The carcass of these times

The carcass of these times; yes, language is fucking dead. Trumpets don’t blare, they babble, incite rabid rabble. Please wait while verifying, terrifying incompetence isn’t what it seems. There may be no more curtain, but the man behind it is still just an actor. I don’t know when the play was written, but I fear too soon none will know how to read it. 

I mean, shit, we already slept through the alarm and the snooze. Waking up well after the news. Groggily scanning the scene, mistaking the man for the machine. 

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