From the age of five we’re told to sit still behind a desk. Control yourself. Is that it’s the fear of chaos? We crave discipline.
The cows always come home. More maize for a higher yield. The rest is bullocks. They trot to be fed. Silage for the masses.
What does it take to quell an uprising? You know what the people want. Beats and samples. Everything’s a remix, anyway.
We’re happily domesticated. There’s little left to be. It’s rough outside. You can’t imagine the exhilaration.