The morning lies about everything, it lies from the start. The morning lies that the night is still young yet the night succumbed to its own cancer. Yes, the night's will was already perused and destroyed upon discovery that you were named as the sole beneficiary. The morning makes the mirror your enemy, especially when it demands to be addressed by its full names in recognition of the completion of dangerous missions peppered with cool gizmos and martini swirls - "The name's After, Morning After...Shaken and shaken..." Of course, the A.M. proves more than skilled in the art of conversation and even talk of the weather will still feel refreshing and life-changing. But when the morning speaks, the morning speaks to scheme, it hastens to entertain with worthless banter in an effort to make you forget or dismiss your dreams.
The morning makes you run a marathon in an F1 track. Unknown to you, that nanosecond spent in the shower or the breakfast table smiling at a resurgent good memory has to be paid for through the nose. Every new day, the working masses sit prostrate in a disorganized mess of asphalt, steel and fume as if paying homage to an unidentified Moloch whose image and likeness is manifested in the collective form of CBDs worldwide. The reverent worship is accentuated by the psychotic chants of morning radio call-in sessions.
The morning carefully manipulates the seasons like slides of a silent film creating the illusion of constant change. Constant change of scene without constant change of state. Through the morning we are condemned to exist within the confines of wonderfully lit vacuum tubes emitting forth rays of electons each carrying its load of propaganda. A show so spellbinding, we continue to exist only because we have totally forgotten that we need to breathe. And the status quo persists through the static. The Early Bird still hovers above a nation of wormholes and the straight line remains a multiple set of perfectly circular dots.
The morning has sucessfully held its place as the custodian of second chances, the registrar of clean slates and the supplier of new leaves. It is the beautiful lie that never lasts as long as it should. Postcard sunrises are replaced with ember-hot afternoons and tiny shadows as the masses take refuge in the shade and talk about how tomorrow will be a good day. Later, even more take refuge under the cover of their sheets and blankets under the cover of securely locked houses, surveilled by well-fed dogs and weeded security guards who do not know people - hiding from the dark reality of the night and its black light.
The morning makes you run a marathon in an F1 track. Unknown to you, that nanosecond spent in the shower or the breakfast table smiling at a resurgent good memory has to be paid for through the nose. Every new day, the working masses sit prostrate in a disorganized mess of asphalt, steel and fume as if paying homage to an unidentified Moloch whose image and likeness is manifested in the collective form of CBDs worldwide. The reverent worship is accentuated by the psychotic chants of morning radio call-in sessions.
The morning carefully manipulates the seasons like slides of a silent film creating the illusion of constant change. Constant change of scene without constant change of state. Through the morning we are condemned to exist within the confines of wonderfully lit vacuum tubes emitting forth rays of electons each carrying its load of propaganda. A show so spellbinding, we continue to exist only because we have totally forgotten that we need to breathe. And the status quo persists through the static. The Early Bird still hovers above a nation of wormholes and the straight line remains a multiple set of perfectly circular dots.
The morning has sucessfully held its place as the custodian of second chances, the registrar of clean slates and the supplier of new leaves. It is the beautiful lie that never lasts as long as it should. Postcard sunrises are replaced with ember-hot afternoons and tiny shadows as the masses take refuge in the shade and talk about how tomorrow will be a good day. Later, even more take refuge under the cover of their sheets and blankets under the cover of securely locked houses, surveilled by well-fed dogs and weeded security guards who do not know people - hiding from the dark reality of the night and its black light.
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