Is there really any reason for it?
Are there any less raw resources?
Any less technique with which to harness them?
Any serious collapse in enforceable contracts?
Why then does it collapse?
Its corpse choking the destitute and enriching the powerful.
What bizzare miseries ignorance and sloth visits upon mankind.
Twin urchins ever drawing down Dickensian mazes of convoluted preverications.
There is but one false science.
One powder laced, smoke and mirror show, whose name is economics.
Nom like nom de plume.
A false flight of fancy to add riches where none exist.
Is there any folly greater than credit?
The promise of goods made more valuable then goods that already abound?
Life then becomes a series of notes.
Exchanged by gamblers for the sheer joy of sudden fortune.
Before whom kingdoms crumble.
All for a childish game.
Oh, how the crops perish before the harvest while the locusts lounge.
The ant too became a locust for the sake of fashion.
Hopping on a will-o-the-wisp and sailing into oblivion.
Oblivious now, unprecedented amnesia, where every good is fed to promise.
Promise that no feast can make less empty.
Promise, the sacrament of economy, a rite towards Sheol.
This is why I drink.
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The Fractal Journal 