Polished wonderlands, avatar bodies of steel and ironed flesh, memories reprogrammed for the purpose of seeing utopia on Mars, or Sweden or perched in pendulum at Hilton’s L4.  It’s okay they’re just forgotten family, no need to pay heed to their apoplectic pleas for nicety and nurture.  This is the drome, the dome the gathering of tremendous accolade and proportion within which you too may compete for the fate of your brethren.  Snapshots of old tomes reflecting the placating coliseum of empire where innocence was lost or burned for the delight of masses craving, more.  We’ve got no need to remember for in the past lay the failed dreams of yesteryear, forgotten, buried deep, non recyclable rubbish.  Hardened maidens designed for battle, resistance and rebellion dissolve all reflection upon the blessings of motherhood and fealty to good man.

I look to the dream for what it does not possess.  It is full of domination by violence, conquest at means that will matter not as time dwindles memory, forgotten norms of innocence nor investment for sake of others and Spirituality not emanating from self.  Certainly I am as my Fathers before, a warrior, basking in my name echoing against the clouds as my fans clamor for glimpses, sweat and treasure.  What need have I for imagination?  It has all been designed before me with naught but for me to part the curtain and take my honored call, bowing for obeisance in the normalcy of nothingness. Food grown, crops harvested, land tended, water cleansed and captured or children reared, these are jobs for those who have no fancy, no acclaim, no worth in the systems of neon and flame.  What matter have I for feelings, especially my own, for all things will be given or taken by blade, torn, severed or shackled for the purposes of pleasure?

The device, oh the grand pixelated master, beckoning never rest for the price of entertainment and service to digital experience.  When will they convert me to signal that I might live in the blessed dream, sucked from sadness of green, rock and ocean to the limitless horizons of ions, photons and flux?  Wearied of interaction with these frail victims of a life with time and tension.  Escape is my pleasure, to worlds without sand but crystals and suns doused in the silken madness of dimension, holes, within worlds within storms, scorched by stars of tourmaline and tarot.  Where we are all gods and none bid us linger, but fly on to be measured by the game.  Resetting for a time to slumbers rest, questing for that moment to be dead to life but alive to venture unknown worlds in silicone splendor and synaptic fulfillment.  Make me again part of the dream, that I might not struggle with identities and ideals and this tawdry thing I am.