nothing quite as trite and ironic, symbologic and iconic as describing the ires of consumerism and existentialism in equal parts panic and brave in an early afternoon mcdonalds dine-in.

parades of flipping cars done with a life's work of idle hands hardened by axe heads deadened to the screaming of crushed heads, paying a lifetime for vices, working graveyard shifts in daylight hours. 
Daylighting, moonlighting, noonlighting spent pulling the sun down with circus ropes, paid pennies on the nickel, worth so much more than dollars on the hour, building pyramids for shifts in power dangled like a carrot painted on the bottoms of your boots.

when enough is enough they take the word out of the dictionary, and like elbows a new word will take its place invented in between lines of bathroom stall scrawling, where the heroes and the best have come to stop and take their rest, sitting and staring through the wall wondering when death will come to take it all.
but death got bought outright and outsourced, burned out in decades past in the fantastic era of cocaine cowboys, blown away guns blazing back before Valhalla was incorporated. 

'What's this for?'
Our kids will ask, and we'll shuffle our feet and smile, not really sure ourselves anymore. 
Instead, we'll turn on the TV for them. We'll click open the latest circle jerk application to scroll through, self-imposed fat french kings we are, find the latest intellectual masturbation.
Art? 
A whitewash brush painting over every sharp edge, every rich recess of life: around our heels and hands, gluing over our mouths. This is the future we voted for.
Afraid of being afraid.

what it feels like to watch a dream drip into a nightmare.
talk is cheap.