CHILDREN, ONCE WE COULD predict the weather. Once, we had giant metal beasts made of gears and pistons that roamed the world and spat out toxic naeseous fumes; but we paid no notice. We did little. Sometimes, we'd buy a lightbulb, sometimes we'd sign a petiton that we believed would do something, sometimes we took the bus. But then when it was raining and the boss had shouted at us and the kids were making a racket and they always did they always made a racket and nothing was right we'd say, but we never tried, we just plugged in our heaters and drove down the motorway at a million miles an hour and we tried to tell ourselves that no, no, it was someone else's problem, where were people dying that shouldn't and people doing things they shouldn't and people that had power and shouldn't but it wasn't all so bad it wasn't all too bad now listen, listen, these chaps in Grimbsdale they've made an album of comfortable three-minute songs about how kissing is awesome; let's put it on the stereo and hold hands and maybe when we've finished thrusting and we wake up in the morning refreshed it will all be okay, everything, everything will be okay.
Then the bombs started falling, and there was nobody left to speak out, and there were hurricanes on the side of Florida that got bigger and bigger until they exploded, and the rivers filled up on our televisions and suddenly the songs didn't quite scan anymore and the cars stopped rolling but nothing changed, people were screaming on the streets that nothing could be done and that fuck it, we're all gonna fucking die, let's turn up the fucking gas one last night and go out with a bang! A bang, an explosion, a giant kentucky fried 24-hour quick drying 7-day-trial microwavable nouuugh-percent-finance giveusallyourfuckingmoney spin-cycle swansong, and down we went, down we went laughing and singing with wine in our hands and cigars in our mouths and acid elephants dancing on the walls as we jumped into the flames.
Now there's us, us and possibly Switzerland, we don't know. We don't know anything anymore, the sattelites stopped responding long ago. What we do know: there is us, and there, everywhere else, is them. They come with their improvised weapons and they come with their clubs and their catapults and their rusty shotguns, and they want in. They never stop. They never stop. they neveenotuhrethitnohurao-##e-/l/l.[0e[eu[[[u]#=/u= [u]o[ue==r.
(or at least, try to.)