The Long Way Home
There’s oblivion and there’s oblivion. There’s cross draft and updraft and down. There’s the military draft, no longer necessary in an age where they outsource killing. There’s the highway patrol, the secret police and the neighborhood watch.
I’m trying to get at something here, but I’m having a hard time of it. Stay with me a little longer, think of me as a good sport with a bum leg and a lisp, someone who won’t steal your wife.
See how little it takes to become trustworthy? Just a short string of deformities.
Will you invite me to parties now, turn me on to investments, let me play with your children? Or is there still something nagging at you, such as my distrust of the military and what I mean by oblivion.
You think your suspicions are justified, perhaps even well-founded. You sense that we’re all beholden to something, unnamed and unchallenged.
I suggest that its name could be Moloch, and you stare at me blankly.