The reconstitution of the dream will come around again as the machinery of alienation gives way to the old confrontation with the world itself steeped in the humanity of the collective the herd the commune the riot and the song of liberation will find a home in billions of throats and the clattering tumult of the drums the same drums to which we once danced around the bonfires when magic still lived here in the twilight of our history and now these speaker stacks shuddering with the stentorian noise of the future wrecking it as it wrecks us scything down through time towards the necks of all these beautiful people who just wanted to be left to love in peace and all I can think about is Magnard’s burning corpse as I curl up in the dream kingdom empire built for me once a nursery now an asylum where the walls are padded and the staff too polite.