It wasn’t until I had forgotten everything I had learned that I noticed the clockwork of our first world machine.
The people as the cogs spinning simply to be the dream.
Yet, not actually.
A frenzied free for all on a linear trip up the ladder with eyes on the prize and no peripheral to see what is lost to the bloodbath below.
Our modern joy paid in full with their soul.
Slave from birth to grave in clockwork that doesn't tell time.  
If only the money misers could be convinced of a two way street
to up shift the whole god ****** machine
and not just leave your brother in the gutter because you can’t believe.
Their steady faucet of the drip drop dribble trickling into your mind until it’s all you know.
Nothing outside that bubble ever gets exposed.
From generation to generation.
Grade school skill sets for a life led by expectation.
With history from the victors,
and morality from a minister.
The whole of the world,
the whole of your life,
is censored.