The hype machine blasted us into an alternate universe where we became stars of our own imagination. We fondled our sullen pride with fat fingers, feeding our dreams of opulence and greed.
Out on the dance floor the refugees lined up. Lost distraught, confused, isolated. They had come to see the spectacle, they had come to wash their sins under the tears of gods, they had come to huddle in the warmth of dark lights and techno magic.
What they found was a faded glamour, dead moths and open flames. What they found was popsicle sticks and chewing gum wrappers. What they found was the nightmare before dawn where the echoes of the night loop endless on repeat, on repeat, on repeat.
After a while, they left this place, keening in the sunrise, turning through endless circles, searching for direction. Where did all the dreamers go? Where are all the future finders?
