“Hi, there. Who’s your favorite band?
Who are you?
“I’m 2016. Name the things you love. Make me a list.”
Go away.
“Can’t. Won’t. Busy summer. I love the Olympics. Tell me who your heroes are.”
You’re enjoying this?
“I know what I am. I’m the Death of the Twentieth Century. I have purpose. That gives you a good feeling. At the end of the day, you’ve made something.”
You’re not making anything.
“Sure I am. I’m making the future.”
It’s shit.
“It has to be. We are entering the Kingdom of the Cockroach. Instinctual, tribal, unkillable. Scared of the light. I’m making a new world for you.”
No one wants it.
“Oh, stop squirming. This will only hurt a lot.”
Yeah.
Make it stop
If we feed Cleveland to the beast, perhaps it will be satisfied and leave is alone.