Sick

Sick! Sick! Society is sick. The cities are sick! The countries are sick! You and I are sick! Is there no innocence any more? Is nothing untouchable, untouched by our disgustingly human ways? No, all has been infected by our humanly disease. Sick! We are all sick, and there are no cures for our madness. We walk through these streets, freely giving away our arms and legs and lungs to a thankless formation of walls and corners, full of deceit and dehumanizing, creating plagued rats from the souls we sold to ensure our material wealth. For what can we have but material possessions in this age? 'Tis not the age of technology, but the age of money, of currency, of deplorable faces and icons on billboards, put there by more currency than you can ever hope to hold at once. This society possessed  clothing, money, food, possessions, is possessed by itself, vanity clouding its judgement, recalling a formerly desired time with all of its technological advances, and finally we're here. We're here, and now what do we want? Always more. The novelty wore off, the wonder having run out so many years ago, when the concept was first imagined. Who wants to live now? In a time and place full of death, poverty, famine, war, and delirious luxury, ignorance and depression, recession and dependence, independence and disgust.
Who really wants to live here anymore?