The concrete flows and jams against the weeds in a sickening bulimic twist of the remains of designs. Freddy doesn’t like the way the greens and the light greys clash with each other and then how the early signs of the dry of summer bring on a dark shine of tan from the slow dirges plotting to kill all who approach. The weeds are invaders, pouncing on vacancies created by man’s industriousness and subsequent evacuation. Half of the roadside is deserted as the men now work in cubicles. They are information society workers now.
Freddy is an information society worker, but he doesn’t like reflecting on this. At work, Freddy is unconscious lest he become a part of the moment and run headlong into the 34th floor window, stretching for the quick ending.
For Freddy, only art is information. Art from the past. Black dots within wide-banded white circles edged with a stately black circle and swimming in a sea of yellow, created long ago. Freddy’s mind swims in that yellow that’s been punctured by people with ignorant intentions who sit and throw turtle shells at Freddy from very tall thrones with amazing back posts that stream over 40-feet tall.
Almost all of information is pushed around so that all of the people may be most industrious by pushing the information around. It is a go-kart race that is drastically rude and under-cultured where the CEO’s are hunched inside, being whipped not so carelessly by men who are known as project managers who think of themselves as miracle workers, shouting (the CEO’s) in the Food King shopping carts. The carts don’t carry stacks of paper as they did formerly as now, the CEO’s grab their smart phones and zap information to some tower where action begins on the files that have been zapped and the smart people in the tower start marking the documents showing the CEO in the cart all of the things he shall suffer for in red-lined rips on his mastery, but he keeps his cart running around all of the produce. He loves the Fuji apples. He’s chomping and romping through the produce. He throws cushy heads of lettuce at some of the carts (which is surely legal whether or not they are soft) to keep the other CEO’s from zapping their own information. The information is soup with millions of characters, unimaginable details that only the select few will decipher and then those select few will be like tigers on the hill-top and roar out the instructions to the minions in the cubicles. The difficulty for the CEO’s is when the government decides the CEO’s are making too much money-making their soups of information and the government roars in intent and delivering oceans of paper from spring time rains with diesel-powered forklifts which can take out 10 carts at a time, but the CEO’s are smart and they go down the narrow aisles with the spices and keep zapping information until the government starts knocking down the shelves in moves that seem to mimic blasting dynamite. Meanwhile, the shoppers don’t notice a thing and they take all of their prepared foods home to zap in the microwave. Lots of zapping and this is what Freddy thinks about.
Freddy receives the zaps in jarring bolts of electricity from cattle prod like instruments that make him type super fast on his computer and ignore the sickening despair of his environment, but for now, during his morning commute, he jumps aboard the black ship in the middle of the unkempt field. Freddy is just as a trophy on the ship with big waves of red stripes like a sky above his ship powering his failed spirit, and the itchy moon made from golden brown sparkles pulls Freddy’s short hair, swinging him in full circles but never dropping him over into the fatal surroundings of the ship.