In the crypto-currency nightfall where pitied classes live in giant carved out onions. Where furnaces are tapped for the steel plinths of malleable propaganda. Where the bone-dry pubs rattle empty glasses Where the fracking caves of secret sins hide the lies of the universe in clay jars. Where the March Hares of politics run rabid in the twisted labyrinths of the subconscious. Where the cockadoodle morning juggles with the dustbin of common thought.
On David Street, we see pyjama wearing citizens dozing through the day with iPad Euphoniums monitoring every snore. On the corner, Little Jack Horner, and the protesters from hell, with prehistoric banners, they lack the power to be innovative! With rule-book lives, legal-fee minds, programmed and conditioned; they sit in cafes by the river, dreaming of winning the Lottery. Just then, one of them had an idea - but then again there were tasks to be done, situations to be ironed out, bills to be ignored and distractions to be followed like a frolicking cream cake on legs. The idea withdrew, went back to bed, and kept one eye open for an escape route....
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