Riot in the Planetarium

I overhear them talking of justification served brusquely — of the red, white and bluebell slash of false prophets.

I overhear them considering who to bring justification to next: the slogans of smarmy approbation, the soft-pedal formless relapses, the meringue laden queefs.

They’d kill just about anyone if they could get away with it, and they get away with an awful bruising lot.

No cavalcades of concertinas if you don’t crossbreed in their smoke-filled pathways. No fusillades if you don’t genuflect before their grimy brows, or their sweatshirt-impregnated cloudbursts — appreciate the smiles of fetid nappy droughts absorbed on the hemline of their soiled panthers.

What is this really about?

It’s about how Lugosi slicked back his hair, and the affectation of his countenance in Dracula.

It’s about the last polar bear. The last breath of fresh air. The last potable water. The last I love you. The last human.

Fossil Fuel means business, and business is booming!

(It all overheats)

It all goes boom!

Another has all the correct placebos listed.

Look there! A riot in the planetarium.

What I’m Reading:

“Until everything topples, we have no idea what we actually have, how precariously and perfectly it all hangs together.”

— Blake Crouch / Dark Matter