Hostiles. I hate you. I hate you more. You are green. You are blue. You are different. No, you are. You eat animals. You are a sodding vegetarian. You worship the wrong god. It’s the right god, it’s you that is wrong. I’m right. You’re wrong. You speak funny. You talk rubbish…
The list goes on. It’s endless. Is repetitive and static and stupid and brain-petrifying and criminally tedious and it goes nowhere except to the bottomless pit via a downward spiral of doom.
Come ye bugs and tardigrades and inherit a planet gloriously void of crack-brained WeThePeoples wot tolerate Netanyahus and Bravermans and Musks and Bezoes and Blair Witches and Bojos and Abascals. All the infinite variety of comedians, dangerous clowns that will bring about ArmaFuckingGeddon whilst repeating, like dumb zombies: “Capitalism is the Way, the only Way, the Holy Way!”.
And: “Capitalism has lifted thousands of people out of poverty!” (but never, ever admitting to the hundreds of thousands that it has plunged into abject destitution..).
They will bleat: “Repent, oh sinners, and embrace the true Doctrine…or else!” (Whatsoever the doctrine might be, in whichever colour it might bedeck itself, no matter how implausible its gospel…).
They will shriek loathsome metaphors like: “Israel has a right to defend itself!” which is shorthand for “We shan’t stop until the last Palestinian is dead or exiled!” (But preferably dead, for the dead don’t come back to demand accounts, reparations or, god forbid, a place to love and live a decent life.)
They will throw wobblies worth of a spoilt infant and demand more tanks, more drones, more money, more flattery, more luuuurve, more…more…more…
They will throw their bloodstained hands high up in the air and claim that their very existence is under threat and call it the “crisis of masculinity” and they will use this as an excuse to go out and murder a few more women to reassert their god-given privilege.
And so on…and on…and on…
Dearie me.

Lone Trees. The lone trees in the lonely wood on the free-floating itinerant islet are charmed by the slow, stately passage of a school of wandering flying sardines. “Don’t leave! Stay! Bide here a while and play with us and have tea!” they plead. But the celestial fish are restless and cannot stop. Theirs is a mysterious itinerary and the reason they follow it is not revealed even to them. They must go where their unknown impulse takes them, poor buggers. The trees are desolate, their island also following an inscrutable course marked by fuck knows who or what, let alone why. See, not all is always fluffy and merry in the Uncertain Zones. There’s also a moderate deal of heartbreak. Ah, well…