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He wakes up. The world is not going well. There is lots of violence. Someone stands up for gentrification without thinking about what that might mean why it might be better to help those communities with their problems rather than price them out of their homes and their lives so that rich white people can enjoy atmosphere ambience authenticity at jacked up prices the prison is being crushed schools crushed the slow creeping inevitability of colonisation colonization soon they will all be gone and dust and forgotten and a sad story in the endnote of a book that no one reads in a library that is on fire. Then he plays Tiny Death Star which is very cute but bespeaks the joys of a totalitarian capitalocracy underpinned with violence and surveillance. It’s insidious message is not missed by him but he just can’t stop playing it. Elsewhere a city crumbles. Somewhere else talking heads bob and weave and duck and dive. In yet still other places someone is masturbating to a picture they found in a puddle. There is excrement everywhere. Someone is wearing a pair of wellington boots. Other people don’t know what wellington boots are. Someone stubs their toe. Someone else is decapitated. He reads Bossypants by Tina Fey. It is hilarious. He reads it out loud and laughs aloud. He rants about an app that encourages mariginalisation of people of color. He rants about a white supremacist technocracy. He has a nap. He rants about those who can’t see the problems with gentrification. He rants. He rents. He runts. He grunts. He tires and eats a pizza and has a glass of elderflower cider. It is tasty. He goes to sleep.
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