What did I ever do to deserve a world where avocados are underripe while they're overripe, pens cede before their ink is spent, rivers run dry, aquifers deplete? What choice do I have but to opt out of the technocratic misery, overlorded by the Slither Circle, to make my sways of the sun replete?
My country has a Military Complex that fought wars over bananas. My country prints Monsters on Money, a desecrated spell to spill nature's blood and use it in every commodity: the ink, the encasements, the coatings, the stains, the sealants, the wrappers, even the food and medicine.
What did I do? I ate. I wrote. I used.
It's not her fault, but she will always blame herself. All we can do is our best, and that's the best we can do. Much love to you all.