Living On A Thin Line

The hostile colonization is now almost complete, my skull reduced to one more cluttered victim of American conquest and imperialism.

I close my eyes and I still see giant petroleum and fast food logos, neon beer signs, beautiful celebrities. I hear voices that should not be familiar, the voices of complete strangers that someone has made it their business to convince me I know, intimately.

Not someone: An immense network of someones.

I hear television jingles and snippets of pop songs I would otherwise be prepared to swear I have never heard. I find myself desiring (in place of my true, unattainable desires) products of one sort or another.

All of my dreams are now the Busby Berkeley productions of giant sydicates and corporations. Ideally, if the doctors ultimately have their way, the way I feel will not be the way I actually feel, but the way I have been made to feel. Even my subconscious has been plastered with decals for various corporations, exactly –or not quite exactly– like the jumpsuits of Nascar drivers.

Every thought is like a link to the webpage of some pirate or entrepreneur. This, that, and the next thing —every last thing— is brought to me by who? By whom? The purveyors, the procurers, the fucking delivery men.