The last breath of wind, the last taste of freedom,
The last memory of light,
Escapes from the circles and the geometrical shapes that prevail in our very own, home-grown dystopia.
Existence itself has become a machine;
An efficient, precise, and perfectly ordered machine.
The flame of curiosity and discovery has long since been extinguished,
Along with the flames of passion and love.
Do not play with fire, they said.
You will learn too much.

Now, the beautiful imperfection of nature and chaos is demonised,
And the cold perfection of artifice and order is deified.

Constructs of stone, of steel, of power, of oppression;
Order, when raised upon our pedestal,
Destroyed all that was alien to it.
But is that not the way of men?
Is it not?