Down the long walk through a rattling cage, watching the pages turn. Sound of small talk down the scattering ages, difficult to discern the words of strangers
Talk and laugh
And what is said
In and out your spinning head
Nothing to remember now
And nothing more forever
Little power-- less responsibility. Listen to the music-- the women sing and sound like machines. Familiar noise without the novel connection; empathy between player and listener is little present. Songs imitating emotion rather than expressing feeling, evoking specious intimacy, projecting contrived and transparently false preciousness. The sterile gloss of poorly imagined, relentlessly repetitive imagery reflects little direct experience.

So, increasingly, direct experience appears less valid, less 'authentic', than emotional or intellectual or spiritual reality defined outside oneself: one's peers and personal experience of media narratives supercede individual perception.

So jump the border and run. Make your tracks down the dark highway, keep an eye open for the soldier boys, they are the only ones who can save your skin-- make your way to Chicago if you can, give up everything you love, you need, you believe, and leave, run down the road...