The shipped in. The bewildered of the world. The dumped-here. The abandoned here.
The useless. The more useless than us. The surplus population. The useless population.
The confused and the baffled. The perpetually staring into the air.
Redundant humanity. Useless humanity. Useless biomatter. The perma-derelict. Kept alive, just about. Allowed to live, sort of. Gasping into the air.
Unalive, in some sense. But undead, too.
Biomatter. Formless biomatter.
The unthinkable. The imponderable. The ones difficult even to contemplate as existing.
Unmanageable, in some sense. Not worth bothering with. Beneath the level of manageability. Of organisability. Beneath the organisers’ attention. Not deserving of it. Too minute. Too unimportant.
A product. An outcome. The people our times have made.
The people we produce. Kept at a baseline level of existence.
Four billion years of evolution for his. Twenty billion years of universe for this.
The kind who don’t need intellectual stimulation, like us. Who were never motivated to lift themselves from the mire. Who have given up, essentially. And who have been given up on.
The peaceful enough. The not especially bothersome. Who aren’t gang-banging, or whatever. Who aren’t linked to organised crime, or disorganised crime either. Who have been conditioned, basically. Hopefully. Kept base level content. Or that’s the idea.
The inert. Those from whom nothing is expected. Who don’t need to be feared. From whom no civil war will ever come.
Monitored, passively. Gently usurveilled. On autopilot. From which nothing major is expected.
Predictables, despite everything. Organisable. Manageable, and even self-manageable. That’s the idea. They’re no trouble, really. So far. They barely need to be culled. To be sterilised. Is it worth the effort?
Who aren’t even exasperating, not really. Who don’t even rise to the level of being exasperating.
Humanity in its defunct mode. Humanity, running on empty. With near empty heads. With heads full of Netflix.
Who are half sterilized, most of them. Who are hardly breeding. Just let them die out by themselves. Let them diminish to nothing.
The disposable population, right. What are they for? What purpose do they serve? None, of course. They’re not decorative. Not interesting.
Who can live lives of zero meaning. Who can cope with purposelessness. With meaninglessness. Who do not require meaning.
Imagine: we’ve bred people who don’t require meaning. Who look at you out of their meaningless lives. Who look up at you out of the human swamp. From their human mire. From blank, near anonymous biomatter.
Who can’t even be bothered to live. Who can even be bothered to be bothered. Who’ve sunk to what level?
Deeper than us. Deeper than we have.
Human slurry. Human waste. Human slop, swilling in the human trough.
Test subjects. To be experimented upon. Big-pharmaed. Pumped with drugs. With all kinds of things. With all kinds of substances.
Iatrogenocide survivors. With scabies, probably. With shingles. With Bell’s Palsy. With turbo cancers. With every kind of mental illness. Abandoned to the community. Roaming the community.
The human morass. The poisoned. The boosted.
Could be the greatest philosophers of all. If only they’d think from their abandonment.
Who are never disgusted. Disgusted by everything! Disgusted by themselves!
Who never thought to themselves: everything is wrong. And I’m wrong, most of all …
Work in Progress 