Are we accepting it? Are we coming to terms with it? Are we adapting? Let’s never adapt.
Stone and steel and glass – so unalterable. So absolute. They don’t respond. So inert. Nothing changing. Just continually reminding us that this is what there is. And all there is. And all there will be.
And that it’ll never be spring. And there’ll never be sun.
And everything sucks. And the system’s being locked in all around us. You could bang your head against it, and it wouldn’t change. You could throw yourself from one of these towers, and it wouldn’t be broken.
And it’s passing itself off as normal. This is supposed to be normal.
What’s so different about his campus? It’s more absolute. It’s more seamless. It’s more designed.
It didn’t grow up willy-nilly. It wasn’t just plonked here.
Like one of those Chinese cities that just sprang up, out of the dust. All at once, the whole campus.
What it is, this campus? What it will be?
Defiant, in its blandness. Declaring itself as what it is. No kneeling. Not humble. Reaching into the air.
And filling the air with its holograms. Like its dreams.
And shameless. There’s nothing human here. No human scale. Built by giants. Built by robots. Built by Nephilim.
The new order, right? The new order of the world.
And it stares at us, but with blind eyes. And the facades have no faces. Monolith after monolith. Blankness after blankness.
A descent, walking through here. Like it gets worse, by remaining the same. By being itself.
And it’s not even horrifying. It’s not even hideous.
There’s not even a fascist aesthetic. It doesn’t warrant being filmed by Leni Riefenstahl. No rallies here. No Nazi stormtroopers. No, like, fascist insignia. Nothing spectacular. These buildings aren’t even that high.
The stone, the steel. The glass. Its modesty is its offensiveness. They’re flaunting it without flaunting it.
It looks away from us. It’s perfectly indifferent to us. It doesn’t scorn us. It doesn’t hate us. Except by not hating us. It doesn’t mock us. Except by not mocking us.
And shameless, It does not lament. It does not mourn what it is. It does not pray.
It has no tears. Nothing to wipe away. It doesn’t repent. It doesn’t ache for what it is. It doesn’t cry upwards. It doesn’t say, I despise what I am.
Horror without horror. It’s so clean. And calm. There’s no screaming here. It’s not too ugly. It’s not monstrous. It’s kinda okay.
Work in Progress 