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The sewers were bright with the sound of the gleaming streets thats walked into themselves in sweat encrusted hovels and brilliant rusty beams. Those that had lived there all there lives knew every secret sign and bloody knife. Just how far one cold go to be bored, and just how far you could push those crime infested opinions that eventually drowned them all in litigation. Cause it was too far into the future to find anyone's dreams all hope for futility was lost in the memories of yesterdays 5-1 scoring spree. Now he studied the rat that crawls down his knee, and looking into those blood curdling eyes those solitary screams the soul and looking around jungles wallowing in terminal relapse. Bobbing heads nod off to sleep. Cybernetic plumbers drudging the nets that run all the way below the streets. He loves today, a black flag whips in the wind of the Interstate. Thinks on millions and millions, of cables, 0 & 1s transporting commerce and delusion straight into the heads of 150 million subscribers. Subscribers to the new creed that hey my dream is the dream of futility, and that all lies in him, , it all lies in him, a lovely spindly captive American corporate sea. And nothing at all could replace that night when flags of convenience was the only force in site. When all he sees is the reflection of him lost in those Capital zzzz's overriding prudence the power of the almighty collar. That almighty collar of those increasingly unreal dollars. Because every branch of his rotting tree leads back to the pirating of this and thats individual dreams. Nets spreading out to entrap the weary to build every prison with everlasting finery that will fall just as surely as those steal encrusted monoliths, symbols of nothing but human ignorance, and depravity, when the only democracy was that roving sea. Sea of genetic debris, cultural backlash and never-ending fire from incisions. Automation was keys to sacrificing slavery. And so he sits examining the skyline. Its Eight. The night was black. From up here he can see everything. He can see Babylon dressed up for dinner, tuxedo primed in sequin red. And He can see the grids of eternal tic-tac toe spreading below me lines of fire spreading out into the horizon. The beetles of the night flitted on its sultry surface, dipping and bobbing with their own infernal light. It was beauty incarnate when viewed from on high, but scum sucking filth when he took it for a ride. He would try and matrix it subdivide it ruin it, feel its air, check its teeth, society to him was nothing but a rotting meat to ship and export to every known world. Too bad there was him, left to pity in that glowing after burst. Something left to see and hear, something left that he can fear, but would love to achieve, to throw his carcass into the sea. And watch that water lap and stroke him until all his circuits melted and melded themselves with the norm, and love that expression when he washed up on a beach slightly forlorn, and completely alone. He knew it would end up this way, don't look so forlorn. Do you think he could sit around when he refused to share?