Post by account_disabled on Dec 12, 2023 23:52:00 GMT -5
Today I allow myself a bird's eye view. The door to the Last Room, at the top of the Tower, closes. I lock it with the bolt, going back down to the control room. I activate the furnace. My mind flies over the earth, becomes part of the molecules of the air, penetrates the walls, is there, among them, among the rejected. I see them from above moving frantically as the floor begins to slide. I hear them cry. The first bodies fall down: they are the idiots, the limping, the vegetables and the crippled. The least advantaged ones. The piss-takers, on the other hand, no, they resist, those damned ones.
I hate them even more, I want to Phone Number Datawait for their fall, to see them vaporize in the paroxysmal heat of the fire. And here they are, one after the other, struggling to advance on the last centimeters of floor that remained, their laundry dampening in a yellowish stain that spreads, until there is no more surface to stand on, only ten meters of emptiness and the flames that lick, redden, burn, destroy. Thoughts remain written in the ether, they are the legacy of the remaining ones. Your secrets, your memories wander free waiting for someone to grab them, make them their own. Time flows. For years, every day I have seen smoke rising into the sky, every day I have seen thoughts flow without a mind to contain them.
I take some, keep the best ones, forget the rest. Days identical to each other, rows and rows of those rejected so as not to burden the lives of the able-bodied. A system that works. The call comes on a colder than usual morning. I obey and head to the clinic where a team of doctors is already ready to examine me. I see them looking at my trousers, turning up their noses. They converse with each other, make decisions, register my code and start the disposal procedure. Rejected . I welcome the news with detachment, a slight nostalgia for the whip, but after all we are thirty billion and when the strength runs out, when our body no longer responds, we need to step aside. I go out and join the others. There is a crowd in the waiting room before going outside.
I hate them even more, I want to Phone Number Datawait for their fall, to see them vaporize in the paroxysmal heat of the fire. And here they are, one after the other, struggling to advance on the last centimeters of floor that remained, their laundry dampening in a yellowish stain that spreads, until there is no more surface to stand on, only ten meters of emptiness and the flames that lick, redden, burn, destroy. Thoughts remain written in the ether, they are the legacy of the remaining ones. Your secrets, your memories wander free waiting for someone to grab them, make them their own. Time flows. For years, every day I have seen smoke rising into the sky, every day I have seen thoughts flow without a mind to contain them.
I take some, keep the best ones, forget the rest. Days identical to each other, rows and rows of those rejected so as not to burden the lives of the able-bodied. A system that works. The call comes on a colder than usual morning. I obey and head to the clinic where a team of doctors is already ready to examine me. I see them looking at my trousers, turning up their noses. They converse with each other, make decisions, register my code and start the disposal procedure. Rejected . I welcome the news with detachment, a slight nostalgia for the whip, but after all we are thirty billion and when the strength runs out, when our body no longer responds, we need to step aside. I go out and join the others. There is a crowd in the waiting room before going outside.