I had the best facial recognition software on the market and all the time in the world to use it but there were no faces, and that was the fly in the ointment. I had the finest and the most expensive top hat in the world but had no head to wear it on, and that was the fly in the ointment. Everything was right but nothing was right, and that was the big fat fly in the ointment. I had no choice but to radically redesign reality – I had no choice but to go back to the drawing board and start all over again.
All the world loves a genius but only when they are safely dead and have been turned into a statue in the town square. All the world loves the herald of the new age but only in retrospect, only when the new age has already become tawdry and old and the time is ripe for it to be dispensed with. All the world loves the iconoclast, the breaker of the rules and conventions that imprison us, but only when, but only when…
What a wretched thing is this great beast called humanity! What a poor sorrowful thing it is. It unfailingly denounces and persecutes all that is best in it, and celebrates the pointless and the mediocre. It rewards the dull-witted social climber and punishes the visionary. It empowers the malignant and the stupid, and ridicules all dare to speak the truth about this sad situation. And when ridicule doesn’t work, it throws them in prison. Or has them executed.
How wretchedly low and base is this collective entity we call humanity! How dismal is its history! Are we taught its true history in school, in college or university? Indeed we are not, indeed we are not. We are taught a tissue of ludicrous lies, and when we parrot these lies back faithfully we are given certificates of education, we are given honours aplenty. When we agree with fools then we are told that we are wise. When we say that all that is filthy and scurrilous is good then we are awarded with certificates of merit! When we say that foul is fair we are rewarded with titles and property.
Is there any station in life more appallingly ignominious than that of the craven conformist, the one who knows better in his or her heart but is too cowardly to act on it? Is there any state of being more odious, more repugnant? Could there ever be a type of life that is more frighteningly pointless and empty than this? And yet this is the very type of life that we are pleased to assent to. This is the unhappy state of that insincere blind monster called ‘society’. And who can deny it? Who can deny it? Each of us, in our hearts, know it to be true…
How wretched we are! How lamentable our situation! How grotesque and loathsome! How fearful is this fate that we have created for ourselves! No enemy – however cruel – would ever come up with something like this! No enemy – however sly and cunning – would ever conceive of a plan such as that which we have instigated, and for which we daily congratulate ourselves. No enemy – however malign – would ever stoop so low…
