This is a vision: I see men and women in rags as they walk along a muddy road—it has deep pools of brown water on it. The people trip into the pits now and again—a few drag a trolly behind them, elevated on large rubber wheels. The sky is dark. It is after the cataclysm. Rain falls in sporadic outbursts—if it falls on the hand it burns. Only Jerusalem is exempt. I see a body beside the road—I see it swollen with maggots and other vermin. The people show it no regard—it has become normal, it becomes normal very quickly.
I see this is the wages from interest rates.
The column thins out—the people do not know where to go; only one place is exempt—Jerusalem. All else has been destroyed, the cities have emptied. There is no countryside—there is nothing rural, just mud that carries on for miles and miles (in the remnants there are tree stumps and blackened trees). All was destroyed—sometime ago, I can’t see the date.
These people don’t have a future—they will die. They were “the population” at sometime, the population in the mega-cities—the cities grew and grew and then…the cities emptied…the cities burned for three or four months, so they say. There was no history in the cities, anyway—already these lived in an eternal present. Now there is no one to record the history. This has happened—twelve, thirteen times. History is written in the stars, though—but it’s hard to see, the skies have been obscured.
There is some drink to be had—left over from before, nobody knows how to brew from a still anymore. The knowledge has been forgotten. It ebbs away—books? Nobody had read those for quite sometime. Now few can read.
Water collects in a corrugated metal roof—it has been turned upside down. What do we live in? What, now? Yes—now. An illusion. The rainwater turns brown—if you drink it you will be poisoned.
A dead dog, its body bloated—not a useful meal.
A child draws a message on a garden fence with a water pistol—his mother bangs on the window to stop him. This happened a long time before all this came to pass—it contained much anger (the illusion of graffiti—the mother is notrational, for her it is the same as graffiti; there is no difference between water and paint).
That was a long time before—long before the cities emptied. It was the 1990s—it was the empty time, empty like a doughnut (it had no real nutritional value in it).
People remember the slogans, the hate propaganda—it’s about all they have taken from the cities with them. Hate. Hate. Hate. Self. Self Self. I believe this was presented in the form “love”—that was the official word, yet the lie was given by the rhythm. People didn’t pay attention to rhythm in those times, but they have learned to pay attention to rhythm now—you have to when you walk (you only know what matters when you walk everywhere—it must be why Americans don’t know anything).
A man moves papers across a desk—it’s 1949, he thinks that his decisions are based on reason but there is a hidden hand that decides for him. His colleague left a pendant in his desk—and, since then, his decisions have been bent in a certain direction. His pen strokes destroy countries and families—his secretary types documents and signs them for him. He obeys the instructions.
Across the corridor, there is a man with a constellation map on his desk—it is tucked away under papers and maps. He looks at it and dreams about the weekend—he thinks life could be better than it is, he has plans (for a nuclear reactor—its stack will catch fire in the 1950s; it’s not big deal, it can be solved easily).
I see psyches broken open—I see the plans of Satan. Break up the family, then the programming can find an entry point—hypnotise the millions (reach them through the women). I hear a constant refrain, refrain, refrain—they hear, then obey. Split them open—then rush them with “the material”. Who says you need regimentation when you have per-suasion instead?
The psyche as a weapon—nobody prepared to look, always with a story to tell (always with an objective, always with the goal to destroy this or get that). The West without religion—just slaved to the machine. I want every screen to go blank, I want the ignition to fail on your car—I want the record studios to go dark, I don’t want to see another video. I want the cities blacked out.
I am tired of meeting people whose faces are axes—all I meet is “what made the organism successful in the past”, again and again. Your face is a Swiss Army knife—it just wants to achieve certain goals. Manipulate this way or that—it worked before, so it will work again. When will you take the mask off? When will you stop calculation?
There’s no regret at the end—empty the hives, let the bodies pile up. What was it but a simulation in the end? Let’s see a comet in the sky…Nobody cares one way or another, they’re just good at pretending…so let’s give them corpses to walk over…it’s all programmed in anyway. Every face I meet is programmed for greed, programmed for hate, for acquisition—I don’t want to see another face (I’ve never seen your true face).
This is all determined by the tail on the Bear—it decides whether empires rise or fall.
I’m too lazy to complete it. What? The end of the prophecy. That’s no good—it’s no good being a lazy prophet. Well, yes, there’s no profit in it. I’m in debit to the Devil. That’s all—it doesn’t really belong.