A FOREST OF STARS

SATURDAY

A dried husk, curled up on a filthy bar top at the end of another failed attempt at humanity. Becoming its own meal as the last bombs blacken the skies. Tanks on the horizon painted in circus colours, piping out calliope standards at volume beyond withstanding. Graphically intense artificial processes pacify the wilful ignorant as the very last line of code is squeezed out by the digital sphincter before dividing by zero.