Let us poison ourselves. Suck in the blackness. Drink down the death. Take the money—it’s what you’re after. Trade us our light, we’ll take the dark, the corner cut out for the traders and fiends of us you’ve made.
Now make us moral. Tell me my slow death is pretty. Rue and pillory dissent—we can’t have the still-conscious just walking around holding up flat mirrors. No! Hand them funhouse wavery—celebrate us, our distortion.
You are what you eat, kid. And if we are consumers of poison?