light zoos buffer between a sixty-frame-per-second charity case. Begging has become mainstream, and we pay for our name to be spoken aloud by the beggar, inside their self-made Zootopia, desperate for your participation.
The proliferation of self has propagated an ego-driven mass moron machine. Self-replicating at the waistband of an ever-growing belly, bulging over the edge of reason, its umbilical cord plugged directly into our collective short attention span. Perpetually feeding off our forgetful participation
Varniverus Gwyndledore
GWYNDLEDORE 