The Electric Conductors and their Epileptic Puppets
Life was mass-produced; Vengeance damned by technological progress. We ushered it in. The patented shadows Waited for the Big Bang's retrograde When all the world's matter Melted into a single, copyrighted pin-point. Then, and only then, Did the clock disconnect . The son of a gun is the son of The One. They calculated every moment And gathered every page Ever written, Now scanned And kept In an archive Of information. When the future archeologists pull you from the grave You'll be like some mummy in a museum Taken from his tomb And put on display. You will be studied. You will be analyzed. The infinite monkeys Will find a way To rob your grave And explore your non-linear waves. You smell like profit, OK? Generational slaver¥ Extended beyond the grave. Here's the thing. There's a reason you've reached this far: Connectivity Pulls you In a Circle, And you're worth something To them. The circle The square The spirit The