The sun is out, the world moves slowly; a cloud of fog surrounds all corners of the globe, and the clock ticks slower, much slower than it should. The hand of man has come to be a mechanism in itself: rough, sturdy, and quick to demand like a confounded machine dividing its labor per hour and per day without an end. The world of finance has become confusion; an accountant dwells deep in his work, he sees a mess of papers, a million to go, he sighs in disillusion. The kinks-and-kanks, and strong hums of an ancient polytechnic society sings louder and louder; what exists is a world of noise and a tolerance to it. Factories upon factories ravish the land, as demand for machinery does not yield to an exhausted hand. Machines throughout the world have become complex creatures, bearing mass upon mass of extraneous and ill-significant features. Buildings are crooked, tired, and broken; a mathematical world has turned impertinent to a world of idealisms and perfections of a primordial perception.
The health of man deteriorates, population rises due to the volatility of life. No MRI, no EEG’s, no medical advances, and treatments are dangerous and deathly. Chance alone bears the destiny of man; a stoic smile charmingly at the world he seems to have figured millenniums ago and the disenchanted scientist loses his senses, his memory stores too little, he becomes all too impertinent, all too soulless.
Intellectualism diminished as a foreseeable future in the progress of wisdom seems futile in comparison to the world of will and hunger, memory is the key to understanding life, if David Hume were around he would suggest, that the “relationship of ideas,” seems to have digressed.
Precision is a dream, man a machine, computers do not exist, and so the soul never sleeps. A mess of a polytechnic society, with man as machine, broken up degraded to the will of industry, nothing too harsh, certainly and irrefutably: no computer no precision, no health, no math, and no life.
