On Progress.

I see no evidence of progress in the machines of men.

The wheel is only a breast that rotates freely.

Fire is only a penis regrettably caught in an immortal moment of ejaculation.

Shelter eats you but does not kill you. It is a womb.

Expressed beauty is only a cry for help.

I am an anteater whose veins are varicose with ants. They live in me. I am their anthill.

The plight is probably risible. The pain is hopefully less so.