DREAMS UNDER FLUORESCENT BULBS

The work is impersonal to everyone.

That's why it sells.

A universal language of abstraction.

Our conversation ended because my phone died.

In the sun, they spoke through screens. Friends meet in voids.

Bodies hold no weight when minds can break space.

"But it's pretty to just be up here and and see everything, you know, see the water with the hills meet the clouds and go off into the horizon together... The small cars on the road go towards the horizon too, but they disappear... All that's left at the end is the water, the hills, and the clouds."

The silence is painful.
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Dissatisfaction with reality.

Our lives to be consumed. Memories to be filtered. We must all eat off the collective mind.

We must all keep scratching the itch.

We must all escape.

Dreams of progress are sold to wallets full of blood
For wind hitting concrete doesn’t sound as good as hitting trees

Yet man dreams under fluorescent bulbs
While the sun's light still casts upon dark
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The cosmos hides above bright cities
Full of thinking men for they have won