What I Do For A Dying

Well, enough of the preamble. The worst possible thing I could due at this point is prepare myself when every moment is preparation for the next. At the end of the day, when I drift to sleep, preparation commences for the day to come, as even my sleeping self struggles for context. When I wake, I gather together all my essentials and I dress them up according to the Science of Necessity: from this rotting cadaver of a shell, to the devices that sustain it, to the faint memories of even fainter memories, to the convenient excuses I use to justify the way things are. These are the pre-packaged truths of a world that was put on the market and sold for next to nothing long before we ever chipped in our dull and sullied two cents. God called upon his angels to appraise his creation and found that it would cost more to repair it then it would to simply strip it down and sell it for parts. My job is to turn these tattered remains into precious commodities to be advertised, supplied on demand and, if all things abide according to the Science of Necessity, consumed altogether without the slightest restraint of conscience.