I feel like I'm passing
through a modernistic desert
seeing the same cactii,
the same horse bones, again and again.
It's a loop:
the map's a bad fiction
made for corporate whoring money.
But what the cosmic used-car dealer
didn't count into this equation
is that I'm virtually non-destroyable.
I'm so real, resourceful, and CRAZY
that I'd survive anything.
But this society's not gonna
like what it may turn me into.
But like Dr. Frankenstein,
they're creating the monster, not me...
imagine Mary Shelley as a digital prophet
