there’s no need for hope in an endlessly calculated world of projected outcomes and probabilities, he claims. hope is a useless tool for those stuck eternally in a loop of self-fulfilling demise; a way out of the rat trap.

but who is he to comment on the one who goes in circles? just because his circles are a bit bigger doesn’t mean keeping his ties on a cycle and his appearances up sixteen hours a day makes him any better.

woe be to the one who doesn’t know hope; as a vehicle of change for the downtrodden and an aspiration to the evil. those with pasts long forgotten by the general public look to the few who know, who see what the cruel world is capable of and stand straight in its face, daring it to make a move.

and soon enough, his world will collide with theirs, of drinks in the dark until the bar closes, of nights awake wondering just what this life was made for. the drone , the cog in the machine now screams internally when he realizes he’s greased with the blood of the poor, of the disabled.

if he didn’t choose this, then who did? who was the invisible hand taking those unfit for service and feeding them to the hungry sharks made to eat the meek and each other through years of self-preservation speeches made by the last generation.
he, we, they all look at the world, so empowered with the capacity for beauty, vicious yet unanimous beauty, looking for just when the wave hit, when the world went under our own weight.