Having broken institutions, we’re left to intuitions, our invisible antennae picking up friend of foe before anyone enters the room. Our tongues have become reptile, scenting threat or prey, and speaking in forks which stab their way through flesh and fat. We feel it in our bones: threat, trust, trauma, and all the contingent truths that seep through snapped connections. The rubble is a rubric for ungovernable change, the wreckage a road map to an underworld built from all the fears and fancies that we swept beneath the bed when we were still too small to occupy our own bodies. Now, having smashed the system, the situation is unsustainable, a flux of forgiving, forgetting, and finding fault in anyone other than the selves we perpetuate in a state of decay. What’s ours is ours, and although it’s the last thing any of us need, and there’s likely only hours until our sense of self is assimilated into solicitous nothing, we’ll strip our nearest and dearest to raw carcasses before anyone steals it away.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor