The dreamtime of youth is short and interesting but ultimately a deception because you aren't actually going to take anything out of it for the community of the aged; there is nothing you can tell us about it that hasn't been well known for 10,000 years. Hit songs and dance crazes aside.
White wine and French camp and baking pavement dribbling along sweating and dreaming of zinc bars with white widows marching and infidelity on summer streaked streets and coffee under lamps and honey smelling necks and napes, blackout drapes.
Campaigns always begin this way, with something to say. Without that first step you are pissing in the wind. Beating a dead horse. Shitting the mains. Blowing the big top. Topping off the lunch table. Tying up the tripwire. Spitting on grandma. Coming and going into a coma. Flipping your lid. Slipping on hobos. Eating the loaf.
A commemoration for the humans, a once noble race swallowed whole by its own vices, unable to pry itself out of toxic greed and laziness, given over fully to willful ignorance. Weak flesh constrained promising spirit, pulled ever downward into the hellmaze or trivial pursuits, unbending toward the white light that called ahead into transcendence. No thank you, no thanks, we're all good here, going to load up and enjoy the plunge.
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