We have become comfortable with our roles as part of a concubine of heathens, Rémi says, a gaggle of giggle-gatherers, collage artists content to submerge ourselves in pools of apathy and hostility, allowing the rest of the world to trudge toward its demise above-ground while we sink, alone; disgusted, but safe.
"It is overwhelming."
"It is transitory."
"It is disjunct."
And we layer on and layer on further barbs until the heap itself is a narcissistic symbol of the scourge.
The question is not, how do we compost?
The question is not, where do we add all the Adderall?
These are careless inquiries crafted by micro-protagonists unaware of the macro-schemas.
See it all; otherwise, Rémi says, hand me the scalpel and I will take your corneas from you myself.