Chapter 5 (Cont.)
Learn to walk? Your foothold is confiscated hereby, mister! Baby lumps grow within the matrix. I wonder how many warheads were writ in the lot for Massachusetts... Maybe the Gotard mansion, even if by the benevolence of the Almighty who enforced His will in the ferocious tilts of probability, survived a direct hit? Or the shockwaves? Gotard mansion was located away from the cities in the state and even by the metrics of rural habitation packets, the mansion was constructed in a rather remote place. My forefathers whose names I do not know of, must had prioritised seclusion and exclusivity? My father, Benzo, was not just complicit with that but was wholeheartedly devoted to its prideful pedigree. A politician and a policy maker, he had to be in the fields in more hours of the day than otherwise. As the tensions of the apocalyptic great war grew exponentially, worldwide and within the continent of North America and its nations, so did its biting tremors send shudders within the nativity of Eastern America. Sovereign Niqqson II's policies increasingly grew away from favouring the majority of his own subjects; and most non-vital economic propulsors were concentrated on the third great war. And the effects were out in plain sight: Eastern America was the dominant force in the war, Eastern America's army was equipped with the most vigilant arsenal, Eastern America's secret police hunted down and depreciated all dissidents with the ease of cleaning smudges and smears from a grand mirror. Niqqson II and his cabinet stood in front of its glory and sovereignty: taking painstaking moments to appreciate all its, and their beauties. This mirror does not answer to the unfavourable ambient dust particles that hinders the sensor-to-stimulus handshake; this mirror does not bend to succumbing refractive indices of nature's reflectors that make us aware of our true visage unrelented. Narcissus, was he to be resuscitated in this world and then made to chance upon a pond in the wilderness, would die of cardiac arrest from the horrors of the grimly unfamiliar waters. Narcissus would have, as he was drowning from the throes, shed all concerns of the self, or moreso the sense of self would dissolve from realising: "what have we done to our world?". But he is from times forgotten. Evolutionary resilience is directly dependent on the subjects' own constant exposure and reconciliation with the host biomes. So who cares about antiquity now? In the locales and cities throughout Eastern America, the citizens had adjusted to them just fine. They have overthrown and outlasted the Gods and Demigods of antiquity. The economic depression is rampant and ubiquitous; civil liberty is a fairy tale from naïve times, and every day is a new stress test. But what does it matter? Tout est grâce! In every state and every nation and every legislation; the citizen's reaction is but a fraction of the sum. We have to consider everything. Analyse all facets, shan't we? Time is the ultimate examiner and wise are those who can foresee the examination process than latching onto the process of the exams per se. Great sacrifices are the hallmarks of a great nation; and the more we are willing to let go, the better dexterity we have for the consequent moves. But, Mr. Anderson, you are simply a journalist and you should learn to know what's best for Eastern America's interests. Ms. Colette, your deviant left-wing tendencies have been historically synonymous with Anti-Americanism, so know your place. Mr. Jangia, economic reconstruction is not a leisure we can afford in this dangerous age. We, the instruments of the will of Eastern America, will say to you in public: your views and positions are not with the best interests of our nation. But we, will say in private: the secret police will take you on simulations of your ideal world! Hahaha! At the white dome of Eastern America's will then: "Ahh... The mustache is tuned finely. Not a single dissident-strand that dares to violate the proportions. I am God's instrument in this world". There were finest chandeliers hanging from the velvet ceilings of that room. After all, optimal lighting is not negotiable. Why would this perfect mirror and the toils to maintain its perfection matter then? If we could not focus the golden hour on all its stretches of surfaces and around the facets, perpetually? To keep from the carbon emissions' inbred bastards which had, by then, formed a formidable army as Nature's mutants: there were cutting-edge air filtration system in the mirror room. And so on and so forth. Benzo Gotard, you fucking whore of the state, I hope your giggles in the mirror room was worth everything. But you fucking shameless whore, I understand that you had some conscience intact? I would love to think so...
Junktitled #29
Melancholia Mk. 2 XX / Alessandra