What would life be without art? No sharks in fish tanks, nor unmade beds; no Sheffield male-strippers transcending poverty; no Molly Bloom. Yes, no Molly Bloom.
No cold and broken hallelujahs.
But money. Lots of money.
And sharks in fish tanks, lots of those. And unmade beds – enough for you to sleep in a different unmade bed every night for the rest of your life and not sleep in them all. And silver screens that brim full of Monty. But no Molly Bloom. Yes, no Molly Bloom.
And not even the language to express a hallelujah. Let alone one that is cold and broken.
Where the earth is fracked, blue flames will rise from the cracks like daemons unleashed.
We will have art of a sort that shocks and bemuses: pornographic, horrific, visceral, industrial, ephemeral, profitable.
And we, heartless engineers: a vacuum in our gas-blue veins.