The speed of the world has launched a sharp attack on the younger generation. The days when we were willing to do something and we could get rich are gone. We have begun to grow self-defense turtle shells from our spines, and our flesh and blood are rotten inside the turtle shells.
No wind, no rain, ruthless
Panting, we refined Wax from our rotting flesh, lit human Wax lamps, held the faint orange-red fire in our hands, and began to weave dreams with the spider silk we picked up. The filaments melted at our fingertips again and again, and we Still knitting
weave a dream