Get back. A flaming torch is rattled in our direction. Warding us away like rats in the dark.

The dark

All we get is dark.

Murky, ink-black, blinding backdrop to the occasional aggressive burst of bright heat, chaos, fear, societal unrest.
Our corneas are burnt with hatred and manufactured violence.

The violence.

All we get is violence.

Violent advertisement of segregation and expectation, nauseating white pink dolls which violate our sights and rights.
A hypnotic jingle of brutality is forcefully tied to "humanity".
The spiteful rage of the higher men who have the power to climb higher on the backs of cannon fodder as they send the proletariat to war in the name of the dream.

The dream.

All we can hope for is the dream.

Work hard, eat less, never rest, enjoy the stress. Feeling bad? Ritalin! So you can work while you get thin. And that success is joy you see so keep it up until you're free, because as soon as you turn sixty, you can finally stop to take a break.

A break.

All we want is a break.

An enclave in the woods where the cloudy skies are cold and fresh and the silence turns you still and blank.
Cold nothing.
Wooden homes and feral company. Isolation as a means to cleanse.
Mornings of misty air and afternoons of no affair. Herd the cattle, fix the fence. Make some tea, dry some herbs.
Read a novel under a tree in the long grass as sweet notes of honey and lemon glide through the air hand in hand with the songbirds lament.
Stroll home to throw a log in the fire and thaw off everything that you used to have.
Bathe away the anxiety of the world in the heat of a new type of flame.

Do nothing.
Sweet, relaxing, nothing.
Weightless shoulders.
Marketless living.
Burdenless conciousness.

Peace.

Escape.