"NOTHING CAN BURN THE SUN"
The solar plexus, for the purposes of our current inquiry, will henceforth be referred to as the chink in the armor of a garlanded, stratified guild of thieves and sun worshippers. Night in their temple of luminosity is the respite from usury which others call day in the temple of straw. The kindling of our repressed interaction, like the exhibitionism of Dogma, Inc. parading glints in an infant's emerging subservience, the miracle of unfolding cognitive development of a rock dropped from the spiking peak of Nasdaq's hour of triumph over the second hunger of blood advertised, is becoming an all-too-apparent embarrassment to the cause with which they have aligned themselves, namely the cause of the downtrodden, the dark matter of the third world of this solar system of supply and demand guided by an invisible claw, the ineffable cause of all that does not exist.
Individualism has gone too far this time. It has become a threat to the well-being of every man, woman and child in this enduring fallacy, and as such it must be put down, but humanely, of course.
"Nothing can burn the sun" is what they tell us in the spaces between missteps, the interstices of halted progress which is, of course, perpetual. Slogans, they say, slogans make us human. Slogans point the way to the joys of simple things, the birthrights long since copyrighted and patented down to the smallest itch or chuckle. The genome is mapped, slogans are the cartography of our information landscape, slogans are the last rites administered during this, the final hours of the society's long battle with a metastasized cancer which defies all chemotherapy and reason. To brood is to exclude. Slogans, yes, slogans.