We **** ourselves in slow motion. It’s not a mistake, it’s by design. We’re trapped in a cycle of longing for the things that will destroy us, but we want it quicker, faster. So we collude. We gather in dim bars, surrounded by the hum of steel, chrome, and rubber—muscle cars and limos that spit smoke and scream down streets like they’re carrying us to oblivion, but no one cares, because the ride’s too smooth, the engine too seductive.

Then the electric cars come, sleek and sterile, quiet like the death we’re told we should want, just a little more efficient at suffocating us. A pretty package with wheels, a ******* electric prayer to the environment that isn’t even real. It’s not progress. It’s a coffin with a digital dashboard.

But we’re so desperate to be distracted, so we let ourselves be neutered. *** toys, ****, gadgets, and cameras. These are the replacements for connection, for meaning, for life itself. All of it is a hollow imitation of the things we used to want and need, but the brainwashing has been so complete that we can’t see the rot behind the shiny surfaces. We’ve replaced everything that mattered with convenience. We’ve been lobotomized—collective, voluntary, and now it’s done, boxed in, processed.

When we die, we’re not free. They slice us open, stuff us full of chemicals, and sew our mouths into a fake grin. As if that would make anything okay. No, **** that. I’d rather return to the dirt, the real, the living things that will eat me and break me down into something worth remembering. Not this sanitized, packaged version of death that’s meant to make us comfortable with the lie. Don’t keep me in a vault, don't try to freeze me in time, don’t make me a corpse in a suit for the convenience of some sick, voyeuristic ritual.

Let the bugs have me. Let the fire take me. Let me return to what I am. Real. Raw. Free.