With unlimited credit, we'd all be assholes.
When the chips are down, it seems, the only objective remaining is to stuff as much of the shit into yer pockets as you can before the table is swept.
To hell with moral and statutory fortitude, Plato's Good, and everything else resembling anything remotely ethical.
Forget about all alliance and fraternal allegiance, sanctity, respect, responsibility, and all that implies.
Away with modesty and painfully transparent ostensibility.
There are no longer any reasons left to pretend to be friendly nor mutually inclusive.
For this is Thend game.
We are all belligerents in this theatre.
None are spared the sword of Damacles, no soul with corporeal form is overlooked.
Faced with the certain prospect of death, a person's true reptilian brain begins functioning at a more favoured meter.
No longer is there the pesky necessity to conceal one's inner reptile in order to function day-to-day.
For this is th'end game.
Everyone's reptilian brain is geared up, with or without their will being complicit, in order to compensate for the incessant uncertainty perpetuated by the powers that be.
Will the economy collapse tomorrow?
Will my job become unnecessary and redundant due to the parasitic grip of technology?
Will my body catastrophically fail on me right when I kneed it most?
Will the government impost martial law in a clandestine manner designed to accelerate the decline of Western civilization?
Will my children be irreversibly indoctrinated by the corporate greed reponsible for the orchestration of modern morality?
Will I live to see another day?
Or will I just awaken tomorrow to find myself in an Orwellian nightmare that I cannot escape from, a storm I cannot locate shelter from, an apocalyspe I cannot ignore.
No longer is there any question of the terrible effects of industry on the environment far outbalancing any benefice that the now out-dated revolution sought to establish.
For this is the'nd game.
Where anything goes, no level of fear or greed is too much, no illusion of grandeur is too little.
No declaration by WHO (else) will change the anitiquated notion that we live in a virtual bubble of benevolence and non-consequence.
That our actions have no final relevance with respect to the complete devastation of the biosphere that cannot be undone through the unlimited ethereal powers of scientific inquiry.
That somehow, someway, homo sapiens sapiens is entitled to completely disrupt the natural cycle of things on this planet to suit its own needs and petty substantial desires.
That the inoxication of the environment has become nothing more than collateral damage in theatre.
No longer fetered by consideration nor consequence, the blind rapine and armageddon-like abandon associated with Abaddon and His worship.
For this is then'd game.
End of the line, the time at which the eyes of man are never satisfied with parsimony, truth, and harmony.
Only obliteration will suffice, the likes of which have not been objectively measured as of late, until the UN Special Rapporteur on the rights of indigenous peoples, James Anaya, tabled his report on the situation in Canada.
And then there was won, political victory and smokescreens, free trade agreements and unwavering, sometimes irrational support of the petro chemical industry.
Fuhrer Harper has become Apollyon, the Greek transconfiguration and disambiguation of the angel of the abyss:
Revelation 9:11 -- "And they had a king over them, which is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon, but in the Greek tongue hath his name Apollyon." KJV, 1611
In Thend there can be only one remaining participle.
The revealing of that which was once cleverly concealed as a function of our perception and perspective, of our genetically manipulated viral genome which has been specifically engineered to engage in the unbridled destruction of the biosphere.
The staging of political and economical posturing and benefice can only serve to distract from Thend game.
For in Thend there can be only One.
Not the many.
