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He wakes up. There are orphan Farms and meat orchards. Families are sliced apart like butcher’s mutton. Nutrient paste hosed into expanding bellies. There is saturation. Everyone is terminal. The telomeres shave away every year and the DNA glitches build up silently in the backrooms of the thewish tenement. There is asthmatic excitement at company profits. Greed the never to be satisfied desire for everything. All cleaning and caring and dressing and bathing the monster that will one day consume us all. The insidious truth of the Racial Contract. Hidden from view from those who wield it. Wilfully ignored by those who wield it. The ignorance of a system they built yet at the same time a terrible fear that if it were to disappear their destruction would be assured that the pain and suffering that they have inflicted would be returned a hundred fold. The automated slaughter-bots patrol the streets of the near future clearing up the afternoon rush. Confusion abounds as to whether people are running the Boston Marathon or attending a rally to free Ukraine. Hoax factories churn out elaborate lies, sprinkled with shredded facts. Varnished, packaged and delivered they line the aisles and fill the post boxes brimming, overflowing, gushing, drowning. Desensitized and reeducated Desiccates sit quietly engorged on an endless production line of glowing addiction. The day has not been too bad. There was love and there was happiness and laughter and joy and heart beating wildly and smiles and sweat and grinning and beard hair and the possibility of a better tomorrow and too many Cadburys chocolate eggs and Hershey eggs and that is no supper but it was supper and a bagel and maybe something that was fish or the memory of the death of fish. He probably falls asleep. He cannot remember.

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