Times have changed, and people have changed. I see wee suckling babes that can't hardly hold their head up with a cell phone cradled glowing their arms. I see a plate of political midwest pasta steaming, where a man can not be taken seriously in town without a pink mohawk & an attitude. You can't feed the homeless without them trying to sock it to you for more, more, more- and the bells of the church towers scream that everything is OK! Don't worry- everything is AOK!
The computers scan my open source genome and quietly develop the land to stasis twelve thousand years at a time, any time. How long have I been bare in these harlequin's rags, the emperor's new wardrobe of the pre defeated stragglers- ermine and day-glo and antlers and foam crocs with semi-ironic shoe jewelry hatefully poking fun at the jaunty angles of their too-sincere ugliness. I want to weep, but instead I'm vomiting junk food. I am rotting to the jaw bone, marrow brown, the gray sets in, my glasses inch thicker, and I hate every word I've ever said save HALLELUJAH and I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU ALL!
I can't even imagine the shadowy puppets in my keepsake memory vault are even remotely like the living liquid crystals that used to bridge the networks of my own heart and the wild wind scarred worlds beyond between. I see gnarled trees, and for the first time in my life have had my eyes pried open just enough to see anything, anything but splintered clangorous roulette of hell. This is the cross of the starved survivor, these are the living cobwebs of some dull and throbbing mind slow motion magneto tempest mistaken for prayers twisting egg drop to heaven on electrical frankincense.
Where have all my old friends gone away? To suicide, heart failure, blood clots, turned into precious fuzzy kittens sleeping quietly purring under impenetrable glass, comfortable forever with precious little toes all safe and clean. What do they dream of where nobody knows? Do they dream of me at all? I'm not dreaming, fevered and slack jawed in the endless rain.
The fear creeps in, and the moment is lost in the brain dead social slime mold networks languishing around the bed bug busses to nowhere. Will they assassinate me further in the night, or will I witheer to oily scab upon the vine? I found, completely by Kismet, cruden's lolly gollys must have been twenty years after the hive, and what was made dazzling is that the slavering maw of hell has been open wide, yes, for some time, but for most of us it is a suffocation, blind eyes open wide. The days are an open sore on my failing dreams, I fantasize of egress from hope to comfort, security and exchange with some sort of desperate lottery ticket get rich quick scheme, the sort of swill of life I'd fault my angelic father for believing in, and here I catch the stranger in the mirror holding on to almost nothing but..
Drowning in the lukewarm springs of hope eternal, a coward to circumstance and a dang fool to fate. I'm ashamed of the things I have to say and the packages I have purchased are full of embarrassment and utter total outrages and insane depravity. I am the damned fool of all fools, and deserving of every punishment. My flesh makes pigs cry and my mewling idiocy curdles worms.
Hard times have yet to come. Hard times have yet to come. These are the good old days, and faith alone is gonna see us through, because it's good not good to shrivel up without it. We'll need it when we've spent all our courage and ate our last shred of dignity with salt. We'll need it when the dawn has no shoes, and it hurts to hear music. When there ain't no use for playing cards, and ditch water is looking sweet.
What we need is faith, and trust in faith, and hope that the survivors of our personal apocalypse gain some vital wisdom to steer themselves from the siren's call, to find some green pasture somewhere more welcoming to lay their dear heads in, far from the rotten desolation here nowhere neverland, where there is so much promise and hope that you'll never feel lonesome again, I say. The young folk smile and ride their bikes by the rivers, and by gum, it ain't quite heaven, but then, it ain't quite bad, is it?
No, it ain't quite bad just yet.
Keep your GPT shit for yourself, nobody is reading that.