These science fiction buildings.
How much did they cost? How can the university afford this?
Organisational Management money, right? Organisational Management drew it down.
From where? From Galacticus?
From the globalists. Or whoever. From the powers and fucking principalities.
They’ll be building these places all over the world. Places like this. From some globalist blueprint. From some globalist kit, shipped to your city in big boxes. Or 3D printed …
An Organisational Management campus, rising up out of some brownfield site in a city near you.
It doesn’t hide the fact that it’s technocratic that’s the thing. It’s like it’s boasting about being technocratic. It’s unashamed. Unabashed. It doesn’t want to be anything else.
The light shining from their surfaces.
They were designed this way. To reflect the faux Northern Lights. To flash it back to the false sky. To the satellites, watching us.
Dwarfed, that’s what we’re supposed to feel. By metal. By our metallic future. By the light flashing on metal.
What do they want with us? Why did they build these things?
Because they can.
Because they have metal hearts.
Because they have no hearts.
Because they weren’t born to a human mother. Because they’re aliens. Or lizards. Or something. Because they’ve beamed in from another dimension.
Sharp buildings. Shards, flying jaggedly upwards.
Thorn buildings. Metal thorns, cracked through the ice.
It’s got a kind of military feel. Like these are weapons, or something. Aimed at the sky.
They’re all at angles, these buildings. Shafts of metal stuck in concrete. Like they’re stabbing up the fake sky.
It’s like the crown of thorns. Metal thorns sticking up from the earth.
Metal cladding. Like some metal armour – protecting what?
All this metal cladding. metal exoskeletons …
Because otherwise they just wouldn’t look inhuman enough.
Why does it all have to be metal?
For, like, maximum alienation.
Who actually wants to live in science fiction?
The effectivised campus.
Is that a word?
The operationalised campus.
They’re like giant robots. Mega-synths. Ready to stride across some apocalyptic landscape. Of fly off into the burning sky like metal pterodactyls.
They’re a sign of their hatred. For all of us. For humanity.
Humanity … there’ll be no humanity, soon.
Work in Progress 