There is nothing creative about death. Destruction and decay follow the course that’s been laid from the foundation of the world. Turning life into death is the natural order of things and always has been. Tune into the program nightly and witness the procession of fast-food destruction served up on microwave-safe trays for public consumption on a global scale. Pass the ketchup. The armchair graveyard is never satisfied.
The crushing weight of seven LA freeways cannot compare to the tragedy of the needless speeding of Death’s Process. Recklessly darting from lane to lane while shrieking a mournful howl across all 8 lanes, Death’s Process hangs one hand out the window flipping a wretched bird to every hopeless soul who by birth, design, or foolery lacks the horsepower to keep up with the flow of traffic. Confined to the right lane, where they await a forced exit, cut off forever, these legions of hopeless are unmourned by the onslaught of a constantly accelerating culture.
Standing on the side of the highway, breathing in the concrete vapor of exhausted lives it’s a terrible and tragic fleeting moment when you connect the dots and see the wreckage spelled out in slow motion. Parents weeping for children ripped from their arms by needless disease. Children stranded, orphaned, and worse because we all had important things to do the day we saw them on the side of the road. In this moment, delicate as the fluttering wings of a butterfly, the rush slows to a walking speed, the city evaporates and there is nothing but barren fields of earth. Welcome home.
The TV is dead and gone now. A new vision has sprouted from it’s earthen grave. Why live another spoon-fed day when we can go to the kitchen ourselves and cook up a thunderstorm with the fruit of the suddenly fertile earth? Feed the children, comfort the parents, take them all in to your own broken heart and listen for the sound of the wind and rain beating against that thin veil separating you from death itself. Life is not what you ever expected.