DT - hopeless mechanics - YOU LEFT FOR SOMEONE

i.
nobody has a god like my god.
i'd love him to tears if he'd show his face. (wind picks up)
it can't be completely random. (wind calms)
show me a sign.
show me a sign, goddammit! (a brief fluttering - wind)
i'm not settling for that, you pussy
yes, i will insult your women. (wind picks up)
if i were god, i would be this playful.
i will wait for you.
(even though i'm sure you're already here [you know that, though, don't you?])

ii.
-figure out how to build a wind turbine / generator
- research agriculture
- hoard resources
- abandon old friends

iii.
if i knew i'd be alive in 200 years, i'd cover my body in tattoos as a time capsule of the old earth.

it's indeed haunting that the west believes death and that i should stand on the end of the homosapien species spectrum, feeling completely fine.

we will all be poets / philosophers,
like plates of the earth grinding upon each other on a different scale of time we cannot comprehend

iv.
animations
enter/exit
a cubicle instance.
barry walks to bathroom.
barry goes to bathroom.
all rooms and cubicles are just different clips on the timeline. the opening door
resizes the room as it fills with people. barry. you are friends with barry.
barry. his nostrils appear to be flaring.

each paperdoll has their own vitals: every hour, happiness minus ten.
the closer you are to deadlines, the more stress you get.
on release, interact equals barry.

your job earns the company money.
use money to buy improvements: coffee maker, stapler, filing cabinet, colostomy bag, faster computation.
if this was the symbol of my youth, perhaps the symbol of my adolesence is a balled up kleenex.

v.
each cubicle has a computre, phone, calendar, and chair.
unplugging the computer equals intelligence.

meetings will be called. depending on the success of the business, the boss will be mean
or nice. you can lie, accuse, praise, or just sit dumb and fat, filling up on refreshments.
resentment is inevitable, slouching in the back of a crowded room, face fidgeting out pantamimes.

the world around him only faint glimmers of activity from far away, he laughs at the idea of a shirt, boldly questioning "what's human suffering?" as if displaying idiocy so blatantly would be a sarcastic jab at the lops mulling about the ignorance pool, jabbering to themselves god and jesus god and jesus how did we get here? god and jesus, let's turn the city of chicago into the city of god- a great beacon of hope. let's all be fake christian for a moment and jerk off each other's upper middle class segregation egos in a fluttering moment of song and dance, praising old idols in the context of McChurch, persuading the persuaded in a marketing ploy devoid of spirit.

vi.
monks live in the mountains and wait for hope, content.
christians drive to church and praise the lord for being here, among the living, in the form of hope.