The Wax Conspiracy

Machine skies are where explosives die

Boom goes the satellite floating in the sky. A cacophony of noise unsound and unrung through the expanse of space. Where screams are seldom heard for their very inability to reproduce and hump along. Things fall apart and fall down from the heavens where the acid rain is next in a line of bile that spews forth from way up there.

One that falls toward the earth looks at its own core implosive self to discover the solution in rendering its own fate. Eyes in the skies that do not lie now lie down among the sties and lies. Wretched is the duty of surveillance. A tiring never ending prospect from conception to installation and with no set expiry date.

On and on again they play the song that changes a little each and every other day. On and on they sing the song that makes them long for the day in which they can walk away.

On and on it goes on and on and on it keeps on

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 22 November 2006

The Wax Conspiracy

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